Missing Persons, page 10
I left Beth and the children there with Jessie, and took the Nissan into the city to see the man who called himself Donald Singer. Justine had arranged for us to meet at Le Loup, an upmarket restaurant on the corner of Lafayette and Howard in Manhattan. I parked in a garage on Lispenard Street, four blocks away, and walked the frozen streets to the meeting. A north wind whipped down the manmade canyons. I hurried on, eager to get inside.
Le Loup was situated on the first floor of a twelve-story Art Deco building. It was one of the city’s top eateries, which made it a safe and public environment in which to meet someone potentially untrustworthy and dangerous. I stepped inside and was greeted by a blast of warm air infused with the smell of butter, onions, garlic, and wine. Le Loup was known for its traditional French cuisine but the décor was very much Manhattan. The walls had been stripped back to the brick, which had been painted clinical white. The tables and chairs were constructed of recycled metal and distressed wood, and low-watt filament bulbs glowed like fireflies.
“Bienvenue chez Le Loup,” the hostess said. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m meeting Donald Singer,” I replied.
“This way, please, sir.”
I followed her through a crowded bar into the main dining room. The man posing as Singer was sitting at a table in the middle. If he knew I was wise to the deception, he gave no hint of it.
“Mr. Morgan,” he said.
As I took my seat, I checked out the people at the surrounding tables. None of them gave me a second glance, but there was a guy at the bar, linebacker in size, whose narrow eyes lingered on me a little too long. Singer’s muscle, perhaps?
“I was glad when your colleague phoned,” Singer said. “I’m very interested to hear what you’ve found so far. What would you like?”
“Water, please,” I told the hostess, who nodded and withdrew.
I studied Singer more closely than I had when we first met. There was a faint mark on his chin—a faded scar. Or could it be a careless blemish left by a plastic surgeon? His eyes had the false warmth of a politician’s and his smile seemed stuck on. Even his accent didn’t have the ring of authenticity that I recalled.
“I found Beth,” I said.
“That’s great news!” Singer replied, with hollow enthusiasm.
“Unfortunately, she ran off. Someone set the cops on my tail and it spooked her. We were at a hospital. She was injured escaping from people who were trying to abduct her. It was shortly after we left there that she took off.”
“Oh,” Singer remarked, deflated.
“She’s OK, by the way,” I added. “Your grandchildren too.”
“Good,” he replied. “That’s good.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Singer. You raised a very intelligent and resourceful woman.”
“That I did,” he said, nodding his head slowly. “Did you get much chance to speak to her? Did she give any indication why she was on the run?”
He wasn’t sure his cover had been blown.
“No,” I replied. “We didn’t get much chance to talk.” I paused for effect. “But one of my detectives did make an interesting discovery. Did you know Beth is married?”
The man pretending to be Donald Singer leaned forward conspiratorially.
“We’re not supposed to talk about it. That’s why I didn’t tell you. It’s classified.”
“Joshua?” I asked.
He nodded. “How did you find out about my son-in-law?”
“My team are very good at uncovering information,” I replied. Now was the time to lay my bait. “We also learned he’s missing in action. The Pentagon are searching for him. According to my sources, they have a fix on his locator beacon.”
“That might explain why Beth vanished,” Singer suggested. “Something to do with whatever trouble Joshua finds himself in.”
“I think it does,” I agreed. “The people pursuing her are professional and highly dangerous. She is doing whatever it takes to get away from them.”
The hostess returned with my water, but I got to my feet as she put the glass on the table.
“Thank you,” I said.
She smiled.
“And thank you, Mr. Singer. I’m sorry to have let you down, but I can assure you it won’t happen again. Stay strong and I’ll be in touch as soon as I have any news.”
“If there’s anything I can do…” His voice trailed off.
“I’ll be sure to let you know,” I said, before heading for the exit.
I walked through the busy bar, wondering whether he would take the bait.
CHAPTER 36
AS I WALKED out of Le Loup onto the street, I noticed the linebacker who had been sitting at the bar followed me out. I knew if this was any kind of serious operation, he wouldn’t be working alone. I made my way south along Lafayette, squeezing past pedestrians who were swaddled against the chill, listening to the slush and spray of passing vehicles. Suddenly someone barged into me—a young blonde woman in a short coat. She looked up at me, nodded, and smiled politely.
The moment she’d walked on, I checked my coat and found a disc about the size of a quarter had been dropped into my left pocket. I recognized the close-range tracker immediately.
I glanced over my shoulder to see the linebacker about twenty paces behind me, and then about ten paces behind him was a red-haired woman I recognized from outside Le Loup. They were doing such a bad job at staying hidden, I wondered if it was a ruse. I picked up my pace and hurried along the salt-covered sidewalk through the shadow of the tall buildings around me.
The Broadway lights were in my favor. I crossed with the crowd and ran down the steps into the Canal Street subway station. When I got to the bottom, I ducked around the corner and dropped the tracker that had been planted on me. I turned back the way I came and raced up the stairs as the linebacker came into view.
His eyes widened, startled, when he spotted me rushing toward him. Before he could produce whatever he was reaching for inside his coat, I drove my shoulder up into his gut, grabbed the back of his legs, and flipped him over my back. He tumbled down the stairs with a cry, and the people around us gasped and moved swiftly away. The redhead caught my eye and turned to run, but I was too fast. I caught her on the top step and grabbed her arm.
“I don’t know who you’re working for,” I said—there was no point letting the man posing as Singer know he’d been made—“but if you come near me again…” I looked down at her colleague who was flat out on the hard tiled floor at the foot of the stairs.
I released her and walked on. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw her running down the subway steps. I walked the neighborhood for another twenty minutes, doubling back on myself to reveal any other tails, but found none. I used the time to check my clothes for further tracking devices, in case I’d missed a plant. Once I was convinced I was safe, I headed for the parking garage on Lispenard Street.
CHAPTER 37
IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON by the time I reached the safe house Jessie had arranged. Located in suburban Rye, Westchester County, the house was situated on a tiny peninsula called Pine Island, which jutted into Long Island Sound like an upside-down “T.” Lying northeast of Manhattan, Rye was popular with financiers and Wall Street types, and this was reflected in the houses, which grew bigger the closer I got to the waterfront. The safe house was on the water’s edge, at the heart of an acre lot, and was approached through electric gates and a private drive. The snow was pristine and sparkled in the low sun as I pulled to a halt outside the house in the expansive driveway. Looking south, I could see Manhattan through the bare branches of the mature trees that surrounded the grand two-story home.
I rang the doorbell and moments later Jessie let me in. I was grateful to step out of the bitter cold into the warmth of what was a beautiful family home. We entered a large hallway with a sweeping double-sided horseshoe staircase.
“Quite a place,” I observed.
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” Jessie replied. “We’re through here.”
She led me under one flight of stairs and through a doorway that took us into a huge open-plan living space. It was a family room, dining room, and kitchen rolled into one, and glass doors ran the length of the exterior wall, offering a magnificent view of Long Island Sound and the Manhattan skyline.
Beth, Maria, and Danny were seated on a couch, watching TV. The kids didn’t notice me come in, but Beth waved and I nodded in reply.
“Well, it seems to have worked,” Jessie said, leading me to an open laptop on one of the kitchen counters.
“Is that you, Jack Morgan?”
There was no mistaking Mo-bot’s voice.
Jessie pulled the laptop around so I could see the screen. Mo-bot was in the Private Los Angeles computer lab with Justine and Sci.
“Hey, Jack,” Justine said.
“Boss,” Sci added.
“What have you got?” I asked.
“I ran surveillance on the line Justine used to arrange your meeting,” Mo-bot replied. “The moment you left him, the guy posing as Singer made a call.”
“So he believed my story. You hear what he said?” I asked.
“I’m not a magician,” Mo-bot replied. “But I was able to trace the other number. Or at least the cell tower it connected to.”
She paused. This wasn’t going to be good.
“The phone he called was inside the Pentagon, Jack. Singer called someone in the Department of Defense.”
I’d suspected an intelligence component the moment I discovered Beth’s husband was Special Forces, but I never imagined it would lead to the Pentagon.
“Can you find out who he was talking to?” I asked.
“I can try,” Mo-bot replied. “The Pentagon has all kinds of countersurveillance to prevent identification and tracking, even of cell phones, but I can dig around, see what I can find.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Any leads on who this guy really is?”
“Not yet,” Sci replied. “We’re working on it.”
“OK,” I said. “This makes life a little more complicated. If this guy is connected to the Pentagon, we have no idea who we can trust.”
CHAPTER 38
“IT GETS WORSE,” Sci said.
I sensed movement and glanced around to see Beth Singer heading over. The children were still engrossed in their movie.
Sci paused when he saw Beth approaching.
“Go on,” I said.
“I was able to call in a favor from a pal in the State Department,” Sci said. “It seems Joshua Floyd was on a mission in Afghanistan and his aircraft was shot down.”
Beth’s head drooped. Jessie moved around to comfort her.
“The State Department is making representations to the Afghan government to let an investigative team visit the scene,” Sci revealed. “But the Afghans are saying…” He hesitated.
“Tell me,” Beth pleaded. Tears were forming in her eyes.
“The Afghans are saying there were no survivors,” Sci revealed.
Beth shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. Tears traced their way down her face, but she wiped them away and turned to me.
“He’s alive,” she said. “And I’m not saying that as his doting wife. I’m saying that as one former pilot to another. If Josh was dead, they wouldn’t need me and the children as leverage.”
I didn’t disagree. There was a slim chance the two incidents were unrelated, but the timing of the events and the nature of the people involved suggested orchestration. I nodded and turned back to the laptop.
“Sci, see if you can find out where the bird went down and whether there’s been any activity in that area.”
“Will do, Jack.”
“We’ll check in soon,” Justine said, before ending the call.
I could see Beth struggling with her emotions.
“We’ll find him,” I assured her.
She replied with an uncertain nod. I’d been shot down in Afghanistan, so I knew the horror of the situation all too well, but I’d been lucky—which was more than I could say for most of the men who’d been in the bird with me.
“We’ll keep you and your kids safe,” I told Beth Singer. “And we’ll find your husband in Afghanistan. We’ll find him and we’ll bring him home.”
She responded with a faint smile.
“Moscow is our nearest office,” I said to Jessie. “Get in touch with Dinara Orlova. Bring her up to speed.”
“Will do,” Jessie replied.
I backed away from the counter and took my phone from my pocket.
“Where are you going?” Jessie asked.
“To call in a favor,” I replied, heading for the door.
CHAPTER 39
I STEPPED OUTSIDE and followed a path around the house. It was more a channel of shallow snow, in between the deeper drifts that covered the lawn and flowerbeds. I walked to the back garden and saw the gentle waves of the Sound lapping the beach not a hundred yards from where I stood. New York City loomed in the distance. I scrolled through my replacement phone looking for a number I was only supposed to call in an emergency.
I dialed, and as I waited for my call to connect, I watched the lights of cars zipping through Queens.
“Hello?” a voice said.
“I’m looking for Secretary Carver,” I replied.
“And you are?”
“Jack Morgan, he gave me this number—”
“Hold, please,” the voice said, and the line fell silent.
Secretary of Defense Eli Carver had given me the number after I’d saved his life from the Russian assassin Veles, at Air Station Fallon.
“Jack Morgan,” Eli Carver said when he came on the line. “I’m glad you called. Not a day passes when I don’t think about what I owe you.”
“I did what I had to, Mr. Secretary,” I replied.
“I’m pretty sure I told you to call me Eli,” he responded with a friendly laugh. “But I’m guessing you didn’t call to reminisce. What can I do for you?”
“Last week, a Special Forces bird went down in Afghanistan,” I said, and felt his mood change.
“And you know about that how?” he asked somberly. “Never mind, I forgot who I was talking to. Go on.”
“A man claiming to be the father-in-law of one of the men on that aircraft hired me to track down his daughter. It turns out he’s an imposter who might be trying to use her as leverage.”
“Local intelligence says there were no survivors, Jack.” Carver’s tone could not have been more serious. “It was a massacre.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Secretary, but I believe there was at least one survivor. These men wouldn’t be trying to abduct my client and her children if her husband was dead.”
I barely registered the ease with which Beth Singer had become my client. She hadn’t asked me, she wasn’t paying me, but I felt ashamed of how easily I’d been misled and I needed to put it right. This wasn’t just about getting off the bench and putting myself on the front line anymore. This was about protecting an innocent woman and her children.
“Why don’t you come in?” Carver asked. “Show us what you’ve got. We can protect your client, take down the bad guys.”
“That’s where things get complicated, Mr. Secretary,” I replied. “One of those bad guys might be in your department. The man who hired me appears to have a Pentagon connection, which makes me think that someone at the Department of Defense might have given up the mission in Afghanistan. Someone who is now working with hostiles to capture a US serviceman and his family.”
Carver whistled. “That’s a heck of an allegation, Jack.”
“I know, Mr. Secretary. That’s why I called you and you alone.”
“I appreciate it, Jack. But now I’m not sure who’s doing who the favor.”
“I’d suggest going through everyone who was cleared for the Afghanistan mission. Run vetting, full background, and comms checks,” I said.
“Why don’t you help us work this from the inside?” Carver suggested. “A Department of Defense contractor.”
“I trust my team,” I said. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Secretary, but I don’t trust yours. It looks very much like you have at least one traitor at the Pentagon, and until we know if that’s true and who it is, I’d rather not take any chances.”
“Not even with me?”
“Not even with you, Mr. Secretary. With all due respect.”
“You’re a careful man, Jack,” Carver said, and I could tell from his tone that he was smiling.
“Wisdom earned from hard lessons,” I replied.
“Can I reach you on this number?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, let’s keep in touch,” Carver said. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
“Likewise, Mr. Secretary.”
“You be careful. And, Jack?”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”
“What do I have to do to get you to call me Eli? You saved my life, remember?”
“I remember, sir,” I said. It was my turn to smile. “Maybe if we ever share a beer it’ll feel more natural to call you by your first name, but until then I can’t seem to shake the habit, sir.”
Carver scoffed. “Good luck, Jack.”
“Thanks. And you, sir,” I replied, before hanging up.
CHAPTER 40
I WAS ALONE in the living room, watching the blazing lights of the city in the distance. It was during these rare quiet moments that I sometimes questioned the life I’d chosen. I could have picked any apartment, any office, any bar, and found people who knew what each day would bring, whose lives were comfortable, certain. I wondered whether having lived a life on the edge, never settling, had changed me beyond redemption. Could I be happy with a comfortable, certain existence? Was my time in LA away from all this a sign I wanted out? But I hadn’t been entirely content there. I’d felt a gap in my life that had been filled ever since I’d taken this case. As I looked at the city and pictured the lives being lived there, I struggled to imagine Justine and myself ever slotting into anything so normal. Were we doomed to live life on the edge? Would she be happy with such an existence?
