A Bloody Storm: A Derrick Storm Short (2 page)

“Delete them after you send them to me,” Jones said, adding, “Do you need a cleaner?”

“Too late,” Storm said. “I’m sure the car explosion has attracted a crowd by now.”

“I’ll call MI-6 and have the FBI pull strings with Scotland Yard. Both owe us. But it would be best if you disappeared. Hold on for a moment.”

Jones was off-line for less than a minute. When he returned, he said, “About forty miles south of Oxford is a town called Newbury. There’s a U.S. Air Force operation there under the command of the 420 Munitions Squadron. I’m arranging a military flight to get you out of England into Germany and then home. Best to avoid commercial flights and passport controls. How soon can you get to Newbury?”

“An hour or less unless I get stopped.”

“Don’t. At least not before you send me those coordinates.”

Jones had his priorities. Gold. Then Storm.

“Call me later,” Storm said, “about April.”

“April? She your girlfriend now?”

“Agent Showers,” he said, correcting himself. “And she’s not my girlfriend. She’s my partner.”

“Right,” Jones said skeptically.

“Just make sure someone gets to that hospital.”

Hanging up, Storm used the Mercedes’s GPS to direct him to the closest shopping mall: Templars Square, less than four miles away. He parked in the garage across the street, leaving his blood-covered jacket in the car. Storm wasn’t worried about trace evidence. He’d been dead, at least officially, for four years. The CIA had helped him “die” and vanish from the grid. He’d been happily living in Montana when Jones summoned him back for what was supposed to be a simple kidnapping investigation. If Scotland Yard or Interpol found traceable evidence in the bloody Mercedes, their investigators would compare the findings to records of living suspects. No one searched a cemetery for a killer.

In the parking garage’s second-floor stairwell, Storm paused to examine Lebedev’s cell phone. He found the directional app and forwarded the coordinates on it to Jones. As a backup, Storm also sent them to his own private cell phone. Satisfied, he deleted the app but kept Lebedev’s phone for delivery to the tech experts at Langley.
Who could tell what else it might contain?

Exiting the garage, Storm entered the shopping mall and went immediately into a public toilet to wash blood from his hands. He had it on his slacks, too, but they were black, so the stains were not so noticeable. He left the toilet and bought a pair of slacks and a shirt in a nearby clothing shop, then returned to the men’s room to change.

Outside the mall, he flagged a taxi at the corner of Crowell and Hackmore Streets.

“Where to?” the hack driver asked.

“Air base at Newbury.”

“That’s a long ride, mate,” he said, giving Storm a curious look.

“Got into a fight with my girl inside the mall,” Storm improvised. “She won’t drive me back to the base. She’s Irish, and if I’m late, it’ll be my head.”

“Birds—or in the States I guess you call ’em broads,” the driver said. “The nationality don’t matter. They’re all a bit loony. We’re off to Newbury.”

They’d gone about a mile when the cabbie started talking.

Storm leaned back his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t want conversation.

“You heard about the shootings at Oxford this morning, didn’t you?” the driver asked. “All over the radio. Three men started shooting at some Russian speaking at a rally. People got hurt.”

“I’ve got a twelve-hour shift waiting for me and a girl kicking my balls,” Storm replied. “I don’t need to hear about someone else’s problems.”

The cabbie chuckled. “Then you take a little nap and leave the driving to me.”

About forty minutes later, the cab arrived at the air base gate. Storm paid the sixty-dollar fare and then handed the driver another twenty. “My Irish girlfriend happens to be married,” he explained. “I’d like to have a face that is easy to forget.”

The driver pocketed the bills. “You Yanks all look alike to me, mate.”

Storm was about to board a flight an hour later when his cell phone rang.

“She’s out of surgery,” Jones said. “The prognosis is good. A car will be waiting when you land.”

“What’s today?”

Those were the first words coming from Agent Showers’s mouth when she awoke from the anesthetic.

“You was brought in yesterday morning, miss,” a nurse sitting next to her bedside answered. “I’m supposed to fetch our matron now. You’re quite the celebrity. You should see all the reporters hovering around, trying to get a story. They got cops at your door to keep them away. They told me not to talk to you, but I want you to know that I’m happy you’re okay, and I don’t want you to worry a bit, because I won’t tell anyone about your bloke.”

“My bloke?”

“Sure, your Steve,” she replied. “Isn’t he your bloke? I mean, I just assumed the way you was going on and on about him and mentioning his name. But don’t you worry, ma’am. Lots of people are as mad as a box of frogs when they’re gassed.”

“What did I say?” Showers asked.

“The truth is that it sounded a bit randy to me, you know. That’s why I’ll not be repeating it.”

“And you’re sure that I mentioned the name: Steve?”

“Oh, you did more than mention him. You had me blushing, but I’m really not one to gab.”

The nurse hurried from the room, leaving Showers to clear the cobwebs from her head. Obviously, she was in a hospital, which she presumed was in Oxford. Bandages covered her
right shoulder, there was an IV in her left arm, and she was attached to a monitor that was tracking her heartbeat, temperature, and blood pressure. She felt a remote device at her side and pushed a button that raised the back of the bed with a loud mechanical whine. A pain immediately shot through her shoulder. Her head was throbbing and she needed to use the toilet.

The nurse returned with an older, gray-haired woman who was being followed by two men in business suits. One had an American flag in his lapel.

“I’m Rachel Smythe, head matron at the hospital, and these men are from the American embassy,” the matron said. “They insist on speaking to you. Do you feel up to it?”

“Who are you?” Showers asked the man with the flag lapel.

“FBI Special Agent Douglas Cumerford,” he replied, while reaching into his jacket to produce his credentials. “This is Thomas Goodman. He’s with the State Department.”

Goodman didn’t offer credentials, and Showers immediately suspected he worked for the CIA.

“Thank you, Ms. Smythe,” Showers told the matron. “I’m okay to speak to these two gentlemen.”

“I’ll be sending the doctor around dear,” Smythe said, “after these two officials are done. If you need anything, just push the remote buzzer.” She and the nurse exited.

“Glad you’re awake,” Cumerford said. “We need to brief you before the Oxford police and Scotland Yard take your official statement. Obviously, Ivan Petrov’s murder is making international headlines, and the shooting at the university rally is all over the BBC.”

“You’ve spoken to Washington about this?” Showers asked.

“I’ve been on the phone with the director numerous times since you were brought into the hospital,” Cumerford said. “He sends his best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

Gordon removed an envelope from his navy blazer. “This is what we would like you to say in your official statement.” He handed it to her.

“The director approved this?” she asked.

Cumerford said, “He did. In fact, he said that you are not to deviate from the text. Say exactly what is written and offer nothing more. I’m going to be with you during all questioning, as your attorney.”

Gordon said, “We can’t stress how important it is for you to say only what has been written for you.”

Showers said, “And if I slip?”

“Don’t,” Cumerford replied. “The British media have been busy interviewing witnesses from the rally. They’ve told reporters three men started shooting at Petrov and his bodyguards. Two of the attackers had submachine guns. They killed Petrov’s two bodyguards, while the third gunman tried to assassinate Petrov, who’d just started his speech at the protest rally.”

Showers said, “That’s exactly what happened.”

Cumerford continued, “The witnesses told reporters that you drew your handgun and fatally shot the assailant nearest you. Meanwhile, an unidentified man tackled the attacker who was firing at Petrov and killed him. He then used that man’s pistol to shoot the third assailant, but not before that gunman fired his machine gun and wounded you.”

“That’s accurate, too,” Showers said, “except it wasn’t an unidentified man. It was Steve Mason. We’re working together. He’s got credentials issued by the State Department.”

Gordon replied, “Ms. Showers, there’s a bit of a problem when it comes to Mr. Mason.”

Cumerford jumped in. “It would be in the best interest of the Bureau and our country if the unidentified man who helped you yesterday remained exactly that. An unidentified man. The
director would prefer that you not mention the name Steve Mason to anyone, including the Oxford police and the Scotland Yard detective who will be questioning you.”

“Read the statement,” Gordon said. “Stick to it.”

Cumerford added, “The media knows this unidentified man helped you into the Mercedes that was being driven by Georgi Lebedev and that Petrov was put into the backseat. Witnesses also described on the BBC how this mystery man and Petrov’s chief of security followed the Mercedes in a Vauxhall. That car was later found outside of town, where it had crashed. The bodies of Petrov, Lebedev, and Antonija Nad were found nearby. The Mercedes was later recovered in a parking garage at a local shopping mall. Hospital officials also have told the press that an unidentified man brought you into the hospital. The tabloids are calling him a Good Samaritan.”

“Steve Mason, Good Samaritan,” she said. “He’ll love that tag.”

Gordon said, “Let’s keep him faceless.”

Showers scanned the statement that Gordon had handed her. “You want me to tell the police that I blacked out while I was riding in the Mercedes and that I have no recollection of anything that happened from the moment that I left the rally until today when I woke up after surgery.”

“That’s right,” Cumerford said.

Showers said, “You’re telling me not to tell investigators what I observed inside the Mercedes. You don’t want me to describe how both Petrov and Lebedev ended up dead.”

In a stern voice, Gordon said, “You can’t comment because you were unconscious. Say that, and life will be easier for everyone.”

Showers asked, “Then how are you explaining the deaths of Petrov and Lebedev?”

“We’re not,” Gordon said.

“We don’t have to solve this case, Agent Showers,” Cumerford added. “These deaths are not an FBI problem. Just give the local authorities your statement. Our priority is to get you out of England as soon as you do that.”

“Before the police can blow holes in my story. Scotland Yard isn’t stupid,” she said. “When they identify the Vauxhall, they’ll know Steve Mason rented it.”

“Did he?” Gordon asked her. “Were you there with him?”

Showers realized that she hadn’t been at the airport when the car was rented.

“But there must be photographs of him somewhere,” she said. “This is Jolly Old England, home of cameras on every street corner. The emergency room here—surely, they have a picture of him bringing me in.”

Gordon smirked. “I believe the camera here and the ones outside the shopping mall all malfunctioned yesterday. It happens.”

Showers understood. Jedidiah Jones had worked his magic.

During the entire time that Storm and Showers had been in England, they had only been seen twice together. Once when they visited the Duke of Madison residence to interview Petrov and Lebedev, both of whom were now dead, and another when they got drunk at a local London pub. If their fellow pub revelers recognized Showers from the BBC and called the police, all they would be able to tell them was that she was drinking with a handsome Yank with brown hair and brown eyes who was in his thirties. That could describe anyone. Besides, by the time they called, she would be back in the USA.

Gordon said, “Let the British press and local cops come up with a plausible story.”

Cumerford said, “There’s speculation that Russian president Barkovsky is behind Petrov’s murder. He’s denied it, of course. But he’s the media’s main target. Not the FBI or any other U.S. agency. That’s why the less said by you, the better. Save your explanations for when you are debriefed back in Washington.”

“And when will that be?”

“There’s a local detective and a Scotland Yard investigator waiting downstairs to question you,” Cumerford said. “We will let them in. You will give them your statement. As soon as they hear it and the doctor gives his okay, we will take you in an ambulance to a special flight home. I have been assigned to accompany you.”

“I’ll need a moment to use the bathroom,” she said. “Then I’ll lie to the investigators.”

Cumerford and Gordon exchanged nervous glances.

They expected her to take part in a cover-up. She knew when she began at the FBI that these things happened in government, and that she might be called on to lie someday. She hoped she’d never need to. Showers had run her own background investigation on the mysterious “Steve Mason” when they first met and he claimed to be a private detective. There were no records about him anywhere—no legitimate driver’s license, no private detective credentials. She had always known Steve Mason was not his actual name. It was a CIA legend. And Steve Mason had been careful not to give her any clues that might have helped her identify him. Until after they arrived in London. Until the night when they had gone on a long walk and ended up in a pub where they’d downed shots of whiskey and beers. She had told him about her father, a Virginia State Trooper who had been killed in the line of duty after stopping and fatally shooting two drugged-up predators who had kidnapped and raped a ten-year-old girl. Her father had saved
that girl’s life. Her father was Showers’s hero, and when she asked Storm about his own father, he dropped his guard.