Dire Distraction (17 page)

“Roger that,” Avery acknowledged, his mind churning as he tried to make sense of the situation. “Harrison, you showing any activity on the street?”

“Negative. It’s as quiet as a graveyard out here. Not a soul in sight.”

“Fucking Isaacs,” Drake mumbled. “Looks like he’s playing us even in death.”

“I don’t know,” Tyler said. “This whole thing feels more like something the Consortium would pull, if you ask me. This is their kind of game. Bait and switch. Always reminding us that they’re one step ahead.”

“Yeah, well if they’re behind this,” Drake posited, “then you can bet there’s a reason.”

“The only real question being what?”

“Don’t know,” Nash said, striding down the hallway. “But it seems to me, based on past experience, we’d be better off getting the hell out of here first and asking questions later.”

T
he pub was crowded. Clearly a popular neighborhood hangout. Sydney counted out the proper coins to pay for their dinner and then took the sack from the bartender and headed for the door. Outside a group of men stood with pints of bitter, smoking and arguing about the outcome of the soccer game on TV, the screen visible through the window.

Men were men no matter the country. It was only the sport that varied. Her father had always said that football was serious business. She smiled and turned the corner into the cobblestone alleyway that ran between the main street and the mews.

The air was cold and damp, swirling tendrils of mist making the alley seem almost sinister somehow. Silly how quickly one’s imagination could get carried away. Ahead, lights burned bright in the upper floors of the restored carriage houses. Once upon a time, the mews had housed horses and grooms. But in later centuries, the masses had moved in, and the little stables had become grand town homes. Or at least nice ones.

Sydney pulled her coat closer as she turned into the lane, her eyes moving automatically to sweep the area. Looking for threats. If nothing else she was a creature of habit. Her hand moved automatically to the small of her back where she kept her gun, but her fingers met only skin. She’d left the weapon on the table in the upstairs library of the flat.

Not that she needed it. She could actually see the lights from the flat now. And the dark sedan the British government had loaned them. Hannah had insisted on driving, reciting the mantra “right is left and left is right” the entire way. Not that Sydney blamed her. She’d never really gotten the hang of driving period, too much of her life spent in her father’s diplomatic cars and limos. The Walkers had always had a driver.

Maybe when she got back to the States, she’d make a point of fine-tuning the skill.

Behind her, a dog barked, and something skittered along the pavement. She picked up her pace, the sound of laughter coming from an open window acting as a tonic for her jangled nerves. There had simply been too much going on. Too many narrow escapes. And now, if anyone was in danger, it was Avery.

Just the thought of him made her stomach quiver. The night they’d spent together had been beyond amazing. And the idea that a man like Avery had actually chosen her—well, it boggled the mind. She smiled again, her mind replaying the more intimate parts of the evening. The man definitely knew how to hit her sweet spots.

The dog barked again, and Sydney was immediately back on alert. In front of her, a shadow detached itself from behind a parked car. A man smoking a cigarette. He flicked it away, the tip glowing orange as it tumbled to the ground.

“Sydney Price?” the man’s voice was deep and commanding.

She thought about running, but then held her ground, gripping the sack of food, her body tensing as she prepared to fight.

“I’m sorry to intrude. Your friend said you’d gone out to the pub.”

She frowned, trying to process this newest piece of information, careful to keep her distance, the light from the safe house beckoning just up the street. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“My bad,” the man said, the soft, southern vowels of his American accent carrying clearly now. “I should have introduced myself.” He smiled, his teeth shining white in the dark of the mews. “Bradley Cramden. I’m with the State Department. I’ve come about your father.”

Her alarm shifted quickly from fears for her safety to her fears about her father.

“Is he all right?”

“I’m afraid he’s had a heart attack.”

“Is he…” She sucked in a breath, unwilling to complete the thought.

“No. No.” Bradley held up a hand in apology. “He’s alive. But he’s still in pretty bad shape. And so they sent me to find you.”

“They?” Something in his voice seemed off suddenly, and she took a step backward, her fist tightening.

“The State Department. And the CIA. They tried to reach you through Langley. And they sent me here.”

Definitely something not quite right. But she couldn’t quite shake the idea that her father was sick and needed her. Still better to be careful.

“Who did you talk to at Langley?” she asked, looking for some kind of confirmation.

“I didn’t talk to anybody. Way above my pay level.” The man laughed, the sound echoing in the empty mews. “I’m afraid I’m just the messenger. But I’m supposed to take you to our offices, and from there, they’ll get you on a flight to Vienna.”

There was nothing in what he said that wasn’t plausible. In fact, if he’d tried to name someone, she’d have been more concerned. No one in her business parted with names or information easily. Which either meant that Bradley was telling the truth, or was really good at playing the game.

“Thank you for coming for me,” she said, inching around in an effort to keep him from blocking her path to the safe house and Hannah. “I just need to tell my friend you’ve found me. And grab my go-bag.”

She didn’t have a go-bag, but if he was who he said he was, he’d understand her hesitation.

“No problem,” he smiled again. “I’ll just walk with you.” Before she could object, he’d fallen into step beside her. And as they passed through a pale sliver of light, she saw the gun glinting in his hand.

Acting on instinct alone, she whirled around, using her hand and leg as a weapon, the food sack sailing forgotten through the air. But the man had anticipated her movement, ducking away from her blow as his arms came around her, pulling her tight against his chest. She fought against him, trying to scream, but he pressed his fingers into her neck.

In seconds, her head was swimming as she struggled to breathe, and the last thought she had before slipping into blackness was that she should have told Avery how much she loved him.

“How the hell did you let this happen?” Avery knew he was yelling, and he also knew in some far-off corner of his brain that it wasn’t going to do anyone any good, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It was the only way he could maintain any semblance of control.

Sydney was missing. He’d only just found her, and now she was gone. Disappeared.

The only testament to her having been there at all was the remains of what was meant to have been hers and Hannah’s dinner splattered all over the cobblestones.

“I had no reason to believe that she wasn’t safe. The pub wasn’t very far away. And no one was supposed to know we were here. And she was going crazy. Worrying about you.” Hannah’s face was pinched, her eyes wide behind her glasses. “Avery, if I’d known there was danger, I would never have let her go.”

“I know.” He sighed, sinking into a chair. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I never should have left her on her own.”

“Avery, she’s a trained operative,” Nash said. “She didn’t need babysitters. And Hannah’s right, there was no reason to believe that there was any kind of threat.”

“Goddamned Consortium. We should have known the warehouse was a diversion. Finding the coordinates was just too easy.”

“But they couldn’t have known that Sydney would stay behind,” Tyler offered.

“They might have, if they know CIA protocol,” Drake said as Tyler glared at him, shaking her head. “Well, it’s true. We’ve thought for a while that they might have someone on the inside. And if they do, then they could have figured out what our play would be.”

“He’s right.” Avery pushed up from the chair, pacing instead in front of the flat’s fireplace. “We might as well have given them a playbook. We followed protocol to the letter. Splitting up the team. Pulling rank with MI5. And then following those bastards as they led us on a merry chase, all the while planning to take Sydney.”

“We don’t know that it was the Consortium,” Harrison said, his arm around Hannah, who was still looking shell-shocked.

“No, but it’s a damn good guess,” Drake argued.

“Consortium or not, we can be sure of one thing. This is definitely about me.” Avery tipped back his head, pain ripping through him as he thought of the danger he’d put Sydney in. His falling in love with her had put a target on her back. “Everything that’s happened. The altered photograph of Evangeline. Being lured back to Shrum’s compound. The attack there. All of it was about me.”

“Agreed,” Nash said. “We’ve also got hard evidence to tie it all back to the Consortium as well. Which means that whatever the reason, they’re gunning for you.”

“And now they’ve got Sydney, and we haven’t got shit.” Avery dropped into the chair again, burying his face in his hands. He’d never felt so angry or so helpless. He wasn’t the kind of man to sit and wait. And yet, without something to go on, there was nothing he could do.

“Actually,” Hannah said, her voice still a little shaky, “I do have something. But I don’t know if it will help.”

“Anything you’ve got is better than where we are now.”

“Okay.” She nodded, moving to sit at her computer again. “I’ve been trying to find a link between Warner Stoltz and the man Gregor. Using our theory about Consortium members being tied to the arms trade, I ran names to see what might pop. And I got a hit. A man named Gregor Ivanovich. He’s a Georgian national. Lives in Germany.” She hit a button, and a face flashed up on the screen.

“Basically, he’s a muscle man,” she continued. “Security. Bodyguard. That kind of thing. Most recently working for a company out of Koln. BK Industries. It’s a huge conglomerate. But they’re heavily invested in the manufacturing of weapons.”

“I’ve heard of them.” Drake nodded. “One of the top producers in Europe. They even sell to the United States. But how do you know this Gregor is our man?”

“Couple of reasons.” Hannah put up another photo. “Before going to work for BK, Gregor worked for an independent security company. More like mercenaries really. In fact, some of their members have even hit our watch lists. But the interesting part is that the security company also hired Warner Stoltz.”

“So he was there at the same time as Gregor Ivanovich?” Tyler asked.

“Yes. And according to the records I found, they worked together quite a bit during that time.”

“Is Stoltz still with the same company?” Harrison prompted.

“No. He left. Just after Gregor did.”

“You said there were a couple of things. I don’t suppose one of them is that Stoltz worked for BK.”

“It’s not that tidy, I’m afraid. But I did find out that Alain Dubois hired the company they worked for several times. Security for various functions he hosted. And it seems both Gregor and Warner were part of the deal.”

“So we can connect both men to Dubois.” Avery pushed aside his panic, trying to make the newest pieces of the puzzle fit.

“Yes,” Hannah nodded. “And we know Dubois was a major player with the Consortium. But the best part is that one of the functions that he used them as security for was a benefit honoring the chairman of BK.”

“Wait,” Drake said, holding up a hand. “I know this one. Michael Brecht, right? He’s always in the papers. Guy’s richer than God.”

“Got it in one.” Hannah shot a look at Avery. “I know it’s not an answer but it’s a start. And there’s a little more. Gregor went to work for BK just after Dubois was killed. He started as security for Brecht and worked his way up to right-hand man.”

“The pieces fit,” Nash said. “Brecht certainly has the credibility and wherewithal to have pulled together something like the Consortium. And at least on the surface, there are some interesting connections. Any reason to suspect that he might be playing both sides of the weapons market? Legitimate and black?”

“There have been rumors. Unsubstantiated intel. But nothing definitive. On paper, the man is clean.”

“If Michael Brecht is our man, then there’s got to be a tie to me. And to Shrum. Clearly the man wants to hit me where it hurts. So it’s got to be something that would have made him go after Evangeline and now Sydney.”

“I haven’t found the connection yet,” Hannah said. “But I’ve got a gut feeling that it’s there. This guy fits the profile of the kind of man arrogant enough to believe he could control the world’s arms market by keeping countries destabilized. And he’s also got the money and clout to recruit others of like mind. Add to that the connection to Gregor and Stoltz, both of whom are more than capable of killing people who outlive their usefulness.”

“Like Isaacs,” Drake added.

“Among others.”

“I’ve got more information on Brecht,” Harrison said, pulling up a recent photo of Brecht on his computer. “I have no idea if it’ll help, but it can’t hurt. Right?”

Avery moved so that he could see the screen as well as Harrison. “So what have you got?”

“The man’s résumé definitely reads like a who’s who of European industrial magnates. But he wasn’t always rich. Started out on the wrong side of the German divide. Managed to work his way up in the communist hierarchy. Actually worked for a Soviet weapons manufacturer. But it wasn’t until the wall came down that he came into his own. He started BK, which stands for Blitzkrieg, and never looked back. Capitalism was his kind of game.”

“Yes, but there’s still nothing to tie Brecht to me,” Avery said. “What about family?”

Harrison typed something else into the computer, waited a moment, and then pulled up another picture of Brecht. This one when the man was much younger, standing in front of a bakery with a woman and a younger boy. “His father died when he was young. Mother remarried. This is a picture of Brecht, his mother, and his half brother. The bakery belonged to the stepfather.”

“Prager.” Avery read the name on the bakery, something stirring in his memory. “Is that the stepfather’s name?”

“Yeah.” Harrison nodded. “Manfred Prager. Michael never took his name. But his mother did. And, of course, his brother.”

“What was the brother’s name?” Avery’s pulse was pounding now, memories of an operation years ago surfacing.

“Gerhardt,” Harrison said. “Gerhardt Prager. But he died—”

“Sixteen years ago,” Avery finished for him. “In Amsterdam. I know because I’m the one who killed him.”