Kill Plan (Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers -) (5 page)

“Not today—I’m way too busy.”

“Busy’s great. I can work with busy. It’d be no fun for me watching you catch up with your paperwork, would it?”

“Call me tomorrow and we’ll fix a date. I’d need to clear it with security.”

“But I’m here now, why not just throw protocol out of the window and go for it?”

“You’re here?”

“Downstairs, sitting on the desk of a very handsome man in uniform. Oh look—I’ve made him blush.”

“I’m sorry—it’s just not convenient today.”

“Wait a minute.” Tate dropped her voice. “I do hope I don’t have to remind you of our little agreement.”

Ingrid clamped her bottom lip between her teeth. Tate could cause so much trouble for her, if she set her mind to it. The journalist’s role in her last case was unconventional to say the least, downright dishonest and immoral might be a more accurate description. Tate had a reputation for tenacity and dogged determination. Once she sank her teeth into a project she wouldn’t let up until she was good and ready. Ingrid would have to succumb to her demands eventually. But maybe she could put her off just a little longer.

“Of course you don’t need to remind me,” Ingrid responded in a whisper, keeping her eyes trained on Jennifer, hoping the clerk’s breakfast was enough of a distraction to stop her listening in. “I promise you we’ll fix up proper access at a later date. I just really can’t do today.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then a lengthy intake of breath. “Oh, all right! But I want you to understand—I won’t be fobbed off a second time. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

Tate hung up, leaving Ingrid listening to the dial tone for a moment, wondering how the hell she was going to handle Tate when the time came.

“Hey, everyone! If you have a moment.”

Ingrid looked up to see her boss, Sol Franklin, standing in the doorway of the office with his arm around the shoulders of a tall, slim black man in his very early twenties.

“Listen up, folks.” Sol removed his arm and took a step away from his young companion. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to introduce you all to Isaac Coleman. Isaac here is part of the International Mission Graduate Program. He’s aiming to specialize in the personal safety of US citizens abroad, and he has the good fortune to have been assigned to the Criminal Investigation Unit for the next part of his training. Say hello, people,” Sol ordered.

Jennifer jumped up from her desk and warmly shook the new arrival by the hand. “I’m Jennifer Rocharde. Good to have you on board, Isaac.”

“Thank you.” Isaac smiled broadly as Jennifer pumped his arm practically off his shoulder.

“Welcome to the embassy, Isaac. I’m Ingrid.” Ingrid’s gaze switched from the new recruit to Sol. She raised her shoulders at him in an almost imperceptible shrug. Another pair of hands to help Jennifer would be great, but she had an uncomfortable feeling there was more to it than that. A moment later Sol made his intentions plain.

“Isaac here has completed the victim counseling training course and he’s eager to apply what he’s learned to a ‘real-life’ situation. So, next US citizen in peril, I want Isaac in the thick of the action. OK?” He turned from Jennifer to Ingrid then quickly looked away. “Good. That’s all settled then.” He put his arm around the new man’s shoulders again. “Now—as promised—the guided tour. And you must remind me to fix a date for you to come to my house for dinner. It’s customary for new recruits. And I won’t take no for an answer.” He swung Isaac around and back through the door, hurrying away before Ingrid or Jennifer could ask any questions about Isaac’s responsibilities.

Ingrid supposed her request for Sol to contact the US Marshals Service would have to wait until after he’d completed Isaac’s tour.

Jennifer closed the door behind them. “No one has ever asked me if I want to learn victim support skills. The closest I get to supporting US citizens is passing on their temporary passport requests or arranging for a money wire.”

“If you want to get more training, I’m sure you can put in a request.”

“I get rejected every time I ask for training. It’s like I don’t count or something.”

Ingrid grabbed her purse and jacket. She didn’t have the time or the patience to stay in the office listening to Jennifer complain about the shortcomings of the embassy’s professional development program.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Fisher Krupps.”

“The dead trader?”

Ingrid nodded. She’d decided to tackle the obstructive DCI who had thrown her out of the bank head on. If the detective complained, Ingrid would escalate the matter with Sol or someone higher up the food chain. “Can you arrange for a driver to meet me in the parking lot?”

“You need him to wait at the bank for you till you’re finished?”

“No—I could be there a while.”

By the time Ingrid had skipped down the stairs to the underground parking lot, a driver, dressed in traditional G-man garb—right down to the dark glasses, even though the lighting was dim in the basement—was holding open the door of a black BMW sedan. He was embassy rather than FBI personnel, but the black suit and white shirt look was pretty much universal. They were out of the embassy compound and onto the street less than a minute later.

It wasn’t Ingrid’s habit to use an official vehicle to carry out her tasks, but finding a convenient place to park the bike in the City of London would have been more hassle than she needed. After ten minutes or so the driver let out a heavy sigh and hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand in frustration.

“It’s not just me then,” Ingrid said.

“Ma’am?”

“Please—call me Ingrid. I’m guessing you’ve noticed the tail too?”

“I’ve been trying to shake him off for the past five minutes. If he’s a genuine taxi driver, he’s in the wrong business. He’s pretty damn good.”

Ingrid stared into the passenger side mirror and took a good look at the black London cab. She could barely see the driver. No way could she make out who was in the back.

“Let’s just continue to the destination, shall we? I’ll deal with our unwanted escort when we get there.”

8

As soon as she’d spotted the cab herself, Ingrid had a pretty good idea who might be tailing her. If it was supposed to have been a covert operation, then the mission had failed spectacularly. Fifty yards from the entrance of Fisher Krupps on Leadenhall Street, Ingrid told her driver to pull over.

“Will you need any assistance?” he asked, turning to her as he switched off the engine.

Looking at him, Ingrid saw two miniature versions of herself reflected back in the dark rectangles of his shades. She needed a haircut. Her hair was hanging limply over her ears. “I think I’ll be able to manage,” she told him. The driver seemed to deflate a little. Even if she’d needed help, no way would she get a non-Bureau member of embassy staff involved. “You can get back to base now.” She opened her door and climbed out, flagging down the cab as she walked into the road. The taxi pulled in just in front of the embassy sedan. Ingrid strode toward it and rapped on the nearside window.

After a long pause, the door opened and Angela Tate stuck her head through the gap. “How’d you know it was me?”

“I took a wild guess.” Ingrid should have known Tate wouldn’t just accept being fobbed off without putting up more of a fight. “What exactly did you hope to achieve, following me here like this?”

“I thought there was a chance you’d change your mind.”

“Trust me—I haven’t forgotten our… arrangement. I’ll do what I can. Please, just leave it with me.”

Tate sniffed in a long breath, obviously unconvinced.

“I’ll call you just as soon as I can with an alternate date. I promise.”

Tate peered over Ingrid’s shoulder, to the street beyond. “Square Mile? What is it? Cyber fraud? Anti-terror? Give me a clue at least.”

Ingrid was surprised the sleuthing reporter hadn’t already heard about the mysterious death of an American trader. “Nothing so interesting. Please, Angela. Cut me a break here.”

Tate pursed her lips and screwed up her face. “I’ve got a lunch meeting anyway. So I can’t stop. But I warn you—I won’t let you off the hook.”

“Believe me, of that I have no doubt.” Ingrid stepped back and watched as Tate slammed the door. A moment later the cab pulled into the busy stream of traffic. A few seconds after that, the embassy car did the same. The driver flashed his rear warning lights at her to say goodbye.

Already later than she had wanted, Ingrid jogged toward the entrance of the bank, glancing around the street as she approached, just to make sure the journalist wasn’t still spying on her. After checking in with the main reception desk and collecting a visitor badge, she made her way straight to the trading floor in search of Mbeke, hoping she wouldn’t run into DCI Simmons first.

She stepped out of the elevator on the third floor and checked up and down the corridor. The place where Matthew Fuller had died was still cordoned off, as was the men’s restroom. Ingrid peered through the glass wall of the corridor into the open plan trading floor area. She spotted Mbeke addressing a group of five detectives in a small conference room immediately opposite her position. She waited for him to finish up before approaching. The grave-faced detectives—three men and two women—filed past her in silence.

“Hey,” Ingrid said, “are things going that badly?”

Mbeke blinked at her.

“Your team look a little low. Has something happened? Is the maintenance guy OK?”

“What are you doing here?”

“My job. How’s the maintenance guy?”

“His doctors have decided to put him into an induced coma, until they find out what’s wrong with him.”

“Poor guy. When is Matthew Fuller’s autopsy happening?”

Mbeke paused before answering, as if weighing up whether he should even answer her at all. “This afternoon. The mortuary’s a little backed up because of the bank holiday.”

Ingrid scanned the trading floor. “No DCI Simmons today?”

“She’s coordinating back at the station. I’m managing things here.”

Ingrid nodded slowly, relieved she didn’t have to get into a messy, time-wasting battle with the senior detective. “And you’re OK about my being here?”

Mbeke folded his arms. He scrutinized her face. “You promise you won’t interfere with my investigation?”

“Interfere? How about assist and consult?”

The merest hint of a smile flickered across Mbeke’s face.

“How many staff members are yet to be interviewed?” Ingrid asked him, pleased he might be a little more amenable than his boss.

“We’ve already interviewed all of the traders on this floor. We’re spreading out to the rest of the building today, concentrating on anyone who was in the building yesterday. More staff are in today. The process will take a while.”

“What about the maintenance and cleaning staff who had access to the restroom?”

“There’s just one man we haven’t been able to talk to. He didn’t show up for work today.”

“And he is?”

Mbeke consulted his notebook. “Miguel Hernandez, thirty-five, originally from… actually, nobody is completely clear about his country of origin. The cleaning agency say Columbia, but a couple of the cleaners here think he’s from Spain.”

“He was here until when yesterday?”

“Still trying to pinpoint the exact time.”

“And he would have had access to the men’s restrooms?”

“Just like everyone else in the building.”

“You’ve tried his home address?”

“A couple of uniforms visited his flat about an hour ago. There was no answer.”

“Do you have any more intel on him?”

“Surprisingly little. He doesn’t have much of a profile on any level.”

Ingrid felt a knot tighten in her stomach. “Are you treating him as a potential witness or suspect?”

“Witness at this stage.”

She tried to disguise her surprise. “Are the uniformed cops staking out his place?”

“I’d need to put in a special request for a surveillance team. Jump through a lot of hoops. I thought I’d just send them back out there later.” He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and stuck out his chin, as if he were challenging her to question his decision.

Ingrid chose not to rise to the bait. “So what’s next?”

“According to the cleaning agency, one of the cleaners is quite close to Hernandez. I was just about to speak to her.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“In an observational capacity?”

“Whatever works for you.”

A few minutes later, the elevator doors opened onto the eighth floor, bright sunshine flooded the corridor, coming from a floor to ceiling window at one end. Halfway toward the other end, Ingrid spotted a cleaning cart. The cleaner couldn’t be too far away. Mbeke picked up pace a little so that he was a couple of steps ahead of Ingrid.

“Hello!” he called. “Patience Toure?”

A heavy, middle-aged woman appeared from a doorway next to the cart. She was dressed in dark pants that were too tight for her and an unflattering sage green tee shirt. “Who is looking for her?”

Mbeke introduced himself and showed her his badge.

Immediately the woman narrowed her eyes and drew in a sharp breath. “Is this about the man who died?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Mbeke said, his voice softening noticeably.

“I wasn’t here yesterday—I don’t know anything about what happened.” She glanced toward Ingrid.

Ingrid stepped forward. “Agent Skyberg, American embassy,” she said. “The man who died was a US citizen.” Ingrid sensed Mbeke wasn’t happy about the interruption. She smiled at Toure and shuffled sideways, leaving the floor to the detective. She glanced into the room Toure had just come out of. It was some sort of closet for storing cleaning materials and equipment.

“We’re interested in speaking to one of your colleagues,” Mbeke continued, “Miguel Hernandez?”

“So?”

“I understand you know Mr Hernandez quite well.”

“Who told you that?”

“Do you have any idea where he might be today?”

Toure shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Is he your friend?”

“I hardly know the man. Why are you asking me about him?”