Run Girl: Ingrid Skyberg FBI Thrillers Prequel Novella (2 page)

Kevin Price was a true professional. All Ingrid’s colleagues working in the Violent Crimes Against Children program were. Pretty much every single one of them felt they were on a mission. But there was so much to do. No matter how hard they worked, or how many agents were assigned to the program at any one time, it always felt a little like chipping away at an iceberg with a toothpick. After three years working in the program, Ingrid had started to wonder if she’d made much of a difference at all.

From her very first day at the Academy in Quantico, Ingrid had always wanted to work in child protection. Through all her years at far flung field offices, she had been focused on that
 
single goal. All along, in the back of her mind, she’d had some fantastical notion that she’d stumble on a pedophile ring that would somehow lead her to her missing school friend, Megan. She’d harbored a wild hope that she would discover some isolated derelict house where her best friend had been held for the last eighteen years. That she’d be able to rescue her and finally make amends.

And maybe get a little peace of mind.

But Megan was probably dead, in all likelihood killed shortly after her abduction. Although the unfavorable statistics hadn’t stopped Ingrid searching, as each year passed and she’d chased down yet another false lead, her hope had been pretty much extinguished. Maybe it was time for a change. Time to get out of the program. Perhaps she could use this trip away from home, from her normal work environment, to give herself a little space to think, to decide what she should do next with her career.

At the lectern, Kevin’s voice had gotten a little louder. Ingrid glanced up at her colleague then at the screen behind him. It displayed the last slide of the session.

“OK, people,” Kevin said. “Fifteen minutes before we break for coffee. Let’s try a little role play based on what we’ve just learned.” Kevin’s suggestion was met with a roomful of groans—the most vocal the audience had been. “Hey! Come on, just fifteen minutes. Then I’ve got a very special delivery arriving direct from Krispy Kreme.”

At the back of the room, Ingrid noticed DI McKittrick smiling and shaking her head. Ingrid caught her eye and smiled back at her. A moment later Ingrid’s phone started to vibrate in her pocket. She was careful to wait until Kevin was busy dividing the hostile audience into groups of three before she read the text message:

-URGENT-

car waiting for you outside
 
leave immediately
 
await further instructions

3

The black sedan with diplomatic plates was parked right outside the main entrance of New Scotland Yard. The driver, wearing a black suit, crisp white shirt and dark glasses, opened the rear passenger door for Ingrid. She climbed in to discover Lucille Gardiner inside.

“What’s going on?” Ingrid asked her.

“I haven’t a clue. This guy’s not giving anything away.” She gestured a hand toward the driver who had silently and quickly slipped behind the wheel.

He started the engine.

“What about my colleague?” Ingrid said, leaning forward. “Shouldn’t we wait for him?”

The driver’s voice piped into the back of the car via a small speaker embedded in the parcel shelf. “I have my instructions—collect Agents Gardiner and Skyberg from New Scotland Yard and return to the embassy.”

“The embassy?” Ingrid had suspected the American embassy was their intended destination as soon as she noticed the diplomatic registration plates. “Who gave you those instructions?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

The driver glanced over his shoulder at Ingrid then turned eyes front and pulled away from the curb without saying another word.

Ingrid settled back into the plush upholstery of the luxurious sedan. She supposed she might as well enjoy the journey. After a few moments she turned to Lucille. “What did your text say?” Her colleague showed her the screen of her cell phone. “Same as mine,” Ingrid told her. “Strange they weren’t both sent at the same time.”

“Maybe they didn’t want to raise any alarm.”

“Should we, do you think? Be alarmed?”

Lucille shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough. If it were a national emergency you’d think Kevin would have gotten the text too.”

“I’m just glad it’s nothing to do with your kids. I was a little worried back there.”

“Thank God. But I should call them. I don’t know when I’ll next get the chance.” Lucille turned toward the window and hit the speed dial option on her phone.

Ingrid stared through the glass on her side, watching the pedestrians on the sidewalk and studying the architecture lining the busy street. There was a lot of new construction happening on the northern side—all glass and steel curves. On their side of the street she noticed a department store, a collection of retail outlets and fast food places that were familiar from back home and, as they approached a major intersection, set back from the road, a grand red brick cathedral, a tall bell tower standing on the left hand side. She craned her neck to get a better look. After another couple of intersections she saw a sign for Buckingham Palace—one of the places she planned to visit on Thursday before her flight home—but was disappointed that all she could see from the car was a long, dull brick wall, razor wire running along the top.

A few minutes later they were heading roughly north, a large expanse of green on their left hand side. Ingrid supposed this had to be Hyde Park. The embassy wasn’t far from here. She’d done a little research during the plane ride over. She’d attempted to memorize the rough locations of all the important landmarks in central London: the embassy, New Scotland Yard, obviously, Thames House—the headquarters of MI5—and ‘Babylon-on-Thames’—the headquarters of MI6. Not exactly regular tourist haunts.

Sure enough, after another five minutes, they were pulling into a dinky little street blocked at the end by a metal gate. Beyond that was a heavy duty yellow and white striped road blocker.

A few yards out, the gates opened and the road blocker descended. The driver was so well practiced, he barely needed to adjust his speed as he drove the car in.

Lucille finally said goodbye to her oldest daughter and hung up.

“Everything OK at home?” Ingrid asked her.

“Only the usual dramas—forgotten soccer strip, lost lunch money. Nothing Stuart can’t handle.”

Once inside the compound, the driver continued into an underground parking lot a couple of stories below ground level. He parked up and the speaker behind them crackled into life.

“This is your stop, agents.” He swiveled in his seat and pulled off his sunglasses for the first time. “Have a pleasant visit.”

Before Ingrid had a chance to open her door, it swung wide. An armed female guard was standing to attention as Ingrid climbed out. An identical guard performed the same task for Lucille on the other side of the car. Ingrid wasn’t sure what to make of the VIP treatment. Was it a good or a bad sign? For a fleeting moment it almost felt as if they were under arrest. Ingrid had managed to escape one of the least rewarding training sessions she’d ever attended, but what exactly had she escaped to? She pictured Kevin Price manfully holding the fort at the Metropolitan Police’s HQ and hoped he hadn’t had to deal with rebellion in the ranks before the donuts arrived.

Across the parking lot an elevator opened and a middle-aged man with gray speckled dark curly hair stepped out. He was wearing an unflattering pair of corduroy pants and a check shirt. He reminded Ingrid of her high school geography teacher. The man peered around the parking lot, spotted the car and strode toward them. His face broke into a grin.

“Special Agent Gardiner!” he said and extended his hand as he hurried to Lucille’s side of the car.

Ingrid wondered if the two had met before. From the bemused look on Lucille’s face, she supposed not.

“And by a process of elimination I guess you must be Special Agent Skyberg.” He grabbed one of Lucille’s elbows and steered her around the car. Then he shook hands with Ingrid. “So… I’m thinking you probably both have a lot of questions for me, huh?”

4

Ingrid returned Sol Franklin’s smile and nodded. She had so many questions that she said nothing at all: she didn’t want to risk bombarding the man with them all at once. She glanced at Lucille, who, uncharacteristically, seemed equally dumbstruck.

“Where are my manners?” he said. “I am the assistant deputy chief of the Bureau’s Legal Attaché program here at the embassy. Sol Franklin, at your service.” He gave a little bow. “Actually, I’m rather hoping you’ll both be at the program’s service for the next little while.” He looked from Lucille back to Ingrid. “We have a…” He lowered his voice. “A
situation
.” He turned to the uniformed guards in turn and thanked them.

Ingrid had never known a superior officer be this courteous. Immediately she was suspicious—why was he being so goddamn nice? They followed him as he strode purposefully back to the elevator.

“First we need to get your embassy credentials processed,” he told them as the elevator doors closed. “Should only take a couple minutes.”

They traveled two floors up and were soon trailing behind him down a long wood paneled corridor. Lucille grabbed Ingrid’s arm. She shook her head and shrugged. Ingrid shrugged back. What the hell was going on?

After another sixty feet of featureless wooden corridor, the space opened out onto a large reception area. On the far side a woman with wild frizzy hair was gesticulating extravagantly at a grave-faced, but completely emotionless Marine.

“Well, check again!” the woman hollered. “My editor arranged this for me herself. I thought you were meant to be organized.” She glanced in Ingrid’s direction. “And what are you gawping at? Have you never seen a member of the press asserting her rights?”

Ingrid looked at Sol, who was frowning at the woman.

“I suppose the notion of rights must be a bit of a novelty for you.”

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” Sol’s frown swiftly turned into a smile and he strode toward the desk.

“I’m supposed to have press accreditation for the upcoming visit. It was all arranged in advance. Somebody has ballsed it up.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am. If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat for just a few moments, I’m sure we can remedy the situation.”

Reluctantly, the woman in the flimsy raincoat and black patent leather boots sank onto one of the hard seats lining the wall. Sol mumbled something into his cell phone. The Marine was replaced by an identical one—save for the color of his hair—almost immediately. The original Marine sat at a nearby desk and, with Sol Franklin peering over his shoulder at the computer screen, got busy with his keyboard. Just a couple of minutes later, Sol returned to Ingrid and Lucille with freshly printed security passes hanging from US embassy branded lanyards. He started to lead them back toward the long corridor.

“Queuing is just a quaint old English tradition is it?” the woman in the raincoat called after them, as she jumped from her seat.

Ingrid marched toward her, her face fixed in as genuine a smile as she could manage. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Back home I wouldn’t dream of line jumping. It was very rude of us. Please forgive me.” She smiled again, hoping she could disarm the woman with old fashioned Minnesota charm.

It didn’t work.

“Good God, you’re so fake, the lot of you! Do I look stupid? You’ll have to try a bloody sight harder than that to make amends.”

The replacement Marine cleared his throat behind them. “Miss Tate?” he said. “Your press pass is now approved—thank you for your patience.”

‘Miss Tate’ hadn’t taken her eyes off Ingrid. She raised a delicately plucked eyebrow at her. “Now that’s the sort of sickly smarm I can deal with—at least I get what I want at the end of it.” With that, she snapped her head toward the Marine and forced a smile.

Ingrid let out a breath. She practically felt as if she’d been assaulted by the angry reporter. The experience wasn’t without its uses, however. It was the first Ingrid had heard about any upcoming ‘visit’. She wondered how important the visitor to the embassy had to be, to generate such interest in the local press. Was it possible the president was planning a trip? Ingrid quickly dismissed the idea: how would an English reporter know about something like that ahead of FBI agents? She looked at Sol Franklin, who was standing with Lucille, waiting for her to join them in the corridor. So far he’d succeeded in revealing absolutely nothing.

They took the elevator to the fifth floor and Franklin led them down another wood paneled corridor to a room at the far end. He opened the door and stood to one side. There were two leather couches in the room, one along the wall facing the door and the other at right angles to it. In front of the couches stood a low table. A half dozen bottles of mineral water sat in the center. Apart from the three items of furniture and the water, the room was completely empty.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” the assistant deputy chief told them and smiled. “I hope you understand—it’s standard procedure in the circumstances—I need you to give me your cell phones.”

Ingrid and Lucille exchanged glances.

“And tablets, etcetera, etcetera… anything electronic. We do have to insist on a communications lockdown, I’m afraid.”

They handed over their cells and iPads. Ingrid was surprised to discover Lucille had somehow managed to squeeze two tablets and three cell phones into her purse.

Sol Franklin gathered the gadgets up and held them in his arms close to his chest, looking as if he’d just raided a branch of RadioShack. “I’ll be right back.” He turned toward the door, but was unable to open it.

Ingrid jumped up and levered down the handle for him. She opened the door to discover yet another Marine standing to attention outside. Sol gave Ingrid a curt nod and passed through the doorway. The guard pulled the door shut.

Then locked it.

5

Lucille Gardiner jumped up from her seat and ran to the door. She rattled the handle. “Hey, what’s going on out there!” She rattled it some more. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”