I'd spent the rest of the afternoon making my rounds through the London field office, questioning Agent Lindsey's partner, and snooping through her belongings. I'd noticed Mr. Lancaster keeping a watchful eye on me throughout the day, too, which was beginning to grate on my nerves. I didn't know what his problem was, but I was about an inch away from verbally putting him in his place. I hadn't traveled all this way to be monitored like a lab rat twenty-four-seven.
Agent Carpenter, Lindsey's partner, hadn't given me any useful information. She seemed to be completely clueless as to her partner's whereabouts, as well as anything pertaining to her solo mission in Berlin. All I'd learned so far were the dates that Lindsey was supposed to have been out of the country. I'd cross referenced that information with any events that had occurred in Germany during her stay that could have impacted her mission, but I came up short with that strategy.
Five hours into my investigation, it seemed that I was completely on my own to solve this case. No one I spoke with could provide me with any useful information, and Agent Lindsey's laptop was missing, too. I reckoned there were likely some important details in her computer files that could've helped the case, but now I may never know. The only thing that I knew for sure was that if, in fact, Agent Lindsey had abandoned the Alpha Reconnaissance Taskforce, it was imperative, per A.R.T. regulations, that she be located and brought back to the U.K. for questioning and to be prosecuted for desertion. A.R.T. had zero tolerance for any agent who intentionally went A.W.O.L.
The next phase of my investigation was to contact the local hospitals, homeless shelters, jails, morgues, and coroners' offices on the off chance that Agent Lindsey might be located or might have been seen at one of those places. This was a common police tactic when dealing with a member of the general public missing. It rarely turned up any clues into cases involving government and private agents, but I preferred to have all my bases covered. I also contacted Interpol and every other U.K. government organization I could think of that Agent Lindsey might've been in contact with. When all of these avenues turned out to be dead ends, I moved on to my next strategy: contacting the German and Israeli authorities.
Neither the Bundesnachrichtendienst – the Federal Intelligence Service of Germany – nor the Shabak or Mossad in Israel could provide me with any clues. They'd each had no contact with Agent Diana Lindsey within the last six months. This information ruled out my initial theory that Lindsey might've been in Berlin and Munich to see the German feds, whose headquarters were located in Berlin and Pullach, near Munich. Since I didn't know her apparent Mossad girlfriend's name, my brief discussion with the Israeli authorities was another quick dead end. The one question every facility and agency kept asking me, though, was how come A.R.T. had waited three months after her disappearance to enter into an investigation? I was wondering the same damn thing.
When an hour long scan of Lindsey's work emails didn't yield any new information either, I was ready to start pulling my hair out. According to Agent Carpenter, all the U.K. A.R.T. division had done when Lindsey went missing was interview her friends, family, and associates, and attempt to track her cell phone, which had turned up nothing. I'd just about shit myself learning this. A.R.T. was one of the best investigative agencies in the world. We went above and beyond to close out a case with the best possible outcome. What the U.K. division had done wasn't even enough to be considered half-assed. They hadn't even tried. Something was very rotten in London and I was damn well determined to find out what it was. I had a hunch the problem was connected to Mr. Lancaster.
When the day came to an end, I packed up my new Open Case file and let Juan drive me to the Marriott where A.R.T. had arranged for me to stay as long as I needed. The best part was that my room was on the top floor and was directly across the river from Big Ben. The view was pretty fantastic and I was happy about getting to see some of the sights from that vantage point since I wouldn't be able to play tourist on this trip. I found myself turning off all the lights and standing at the window for the longest time, staring out at the city lights. London was absolutely enchanting.
But my adoration for the view was short lived when I caught a glimpse of the mini fridge across the room. There was sure to be tiny, high-priced bottles of alcohol inside. My mouth suddenly felt dry, my throat scratchy at the realization that I hadn't been drunk in over twenty-four hours. The addiction, my coping mechanism, would call out to me like this, tempting me after so many hours went by, and it was nearly impossible to kick the craving when flashbacks to Washington filtered back into my mind.
I shook my head at the thought. I knew it was a bad idea. It always had been. Of course, that had never stopped me before, even when my hungover fogs and drunken stupors had almost gotten me killed during raids. I'd been too stubborn, too fucked up to stop.
But I had to stop this time. I had to focus on the case I'd been dealt. I knew something was wrong with this investigation. Nothing was adding up. It didn't make sense and Lancaster was acting entirely too shady. Besides that, I was in unfamiliar territory. Sure, I'd been to Europe before on other missions, but it was still an entirely different ballgame from working a case in the U.S. I was going to need all my strength and a clear head to follow wherever the leads took me. This was one investigation I couldn't afford to be less than sober for.
The phone on the nightstand started to ring, the shrill sound startling me as it pierced the silence. I stared at it, waiting, debating if I should answer. Had it been anyone from A.R.T. trying to get ahold of me, they would've called on my cell phone, isolating and encrypting the call so that no one could tap in. A hotel line was unsecure. It couldn't be A.R.T. calling.
On the sixth ring, I finally picked up the phone.
"Who is this?" I demanded.
A low, menacing laugh rumbled on the other end. A man.
"It's come to my attention that you've arrived in London, Agent Dobreva," the caller said in a gruff voice that sounded like he'd been smoking all his life.
"Who is this?" I repeated, my tone fiercer this time.
The man laughed again, low and slow. It was cocky, arrogant. He sounded older. Forties or fifties. He had a thick Spanish accent and I knew I hadn't come across this man before. I would've remembered a voice that distinct.
"You have twelve hours to call off your investigation and go back to America," he continued in a threatening tone.
Oh, he thinks a little threat is going to scare me away? Shit, I've had more near-deaths than I've had birthdays. He was going to have to do a lot better than telling me to get lost.
"Or what?" I challenged, my hand on my hip, my fingers skimming over my sidearm.
"Or I'll have to kill you," he said simply, like killing me was as meaningless as swatting a fly.
I ignored his words and continued trying to get an answer out of him. "What's your involvement with the Lindsey case?"
"Twelve hours, Bonita," the caller said again.
"Who. Are. You."
Another deep, rumbling laugh. "By the way, Natalia, that's an impressive firearm on your hip, but it's not enough to protect you from my men."
He was watching me. But from where? I spun to look out the windows but there were so many buildings and structures from which someone could be eyeing my room. It was impossible to tell where he could be.
"Where-"
"Twelve hours." And he hung up.
I looked at the clock. 9:52 PM.
I grabbed the pen and pad from the nightstand drawer and quickly scribbled down notes to myself so I couldn't forget any details of the conversation. I noted his accent, what I assumed his age to be, the things he'd said to me, and that he'd been watching me the whole time. I ripped off the piece of paper and stuffed it inside the Lindsey file.
I glanced out the windows again. It was a black night, practically no stars in the sky. The only light came from buildings, headlights, and streetlights. Wherever the bastard was hiding, he had to have one hell of a zoom lens to see me standing at the nightstand in the dark. It made my blood boil that I couldn't gauge his location.
I retrieved my bag from the foot of the bed and stuffed some of the hotel's expensive water bottles and granola bars inside before peeking out the door to make sure the hallways were empty. I knew I couldn't stay there anymore, now that someone, an enemy, had discovered me. I had a target on my back and I wasn't about to make it easy for him to get to me. I was going to be the biggest pain-in-the-ass moving target he'd ever tried to catch.
Hurrying down the hall before anyone could spot me, I reached the stairwell and started on the thigh-burning journey downward. Halfway down, I stopped for a breather and pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I found the name I was looking for.
Alana Townshend. We hadn't spoken in years. I wasn't sure if she was even still in the U.K. But without any of my teammates accompanying me, and something fishy going on with our London division, she was the only person I knew I could trust.
I typed a quick text, deciding against calling since my voice would echo through the stairwell.
Alana, it's Dobreva. I need your help.
A moment later, my screen lit up with a reply.
Send me your location.
I did as she said and she responded saying she'd be there in fifteen minutes in a black Audi R8.
I made my way down the remaining stairs and waited at the emergency exit. I knew the hotel's alarm would sound as soon as I opened the door, and there was likely to be a security camera right outside that would catch my exit. I pulled on a ball cap, stuffing my hair up inside it and pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over the hat. My bag was black and didn't have any identifying labeling on it, unlike the F.B.I.'s with their big bright lettering, so it would be hard for anyone to guess that I was an A.R.T. agent.
I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Fifteen minutes ticked by so slowly that it felt like fifteen hours. But Alana was right on time, parking in the alleyway around the side of the building exactly fifteen minutes from her last text.
I'm in the north side alley. It's clear. Move out.
I shoved my phone back inside my pocket, took a breath, and bolted out the door, my shoes pounding the pavement hard as I rushed to the side of the building. I could hear the alarm going off behind me.
I skidded to a halt when I reached the edge of the hotel, peeking around the corner to make sure no one was there. The black Audi sat in the alley, the engine running and the lights turned off.
I made the final five-second jog to the car, tossing my bag in the floorboard and hopping inside.
"Geez. They don't believe in backseats at Audi, do they?" I grumbled at the discomfort of having to step on my bag since there was nowhere else to put it.
Alana rolled her eyes but said nothing. She peeled out of the alley, speeding around the Marriott and getting us to the main road where she finally turned her headlights on. She constantly checked her mirrors, making sure no one had followed us. We headed north for a few minutes and then she took an exit and turned off onto a side street, coming to a stop behind a shitty looking motel. She cut the lights again.
"Okay," Alana said in that familiar no-nonsense voice, turning to me. "Tell me what the bloody hell is going on, Tali. I don't see you for like five years and all the sudden you show up, needing my help."
Despite her tone, I knew she wasn't mad. She was worried. Alana was one of very few people in the world whom I knew I could count on. She was the type of ally you could go a decade without speaking to and she'd still have your back one-hundred-percent.
"What? No hug?" I scoffed.
Alana groaned but leaned across the console, pulling me into an awkward, cramped hug.
Now that I finally had a chance to look at her, I realized she hadn't changed hardly at all in the last five years. Her jet black hair was still shoulder-length and curled under at the ends. She still had that tiny diamond nose stud on the left side. Her eyes were still penetrating and full of knowledge. And her British accent was still as thick as ever.
"Now, what gives?" Alana demanded, giving me a pointed look to match her tone.
"I'm here to investigate the disappearance of an A.R.T. agent, but nothing's adding up so far. I've been in London less than twelve hours, and I've already made an enemy who is giving me another twelve hours to get out of town," I explained, fidgeting to get comfortable in the small seat.
Alana's forehead crinkled with her frown. "Something ain't kosher at A.R.T. London?"
Her words were more of a knowing statement than a question. She knew I would've alerted the division under normal circumstances.
"I'm not leaving," I said, determined. "Nobody fucks with my investigation, and nobody tells me to get lost. I've got to find that missing agent and get to the bottom of this."
Alana nodded slowly, taking it in. The illumination from a nearby streetlight cast a warm glow on her ebony skin and I was reminded of the last time I'd seen her, five years ago in Manchester. She'd been an agent for MI6 then – a friend of Dallas's. She'd helped him get information on several cases he'd worked abroad. I'd met Alana through Dallas.
Dallas. The memory of his voice telling me I could trust her sent a twinge of pain through my chest.
"I've got a place you can stay." Alana interrupted my thoughts before they could start to twist my emotions again. "It's not much. It's my safe house on the other side of the city."