Authors: Matthew Dunn
Spy Trade (6 page)
“Maybe there’ll be no
life
if I go back on the payroll of
The Independent
.”
“I’m not asking you to do that.” Will stood and handed Lanes a scrap of paper. “That’s my cell-phone number. Only you have the number. Call me day or night. I’ll pay you very well plus cover your expenses. Tonight, I want you to have a bath and a shave. Take it easy on the booze. Beer or wine is okay, but no hard liquor. And tomorrow, I want you to make yourself look once again like a property tycoon, get on a plane to Dubai, and meet with Nadia.”
T
he Emirates airbus was due to touch down in Dubai in one hour. Inside the business-class section, Eddie Lanes felt resplendent in the peaceful and roomy confines of the cabin. It was, he mused, much like a reading room in a private-members club. People could read, watch, or listen to what they wanted as long as they didn’t disturb the person next to them. And there were hostesses on hand to ensure that their passengers’ introspective activities were washed down with champagne or other drinks of choice. Lanes could have gotten slowly pickled on the flight. He didn’t. He was stone-cold sober. Perhaps it was feeling good and wearing a fine suit that made him decline the offers of booze. The body that normally craved a buzz to get away from reality now felt contented and with purpose. Groves had given him that direction. Lanes didn’t buy that Groves was his real name; he also suspected that the man wasn’t truthful on any level. That didn’t matter. Groves had briefly entered his life, told him what to do, and put him on a plane. It seemed odd it was that simple. A pin bursting a balloon of self-loathing and escapism. Sometime later today, Lanes would have a drink. After all, he wasn’t a born-again self-delusional. Vices were locked in him. But he’d have a drink and smile, knowing that he’d worked and deserved a chunk of living and celebrating.
The plane touched down, and shortly after, Lanes was standing outside the Arrivals Section of the airport, thinking that Dubai had mastered fast-track business passenger arrivals but could do nothing to stop the hellish furnace it lived in. He loosened his tie, walked to the taxi rank while pulling his rolling bag, remembered that Emirates Airlines offered a limo service for all of its business-class passengers, thought, fuck it, and grabbed a taxi anyway rather than reenter the airport and wait. Soon, he was getting close to Sheikh Zayed Road, next to which was the Dubai International Financial Centre, its imposing neofascist-design Gate building, and the glitzy high- and low-rises that stretched beyond it for over a mile.
He made a call on his cell.
The woman at the end of the line used foul language that even a hardened journalist like Lanes found shocking.
Twenty minutes later, he was standing on the marble concourse that intersected the Gate’s outer walls and the hundreds of offices within them. He blended in. Other businesspeople and DIFC office workers were standing in groups or sitting by water fountains, all of them in suits, most of them having a smoking break. Superficially, the people here and the architecture of the zone were polished examples of how twenty-first-century capitalism should look. But the journalist in Lanes saw through that façade. The vast cluster of buildings seemed to him to be a house of cards; and the predominantly Western men and women loitering in the shade of the Gate’s arch carried a nervous air of desperation, as if they’d failed in New York or London, and this place was their last hope to make a pile of easy cash. It was a gold-rush mentality.
He checked his watch—6:00
P.M.
He wondered if he was going to be stood up. Then he caught sight of her, walking fast toward him. As ever, she was immaculately dressed and coiffured though the high heels, figure-hugging short skirt, and overly applied makeup were a little too garish for Lanes’s tastes. Not that Lanes’s tastes counted for anything. Yesterday, he had looked and smelled like a slob. Today, he was just playacting the part of a man who cared about himself.
“Hello, Nadia.”
Her face was scowling, her eyes venomous. “You bastard! You’ve got some nerve turning up here.” She continued walking, and Lanes had to skip a few steps to catch up with her and maintain her speed. “I don’t want to be seen around here with you.”
They walked across a traffic circle, Lanes desperately hoping he didn’t break out in a sweat. They were headed toward the twin Emirates Towers, two office high-rises that were as tall as the Empire State Building though more closely resembled the cutting-edge designs found in the new World Trade Center. The walk was only two hundred yards. But in a suit and in summer, the walk could prompt the onset of perspiration that wouldn’t desist for an hour. The last time Lanes had been here and had made this walk in the reverse direction, he’d had to visit the Gate’s men’s room and spend twenty minutes dousing his face with cold water before standing in front of a hand dryer and hoping it would dry his sodden blue shirt. Heaven only knows how Nadia’s thick facial foundation wasn’t melting. Perhaps the Lebanese woman was used to the heat.
For Lanes, the feeling accompanied by entering the air-conditioned lobby of the towers was akin to his first sip of liquor after the rare occasions he’d dried out for a month. No, it was better than that. It was bliss. Orgasmic, he decided. Nadia seemed oblivious to the sensation, and kept walking, her expression still angry. Lanes had no idea where she was leading him. That was fine. Nadia had every right to be pissed with him; she was meeting Lanes on her terms.
They reached the glass elevators at the back of the lobby lounge, Nadia pressed number fifty-one on the floor-destination panel, and they entered the elevator. They were alone. As they rose up the tower, catching glimpses of Dubai through the glass windows of the building, Lanes said, “You’re looking good.”
Nadia replied, “Fuck you.”
Neither one uttered another word until they’d reached the top of the building.
They entered Alta Badia Bar, a chic hangout for the wealthy who sip cocktails while sitting on barstools or reclining in sumptuous armchairs while observing the sun go down over Dubai through the building’s sloping glass roof cum outer wall. Barely slowing in her stride as she walked past a waiter, she said, “We’ll have two Manhattans.” She grabbed a chair in the corner of Badia, an area with dim lights and candles on tables, sat, waited for Lanes to sit opposite her, and muttered, “You fucked me, got what you wanted from the DIFC, then vanished.”
Lanes put on an expression he hoped looked sheepish and apologetic. “That’s not what happened. Well, the sex bit was true, but I thought you wanted that. Anyway, I didn’t vanish. I just had to urgently return to London. I had some business problems to attend to. They’ve been resolved. I’m back here now, sitting with you.”
She picked up a small silver sign on the table showing a picture of a cigarette with a cross over it. She cursed. “Why are you back here?”
“Like I said, to see you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It’s true, Nadia. I admit, it’s not the only reason I’m out of the UK. I’ve got a huge project under way in Singapore. But I stopped over in Dubai for no other reason than I wanted to say sorry to you.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes.”
Their drinks arrived, and they sipped their cocktails, a silence between them that was awkward and reflective. When Nadia had finished her drink, she ordered two more and said to Lanes, “After you vanished, I was angry with you. I admitted to the DIFC that I’d shared with you details about KapSet’s DIFC license and trading activities. I expected them to sack me, but instead they thanked me for my honesty and kept me on.”
Lanes had to get Nadia’s sympathy. “You were right to do that. But I think after you confessed, someone in DIFC tipped off Viktor Gorsky that I was looking into his affairs.” He reached forward and placed his hand on hers.
She recoiled.
“I started getting death threats.”
Nadia frowned. “Threats?”
“To my life.” He again placed his hand on hers. This time she allowed him to do so. “It wasn’t your fault. Out here, it’s hard to know whom to trust. But I know I trust you. Nothing that happened was your fault. But it’s been a tough few months for me, I have to admit. I was scared. Still am. Jeez, being in Dubai again makes me doubly scared.”
“But you still came.”
“To say sorry to you.”
A trace of a smile emerged on Nadia’s face, and the hostility in her eyes receded. “Thank you.”
Lanes smiled at her.
After their next drinks were delivered, she asked, “Why would you be threatened? It’s not as if anything I told you about KapSet was particularly secret.”
Lanes told the truth. “I don’t know. I’m missing something.”
“Something illegal?”
“Maybe.”
Nadia considered this. “I’m authorized to investigate and regulate licensed DIFC companies. If KapSet’s withholding something from us, we need to know.” She asked, “When do you fly to Singapore?”
“Tomorrow lunchtime.”
Nadia looked at the Dubai skyline. Now it was dark, and the flat landscape was filled with a multitude of electric lights. “Would you take me to dinner this evening?”
“I’d love to.”
Nadia looked back at Lanes. Her expression was stern. “And what would you like in return?”
Clever Nadia, thought Lanes. “Nothing.” It was a lie. But, he couldn’t rush things even though time was running out. It wouldn’t be until the end of dinner, when he’d plied her with wine, and she’d softened completely, that he’d ask her to supply him with copies of KapSet’s DIFC license application and supporting documents.
P
atrick was ushered into the Oval Office by an aide who then quickly retreated out of the room. The president was sitting at his desk. In front of him were Donny Tusk and Lieutenant General Jerry Kinnear, the head of the Joint Special Operations Command. Today, Kinnear was in his army uniform, emblazoned with ribbons, and wings, and other special emblems that suggested he’d survived death a thousand times and could kill a man just by looking at him. By contrast, the president and Tusk were in suits, their jackets off and shirtsleeves rolled up.
“Where do I sit?” asked Patrick.
“Wherever you like,” replied Tusk.
The CIA officer picked up an office chair and swung it close to Kinnear, causing the general to look at him as if Patrick were being childish. “Might as well sit next to the general, just in case anything bad happens. That way, he can protect me.” He smiled at the president. “Good evening, sir.”
The president stared at his hand as he repeatedly tapped it against his desk. He looked at Kinnear. “Update.”
Kinnear’s back was ramrod straight. “We’ve got drones in the air, satellite surveillance, paramilitary Agency operators on the ground in Iraq and Syria, so they can work their networks of local assets to get information, and I’ve hunter-killer SF teams ready to move the moment we get hard intel on the CIA officer and translator’s location. But so far we’ve got nothing.”
“I see.” The president shifted his attention to Patrick and Tusk. “I’ve not taken the option of moving Saud to Jordan off the table. If I pursue that option, my hope is they hand Saud over to ISIS in exchange for the Jordanian translator and our guy. What do you think, Donny?”
His chief of staff threw his hands up in the air. “Same as you, Mr. President. Even though the Jordanian option is deliberately taking the problem away from us, is it still a compromise to our principle of nonnegotiation with terrorists? I’m losing sleep on that question.”
The president looked at Patrick. “And what does the Agency think?”
Patrick considered the question. “The Agency’s got thousands of people, none of whom think alike. You won’t get a coherent answer from us.”
The president nodded. “The issue is not just about principles and tactics. I must also consider
presentation
. And from a
presentational
perspective, there’s no doubt that if I hand Saud over to another country, it’ll make me look weak and send a clear signal that America will back down to terrorists.” He said to himself, “That leaves the hope that General Kinnear’s people get lucky, and if not, then we have to let our guy die.”
The four men were silent for twenty seconds.
Patrick broke the silence. “I’ve got a man working the angles outside of Kinnear’s frames of reference.”
Kinnear looked angry. “Is he any good?”
Patrick smiled while nodding. “With all due respect to you, General, you’d hate him.”
T
he following morning, it was 8:00
A.M.
in Dubai. Lanes was waiting in the Departures Section of Dubai International Airport, frantically checking his watch, while nursing the mother of all alcohol-induced headaches. Even though they’d had a fun evening, now he regretted rolling back into his hotel room at two in the morning. He’d made sure Nadia was dropped off safely at her home before he continued on to the Royal Meridien Hotel, but given that she’d kept pace with his consumption throughout the evening, there was every chance she was still in bed. That wasn’t the plan. Last night she promised him that she’d head into DIFC early before meeting him here. She didn’t know that he was scheduled to get on a plane to London in an hour rather than waiting here until boarding a lunchtime flight to Singapore. Time was running out.
He sat on one of the rows of metal seats, looking around anxiously. If Nadia didn’t turn up, he’d have no choice other than to wait in Dubai for another day. But the MI5 man Groves had told him it was vital he achieved his job and returned today. If Lanes failed to meet that deadline, he wondered if Groves would decide not to pay him. Worse, he wondered if it would mean Lanes would have no chance of coming out of hiding without fear that one day a man would shoot him in the back of the head.
He saw her. Nadia looked exhausted, though, as ever, she was immaculately dressed. He gave a slight wave as she looked around at the other end of the concourse. She spotted him, walked quickly to his location, and sat in the empty seat next to him. She didn’t look at Lanes as she said, “I have it. They’re copies, of course, but taken from the originals. It should be everything you need.”
Lanes placed his hand on her arm. “I’m indebted to you.”
“Will I see you again?”
Lanes smiled. “I hope so.”
She reached into her handbag, withdrew a file, and handed it to Lanes. “I’ve got to go before I’m missed at work.” She didn’t want people in the airport to think she was with Lanes, but couldn’t stop herself from looking at him one last time. “I have to deal with businessman all the time as part of my job. You’re not like them. That’s why I liked you.”
Lanes frowned, and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell her what he really did for a living. Instead, he squeezed her arm and said nothing as she got up and left.
When she was out of sight, he opened the file, scan-read its contents, went to a pay phone and called the number Groves had given him. It was 4:00
A.M.
in London, but Groves had told Lanes that he could call him day or night. Groves answered on the third ring. Lanes said, “I’m bringing them back to the UK. Meet me at the airport. One other thing: as part of the license application for KapSet to be incorporated into DIFC, Gorsky had to fully declare his background, including any prior military service or criminal convictions. He gave them a photo of his time in the army. It’s included in the file.”
I
t had taken Viktor Gorsky and his employees two days to put his mansion and its grounds back to normal after his daughter’s wedding. The event had been perfect, and yet, as with all such moments of elation and joy, the aftermath was like a depressing comedown. Doubly so for Gorsky because he had to watch the remnants of the wedding day being slowly dismantled bit by bit until there was nothing left but an old man’s home in Tuscany, and the expansive grounds that only he could benefit from.
One of his housemaids jogged through the orchard until she was by his side. “Sir, you have a call. The man says it’s urgent.”
Gorsky entered one of his home’s many living rooms, picked up the handset of the ornate, old-fashioned telephone, and said, “Gorsky.”
The caller was a man who worked in the Dubai International Financial Centre. “Our mutual acquaintance has been active again. You were right to keep her employed so that any inquiries into you could be flagged. She’s pulled your KapSet files, including the photo of you in the army. I wondered if she’d copied them and given the copies to her English-journalist lover. I’ve made a few calls to hotels in Dubai. It turns out the journalist was in town, staying at the Royal Meridien Hotel. But he checked out this morning. The hotel confirmed to me that, right now, he’s on a flight to London.”
Gorsky ended the call and separately called two other men. One was in the Middle East; the other, Europe. His opening words to both men were identical. “I want you to do something for me. Today.”