Chapter 28
Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint
Mixing in with the parishioners, trench coat pulled tight, head bowed, nose appendage and glued mustache itching, I enter the church. Unlike the others, once inside, I veer right and head down the familiar hall through quiet passageways.
Interpol rents out the conference portion of St. Martin’s on meeting days, but my gut roils. Something’s not right. I pause outside the conference room door, listening. Organ music drifts, the faint chords chiding those who do not attend the service. There are no footsteps, no voices.
When I open the door, Nomad sits at the table on the far side facing the door, forearms resting on the table, hands where they can be seen, a glass of water before him, and a cell phone. The standard fare has been laid out on the side table. Water, wine, bread, biscuits.
“Good morning,” he says.
I clear the space behind the door out of habit and shut it, clicking the lock.
“No one else is here,” he says, relaxed as ever.
I exhale, hoping to slough off the foreboding sense gnawing at me.
“You got the documents?” I remove my trench coat and lay it over the back of a nearby chair, then pull out a seat, sit, and remove my hat.
“Work is underway to stop the ships.”
“All of them?”
“We can’t let those ships reach their destinations.” He taps one finger on the table. “You agree, right?”
“That’s why I sent it over. Destroyed the mobile card.”
“You’re concerned?”
“Short list of people with access to Falcon’s iPad.”
Falcon is the name Nomad and I apply to Nick in conversation. It’s a precaution to minimize the chance someone stumbling on a recording could piece together our discussion.
“Might be just me and Falcon.” If he shared documents, the list of suspects would be wider. But I was in his office. The rim of his device is shown in the photos.
“We translated the data. Nothing will trace to you.”
“Good,” I say, but it’s bullshit. The bust will trace to me simply because I am one of the few with access. I rap my knuckles against the table as a topic transition. I have a flight out of Heathrow and little time. “Tensions between the syndicate and Lupi Grigi are a live wire. Ironically, it mostly has to do with my arrangement.”
“Your illegal nuptials?”
“It’s a clusterfuck. Falcon plans on taking out the Irina . So leave that one alone.”
“If Falcon takes them out, I doubt the paper trail will lead to a prison sentence.”
“Correct.” The former capo who pissed off Nick will never get out of prison alive. “But that’s not the goal this time around.”
Nomad raises one smooth eyebrow, asking for an explanation.
“He’s hoping the Russians get pissed at their incompetence. Wants to weaken the wolves. Replace the head of the pack. He doesn’t take kindly to them drugging his sister. He’s cutting them where it hurts the most. Speaking their language.”
“Might they pull out?” He’s asking if the Lupi Grigi, the gray wolves, will break ties with the syndicate.
“And be at odds with every other family? Put themselves in unhindered competition against every single South American cartel?” He blinks comprehension. “But it’ll likely get nasty. If you get wind they’re looking to buy from another source, I’d appreciate the heads up.”
“Are you being targeted?”
“Possibly.” A memory of Willow being held at gunpoint hits with the force of an adrenaline injection, and my fingers curl into a fist.
“You think it’s time to eject? Might look mafia-related. It’s been, what…three years?”
“Five.” I grit the answer out, annoyed my half-cocked so-called handler can’t keep up.
My gaze roams the flat white ceiling. This addition to St. Martin-in-the-Fields has little character. We could be sitting in a conference room with a glass window overlooking an interior courtyard in any building in America.
“You’re going to bust all five ships. Well, four, minus the Irina ?” My request for confirmation is born partially out of a need to know the plan, but also because I’ve been on too many ops where they sat on the intel.
“ Algeciras was pulled by the Japanese last night. Hasn’t hit the news yet.”
“That’s fast.”
“Exited international waters first.”
Normally, matters like this are handled more delicately. We’ve tracked shipments via satellite and let land forces take over. We’ve even let shipments change hands successfully and busted storage locations a month after delivery. And sometimes, if the exchange met G8 purposes, we let them be.
“What’s going on?”
“China’s on the move.”
“Edging toward a world war.” It’s a statement. It’s the fear that led me to sacrifice everything five years ago. The CIA determined the syndicate pulled strings across eight sectors and every developed nation. And I had the opportunity to join them. I consider recent meetings and communications. “Work hasn’t ticked up. There’s nothing to indicate?—”
“You didn’t negotiate these.” He points to his phone and the packing list I sent him.
He’s right. That product is being moved by Lupi Grigi ships, and yet the syndicate had no purchasing role. At least, I didn’t.
“You’ve had a proper good time. If you want to teach the masterclass, you’ve got to know when to call it.”
“Know when to fold ’em?” I ask, correcting the Swiss Brit.
“Keen on poker?” he asks, clearly not getting me.
“Kenny Rogers.” I scratch my head, digging into the areas where the hat band holds firmly. “Kenny Rogers is as American as apple pie.”
“Is that right? I’m not sure I’d recognize the chap.”
“Well, he’s not The Beatles.” I stretch out my arm, checking the time. Is it time to call it? If I jump ship now, what will happen to Willow?
Chances are Massimo and Nick will sort their shit. But it’s risky. If Massimo’s knocked out, it could get bloody fast. And if I split now, Massimo might demand Willow back. Especially if my extraction leaves any doubts. If they harbor any suspicions I’m a narc, Willow would be tortured to death by whichever fucker got her first.
“I can get plans rolling,” Nomad says.
“I thought you always have plans in place.” I narrow my eyes.
Jack once said they have a dozen plans, but of course, that statement rings of CIA bullshit, unless one counts self-reliant techniques like swimming across the Atlantic.
“All plans were actionable for the first year. Like fine wine, they’ve aged. Won’t hurt to dust them off, right?”
“Dust away.” I consider those ships. It doesn’t feel like this is just Russia’s war of aggression. And there’s Willow. “I’ll stay in place. Let’s review the plans next time.”
“When do you think that’ll be?”
“A month, maybe? I’m in the desert for the next week.” I’ll need a new flat now that Massimo possesses my London address. “Might stay with the Falcon for a bit.” It’s harder to get away when I’m staying with Nick.
“I’ll plan accordingly.” He lifts a folder from a black leather attaché case. I open it.
The first photograph is of Sloane, my younger sister, and for much of my childhood, my best friend. She’s holding a vanilla ice cream cone and smiling, genuinely happy. The guy walking beside her is a fellow SEAL, Max Hawkins. He’s her husband and, I suspect, the reason Arrow has been able to capture happy moments. For years, I’d get photos of her entering or exiting buildings with a muted expression.
Sloane and Sage both found good men, and if the photos tell the truth, they have good marriages. I missed their weddings. I’ve missed everything. Like always, the thought has me shoving down anything clogging my thought processes. Missing family events is part of the job.
The second photograph is of Sage and Knox in a parking lot. There’s nothing little about my littlest sister anymore. Knox’s hand falls protectively to her back, and her stomach is swollen with pregnancy.
“When is she due?” I flip the photo for him to see.
“Mid-November. Can’t recall the exact date.”
The next photo is of Sage in a carpool line at school, waving at a student, then one of Sloane and Sage at what appears to be the sidelines of a marathon, probably cheering on their husbands. I flip through a half-dozen photos, checking for smiles, and close the folder, breathing deeply. Sentimentality is not my friend.
Six Days Later
It’s nearly midnight when the gate lifts and the gravel crunches over the winding road that leads to Nick’s mansion, or as he likes to call it, his country house. I stop the car in front, before the massive fountain. There’s a separate parking garage in the rear, but this late, I’ll leave my car out front and deal with it in the morning.
It’s been a long few days of product testing, negotiating prices, and wining and dining. The meetings in Saudi Arabia had been scheduled six months earlier, and after the Leandro incident, it was tempting to bail, but with tensions high between the syndicate and part of the Italian mafia, and a sense that an unknown player is in the mix, rescheduling didn’t feel like an option. It helped that Willow was at Nick’s estate. No one would dare to come after her here. If they tried, they wouldn’t succeed.
Over the last week, I couldn’t shake her from my thoughts. During the day, I’d watch a bazooka explode in the sand, and I’d wonder what she would think if she saw it. Someone would introduce their wife, and I’d compare the wife to Willow. After dinner, escorts mingled, and I wished for Willow. She’s the only woman I want. I’m not an idiot. I know she’s gotten under my skin. But there’s no winning here. The day will come when I leave, and I’ll leave her in this world.
One night I dreamed we were in Asheville. I think we might’ve been in the front yard of Knox and Sage’s home, a place I’ve only seen in photographs, but I have a good idea of what’s around it, because I visited Sage in the original house, before it burnt down. The dream was disjointed, and people appeared and disappeared.
When I woke, I had to go for a run to shake the sensations rattling through me. She could never come to Asheville as Willow Gagliano. To do so would open my sisters, my family, to revenge attacks. And I’ve put them through too much with my staged death to turn around and put them at risk now. On the flip side, if Willow assumed a new identity, she’d leave her family behind, never to see them again. And I’ve lived that scenario, and it’s one I could never put her through.
The front door clicks, and my pulse picks up a notch. Nick steps out, and there’s no denying the disappointment. I hoped for Willow. Ridiculous of me. Soon enough, I’ll be dead to her.
I haul the suitcase out of the trunk and slam it down. But where is Willow? Why didn’t she greet me?
“Miss me, did you?” I call, making light of Nick greeting me at midnight, as he’d expect no less.
“How else would you enter? Blast your way through the door?” There’s a gravity to his tone that I recognize. He’s pissed. But why?
I step past him, into the foyer. One lamp lights a corner, and the house is silent.
“Lonely without me?” I ask, maintaining the light facade.
“It’s been something.” His dress shoe clicks against the floor. “Leave your bag. Follow me to the office.”
I do as he says, following like a lapdog, but listening intently for sounds.
“Where’s Willow?”
“Gone a week, and you didn’t text your wife?”
It’s true, I didn’t. Electronic devices are a necessary evil. I only use them when there’s no other option.
“Told you. It’s an arrangement.”
He stops at his office door and stands in front of a glass panel. The door unlocks.
“That’s new,” I say.
“Overdue,” he says.
“How are things with the Lupi Grigi?”
“According to sources, the funeral for Leandro De Luca is this weekend.”
“Massimo hasn’t been in touch?”
“Not a peep.”
When I step into the office, he closes the door, and the click that follows sounds an awful lot like a deadbolt.
“Where’s Willow?”
He sinks into his desk chair, and his eyes narrow. “She’s sleeping off the afternoon’s festivities.”
My stomach muscles clench. When he gestures to the chair across from his desk, I can only look at it. “What do you mean?”
It takes every bit of control to remain calm as my blood pressure skyrockets.
“Chill. Your arrangement is fine.”
His emphasis on the word arrangement has me wanting to shove my fist into his face.
“Lina and Willow got high this afternoon.” Holy fuck. My hand’s on the doorknob when he calls, “They’re fine.”
An intense desire to strangle the fucktard lights from within, and he chuckles.
“Pot. Ganja. I told you. I’m not keen on Lina doing the other shit.”
“You recognize Lina has a drug problem.” It’s like I’m talking to a toddler. “No one recommends an addict do drugs. Of any sort.”
“It’s a compromise.”
“Dumb as fuck compromise.”
He snorts. “That’s what I like about you, Leo.” He points at me. “You’ve always been willing to play it straight with me. I took it as a sign of your character. But now I’m not so sure.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Sit.” He points at the leather chair across from his desk. I never twisted the knob when I reached the door, but I’m fairly certain my only option is to do what he says. The question is…what does he know?
“The Marina Militare boarded the Mina .”
“That was your plan, right?”
“Three ships within Gagliano’s shadow fleet have been detained.”
“You didn’t do it?”
“No, Leo Sullivan, I did not.” He steeples his hands and glares.
It’s a pointed, angry expression, albeit controlled. Nick is a master at controlling his temper.
“What’re you implying?” I’m careful with my reaction, keeping my hands still and my eyes trained on Nick.
“We have a mole.”
“I’ve been in Saudi Arabia all week.”
“That is true.”
Nick checked up on me. What the hell did Nomad do with that list? Has Nick figured me out? Did he do something to Willow?
Nick’s gaze drops to the desk and his tap-tap-tapping index finger. I’ve seen him do this before. But intimidation tactics won’t work on me. Neither will torture.
“Saint.”
For a brief second, that one word stops my heart. Survival skills kick in, and my muscles tense, ready to react. If needed, I’ll kill him. At this angle, both his hands are in view. If that changes, I attack.
“Have you heard that name?” he asks after minutes elapse. He’s baiting.
“No.”
His aristocratic brow furrows.
“Not as relates to an individual outside a religious institution,” I clarify.
“Are you religious?”
“No,” I answer but regret it instantly as he may have picked me out on London surveillance entering St. Martin’s, even though I always disguise my features in order to trick facial recognition on CCTV.
“Yet your vices are few.” That finger continues tapping. “No drugs. Little to no alcohol. Might as well say no alcohol. No sex. At least, until an arrangement blessed by God occurred. I have it on good authority sex is now a part of the deal.”
“What did Willow say?” So help me, if he hurt her…
“Oh, five stars. Highly recommend.”
“What?” I’m halfway out of my seat. If he fucking?—
“She recommends you.” His gaze flicks up to mine. “In the sack, you score well.” Humor crinkles the skin around his eyes.
I relax back into the seat. “Lina.”
“Girls talk.” He shifts and steeples his hands, elbows on the desk. “And you’ve no idea about a Saint? Because it’s my understanding code names are derived from behavior.”
“Wouldn’t know about that.”
“Right. Because you’ve never been in the military?”
“Nope.”
“It’s my understanding a code name can come from one night, one moment in time, or an overarching behavior the group picks up on.” He raises an eyebrow with expectation.
“Sounds about right to me.” Our gazes lock. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Neither would I.”
I’ve never questioned Nick’s background. He’s an Oxford boy. Well-educated.
“Have I ever told you MI6 recruited me?” he asks.
“No.” If I’ve been monitoring a British asset for the last five years, I’ll strangle Jack Sullivan. I breathe that flash of anger away and ask, “You turned them down?”
“Something like that.”
“Ever regret it?” I have no idea if I’ve landed in safe waters or if he’s still baiting.
“No.” He pushes up and stares out the window into pitch black. Although, perhaps from where he’s standing, he can see the stars. “I’m more effective at maintaining world order in my current position.”
“World order?” Narcissistic much?
“Financial stability,” he explains. “There was a time in our human evolution where sex made the world go round. Hence the reason marriages served as currency. Those times have changed. Sex is readily available. In modern times, gold churns the earth.”
Given I’m in an arrangement with someone who was bartered by her father, I’m not sure I completely agree with him. But the essence of his philosophy rings true.
“How did you end up at the syndicate?”
“Luck.” He slowly turns. “I’m a lucky man.”
He may harbor suspicions, but he has no evidence.
His references to Willow don’t sit well with me. I need to know she’s safe. I push up from my chair and flatten my hand across my midsection, smoothing my shirt.
“Was there anything else?”
“No.”
“Then I’m going to go check on my wife. Take stock of the damage from an afternoon spent with Lina.”
He gives the slightest of nods, but it’s enough to take as permission. My fingers touch the cool metal knob, as he says, “Saint.”
I twist the knob and cock my head to better hear him. “What was that?”
“Keep an ear out for that name.”
“Will do. You have my word.”