Chapter 12 Tag #2
Con’s feed expanded. “We’ve confirmed that James Dalgleish is the owner of the Imperial Gallery, where Lex and I noted suspicious activity during the Orlov investigation.
Now, we’ve been able to document specifics.
He’s been hosting private viewings over the past seventy-two hours.
High-value transactions, but the buyers aren’t your typical art collectors. ”
Lex appeared beside him, pulling up data.
“Eastern European, Middle Eastern, Asian interests—same profiles we observed during our initial surveillance. We’ve been able to access transaction detail as well.
The amounts are substantial—six and seven figures.
As Con said, the suspects are more likely arms dealers rather than art patrons. ”
“The Imperial Club is also back on our radar,” Con added.
“The private members’ club where we intercepted conversations about Orlov’s consortium.
Dalgleish, who is a member, has been meeting with Russian interests—likely the same individuals we heard discussing ‘the package from St. Petersburg’ and integration timelines. ”
“So the gallery and club are directly connected?” I asked.
“Yes. Dalgleish uses the gallery for transactions and the club for negotiations. Classic operational separation—one location for money, another for business discussions.”
“The same shell company structure we tracked to Nova Perspectives during the Orlov investigation remains active,” Lex continued.
Nightingale leaned forward. “Nova Perspectives was connected to Orlov’s consortium?”
“Affirmative,” Con replied. “Which means whoever’s running Labyrinth now was part of Orlov’s operation then. The network didn’t collapse after the explosion at the Inverness facility.”
“Is Dalgleish your primary suspect for running the Edinburgh operation?” Viper asked.
“Based on the transaction volume and the buyer profiles, yes. But he’s not working alone. This is too sophisticated for a single person.”
Typhon’s gaze shifted. “Archon, Prima. Northern Highlands report.”
Archon’s feed came forward. The nondescript background could have been anywhere in the Highlands. “We’ve been investigating the area north of Inverness as assigned. Thermal imaging has detected some anomalies.”
“Specify,” said Typhon.
“Heat signatures in areas that should be cold. We’re still gathering data. Nothing conclusive yet.”
The vagueness was deliberate, and from Typhon’s slight nod, he understood why. Whatever they’d found near Renegade’s family estate wasn’t something to discuss on an open channel with this many people listening.
“Savior, borders’ status?”
Ash’s window expanded so Sullivan was visible beside him. “We’ve identified a shipping broker, Ian MacKenzie, who operates out of Berwick-upon-Tweed. His container routing shows irregularities that match Tower-Meridian’s signature—the same patterns previously documented.”
Sullivan pulled up shipping manifests on the screen.
“There are weight discrepancies and suspicious routes through European ports. The cargo documentation lists electronics and industrial equipment, but the routing doesn’t make sense for legitimate trade.
Rotterdam to Hamburg to Gdansk. Each transfer creates documentation gaps.
And the weight discrepancies average fifteen to twenty percent per container—always explained as ‘packaging materials’ or ‘shipping damage.’”
“He’s moving cargo he doesn’t want inspected,” Ash added. “And he’s meeting with Eastern European contacts Thursday—we’ve got surveillance scheduled at the King’s Arms pub in Berwick.”
“MacKenzie runs a small operation on paper,” Sullivan continued. “Five employees, twelve years in business, but his container volume has tripled in the past six months. He’s not the buyer or the seller—he’s the middleman moving components from point A to point B.”
“Does he connect to Dalgleish?” Viper asked.
Sullivan glanced at Ash. “We’re cross-referencing now. The timing of MacKenzie’s shipments corresponds with peaks in Dalgleish’s gallery transactions. If one is handling money and the other cargo…”
“They’re coordinating,” I said.
Typhon’s gaze shifted again. “Orion, Renegade. Can you confirm that connection?”
Gus’s window came forward. “We can. Dalgleish and MacKenzie are directly connected. Money flows between them through the same Cyprus and Malta shell accounts. The amounts are substantial—we’re talking millions over the past six months.
You’d think they’d wise up and create new in- and outflows, but that they haven’t certainly works to our benefit. ”
“They’re operating in tandem,” Renegade added. “Dalgleish handles the money; MacKenzie handles the shipping. But there’s a third party funding the entire operation. We’re tracking back to the source, but while I agree with Gus’ assessment, whoever is at the top knew how to hide their trail.”
“How well hidden is it?” Typhon asked.
“Very. Multiple layers, different jurisdictions, accounts that don’t connect directly. We’ll find it, but it’s going to take time.”
Typhon leaned against his chair, processing.
“So we have three distinct pieces of the puzzle—underground storage facilities, art gallery money laundering in Edinburgh, and shipping logistics in the Borders. All connected, all active right now. The question that remains is who’s running it.
Dalgleish and MacKenzie are assets, but they’re not the mastermind.
Someone with considerable means is funding this entire thing. ”
“We need to find Janus,” Nightingale said quietly.
“We need to get close enough to both Dalgleish and MacKenzie to figure out who they’re reporting to,” said Viper.
“Agreed, but we do it carefully. If Janus realizes we’re onto them, they’ll shut it down and disappear.
We need to track back to the source before we make any moves,” Typhon cautioned.
“Infidel, maintain Edinburgh surveillance. Don’t approach Dalgleish yet.
Just watch and document. Savior, same with MacKenzie.
We need to know their routines, their contacts, and their schedules before we move. ”
“And Glenshadow?” I asked.
“Maintain security on all entrances. If they come back to use that storage facility, I want to know immediately.”
The strategy made sense, even though every instinct screamed at me to shut it down now. But Typhon was right—we needed to follow the trail back to its source, and that meant watching and waiting while Labyrinth continued under our noses.
“One more thing.” Lex’s voice cut through the discussion. “The buyer profiles from Dalgleish’s gallery—we’re running them through intelligence databases. If any of them have connections to state actors or known arms dealers, we’ll identify them.”
“Someone is managing all of this. We find that person, we find Janus,” Typhon said before ending the meeting.
I closed my laptop once everyone had signed off and Vanguard excused himself. “Well, that was illuminating.”
Nightingale stared at the now-blank screen. “They’re close. Dalgleish, MacKenzie—they’re close to something big. I can feel it.”
The way all the pieces were aligning—the money and the logistics and the storage facilities—this wasn’t the remnants of Fallon Wallace’s group limping along. This was larger, better organized, and far more dangerous.
“I should check in with Douglas. Make sure the estate is properly secured.”
“Tag,” she started, then stopped.
I waited, hoping she’d continue, hoping she’d say something that would bridge the chasm between us.
But she just shook her head and stood. “I should review the files again. Cross-reference with what Con and Lex found.”
“Right.”
She gathered her things and headed for the door, then paused with her hand on the frame. “We’re going to stop them. Whatever Labyrinth is planning, whoever Janus is—we’re going to stop them.”
“I know.”
She left, and I sat wondering how much longer we could keep working together like this—close enough to touch, but too broken to reach each other.
I was about to head outside for a walk when Vanguard appeared in the doorway.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
“What is it?”
He glanced down the corridor where Nightingale had disappeared, then stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. “We need to clear the air.”
“About?”
“I would think that would be obvious.” He crossed to stand on the other side of my desk, meeting my eyes directly. “I want you to know that when Nightingale and I were in Syria, she let me know loud and clear that she wasn’t interested. When I asked if there was someone else, she said there was.”
I steeled my expression, even as my chest tightened. “Your point?”
“While she didn’t say it specifically, I got the impression it was someone she was in love with.”
I held Vanguard’s gaze, refusing to give anything away.
“For what it’s worth, if she was in love with me, I’d move heaven and earth to have her in my life.”
He walked out before I could respond, closing the door quietly behind him.
I remained where I was, his words echoing in my head. Move heaven and earth to have her in my life. I wished I could. But the vow I’d made when my father died still held me like iron, and I didn’t know how to break free.
Twenty-two hundred hours found me still at my desk, surrounded by evidence, trying to make sense of what we’d found beneath Glenshadow.
How many other facilities were hidden down there?
How many times had whoever was running Labyrinth walked beneath my feet or Ash’s or Con’s while we remained completely oblivious?
The whiskey bottle sat within reach, but I refrained. I’d learned that lesson already.
A few minutes after midnight, my mobile rang with a call from Gus.
“Tell me you found something,” I said in lieu of a greeting.
“Every transaction funnels through Luxembourg before dispersing. I’m working on penetrating the shell structure, but this one isn’t as easy to hack into.”
“How long do you estimate it will take?”
“Days, maybe a week. These accounts have layers upon layers.” He paused. “I’ll send updates as I find them.”
The call ended, leaving me alone once again. I stood, needing air, movement, a change of scenery before I went mad staring at the same documents, hoping they’d reveal secrets they didn’t contain.
The library lights were on when I passed, warm against the darkness of the corridor. Through the partially open door, I could see Nightingale bent over the large table, maps spread in front of her, cross-referencing them with what looked like architectural surveys.
I should have kept walking and left her to work in peace.
Instead, I detoured to the kitchen, poured two cups of coffee, including one for me, from the pot Mrs. Murray had left warming, and returned to the library.
Nightingale was focused on tracing a line between two points with her finger and didn’t look up when I entered.
“Thought you might need this,” I said, setting a cup beside her.
She raised her head, and surprise flickered across her face. “Thank you.”
I took the chair beside her rather than across the table, close enough to see what she was working on, but not so close I’d be tempted to touch her. “What have you found?” I asked.
“The tunnels near the storage chamber branch in three directions. One goes toward the loch, one deeper into the grounds, and one that appears to head northeast.”
“Toward Blackmoor,” I said, recognizing the direction.
“Exactly.” She pulled another document—an architectural survey from the 1800s—closer. “According to this, the monasteries in this region were all connected by underground passages. The monks used them to travel between religious houses without being seen.”
“The Jacobites expanded them later.” When my hand brushed hers as we reached for the same document, we both froze.
Her eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, the carefully maintained distance between us evaporated. I could see the way her breath caught when our skin touched.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand away.
“No, I—” I stopped, the words dying in my throat because, what could I say? That every moment near her was torture and relief in equal measure? That Vanguard’s words kept echoing in my head—move heaven and earth—and I didn’t know how to be that brave?
I cleared my throat. “The historical records are in the archive room. I can pull one of the monastery documents if you think they’d help.”
“That would be useful. If we can chart the full extent of the original passages, we might be able to predict where else they’ve built facilities.”
I stood, grateful for the excuse to move, to put space between us before I reached for her again.
Twenty minutes later, I returned with additional leather-bound volumes. Like the others, their pages were yellowed with age, but they were remarkably well-preserved otherwise. We spread them across the table, beside the modern layouts, comparing centuries-old survey notes with current layouts.
“Here,” Nightingale said, pointing to a notation in Latin. “This mentions a convergence point—where multiple passages meet. It’s marked as being beneath what used to be the chapel.”
“The east wing,” I said.
The work took on its own rhythm after that—she’d mark a location, and I’d find the corresponding reference in the historical records.
I’d point out a connection based on my knowledge of Glenshadow, and she’d cross-reference it in the opposite direction.
We moved around each other with the kind of synchronization I’d longed for, getting lost in the work rather than focusing on our mutual discomfort.
When the clock chimed zero two hundred, Nightingale rubbed her eyes. “I should get some sleep. Long day ahead.”
“Leila—” How many times had I said her name, then stopped myself from saying more like I had now? Countless.
Her eyes bored into mine. “Yes?”
The words were right there. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I don’t know how to do this, but I want to try. But my throat closed around them, and all that came out was: “Sleep well.”
My chest ached when her brief smile disappeared.
“You too,” she said so quietly I barely heard her before the sound of her footsteps faded down the corridor.
I waited, then took the back staircase up to the second level, rather than the main one that would lead me past her door, where the temptation to know would be too great. With each step I took, I hated my cowardice as much as I hated the fear that kept me silent.