Blackout (Sam Archer 3) (6 page)

Cobb swore.

‘Shit. What progress is DI Graham making re the two missing persons?’

‘
They are already going through her phonebook and contacting friends and family. He hasn’t alerted the press yet, but he’s going to let them know shortly and put out a plea for public help to call them immediately if there are any sightings. Adams’ wife was starting to become recognisable to people, so he thinks that might help locate her.’

‘OK. Stay on it. The moment it comes in, I want to know of any progress. If anything comes up that is relevant, let me know. And I mean anything.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The call ended. Cobb shook his head and leaned back in his chair, looking at Porter.

‘Shit, Port. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ Porter said. ‘Maybe someone had dirt on him? Elections are coming up. Something from his past that he wouldn't want anyone to find out about? They put it in the letter and he felt it was worth killing himself over?’

‘Bad enough to blow his brains out?’ Cobb asked, frowning. He shook his head. ‘No way. That's not the person I knew. He was a good man, through and through. He would never have done anything so bad he’d kill himself. And that doesn’t explain his family going missing.’

Porter thought for a moment.

‘I hate to say it, but kidnap?’

Cobb exhaled slowly, then nodded.

‘Looks probable, doesn’t it. Shit. And the letter is definitely connected. Who delivers mail at eleven o’clock at night? Who knew he’d still be at his office? And why would he burn it?’

Porter nodded.

‘Nikki said there were two kinds. Sheet and photographic. So probably text and photographs. Maybe a threat and a visual aid.’

There was a silence.

‘Shit,’ Cobb said again. ‘Anyway, whatever happens, we'll stay close to it. It's not our investigation, but I damn well want to be kept in the loop about this. That press release about the missing persons will help.’

‘You think someone will find them?’

Cobb looked at him.

‘I hope so.’

Across the city in Mayfair, an American in a smart suit was making his way along Upper Grosvenor Street, carrying nothing save a briefcase, his expensive shoes clicking on the smooth concrete pavement as he walked. Turning the corner to his left and checking the time on a Tag Heuer watch on his wrist, the man arrived in Grosvenor Square, the home of most of the foreign embassies located in London. The weather was good, the sun shining down, and the air was fresh, clean and mild. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and enjoying the view, then continued on his journey, heading along the western side of the Square and straight towards the United States Embassy.

The building stood out in the district, primarily because it was at least twice the size of every other embassy in the area. But it was also unique in that it was the only United States Embassy in the world not built on official US soil. A contentious dispute in the 1950's between the Grosvenors, an upper class English family and owners of the Square, and the United States Government had seen the Americans settle for a 999 year lease on the plot of land instead of outright ownership, a different deal from those usually signed in Embassy agreements. The Americans had requested that the section of the Square where the Embassy would be built become United States soil, but the Grosvenors refused. The Duke of Westminster at the time, a Grosvenor, had apparently attempted to resolve the on-going spat with a proposed deal. He told the Americans that if they returned all the lands ‘stolen’ by the United States after the War of Independence to the
UK
,
then they could buy the site on the west side of Grosvenor Square and do whatever they wanted with it.

However, the Americans found a slight hitch in the proposition.

The lands the Duke wanted returned included most of Maine and New York State.

Unsurprisingly, the American Government refused the offer. Consequently, they were forced to rent the plot of land instead. So although not officially US soil, there were United States marines armed with sub-machine guns standing guard at various positions outside the long building that morning, as there were every day. In any country around the world the US Embassy was a priority terrorist target, a chance to hurt the US without having to try and breach their borders, and the London office was at the top of that list given the Americans’ and the UK’s close relations and military coalition in conflicts around the world. It was especially well-defended, not only with manpower but with some of the most advanced and up to date security technology placed in and around the building. Such measures were for two reasons. The building was officially the United States Embassy in London.

But it was also the unofficial British substation for the Central Intelligence Agency.

Outside the building was a glass hut with an x-ray machine and body scanner. S
eeing as an application for a U
S visa could only be approved after an appointment here, every day there was a long queue of hopeful people waiting to pass their bags and contents of their pockets through the machine and be patted down before they entered the building. Once inside, they were then shepherded to a long waiting hall to the left and told to wait for their final interview and hopefully
,
an approval. As a matter of course, they would be looking at a several hour wait at least before they got called, the entire process from joining the queue to leaving the building taking close to four hours, sometimes more, and it wasn’t uncommon for someone to spend most of the working day in there, waiting to be processed.

Walking past the queue of people waiting to move through the security point, the American moved in through a side door to the hut as people stuck in the line looked on enviously. Two guards were working the x-ray machine and metal detector and they nodded at the man as he placed his briefcase on the conveyor, grabbing a grey bin and dropping a wallet and mobile phone into the tray. His dark suit was cut to fit, 42 regular with a 32 waist, so he had no belt, nor any spare change in his pockets.

‘Morning sir,’ one of the guards said.

‘Good morning,’ the man said.

He walked through the metal detector
which
didn’t make a sound. Although he knew it wouldn’t, the American still felt that moment of relief that
every
one did when they passed through one of the machines and it didn’t go off.

He
retrieved
his things
from the tray
, returning them to his pockets, then scooped up his briefcase and headed off towards the entrance to the Embassy.

He’d lived in London for over a decade and after a rocky start, he found that he liked it more and more with each passing year. He'd arrived here in 1999, fresh out of his training at Camp Peary just outside Williamsburg, Virginia, aka ‘The Farm’, where every CIA trainee goes to learn his craft and hopefully then graduate into a position with the Agency. He’d excelled at the paramilitary and tradecraft operations set up by the agency instructors, and being just twenty five at the time and a non-smoker
,
had been in excellent physical condition, cruising through all the fitness tests. He had learned everything he could ever need in the field, from defensive driving and handling Zodiac boats to hand-to-hand combat and parachuting. He’d learnt interrogation techniques, manipulation and evasion tactics, how to deceive and turn the tables from having an enemy watching you to you watching him, and had finished the training fully expecting to become a
n
NOC, a non-official cover, an operative who would work overseas with no official ties to the United States Government. Basically, a spy.

But then, at his final interview and to his dismay, the instructors had decided that they wanted him behind a desk. He had scored very high
ly
on the leadership and aptitude tests and they said his talents would be wasted undercover in some foreign country. Instead, they had offered him a well-paid job in London in charge of a small team, and he’d had to adjust his thinking, determined to make the most of the opportunity given to him.

He'd been born and bred in Staunton, Virginia and found after he’d arrived in London in late-February 1999
,
that the weather in the UK was comparable and not such a shock to his system as it might otherwise have been. During his time here, he'd seen agents arrive on postings from Florida or California, and the frequently grey and gloomy weather had been a nasty surprise for them. He’d been one of the few students in his class in high school who'd enjoyed learning about British history, about their Kings and Queens
, how their parliamentary system had evolved
and
the
great battles
they'd fought, such as
Agincourt, Trafalgar and Waterloo. When the opportunity had arisen, he was excited to both begin his career in the CIA and come to live London and experience their culture
firsthand
. America was such a comparatively modern place that he had grown to love living here, absorbing the history around him. He'd spent many a weekend going to the old churches and cathedrals scattered across the city, buildings older than any in his home country. Just last weekend he'd been eating lunch in a pub that was built in the 15th Century. A pub that was older than the format
ion of his nation. Even now, that
sort of thing still blew his mind.

And aside from the history of the place, he'd found the lifestyle agreed with him too. Over the years several promotions had given him a substantial increase in salary over his peers and an apartment paid for by the Agency, both of which allowed him to live well in an expensive city. Physically most guys his age and position on the ladder had started to soften around the midsection, but he was thirty-nine years old and still looked fifteen years younger, having avoided cigarettes and excess caffeine his entire life, diligently maintaining the prodigious fitness he’d had back at The Farm all those years before.

In all, life was pretty good. He’d spent the last fifteen years trying to help others and his country, and felt
as if
he had done a pretty decent job. He’d never harmed or killed anyone, and in his position as an Operations Officer he was one of the best guys around
doing what he did
. He had a six man team under his command in this building and a further six agents scattered across Europe who
m
only a select few knew worked for both him and therefore the CIA. The information his team had gathered over the past few years had proved invaluable to the United States Government, and they were a crucial part of the Agency’s European intelligence gathering.

In a large and extremely powerful organisation, the man approaching the entrance to the Embassy had built a solid reputation for himself as a good leader and valuable employee. He'd worked his ass off to get where he was, with a silent determination that a lot of his peers often didn't understand. At this point, he knew if he played his cards right he could be looking at another solid promotion and a position of increased power, one he could perhaps use as a springboard to higher things or just as a smooth ride to retirement. If he didn’t get promoted he was planning to hand in a transfer request and head back to Virginia in the next couple of years anyway, maybe take over running a team at the headquarters there. However, for now, he was happy with his job and his life in London. He felt as if he was doing a good thing here, something worthwhile, and for the moment he was content to keep right on doing it.

Walking up the path to the main entrance, the man pulled open the door and moved inside the building. The woman behind the front desk recognised him, giving him a nod and a smile as she talked into a phone. Members of the public applying for visas were directed to the large waiting room on the left, herded in and told to wait until it was their turn. The CIA agent headed to the right instead.

Walking down the corridor, he passed through another metal detector and x-ray machine, and passing a final handprint and retina scan, a thick door in front of him buzzed and clicked open. He pushed it and walked into the heart of the CIA substation, heading towards his office. The hallway was cream-walled with blue carpet, two thirds patriotic, only missing the red. However, the CIA seal printed sequentially on the carpet compensated for that omission, the compass rose on the shield below the bald eagle as red as the
United States of America
writing on the golden scroll below. The man passed a
number of familiar offices on the way, including a tech area where a number of analysts and intelligence officers were already working away at computers. He kept moving down the corridor, and eventually arrived at his own office, pushing open the door and moving inside.

Walking to his desk, he placed his briefcase to one side and grabbed the remote to a television mounted on the wall across the room. He pushed the power button and flicked it on.

He always liked to catch a brief summary of the headlines when he walked in, updating him on the most important and pressing situations taking place around the world. Although the television had a range of channels, including CNN and the Fox Newsroom, the American liked to keep it on BBC World. Out of the three choices, that was the one he preferred. The reports were unbiased and gave him a cliff-notes version of everything he needed to know at the start of the day. CNN and Fox were fantastic broadcasters, but even their own network heads would probably admit that most of their focus was geared towards events in the United States. Considering Jackson’s job, he needed to know straight away of any crises in Europe, and BBC World could be relied upon to summarise the most important events. Many times in the past, his assistant had walked into the office handing over a first-hand detailed report from an agent who had been directly involved in something that was just coming up on the screen.