But the officer closed the passport, handed it back to him, and said, “Okay, Mr. Jones. All seems good. We’ll get you to Truro, and we should be able to get the plates of the van from Vanceboro immigration. During your crossing, it will have been logged alongside your passport. It’ll take a few hours though. If you don’t hear from your girlfriend by morning, it’s vital you call the RCMP station in Truro. We’ll go looking then.”
“Sure.”
The cop beckoned him forward. “Afraid we’ve finished our flask of coffee and we got a good hour before we reach Truro. Still”—he smiled—“since you look like shit, I’m betting you won’t mind getting a bit of shut-eye during the drive.”
Marsha Gage was sitting at her desk in the FBI task force room and had her cell phone pinned against one ear and a landline handset against the other. On one line was Sorocco Fonseca of Spain’s Centro Nacional de Inteligencia; on the other was Bianca Dinapoli of Italy’s Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Interna. Both were telling her that there’d been a few possible sightings in southern Europe of someone matching Will Cochrane’s description, but all of them had proven to be false. Behind Marsha, Patrick and Alistair were playing chess, while Sheridan was on the phone to Senator Jellicoe. Not for the first time since the three men had graced the room with their presence, Marsha thought that at best they were useless and at worst downright counterproductive. Regardless, it seemed that they enjoyed doing nothing while she worked her ass off.
On the screen of her landline, she saw that she had a call waiting from Assistant Commissioner Danny Labelle of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. She ended the other calls, picked up, and said, “Commissioner. You got something for me?”
“Might be nothing, but you told me to report anything odd.”
“Wish half the people I work with could be as forthcoming. What is it?”
“Our Coast Guard’s found a crashed Islander plane on our Nova Scotia seaboard. Only reason they spotted it was due to the tide being out.”
“That happen a lot where you live?”
Labelle laughed. “Not where I live. But yeah, it happens in parts of Canada where there aren’t many roads but there are plenty of high winds that’ll knock you sideways.”
“So, why suspicious?”
“Pilot was still inside the plane when Coast Guard found it. And she’s got a bullet in her brain.”
“ID on her?”
“American passport. My guys have already put a call in to your Department of State. Turns out the passport’s a fake.”
“Drug runner making a delivery that went wrong?”
“Could be.”
“Anything else on her to suggest this isn’t just some criminal matter?”
“Can’t say there is, but you wanted to know about any suspicious transportation movements into east coast Canada.”
“I did indeed. Thanks anyway, Commissioner.”
“My pleasure. Oh, and Marsha?”
“Yeah.”
“Her body’s now at the Nova Scotia Hospital. Just a formality because she’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours. But doctors examined her anyway. She’s got a tattoo on her upper arm. Odd looking. Not the sort of thing women generally go for.”
“Probably a prison thing.” Marsha drummed her fingers on her desk. “Can you fax a picture of it over to me?”
“On its way.”
Two minutes later, the fax machine printed a single sheet with the letterhead ROYAL CANADIAN MOUNTED POLICE—MAINTIENS LE DROIT, NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS, HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, 73 LEIKIN DRIVE, OTTAWA ON K1A 0R2. On it was the photo image of an upper arm, and next to the limb was a handwritten note stating, Dead female pilot. Still no luck identifying her. Not seen this kind of tattoo before. She liked hunting, maybe? D. Labelle.
Marsha took out a magnifying glass from her desk drawer and examined the tattoo. It was a picture of a bear; an eagle with outstretched wings looked to be landing on its back. Like the commissioner, she had no idea if it symbolized anything or was just an innocuous cartoon that signified its wearer was prone to moments of illogical whimsy.
She swiveled in her chair and eyed Patrick and Alistair. Both were still engrossed in chess. “Unlike you, I’m kind of busy right now. So, gentlemen”—she folded the fax sheet into the shape of an airplane and tossed it at them—“I wouldn’t mind if you tapped Spooksville — Stateside and old country — on the shoulder to see if that tattoo makes any sense.”
Patrick picked up the fax with one hand while moving knight to take bishop with the other. The CIA officer unfolded it and held the image in front of Alistair, then thrust the fax toward Sheridan and called out, “You know what this means?”
Sheridan looked bemused. “I have no idea.”
“That a statement about your raison d’être?”
“What?”
“Never mind, idiot.”
Marsha gestured toward the paper and told the men about the downed Islander airplane. “Most likely it’s nothing, but I really would like it if you could find out if that tattoo means anything.”
Alistair shrugged while positioning a rook as bait to tempt Patrick’s knight to take it and in turn leave the knight vulnerable to attack from a bishop. “We don’t need to.”
“Just because I’m not paying by the hour doesn’t mean…”
“Shit.” Patrick stared at the chessboard, knowing that Alistair was thinking ten moves ahead. He adjusted his thinking, moved a rook, and called out, “It’s a military tattoo.”
“Russian.” Alistair’s rook took his opponent’s rook. “A version not too dissimilar is popular among Special Forces paratroopers.”
“This one’s unusual though, because it’s on a woman and because the bear and eagle aren’t fighting but instead are cooperating.” Patrick’s brain was racing because he knew Alistair had thrown in a new strategy. “You only see it on specialists.”
“GRU specialists.” Bishop defends queen.
“Who’ve been given advanced airborne training.” Pawn move to feint attack on queen.
“Secret training.” Queen retreats two squares.
Patrick’s knight puts Alistair’s queen and rook in jeopardy. “Seems your dead pilot was very unusual.”
“A highly skilled paramilitary intelligence officer.”
“Unlikely to be a drug runner who’d let petty criminals get the better of her.”
“More likely she was conducting a covert infiltration.”
“And something went wrong on her return journey.”
“Plane malfunction.” Alistair moved his queen. “Or got hit by some godawful weather.”
“And put a gun to her head rather than let the Atlantic do its work on her.” Patrick smiled as he moved his bishop. “Your king’s got nowhere to run. Checkmate.”
Alistair rubbed his hands together. “Didn’t see that one coming, old boy. Congrats.”
“Reckon that’s nine wins each so far.” Patrick turned to Marsha. “Also reckon you’d better be wondering what the GRU woman was delivering to Nova Scotia.”
The police cruiser stopped outside the Best Western hotel in Truro. One of the Mounties opened the rear door and gestured for Will to get out. “Remember — call us in the morning if your girlfriend doesn’t make contact with you.”
“Sure, and thanks again for the ride.” Will exited the vehicle, shook the cop’s hand, and walked into the hotel lobby. He had no intention of staying here or anywhere else in Truro. A few minutes after the cops had gone, he’d leave the hotel and head farther west.