4
About Face
That same day
London, England
WHEN SOMEONE WHACKS YOU in the back of the head, you don’t know what’s going on. Your brain simply registers a bright flash a split second before everything goes dark. With luck, you live to see the light again.
I lived, but I didn’t see the light.
Not at first.
When I awoke, I saw only darkness. Not blind dark. Not movie theater dim. The visual disruption you get when your head is draped in a black bag.
My brain was slogging through that semiconscious state, still struggling to adapt, as the coarse fibers of the burlap sack came into focus. Marshaling my active neurons, I endeavored to remember where I was, and why.
Before attempting to unmask my eyes, I surveyed my surroundings with my other senses. I was indoors, slouched in a soft chair. An old armchair by the feel. One that stank of cigarette smoke, stale sweat, and vomit. While my nose revolted, my ears locked onto the subtle sounds of others in the room. Two people fidgeting, fumbling, breathing. Both within striking distance. One before me, one behind.
I began testing my wrists and ankles with tiny gestures.
I was but a few twitches in when the man before me refocused my attention. “I apologize for my employee’s exuberance. Bobby takes my security very seriously. Sometimes he errs on the side of caution.”
The familiar voice brought everything crashing back. The steady stream of top-secret documents leaking out of London. The months of undercover work. The promise of a covert meeting.
My veins surged with excitement even as my head throbbed with regret. I had made it into the same room with Ernesto Sargon, London’s legendary thief and underground information broker. If I, Zachary Chase, lived to tell the tale, I would be the first intelligence officer ever to do so.
I reached up to rub the back of my head, but didn’t try to remove the bag. Best to leave it on for now if that was their desire. “What did Bobby use? A two-by-four?”
“Nothing so crude,” Sargon replied, speaking from behind me now. “Bobby favors a sap, and I assure you there was no real danger. He’s got the Goldilocks touch with that little leather sack of lead.”
It didn’t feel just right to me. “If you say so.”
The bag lifted off, and I found myself looking at a laptop on an upturned crate. The clock in the corner of the screen displayed 22:27. If it was accurate, I’d been unconscious for a mere twenty minutes. A good sign.
The room provided no clue that could confirm the hour. It was small, windowless, and dim. Nondescript as the average walk-in closet. At least the part I was permitted to see. By standing behind me, Sargon was sending a message. Don’t turn around.
I tried to catch the criminal’s reflection on the computer screen.
“This is how it’s going to work,” Sargon said, pacing enough to give me reflected glimpses of a dark suit, gray hair, and silver-framed glasses. “First you’re going to show me an account with sufficient funds. Then I’m going to show you the documents. Then you’re going to make the transfer.”
I began nodding acknowledgment, but immediately regretted it. My head was sore from the sap strike. “That works for me. But I need to verify the authenticity of the documents first.”
Sargon’s reflection put hands on hips. “They’re ink on paper. What’s to verify?”
“Precisely my point. It’s easy to put ink on paper. Anyone can do it. Prove to me that they were actually authored at the U.S. Embassy, rather than on your laptop, and we’re good to go.”
“That wasn’t our deal.”
“Neither was a whack on the head.”
“I’ve apologized for that.”
“Yet my head still hurts.”
Sargon harrumphed. “My reputation is all the proof you need.”
“Same problem. How do I know you’re really Sargon? Prove to me that you’re the thief who stole the Duchess of Cornwall’s jewels, the spy who put a camera inside MI5, the con man who sold Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee three times, and we have a deal.”
Sargon resumed pacing the small room, reminding me of a caged tiger. “You’re a cautious one,” he said. “I can appreciate that. I tend toward caution myself. Show me the money, and I’ll show you proof of provenance. Then you pay and I give you the documents.”
“That works for me,” I said.
The bag went back over my head amidst a flurry of other movements. I heard a keyboard clatter, a few clicks, and then the sounds of passion. Yes, passion. No doubt about that.
The bag came off.
I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but this wasn’t it. “Is this a joke? Your proof is a porno?”
“It’s no joke. In fact, it’s very serious.” Bobby stepped into view, paused the video, and pointed at a face.
“Do you recognize this woman?” Sargon asked.
I did. It took a second. I’d never seen her naked. But once my mind made the jump I had no doubt. “Who’s the other woman?”
“She works for me.”
“An excellent hire,” I said, putting admiration in my voice.
“Indeed. Now that you know, next time we can skip the silly stuff. Will be better for your health and mine.”
I’d positioned myself as an off-the-books advisor to investors who earned outlandish returns using inside information. Hedge fund managers who needed a steady flow of tips without any links to their crimes. Sargon was playing it cool, but I knew he was practically drooling. I was his conduit to a gold mine.
Bobby closed the video and opened an internet browser. Sargon’s sap-happy employee looked like typical London muscle. Probably played rugby and served in uniform before turning to more lucrative, less legal pursuits.
I leaned into the keyboard and called up a Cayman bank account containing exactly two million pounds, then looked expectantly at Bobby.
The brute accepted a manila envelope from his boss. He set it on the table beside the laptop but then anchored it beneath his gloved fist.
I opened a transfer window and typed while Sargon dictated instructions.
The two million moved.
The fist lifted.
The bag went back over my head and I got another unwelcome surprise. A screeching sound followed by ticking.
“When the timer dings, you’re free to go. Leaving before then would be ill advised.”
Sargon and Bobby left through the rear door.
I immediately removed the bag.
The ticking emanated from an old fashioned kitchen timer. Nothing was connected. It was set for ten minutes. I knew the odds were low that Sargon had laid a trap, but for ten minutes, why risk it? I didn’t have a gun or even a camera, and catching Sargon wasn’t the mission objective anyway. I’d gone undercover to ferret out information. An identity, to be specific.
I’d spent the past two months establishing the underworld connections necessary to place the order that ultimately led to the meeting where I exchanged two million pounds of Uncle Sam’s money for a few pieces of paper. For two months, I’d hung out with people I didn’t like in places I didn’t want to be. For two months, I’d prayed that my true identity would not somehow be sniffed out. The experience had sucked, but it was worth it. I had succeeded. I’d made America stronger and safer while putting a fat plum in my government service record.
The higher-ups in Langley could wait ten more minutes to congratulate themselves.
When the timer rang, I rose and exited the back door. I found myself in the alley behind an aging strip mall. I walked around front and found everything closed. No surprise given the hour. Fortunately, the biker bar across the street was still lit with neon.
I walked in, mentioned a mugging, showed my lump, and sweet-talked the bushy-mustached bartender into letting me use the landline in his back office.