Eye of the Storm Read online

  Jimmy had had nothing to do with the case except knocking on a few doors, but he nodded as if he’d been the primary. “Good to know. Poor kid didn’t deserve that.”

  “Yeah, didn’t even have any family that we knew of. Just a landlady.”

  “Until now?”

  “Until now. Now the FBI is thinking Anton had ties to organized crime. An Eastern European mob family. Led by Nickolai Kasanov.”

  Jimmy whistled. “Wouldn’t want to be that hit-and-run driver. Not with a guy like Kasanov after me.”

  Alicia had gone whiter than the walls behind her.

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have enough to make a case,” Drake said mournfully. “Not without a confession.”

  He and Jimmy shared a comfortable silence. Comfortable for them… hell for any guilty conscience. Alicia leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly on the tabletop. Then she leaned away. Her lips tightened, and for a second, Drake thought they’d lost her. Jimmy gave him the tiniest shake of his head and Drake curbed his impatience.

  “I did it,” she finally blurted out, the three words filled with the weight of her guilt. “It was me.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Drake said, spinning around to face her. “In fact, I’m pretty much deaf to anything you say unless you agree to your Miranda rights and let us start recording this interview properly.”

  “Wouldn’t want the DA to have any questions,” Jimmy put in. “Otherwise, we might just have to release Ms. Fairstone. Send her on her way.”

  “No, no.” Alicia grabbed the Miranda form and scribbled her signature and initials. “No. Please. I want to stay. I want to tell you everything.”

  “Sure, no problem. Sit tight and we’ll take care of you,” Jimmy said genially. He and Drake left. Through the window, they watched as Alicia collapsed, crying, head bowed on folded arms.

  “Once this is over, she’ll lawyer up and accuse us of coercion,” Drake said.

  “Who cares? We’ll get Janice in there with the ADA, they’ll do it by the book. On tape.” He planted himself against the wall across from Drake. “You’re thinking Kasanov got hold of Anton’s case file, checked out all the cops involved in the case, and that’s why he targeted you?”

  Drake nodded. “He somehow found out about my painting and when he realized Alicia was the perpetrator, he put us together, set up everything. I’m guessing with my wedding coming up, it was just too good a chance to use a cop’s vulnerability to get what he really wants.”

  “Alicia.” Jimmy frowned. “Which means he doesn’t need Hart and your mother. Not alive. Not both of them.”

  From anyone else, the words would have been cruel. Coming from Jimmy, the truth still hurt—even though Drake had already done the math and come to the same conclusion himself—but it was tempered with the fact that Drake wasn’t alone in all this.

  Jimmy pushed off the wall. “We’ll get them back. Both of them.”

  “How?” Drake hated asking, but he was out of ideas. “Other than giving Kasanov what he wants?” He glanced at the clock on the wall over the bullpen. Less than three hours left before Kasanov’s midnight deadline.

  “Not sure yet, but I’m thinking we start by bringing in that landlady, Natasha Mulo. If she’s connected to Kasanov, she might have some worth as a bargaining chip.”

  Drake followed Jimmy back to their desks, suddenly exhausted. One slim hope, that was all they had left. But why would Kasanov keep both Hart and Muriel alive? Killing either one would force Drake’s hand, he had to know that.

  A red haze filled Drake’s mind at the thought that the people he loved were just pawns in Kasanov’s quest for vengeance. And there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.

  <<<>>>

  LETTING PADRAIC LEAVE was the hardest thing Rosa had ever done. She’d so desperately wanted to ask him to stay with her, join her in this one last mission. But it was too dangerous and, although she had faith in him, she would not risk his life. Not again.

  So, she ran. Hid in the shadows, waiting her chance to distract the police and steer them away from the docks while the Senaia and Padraic escaped Marseilles.

  She poured all her sorrow and frustration into taunting her pursuers as they harried her through the fog-filled streets. It was almost too easy. A few hours later, the Senaia safely away, she returned to the cafe in the hotel beside the Gare St. Charles. Now that Petain had arrived, the trains were running again and she’d had an urgent message to meet her contact from Paris.

  “How much gold are we talking about?” she asked him as they both sipped Champagne. Ironic that today was one of the days the government decreed it was forbidden to sell wine or liquor—of course, Champagne counted as neither under French law. One more instance of their passive-aggressive compliance with German rule.

  “Eleven kilos,” he answered. “A treasure beyond measure. We must ensure its safe passage away from occupied Europe.”

  “The quickest route would be Paris to Calais to Dover. But the German patrols—” She shook her head. “Not the Channel.”

  “You’ll need help. It’s more than you can manage on your own.”

  With Padraic and the others gone, there was nothing keeping her here. “I’ll join you in Paris. We’ll find another route.”

  He glanced at his watch. “My train back will be boarding shortly. Contact me when you’re ready.”

  He left money on the table, more than enough to cover the bill. She sorted through the coins, glancing around the cafe to make sure he wasn’t watched or followed. Then she rose to leave. As she turned, her gaze snagged on a familiar man hunched over the bar where he was observing her in the mirror. Bernard. What was he doing here? How much had he heard?

  She made no sign she’d recognized him and left by the front door instead of her usual route through the secret door that connected the cafe to the train station—she couldn’t compromise her Parisian contact. Walking fast but with her head held high as if she was in no rush at all, she crossed the street and darted down a narrow alley. The fog and rain were finally thinning. She cursed her luck. Another hour of cover would have been nice.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. Then a man called her name. Bernard. When they’d first met, she hadn’t trusted him. He was Lowara, a clan that often sparred with hers, and what little she could discover about the events that had led to her family’s massacre at the hands of the Nazis suggested that they’d been betrayed by a fellow Rom. But Bernard had proven his worth time and again.

  Why did she feel so apprehensive now? Was it because she’d sent her best people with Padraic on the Senaia? She’d never minded working alone before.

  Maybe it was heartache over Padraic leaving. If so, then best get on with her work, faster to heal any wound if you kept your mind off the pain.

  Bernard called again. “Rosa, are you all right? I heard gunshots down at the docks but by the time I arrived you were nowhere to be found.”

  She slowed her steps. Stopped and turned to face him. “I’m fine.”

  “Did they escape?” He drew close, his face flushed from chasing her.

  Again she felt that flutter of anxiety, pushed it away. “Yes. Thank you. Your diversions at the station were a huge help.”

  He gave her a small bow. Stepped forward so that only a foot separated them. “I couldn’t help but overhear. What is this new treasure? This gold? Can we use it to fight the Nazis? Are you smuggling it out to De Gaulle? How can I help?”

  Rosa narrowed her eyes, one hand sliding to her knife. Too many questions. And that gleam in his eye. “Not here. I’ll tell you when we get back to the Rue Royale. We’d best take different routes.”

  He took her arm in his. “No need. A young couple walking together will attract less attention.”

  He was right—it was exactly the reason she gave her people when she took Padraic out with her on the streets. She wished now she’d dared to admit the real truth to anyone, herself included.

  She allowed
Bernard to guide her down to the mouth of the alley, back onto the street. With the rain slowing and the earlier police outcry died down, people were coming out again, returning to their normal routines before the disruption of Marshal Petain’s arrival.

  Still, Rosa did not move her hand away from her dagger’s hilt. She sensed tension in Bernard. Maybe it was the thrill of eluding the police, maybe it was the excitement of a new mission, maybe it was something else.

  A man’s footsteps dogged their path, but it was a busy street, nothing too remarkable about that. Then a second man. Rosa twisted free of Bernard’s arm. “Run,” she told him.

  He stopped, his expression one of surprise. She sprinted around the next corner even as she shrugged out of her overcoat and tied her hair back with her scarf. Suddenly transformed from a respectable woman to a ragged gypsy beggar girl, she slowed to a walk and crossed the street.

  Too late. A panier a salade sped toward her. She turned to bolt down an alley but two policemen were already there, pistols drawn. Pointed at her.

  Chapter 28

  CASSIE SCRAMBLED ACROSS the scrap yard filled with the skeletons of cannibalized vehicles. The dogs’ barking echoed through the night, but they sounded as if they were getting close. Climb, she had to get to high ground where she’d have the advantage.

  She spotted a large piece of equipment similar to a crane but that had a large metal disk hanging from its derrick instead of a hook. The magnet used to lift the heavy vehicles. Perfect.

  The layers of silk she’d wrapped her feet in had shredded to nothing and she felt every stone, every discarded shard of metal as she ran. She forced herself to focus on the magnet. If she reached that, she would be safe from the dogs, and right now that was all she could think about. That and the sight of all the gruesome maulings and dog bites she’d ever treated.

  There was a reason she was a cat person. Rosa had hated dogs, said the Nazis used them to torment prisoners. Had talked as if it were a personal experience. Said it wasn’t the poor creatures’ fault, it was the men who’d trained them, but still, she just wouldn’t have them in the house.

  Cassie’s breath quickened at the thought and she had to force herself to remember her Kempo training and regain control. Center yourself, she thought. Just like sparring. You have a plan, make it work.

  Dodging around another stack of flattened cars, she saw the magnet ahead. The dogs sounded as if they’d surrounded her, were closing the net, coming in for the kill.

  She clipped the folding knife she’d stolen from the guard into the bodice of her dress. No pockets meant no choice but to keep hold of the pistol as she climbed. She shot forward with one last burst of speed, ignoring the pain in her feet, and lunged for the ladder leading to the magnet’s control box. The box was like a truck cab but much higher in the air and enclosed with glass, giving it a good view of the magnet as it swung its heavy and potentially lethal loads. If she could get inside, she’d be protected from the dogs.

  If it was unlocked. Perched on the small platform at the top of the ladder, she yanked on the door handle, locked. She peered through the window, tried to see if there was another way inside. Nothing.

  The first dog arrived below her, lunging at the lower part of the cab, leaping as high as possible, its jaws snapping in the air below her feet. Close, too close. She inched around to the backside of the cab, away from the dog. The derrick holding the magnet joined the cab here.

  It wasn’t designed to be climbed like a ladder, the rungs were spaced too far apart, but it was possible. The only hope she had of reaching high ground. Another dog joined the first, racing back and forth at the bottom of the magnet, growling and barking in frustration.

  She swung one arm onto the nearest horizontal support and hauled her body up the derrick. As she climbed, the dogs’ handlers joined them, throwing swaths of bright light up at her.

  “Come down,” one shouted. “There’s nowhere to go.”

  Wrapping her arm around one of the vertical supports, she swung to face her pursuers, her pistol aimed at them. Two men were scrambling up the ladder leading to the cab. She shot out the window inches above their hands. “Stop! The next one hits your head.”

  It was a futile gesture and they all knew it. They could easily out wait her and they had more ammunition than she had. Not to mention more men to out flank her.

  But she wasn’t planning to stay up here all night. She just needed to give Vincent enough time to escape. How long had it been?

  The men below seemed in no rush—in fact, they had leapt off the ladder and were now laughing at her. She was certain she was a sight they’d never seen before: barefoot in a billowing white wedding gown, hanging off the side of a derrick, aiming a pistol at them. If she wasn’t gambling with Muriel’s life, she might have laughed herself.

  As it was, she was closer to crying. Especially as their high-powered flashlights caught the black streaks of grime and blood that stained Muriel’s poor dress. There were so many more important things she should be worried about: had Vincent made it to the phone yet, was Muriel still alive, could she reason with Kasanov?

  But still, she couldn’t stop a gush of tears at the sight of Muriel’s dress, her gift to Cassie. Awkwardly, she ducked her face into the crook of her shoulder, wiping her tears so she could see clearly. Time to bargain.

  “Come down,” one of the teens called up. Several others were circling around to the other side of the magnet. Cassie whirled on her perch, one foot slipping free, dangling in the air until she was able to find purchase on the metal run once more. She aimed her pistol at the new threat.

  “Tell them to stop. I want to speak with Kasanov.”

  “No, you don’t. He’s really pissed off at you. Says your friend will pay dearly.”

  “If he hurts her,” Cassie gulped, hoped her bluff would work, “tell him he’ll never get the gold. Tell him, if he doesn’t let Muriel go, I’ll kill myself.”

  She raised the pistol to her temple. The men took a step back. Even the dogs quieted. The only sound she heard was the rustle of silk against metal.

  The scrapyard spread out below her like an alien landscape. As alien as the thought of pulling the trigger.

  Would Kasanov call her bluff? Or would he free Muriel?

  Chapter 29

  THE IDIOT BRITS on Gibraltar had been both astounded and flabbergasted by the arrival of the Senaia and the stories it brought with it. An Irish seaman, a handful of his fellow shipmates, another two dozen soldiers from the British Expeditionary Forces, and six hundred civilians, including some of the greatest scientific and artistic minds of Germany, all saved by one seventeen-year-old girl and her rag-tag group of Maquis? Preposterous.

  “Our man in Lisbon has a working arrangement with a leader, code name Tempest,” Archer, the MI-9 official who was debriefing Paddy, insisted. “Right now, he’s preparing an escape route for six RAF officers over the Pyrenees.”

  Paddy was tired of arguing with Archer. He was exhausted and his temper wearing thin. “La Tempête is Rosa Costello. Without her, your men and future escapes from the south of France are in danger. You have to let me return.”

  The only reason Archer was willing to listen to Paddy’s request that he be seconded to Intelligence instead of returning to his billet as radio operator on one of His Majesty’s warships, was that Paddy agreed to reveal the inner workings of Rosa’s network, promised that if they let him save Rosa, then the Brits could use Rosa and her people.

  Rosa would kill him for betraying her confidence—her passion for secrecy was the only thing that had kept her alive this long—but Paddy didn’t care. Not if it gave him a chance to find her again.

  “Look here, good man,” Archer said in his infuriating Eton accent. “We do know what we’re doing—”

  “Then who’s Fisherman? Tempest’s newest radio operator, do you know his identity?”

  Archer cleared his throat. “Not exactly. You see, our man in Lisbon was killed in a car accident, everythin
g burned with him. But Fisherman must have been compromised because Tempest himself contacted us about retrieving our men. Unusual, because in the past, he’d always maintained his distance from radio communications.”

  Paddy shook his head, tried not to laugh. “Fisherman wasn’t compromised. He’s standing here before you. And you’re right, Rosa never used the radio herself—too risky. Whoever contacted you must be working for the Krauts.”

  The other man’s face blanched. “If what you say is true, then we almost released the position of those RAF officers—”

  “To the bloody Nazis.” Paddy considered his options. “Ask your people if they’ve received any information on Rosa Costello’s whereabouts. She most likely was captured, maybe killed, the night we sailed. Give me that information and I’ll go back, save your people.”

  “They’re your people too,” Archer snapped. “You are still a subject of His Majesty, the King.”

  “Ah, but I’m a lowly merchant sailor. Not even an officer. What do I care about some RAF flyboy? Unless of course, I was seconded to Intelligence.”

  Archer narrowed his eyes but picked up his phone. About bloody time. Paddy tried to sit still, but after listening to a few minutes of “civilized” chatter that had nothing to do with anything important, he could contain himself no longer and began to pace the elegantly appointed office. Not even the view of the Mediterranean could calm him, even though all his life the sea had been his refuge. The thought of learning Rosa’s fate pushed all that aside.

  Finally, a tall blond man with a hawkish nose and linen suit entered the office, depositing a folder on Archer’s desk. He cleared his throat and wiped his hands with his handkerchief as if the contents of the file were distasteful.

  Paddy wanted to rip the papers from Archer’s hands, but instead stood at attention across the desk. Archer looked up, a frown on his face.