I cut him off. “What games? You think this is a game to me? I’ve already lost two agents in this. No more innocent people need to die. I made a promise to Beth to protect her and the kids. I want to take your deal and get them to safety. And I thought Floyd did too, but maybe he’s more of a coward than I gave him credit for.”
I shook my head apologetically at Floyd.
“You have twelve hours, Mr. Morgan,” Andreyev responded. “Find him and call me. Or I will be forced to punish the people I have at hand.”
He hung up and I made sure the call had disconnected.
“What the hell was that?” Floyd asked.
“I just bought your wife and kids more time,” I replied. “We’ve got twelve hours to save them.”
Chapter 82
I set us down at Manhattan Heliport, which was located at the southernmost tip of the island. By the time I’d settled the charter, Jessie had arrived to collect us. As Justine, Floyd and I made our way through the parking lot to the Toyota, I thought back to my last time here — chasing the assassin who’d killed my friend. Far too many people had died as part of the twisted games of state played by enemies set on destroying everything we stood for. I was determined that Beth Singer and her children wouldn’t be added to the list of victims.
Jessie caught sight of the Bull replica as I climbed into the front seat of the Toyota and she slid in beside me.
“Souvenir?” she asked.
“We think this is what they’re after,” I replied. “We need to get it into the lab.”
She nodded, started the engine and pulled out of the heliport, before heading north on FDR Drive.
“Everyone OK?” she asked.
I nodded, and Justine and Floyd did likewise. None of us said anything, though. I think we were all too aware of the ticking clock.
It was approaching 3 a.m. and everywhere was eerily quiet. There were hardly any other vehicles on the road, and as we turned off FDR Drive and made our way through the city, there were hardly any people around either. It was as though New York had inhaled and was holding its breath for a moment, pausing before breathing life into a new day. The bright lights of electronic billboards shone over frozen sidewalks and the LED advertisements stuck to the handful of yellow cabs that navigated the deserted streets danced across the lanes like fireflies.
Jessie drove us north to Madison and East 26th where we parked in the subterranean garage before taking the elevator to Private’s offices. Sci and Mo-bot were waiting for us.
“It’s good to see you, Jack,” Sci said warmly when we stepped out of the elevator. He clasped my hand and pulled me in for a hug.
“This is Joshua Floyd,” I said. “Seymour Kloppenberg.”
“Good to meet you. Congratulations on getting out of Afghanistan,” Sci said, shaking Floyd’s hand. “Call me Sci.”
“Thanks, Sci,” Floyd replied.
They all looked at me expectantly.
“Sorry to keep you all up,” I told them. “But we think this is what they’re after.” I brandished the Wall Street Bull. “Taken off the desk of a Russian asset called Konstantin Roslov. We need a full analysis.”
“We’ll find out what we can about Roslov,” Jessie said, and Mo-bot nodded.
“And I’ll have a look at this thing,” Sci remarked, taking the Bull from me. “It’s heavy.”
“I’ll go with you,” I said, but Justine shook her head and pulled me to one side.
“You’re going to rest, Jack. You and Captain Floyd must be running on fumes, and you’re no good to us exhausted.”
I looked at Sci, who smiled knowingly as he headed for the lab. Mo-bot and Jessie had already gone.
“You either trust your people to do right or you don’t,” Floyd observed. “Personally I could do with some shut eye.”
“We’ll get you set up somewhere,” Justine told him. “And the same goes for you, Jack Morgan.”
Chapter 83
I was back in the mountains of Afghanistan, struggling for breath as I followed Joshua Floyd through the trees. He was running too fast for me to keep up, and seemed not to be bothered by the thin air. I was going to get left behind. I heard a furious sound behind me, the roar of some ancient, fearsome creature, and glanced over my shoulder to see two rockets tearing through the sky, propelled by hellfire. When I turned to look ahead, Floyd had gone, but how would I escape without him? I didn’t know where the cave was. I made it to the cliff face and pawed frantically at the rock, searching for the entrance, but I wasn’t going to make it. The rockets detonated and I was caught in the blast. I was tossed into the air and felt myself being consumed by the flames...
“Jack.” Justine’s voice cut through the nightmare. “Jack!”
I woke to find myself lying on her lap in the meeting room. I remembered she’d put me on the couch. She’d set my head in her lap and stroked my hair until I fell asleep.
“How long have I been out? I asked.
“Little over two hours,” she replied.
“How are your legs?” I said, sitting up.
“They’ve been better.” She stood and stretched them out. “What’s a little lost circulation? You’ve got a visitor.”
I glanced round to see Mo-bot at the door.
“We’ve got something you should see.”
I stood up and walked off the stiffness in my muscles. I could have done with another twenty-four hours’ sleep, but that was a luxury I wasn’t going to have for a while.
Justine and I followed Mo-bot through the quiet office. The lights were on energy save and most of the place was lost to shadows, which was just as well because my eyes were raw and struggled to adjust to the light.
We went through a security door into the corridor that led to the computer room. Another door and then we joined Jessie in a climate-controlled room full of servers and terminals.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“I probably needed the rest,” I replied. “I do feel a little better for it.”
Mo-bot slid into the seat beside Jessie. Justine and I stood at her shoulder.
She opened an image file to reveal a photograph of a pale man with the puffy face of an alcoholic crowned by a mop of thick black hair. If he’d ever had a soul, it wasn’t on evidence in this photo. His eyes were windows to a cruel void.
“Konstantin Roslov,” Mo-bot said. “Colonel in the Russian Army before an honorable discharge. He went into commodities. Similar profile to Andreyev. Made a fortune buying up mining businesses that specialized in precious and heavy metals.”
Mo-bot opened a file window to show the website of the Roslov Fund, a venture capital firm.
“He used money from his industrial empire to start a venture fund that invested in businesses all over the world. Same as Andreyev. It’s a pattern. I think they figured out the way to beat capitalism is to get inside it. According to the CIA, the Roslov Fund is a front used to launder money to Russian-backed interests all over the world.”
“Where is he now?” I asked. “Still in Belarus?”
Mo-bot shook her head. “He’s dead, Jack.”
She opened a Russian newspaper article and ran it through Google Translate. It featured a long-distance photograph of a corpse under a sheet, surrounded by police officers. It looked as though they were in a scrap yard.
“His body was found in a recycling facility outside Minsk,” Mo-bot revealed. “The day after the raid on his house.”
“Punishment for carelessness?” I suggested.
“Whoever killed him removed his limbs. The Belarusian police believe they were amputated while he was alive,” Jessie said. “So it was either a punishment or a warning.”
“Or maybe both,” I remarked.