The Agent (An Isabella Rose Thriller Book 3) Read online

  She emptied out the tote and put the M9, a box of ammunition and the karambit inside.

  She put on her new coat, opened the door and stepped back outside into the cold once again.

  Union Station was three and a half miles to the west.

  Maia took Benning Road across the Anacostia and Kingman Lake, the slate-grey skies growing darker and then, as she turned south on First Street, releasing another dump of snow. She found a space to park the Cruze. She took the pistol and the knife from the leather tote and stowed them in the glove compartment. She collected the bag, opened the door and stepped out.

  The great arch of the station’s facade was obscured by the shifting curtain of snow. She passed inside and the temperature climbed as the doors closed behind her. She continued towards the ticket office and bought a ticket to Richmond, being sure to pay the sixty-eight dollars on the credit card that she had been given. There was a camera behind the clerk and she looked up, turning to it so that there would be clear evidence that it was she who had purchased the ticket. They would check back along her route when she failed to arrive at the airport for her flight out of the country and she wanted to make it as difficult for them as she could.

  Maia went down to the platforms. The 67 Northeast Regional train departed from platform twenty-two. She showed her ticket to the attendant on the gate, climbed aboard and made her way to her allocated coach seat. She was aboard early, and there were only a handful of passengers on the train with her. She took the tracker and, reaching beneath the seat, found the join where two pieces of leather had been stitched together. She forced her fingers between the pieces, finding a little purchase and then pulling back hard enough to open a small rent. She stuffed the tracker inside, pressing it into the upholstery.

  She did not know how long the battery would retain a charge outside of her body. It didn’t have to manage for long, just enough for the train to head out of the station towards Richmond. That should be all the diversion she needed.

  She went back to the car.

  Chapter Fifty

  The drive from Boston to Washington took them nine hours to complete with a half-hour stop in Trenton. They were in two cars, allowing thirty minutes between each car setting off. Dzhokar was in the first car with Imad. Khasan, Abdul and Hasan followed behind. They split the equipment between the two cars. In the event that one of them was stopped before they could reach their destination, the other would still have a chance of completing the operation.

  They shared the driving, changing over when they stopped. Imad had taken the first four hours and had insisted that they listen to recordings of speeches that had been delivered by radical imams from within the caliphate. Dzhokar listened, but quickly found the rhetoric tiring and tuned out. He was glad of the distraction when it was his turn to drive, and even more pleased when Imad took the opportunity to sleep.

  The satnav directed them to Bethesda and then instructed him to take exit 45A from I-495, heading west on the Dulles Access Toll Road towards Reston. Dzhokar pulled into a parking area as soon as they passed over the 657 north of McLean. They had agreed to stop here and wait for the others to catch up. He switched off the engine and looked out at the traffic that was coming and going. He heard a roar and looked to the north just in time to see the first jet as it angled down on its glide path to the runway at Dulles. It descended on a gentle slope, crossed over the road at a few hundred feet and then disappeared beyond the steep embankment with a tall chain-link fence that marked the periphery of the terminal.

  He looked back and saw the lights of another jet and, beyond that and higher, a second and third.

  Maia took the airport Dulles Access Toll Road and passed through Reston and Herndon, the airport facility gradually coming into view. She parked the Cruze in the short-term garage and made her way inside the terminal building.

  Ten forty in the morning and the terminal was busy. She went to the information desk and asked where would be the best place to meet a passenger. The man behind the desk told her to go to the arrivals hall and pointed to the entrance.

  She found a space at the corner at the northeast side of the hall. She had chosen her vantage point carefully. She could see everything, including the sliding doors through which the incoming passengers arrived. She could see the doors to the west that she had just used. They opened on to the final hall before passengers left the terminal to retrieve their cars or take public transport into the city.

  She checked her watch again. The airport displays announced that United Flight 804 had arrived ahead of schedule.

  Maia was anxious. She wanted to be in place in plenty of time. She remembered her conversation with Curry last night and the documents that she had taken from Coogan’s house. Aleksandra was in terrible danger.

  She looked around again. There was nothing out of the ordinary. No obvious threats.

  Nothing odd.

  Maia felt an emptiness in her stomach.

  She was expecting to see Curry. That seemed likely after what he had told her. She had spent half an hour as she drove west worrying about what she would do if she saw him. Would she speak to him? Would she be able to persuade him that he should stand down? No. That was ridiculous. She had quickly concluded that it would have served no purpose save to lose her any element of surprise that she might otherwise have enjoyed.

  But she couldn’t see him. She would have expected him to adopt a position similar to her own, but he wasn’t here. She studied the crowd in the event that he had sought to hide within it, but, unless she had missed him, she had struck out again.

  And she still didn’t know what she would do if he arrived here.

  She reached for the butt of the pistol in the shoulder holster that she wore beneath her jacket. Her fingers danced across the moulded plastic grip, stretched a little further so that she felt the stippled contour of the butt and then the trigger guard and the pliancy of the trigger.

  She had made her mind up about one thing, at least.

  If they came for Aleksandra, she would defend her.

  There would be blood.

  They parked in Garage 1.

  It was closer to the terminal than the economy parking lot, but they would have had to take a shuttle bus if they had parked farther out, and that would have increased the odds of them being detected before they could reach their target. It was more expensive, of course, but that wasn’t something that concerned them. They collected their Pay & Go tickets from the machines, but they had no intention of returning to validate them.

  The terminal was accessed by an underground pedestrian walkway. They split into two groups as before, and started out with five minutes between them. Dzhokar and Imad waited while the others went first, and then followed along. There was a moving walkway and they took their places on it.

  Dzhokar could see the others at the far end of the walkway stepping off and heading for the elevator that would take them up to the terminal building. Khasan had already scouted the area on two separate occasions. He had explained the layout to them and said that there was a large restroom where they would be able to make their final preparations before heading into the arrivals hall.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Passengers emerged through sliding doors into the wide space of the arrivals hall.

  ‘Stay alert,’ Pope said quietly to Isabella as they waited to enter.

  She nodded.

  Litivenko turned to face them. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re going to be collected.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We’ll head into the city. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘And then? After the hearing?’

  ‘They’ll pay you and you’ll be able to go.’

  ‘You’ll come with me?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’ve seen enough so that I don’t trust people without proof that they are worthy of it. You did what you said you’d do. I believe you’ll protect me.’

  Isabella watched as she lo
oked at Pope with wide, entreating eyes and, when he hesitated, Litivenko added, a little desperately, ‘I will pay you.’

  ‘I don’t need your money. It isn’t that. Isabella and I have somewhere we need to go. I don’t have time.’

  ‘Then you’ll return with me here? At least see that I get here safely?’

  ‘Yes,’ Isabella said.

  ‘Yes,’ Pope said, too. ‘We can do that.’

  There were people on either side of the passage just inside the door: some waited with unmasked anticipation, dispensing embraces to arriving relatives and loved ones; taxi drivers held out handwritten signs while checking the messages on their phones. Isabella looked up and saw two ranks of flags that hung down from the ceiling. There were stores and concessions around the edge of the hall, and exits that led to the Metrorail and the Silver Line express buses.

  The queue moved slowly until it passed through the door and then, with more space, the passengers were able to disperse more freely. Pope and Litivenko were ahead of her. Pope had his hand on the doctor’s elbow, guiding her gently ahead.

  Isabella scanned left to right and then back again.

  Left to right.

  Left to right.

  She stopped.

  One of the men behind her tutted audibly as he had to divert around her. She barely heard him and did not react.

  It was a woman. Isabella saw her standing at the other end of the hall, at two o’clock from her position. She was beneath an overhang, partially obscured by a pillar that supported the floor above her. She looked like any other traveller: jeans, a dark-coloured turtleneck, a padded jacket. A flash of red hair beneath a woollen beanie. She was looking back in her direction, watching the new arrivals as they came into the hall. She was like all the other men and women here waiting to rendezvous with arriving passengers.

  She was like them, but not the same.

  Isabella recognised her, and her heart skittered.

  ‘Pope,’ she said.

  He stopped and turned back. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The woman over there.’

  Pope glanced in the direction that Isabella had indicated.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there. The woman from Italy.’

  Pope looked more carefully. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘She’s coloured her hair, but it’s her.’

  The woman had seen them, too, and now she was starting to come their way.

  ‘What is it?’ Litivenko asked him.

  ‘Stay close to me,’ Pope said.

  Isabella tensed. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We’ll be safe with these witnesses. But we need to get away from here.’

  Litivenko noticed the woman. ‘Oh shit,’ she said.

  ‘Is it her?’ Pope asked.

  Isabella was watching. She saw recognition and then confusion on Litivenko’s face. ‘Yes. It’s Maia. They’ve sent her.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘She’s come to kill me.’

  ‘Quickly,’ Pope urged.

  They set off again, hurrying to the left, joining the crowd of people who were heading towards the exit.

  Maia changed course and started to jog so that she could cut them off. Pope reached for Litivenko’s shoulder and slowed her speed. The doctor stopped. She followed Pope’s anxious gaze to the approaching woman.

  Maia was just a few feet away from them now.

  She blocked the way ahead.

  ‘Doctor,’ she said.

  ‘Maia,’ Litivenko said, unable to keep the fear from her face. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Please. You need to come with me.’

  Pope put himself between the two women. ‘You’re too late,’ he said. ‘Leave her alone.’

  Maia pivoted a little so that she could face him. ‘Step out of the way, please.’

  ‘No,’ Pope said. ‘You want her, you can go through me. And I don’t think you’ll want to do that here.’

  ‘Step out of the way.’

  Pope did not.

  Isabella looked left and right, adrenaline pumping around her body so fiercely that her hands trembled. There was something else.

  ‘Pope,’ she said.

  Maia ignored Pope’s warning. ‘Aleksandra,’ she said, ‘you have to listen to me. It’s not safe for you here. He can’t protect you. I can.’

  Maia reached out for Litivenko’s arm, but Pope intercepted her and grabbed her wrist. The woman turned fully towards him and tried to break his grip. He held on, although he grunted with the effort. Maia threw a left-handed punch; Pope turned and took it on his shoulder. He grabbed her, wrapping both arms around her torso and hugging her as tightly as he could.

  Litivenko started to panic. She backed away from them.

  ‘Pope!’ Isabella exclaimed.

  She saw two men enter the hall through the door that they had been aiming for. The men were dragging heavy suitcases. They split up. One of them was waiting by the door, standing in their way. The other was making his way to the door through which they had just arrived. He was heading towards them and, as he drew closer, Isabella could see more: he was sweating, a glossy sheen on his forehead; he was wearing a single black glove; and, she saw, he was muttering something under his breath.

  ‘Pope!’

  The man with the suitcase drew nearer.

  Maia freed her right arm and drilled Pope in the face. He fell but managed to hold on to her, dragging her down to the ground with him.

  Litivenko saw the blood on Pope’s face and fell apart.

  She ran.

  ‘No!’ Isabella called out.

  The man’s lips were moving, the same phrase repeated again and again.

  Litivenko panicked.

  She wasn’t aware of what the man with the single glove was about to do.

  She ran straight at him.

  Isabella started after her.

  The man’s voice grew louder: a whisper, to a monotone, to a bellow.

  ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Isabella saw and heard it all.

  The flash of the explosion reflected in the wide windows ahead of her.

  The man: there one minute, gone the next.

  The boom.

  She felt it, a wave of pressure that picked her off her feet and then tossed her away as if she weighed nothing.

  She slammed down on to the floor.

  Her head crashed off something hard.

  She heard the clap of another explosion.

  And then another.

  Darkness welled at the edges of her vision, swelling, growing.

  She blinked her eyes.

  There was a moment of silence, disturbed by the sound of breaking glass, and then the first wails of pain and shock went up.

  Isabella checked herself. Her head was sore, but she didn’t feel any other pain.

  She opened her eyes and found that she was on her back, looking up at the ceiling. Panels had been dislodged, leaving bare patches amid those squares that still remained in place, many of them burned with scorch marks and pocked from the impacts of shrapnel.

  She cautiously raised herself on an elbow so that she could look down at her body. Her jacket had been blown almost all the way off, with one sleeve on and the other off, but, save that, everything was intact. There were no signs of injury and, as she pushed herself into a sitting position, she was as confident as she could be that she was unharmed.

  There was a column ahead of her. The bomber had stepped behind it as he detonated his device. She had been lucky.

  She looked around. It was as if she had been transported to a different place. The hall was unrecognisable from even just ten seconds earlier. The vast windows had been shattered in multiple places, glass sucked into the room and spread out like a carpet of glittering diamond shards. Luggage had been blown open and thrown around the room, the contents spilling out. The men and women and children who had been stood around were scattered like ninepin
s. Some of them were moving, a few slowly arranging themselves into sitting positions, confusion on their faces. Others lay still. Isabella noticed horrendous injuries.

  Blood everywhere.

  The man she had seen was gone. He had been turned into a sooty smudge on the wall.

  She was looking for Pope and Litivenko when she saw Maia. She was on her hands and knees. She got to her feet and started to walk with a heavy limp, favouring her right leg. She was single-minded; she did not pause and she came on steadily, ignoring the outstretched hands and the cries for help.

  She stepped over bodies until she stood over one of the casualties. A woman. She was twenty feet away from Isabella, but close enough for her to recognise the jacket that Litivenko had been wearing.

  Maia crouched down over her body.

  The sound of alarms was audible from outside the shattered hall: fire and smoke alarms from close by and, in the distance, the sound of sirens.

  Maia reached down and touched Litivenko’s face.

  Then she turned back. Isabella closed her eyes and lay still, playing dead. She opened her eyes a tiny fraction and watched as Maia turned and started away from her, heading to the exit.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Pope.’

  He was woozy. The blast had carried him through the air and crashed him against the metal barrier. The back of his head had struck the aluminium and the rest of the impact had punched the air out of his lungs. He blinked his eyes until the room stopped spinning.

  ‘Pope.’

  His awareness returned and he blinked and blinked until his vision was a little less blurred. Someone was above him.

  ‘Pope!’

  It took him a moment to recognise Isabella. He tried to speak, but his throat felt as if it had been sandpapered and all he could manage was a rasping groan.