Against the Clock (25 page)

"How many?"

"Seven."

"Two or three at the head, two or three at the body, and another one walking around?"

"Exactly."

"That's normal."

Shirin watched the participants in the room, almost as though they were fish in an oversized fishbowl. They seemed to move with purpose, but there was no real rhythm to it. She was too far to see the person under the drapes, but she quickly knew it wasn't Barratt. They were operating on the leg. From Robyn's story, his leg was not injured.

"It's not him. Where would he go from here?"

"They'd take him to Recovery, or to ICU if he needed to be ventilated."

Shirin thought about it for a moment, then moved away from the window and walked out of the scrub bay. "How do I get to Recovery?"

"Forget it," Ben said with certainty. "You'll never get away with walking around in there. They're a close-knit group. No one unknown lasts long in there. They'll spot you in seconds."

Shirin didn't like hearing she couldn't do what she wanted. Hated it, actually. But Ben was the expert. He worked there, he knew the people. She had to trust him.

"So what next, then?" she asked.

"Head back to the front desk clerk again. Tell her you're following the patient John Smith through for the surgeon and would like to know where he's going after Recovery."

"Is that normal?" she asked.

"Very."

19:53:49

Shirin wore the theater scrubs but tossed the mask as she left the department and found her way to the ICU. She found the clerk there also to be very helpful in identifying which bay Barratt would be taken to, once he was released from Recovery.

Bay 5 was not really a bay; it was a private room with frosted glass for privacy and a personal toilet. Ben hadn't worked in the ICU before and couldn't help her much more, but still, she didn't disconnect the line and neither did he.

The door to the bay was closed. A police detective stood outside the door. What was going on? Had they identified Barratt already?

Fight or flight instincts started ringing in her ears. If they were onto him, they would have to expect she might try to get to him. Meaning, they might be waiting for her. It could be a trap.

Shirin stood still at the nurses' station, evaluating her options. Only one detective, no constables or security. If they truly knew who he was, there would be a crowd of people guarding him. If they were waiting for her, she would have noticed something sooner, surely.

"What's happening?" Ben asked through the earpiece.

Shirin went back to the clerk and asked what the story was with the guard outside John Smith's room, and was it okay for her to still follow the patient through for the surgeon.

"I think he must be someone important," the clerk said conspiratorially, "because police don't usually wait around to question ordinary stabbing victims. And there's some bigwig man in a fancy suit waiting in the room for him, too."

"There's someone in there?" Shirin said, surprised.

"Yeah. Don't know who he is, though."

"Interesting," she mused out loud. "Thanks. I'm going to go introduce myself. See if we can find out more." Shirin smiled a wicked smile and winked at the clerk. "I'll let you know what he says."

Shirin walked to the bay with a lazy confidence, like she had done it a thousand times before and knew she would do it a thousand more times. The officer saw her coming, looked her up and down but paid little attention to her.

His stance remained neutral. There were no indications he saw her as a threat. She flashed her student pass in front him, offered a small nod, and pulled open the door.

Inside the bay was a freshly made bed, one chair on either side of the bed, a standing wardrobe, and the door to the en suite.

An old man, maybe in his seventies, sat in the chair farther from the door, his legs crossed at the knee. He was reading something on an iPad and barely looked up when she came deeper into the bay.

"Hello, Shirin," he said matter-of-factly. "I was wondering how long it would take you to get here."

19:55:12

Shirin ignored the man's comment, ignored that he knew her and had used her name. She scanned the rest of the room, found herself wishing she had her gun with her, and checked the en suite. The old man was alone.

"How do you know who I am?" she asked him pointedly.

"I think it's important to understand who all the major players are in our business. Wouldn't you agree?" he said casually as he placed the iPad on the bed and raised his wily eyes to look directly at her. "I have been a fan and benefactor of your services for quite some time. I'm almost embarrassed that you don't know who I am. Although, if you did, I would also be very concerned that my considerable expense and effort to remain anonymous were in vain."

Shirin walked back to the door, slipped the locking mechanism into the engaged position, and carefully reviewed the room again as she dragged the second chair around the bed to face the old man.

"Feel better?" the old man asked.

"You know who I am," she said, unimpressed. "That means you know what I'm capable of."

"I assure you, Ms. Reyes, there will be no need of threats here. I'm here to help you. If I had any other intention, we would not be meeting like this." The old man raised his hands slightly, his palms open, his body language relaxed, self-assured.

In Shirin's world, very few things were as they seemed. If her gut told her to be careful, it was usually right. To say she didn't trust this man would be a statement of the obvious, but more concerning to her, she found this old man to be too comfortable and too familiar in the company of someone of her reputation. It was disquieting.

"So why are you here?" she asked with a hint of annoyance.

"To see you, of course."

Shirin didn't respond. Her face expressed her growing impatience better than any words.

"Very well." He acknowledged her silent message. "You and I share a common…interest. Director Zelig. We would both like to see him brought to account for his actions."

"I want to see him dead," she said with venom. "Screaming. Then dead."

"Indeed. Your enthusiasm is infectious." The old man adjusted his cuffs just so, before he continued. "I would like to use the word 'justice,' although your way lends a more permanent implication. One that is probably justified once you know the true extent of this man's corruption."

Shirin offered no response. She still didn't know who this man was, what he wanted, and how he knew she would be here.

"Get to the point," she said bluntly.

"The point is that I have something you want. Information."

"And what do you want in return for this information?"

"For you to provide 'justice'…with permanency."

And there it was, she thought. "So you want me to kill Director Zelig?"

"I didn't say that," he said, putting his hands up in a mock surrender.

He spoke like a politician. Dressed like one, too. She wished she had her gun, or a knife, or anything sharp.

"Three minutes," she said firmly.

"Excuse me?" He seemed genuinely confused.

"Three minutes. You have three minutes to convince me not to snap your neck like a twig and walk out of here like nothing happened."

19:59:47

The old man swallowed hard. He tried not to, but his body understood the threat better than his mind allowed. It was involuntary, and he hated himself for that moment of weakness, but at the same time, he knew Shirin Reyes. If she said she would do something, she would.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. Maybe he had miscalculated this woman.

He watched her look meaningfully at the clock on the distant wall. "Two minutes, forty-five seconds," she said, before looking back at him.

He had definitely miscalculated. He wished at that moment that Smith was with him, that his normal entourage of security was with him. But they weren't.

The old man delivered his best smile, and with a practiced arrogance, he lifted his chin slightly as though brushing off her idle threat. He let himself believe he was beyond her primitive intimidations, and yet a part of him understood too well―Shirin Reyes never bluffed.

"I knew your husband," he blurted out, hoping for an interested response from her. Instead, he noticed her eyes grow more intense, her body coil, ready to strike. "I was on the advisory board that gave approval for his final mission."

Shirin looked him up and down.

"I believe he was killed because he uncovered something no one was supposed to uncover." He waited for her response.

"Go on."She glanced again at the clock.

"He was on his way to interrupt the transfer of national secrets to a buyer when he was ambushed."

"I know. I was there," she said sharply.

"I believe the seller was Director Zelig. He wasn't the director back then, of course."

"Do you have proof?" she asked.

"Of course not. If I did, I'd be dead or Zelig would be in jail. But you have to read between the lines. He was able, he was definitely capable, he was in a position to cover it up, and he had everything to gain."

Shirin curled her upper lip.. She looked at the clock. "Two minutes," she said simply.

"Selling government secrets is only the beginning for him! He has something far more sinister in mind. One of my agents was able to obtain a parcel, for a short time, which, under specialized investigation, revealed state secrets pertaining to security council actionables. In the wrong hands, the parcel could open several severe national security risks. It was secured in a diplomatic pouch, bound for the Minister of Foreign Affairs Jordan."

"So?"

"So?" he mimicked incredulously. "Haven't you been watching the news?" He handed her his iPad, locked onto the latest newsfeed from the BBC.

"I've been busy." She took the iPad and scanned the article.

The old man didn't wait for Shirin to read the piece.

"Minister Jordan was arrested hours ago on charges of treason, charges based on carrying these documents through airport security with the intention of delivering them to a buyer abroad. Anonymous photos of her husband have surfaced, suggesting she was being blackmailed into giving away state secrets. The thing is, I know Minister Jordan! She is not capable of such a thing. She has been a staunch adversary of Zelig for years. It all makes sense."

"And the photos?" Shirin asked.

"Faked," he said too quickly. "Possibly. I had dinner with her and her husband last week. If she knew about his transgressions, there is no way she could have hidden it from me."

"She's a politician. That's her job. To lie."

"She is my goddaughter, Ms. Reyes! I know her!" he said with such force, his temples throbbed. "She is
not
a traitor!"

The old man took a deep breath and calmed himself as much as possible. It riled him to no end that he found himself having to justify his opinions to her, but for the moment, he needed her more than she perceivably needed him. He would have to change that.

"You have to understand," he said impatiently. "This is more involved than just my goddaughter. The diplomatic pouch was addressed from her to Senator Biella, another staunch adversary of Zelig and the Convener of Covert Appropriations and Expenditures Committee."

The old man could see Shirin's mind working, gluing the pieces together, making the links that told a story that would eventually guarantee her commitment.

The old man continued, "He essentially got rid of two birds with one stone, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and the Convener of Appropriations and Expenditure Committee! Do you know what that means?"

She didn't respond, but he could see the understanding in her expression.

"It means Zelig would be able to replace his budgetary line manager with someone more lenient and amenable to his instructions, and, he would be able to replace Minister Jordan with someone who would fortify his growing influence in domestic and international affairs, all while delivering vindictive reprisals on those who had opposed him."

"Sounds like Zelig. It would explain why he had Harry killed, and why he's so invested in getting to me. He's protecting himself." She spoke more to herself than to the old man.

"Exactly. It means he could do whatever he wants! He would control the intelligence budget, and he would control international policy for the entire country! He would become untouchable!"

"If what you're suggesting is true, and Minister Jordan is innocent, she'll be dead by morning."

The old man blinked. His eyes closed for a fraction longer than he wanted. He knew she was right.

"And Senator Biella," he said somberly.

Shirin looked at the clock on the wall. Her expression was cold, detached. "Nothing you've said changes anything. It's hindsight and conjecture. No proof. Nothing I can use." Shirin stood and made a show of stretching her arms, twisting, and turning, loosening her muscles. Priming them, ready for action."Twenty seconds," she said simply, raising an eyebrow.