Richard Castle: A Raging Storm

Barkovsky raised his wineglass and tipped it against Solokov’s. “To the success of the scheduled tasks!” he said. It was one of the first toasts that both men learned after they joined the Komsomol, the young Communist league. “A bullet in Petrov’s head,” Barkovsky said, raising his glass for a second toast. “And a pistol left in the hands of the Americans.”

London, England

“I’m filing a formal complaint against you as soon as we get to the Marriott,” Showers said. “I no longer wish to work with you.”

“I understand why you’re upset,” Storm said in an understanding voice. “I would be furious, too. But you’ll be wasting your time if you complain to your supervisors. Trust me, it will be you who will be called home to Washington.”

“Trust you?” Showers said. “That’s a joke. And what makes you so smug that you think I’d be called home? They sent me here to solve the murder of a U.S. senator.”

“You don’t want to complain. This came from the top.”

“The top of what?”

“The White House.”

“Then tell me what you and Jones are doing, so we can work together. You owe me that much.”

“It’s above your pay grade.”

Showers took a deep breath and said, “At this moment, I would love to shoot you.”

He stopped in front of the Marriott.

“How about a Taser?” he said. “If it really makes you feel better.”

“Just go crawl into whatever hole you’re sleeping in in London,” she said. “I wish I’d never met you.”

Storm actually felt sorry when she slammed the car door and disappeared inside.

When he reached his room at the bed-and-breakfast, he removed the false fingerprints that he had applied earlier that morning. He had used his computer to download a copy of someone else’s prints from the database at Langley and had copied them onto the flesh-like material that he’d been given from the CIA’s science wizards. When Petrov’s chief of security, Antonija Nad, checked the shot glass, she would discover the identity of someone else — someone she already knew.

Herself.

His cell phone rang.

“Someone’s been in my room,” Showers said, in an exasperated voice. “While we were with Petrov. I thought you should know in case someone followed you and searched your room too.”

“Thanks for caring enough to call,” he said.

“I told you, I play by the rules,” she said. “Even if you don’t.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“The Marriott lobby. I assume they bugged my room. I didn’t bring anything with me to check. Since you’re a private eye and part-time spook, I thought you could come over and remove them. Either that or I’ve got to call in a team from the embassy.”

“I’m coming over.”

Storm grabbed his backpack and made the five-minute walk to the hotel. He waved her out of the lobby onto the street.

“Let’s walk,” he said. “It will be safer.”

For fifteen minutes, they crossed through a series of streets, often doubling back and then going down a different route. When they were convinced they were safe, he asked, “How do you know someone was in your room?”

“I left papers on the desk in a loose-leaf binder. They were FBI press releases about the senator’s murder. I put a penny on page six.”

It was an old trick. When the intruder picked up the binder, the penny fell to the floor. Even if he spotted it, there was no way for him to know what page it had fallen from .

“Are you certain the maid didn’t move the papers?” he asked.

“Haven’t you insulted me enough today?” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been thinking while we were walking,” she said. “Should we clear it of bugs or use it to misdirect them? Whoever ‘them’ is.”

He was impressed. She was thinking more like an intelligence officer than a cop .

He saw they were passing by a pub. “Let’s go inside and get a drink. It’s been a very long day. I’ll pay.”

“Do you really think buying me a drink is going to make me feel better about what you did today? About cutting me out and going behind my back?”

“A couple drinks might be the only things that do help,” he said. “Besides, I’m hungry and thirsty. C’mon. What happened wasn’t personal. If there’d been a better way to handle it, I would’ve.”

“Just one drink,” she said with a sigh. “And only because I could use it.”

It was a neighborhood joint with dark wood paneling and a regular crowd who noticed strangers. He ordered fish and chips and Showers had a chicken poppy-seed wrap. He told the waiter to bring them drafts of London Pilsner.

She seemed to relax after she’d finished her first beer.

“First time someone’s bugged your hotel room?” he asked.

“They taught us about it in the academy,” she said. “But this is the first time.”

He raised his second glass of beer and tapped it against hers. “Welcome to the cloak-and-dagger side.”

“I can see why you enjoy this. It’s more entertaining than writing down questions for Petrov and faxing them to him tonight.”

“Why are you bothering to send him anything? He’s not going to admit he was involved. He’s playing you, trying to find out what you know.”

“And what makes you think he’s not playing you — in whatever you’re doing?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is. Everyone is after something.”

“I don’t expect Petrov to confess,” she said. “That’s not how the game is played. My goal is to get him to say something that I can later prove in court was a lie. Then we can indict him for lying to a federal agent and for being part of a criminal conspiracy.”

Storm shook his head in disbelief. “April,” he said tenderly, calling her by her first name, which he’d never done before. “Do you really think the Justice Department is going to charge Petrov with a crime? He has influential friends. He’s an oligarch. He lives in London.”

“I know you think I’m naïve,” she said. “But I told you before and I’ll say it again because I genuinely believe it. No one is immune from justice. Yes, our system is flawed. Yes, it is much harder to bring down wealthy and well-connected criminals. But it can be done, as long as there are people who believe in our system and don’t give up. As long as we fight for it. Truth eventually triumphs.”

Storm smiled.

“Do you think this is funny?” she asked.

“Oh no, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was thinking about how the words ‘And the truth will set you free’ are inscribed in the lobby of the CIA.”

“Saying those words and believing them are two different things.”

Storm said, “Why are you so sure that justice triumphs in the end? Who taught you that: a Sunday school teacher, a minister?”

He suddenly noticed tears welling in her eyes. “Actually, my father did. He was the most honorable and bravest man I’ve ever known.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. What was he like?”

“Why? So you can make him the butt of some half-witted joke?”

“No,” he said. “Because I really would like to know.”

“My father was a Virginia Highway Patrol officer,” she said. “I adored him. I was a daddy’s girl. One night, he pulled over two men who were hopped up on drugs and speeding in their car. He could tell something was wrong with them and then he heard someone whimpering. He made the driver open the trunk and there was a naked ten-year-old girl in it. The men had followed her from a convenience store, kidnapped her, and both repeatedly raped her. The passenger came out of the car with a handgun and shot my dad. Even though he was mortally wounded, he managed to kill them both. My father died saving that girl’s life.”