Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

“I don’t know who you’re working for,” I said — there was no point letting the man posing as Singer know he’d been made — “but if you come near me again...” I looked down at her colleague who was flat out on the hard tiled floor at the foot of the stairs.

I released her and walked on. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw her running down the subway steps. I walked the neighborhood for another twenty minutes, doubling back on myself to reveal any other tails, but found none. I used the time to check my clothes for further tracking devices, in case I’d missed a plant. Once I was convinced I was safe, I headed for the parking garage on Lispenard Street.

It was mid-afternoon by the time I reached the safe house Jessie had arranged. Located in suburban Rye, Westchester County, the house was situated on a tiny peninsular called Pine Island, which jutted into Long Island Sound like an upside down “T.” Lying northeast of Manhattan, Rye was popular with financiers and Wall Street types, and this was reflected in the houses, which grew bigger the closer I got to the waterfront. The safe house was on the water’s edge, at the heart of an acre lot, and was approached through electric gates and a private drive. The snow was pristine and sparkled in the low sun as I pulled to a halt outside the house in the expansive driveway. Looking south, I could see Manhattan through the bare branches of the mature trees that surrounded the grand two-story home.

I rang the doorbell and moments later Jessie let me in. I was grateful to step out of the bitter cold into the warmth of what was a beautiful family home. We entered a large hallway with a sweeping double-sided horseshoe staircase.

“Quite a place,” I observed.

“Yeah, it’s not bad,” Jessie replied. “We’re through here.”

She led me under one flight of stairs and through a doorway that took us into a huge open-plan living space. It was a family room, diner and kitchen rolled into one, and glass doors ran the length of the exterior wall, offering a magnificent view of Long Island Sound and the Manhattan skyline.

Beth, Maria and Danny were seated on a couch, watching TV. The kids didn’t notice me come in, but Beth waved and I nodded in reply.

“Well, it seems to have worked,” Jessie said, leading me to an open laptop on one of the kitchen counters.

“Is that you, Jack Morgan?”

There was no mistaking Mo-bot’s voice.

Jessie pulled the laptop round so I could see the screen. Mo-bot was in the Private Los Angeles computer lab with Justine and Sci.

“Hey, Jack,” Justine said.

“Boss,” Sci added.

“What have you got?” I asked.

“I ran surveillance on the line Justine used to arrange your meeting,” Mo-bot replied. “The moment you left him, the guy posing as Singer made a call.”

“So he believed my story. You hear what he said?” I asked.

“I’m not a magician,” Mo-bot replied. “But I was able to trace the other number. Or at least the cell tower it connected to.”

She paused. This wasn’t going to be good.

“The phone he called was inside the Pentagon, Jack. Singer called someone in the Department of Defense.”

I’d suspected an intelligence component the moment I discovered Beth’s husband was Special Forces, but I never imagined it would lead to the Pentagon.

“Can you find out who he was talking to?” I asked.

“I can try,” Mo-bot replied. “The Pentagon has all kinds of countersurveillance to prevent identification and tracking, even of cell phones, but I can dig around, see what I can find.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Any leads on who this guy really is?”

“Not yet,” Sci replied. “We’re working on it.”

“OK,” I said. “This makes life a little more complicated. If this guy is connected to the Pentagon, we have no idea who we can trust.”

“It gets worse,” Sci said.

I sensed movement and glanced round to see Beth Singer heading over. The children were still engrossed in their movie.

Sci paused when he saw Beth approaching.

“Go on,” I said.

“I was able to call in a favor from a pal in the State Department,” Sci said. “It seems Joshua Floyd was on a mission in Afghanistan and his aircraft was shot down.”

Beth’s head drooped. Jessie moved round to comfort her.

“The State Department is making representations to the Afghan government to let an investigative team visit the scene,” Sci revealed. “But the Afghans are saying...” He hesitated.

“Tell me,” Beth pleaded. Tears were forming in her eyes.

“The Afghans are saying there were no survivors,” Sci revealed.

Beth shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. Tears traced their way down her face, but she wiped them away and turned to me.

“He’s alive,” she said. “And I’m not saying that as his doting wife. I’m saying that as one former pilot to another. If Josh was dead, they wouldn’t need me and the children as leverage.”

I didn’t disagree. There was a slim chance the two incidents were unrelated, but the timing of the events and the nature of the people involved suggested orchestration. I nodded and turned back to the laptop.

“Sci, see if you can find out where the bird went down and whether there’s been any activity in that area.”

“Will do, Jack.”

“We’ll check in soon,” Justine said, before ending the call.

I could see Beth struggling with her emotions.

“We’ll find him,” I assured her.

She replied with an uncertain nod. I’d been shot down in Afghanistan, so I knew the horror of the situation all too well, but I’d been lucky — which was more than I could say for most of the men who’d been in the bird with me.

“We’ll keep you and your kids safe,” I told Beth Singer. “And we’ll find your husband in Afghanistan. We’ll find him and we’ll bring him home.”

She responded with a faint smile.

“Moscow is our nearest office,” I said to Jessie. “Get in touch with Dinara Orlova. Bring her up to speed.”

“Will do,” Jessie replied.

I backed away from the counter and took my phone from my pocket.

“Where are you going?” Jessie asked.

“To call in a favor,” I replied, heading for the door.

I stepped outside and followed a path round the house. It was more a channel of shallow snow, in between the deeper drifts that covered the lawn and flowerbeds. I walked to the back garden and saw the gentle waves of the Sound lapping the beach not a hundred yards from where I stood. New York City loomed in the distance. I scrolled through my replacement phone looking for a number I was only supposed to call in an emergency.

I dialed, and as I waited for my call to connect, I watched the lights of cars zipping through Queens.

“Hello?” a voice said.

“I’m looking for Secretary Carver,” I replied.

“And you are?”

“Jack Morgan, he gave me this number—”

“Hold, please,” the voice said, and the line fell silent.

Secretary of Defense Eli Carver had given me the number after I’d saved his life from the Russian assassin Veles, at Air Station Fallon.

“Jack Morgan,” Eli Carver said when he came on the line. “I’m glad you called. Not a day passes when I don’t think about what I owe you.”

“I did what I had to, Mr. Secretary,” I replied.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to call me Eli,” he responded with a friendly laugh. “But I’m guessing you didn’t call to reminisce. What can I do for you?”

“Last week, a Special Forces bird went down in Afghanistan,” I said, and felt his mood change.