Exposure Read online

  Which meant that other than his proximity to the warehouse, and the fact that with a little digging its ownership could be traced to Salvatore, there wasn't a whole lot that could be pinned on the man. All of which signaled that this latest deviation in routine might in fact substantiate Nigel's feeling that something big was about to happen.

  The headset at his elbow crackled with life, and he quickly put it on.

  "Ferris, you there?" Despite the static, Nigel could hear the excitement in Enrique's voice.

  "I'm here. What've you got?"

  "A second car."

  Nigel adjusted the glasses, focusing on the gray van pulling up to an open cargo bay at the end of the warehouse nearest the dock. Three men emerged from the sliding door, the driver remaining at the wheel. From this distance it was hard to make out the identities of the new arrivals. Their plates were Spanish, but that didn't signify much of anything.

  "You recognize anyone?" Nigel whispered into the mouthpiece.

  "It's hard to say for sure, but the man in the middle looks a lot like the photographs I've seen of Shamus O'Reilly."

  O'Reilly was the head of a militant splinter group of the IRA. With only about forty members, the group was nevertheless a dangerous one, and if they were in fact here to buy arms, it proved beyond a doubt that they were far from ready to accept a peaceful solution to the troubles in Northern Ireland.

  "What about the others?" Nigel strained for a closer view, but even with his powerful field glasses the faces were simply too far away.

  "Nothing for certain. The shorter man could be Patrick Roan, but it's hard to say."

  "Well, I can't see a bloody thing." Nigel lowered the glasses, his mind turning over the repercussions of directly disobeying an order—again. There really wasn't a choice. At the end of the day, he simply wasn't a sit-on-his-bum kind of man. "I'm going down for a closer look."

  There was a pause, as Enrique considered the idea, then a chuckle. "I'll be right behind you."

  Enrique, it seemed, wasn't too keen on sitting on the sidelines, either. Just as well, as Nigel had the feeling he might have need of the Spaniard's help before all was said and done In a matter of minutes, the two of them were outside the warehouse, crouched behind a metal garbage bin.

  "There are two main rooms and three ancillary closet spaces that pass for offices," Nigel said, drawing a map in the gravel at their feet. "My bet is that Salvatore uses the one on the west wall, closest to the water. It's the largest. If we come in through the northwest door, we ought to be able to use crates for cover to reach it."

  Enrique studied the crude drawing and then nodded. "What about the driver?" He tilted his head toward the man now standing outside the van smoking.

  Nigel smiled. "Looks like he could use a little nap."

  Without waiting for agreement, Nigel slipped out from behind the trash bin and closed the distance between him and the Irishman. There was no mistaking the man's ethnicity, between his woolen sweater and his flaming red hair. His head was bent, bis face averted as he tried to keep a match lit, the position giving Nigel the advantage of surprise.

  Moving quickly on silent feet, he came up behind the man and, using pressure on the carotid artery, rendered the fellow unconscious in a matter of seconds.

  "Well done," Enrique said, joining him at the van. "How long do you think he'll be out?"

  "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. So we'll need to move fast." Nigel pulled his Sig Sauer from the holster at his back and slipped through the open door of the warehouse, squatting down behind a couple of discarded wooden crates.

  Enrique followed, settling down next to him, the two men using cracks in between planks to survey the situation. This part of the warehouse appeared to be empty, although with the number of crates stacked everywhere it was hard to be certain.

  The salty tang of the sea mixed with the crisp fall air, the resulting moisture clawing at Nigel's neck, making him shiver.

  "Looks deserted," Enrique said, echoing Nigel's assessment. "The office is that way, sí?" He tilted his head toward the western wall, and Nigel nodded, already pushing away from the crate out into the open.

  He paused for a moment, waiting for some noise signifying that the occupants of the warehouse were aware of their invasion, but everything was quiet except for the plaintive clanking from the rigging of ships in the harbor outside.

  Working in tandem, the two men made their way through the warehouse, watching each other's backs in turn, finally ending up behind a metal container lodged just a couple yards from the open door of the west office.

  As expected, the men were gathered inside, one of them speaking with a decidedly Irish brogue. As if to concur with Enrique's earlier speculation the man shifted slightly, the light hitting him full in the face.

  O'Reilly.

  Nigel hadn't been wrong. Something big was afoot The appropriate question now being whether he and Enrique should try to do something about it. If they waited, the opportunity would be lost, and Nigel simply couldn't see letting the chance pass by.

  He glanced over at Enrique, and again the Spaniard gave a nod of agreement. They were of like mind, at least. Not that it guaranteed them anything approaching success, but he simply couldn't conceive of an alternative.

  There were five men altogether. Salvatore sat behind a desk, guarded by one of his henchmen. O'Reilly sat across from him, with one of his flunkies positioned near the door and the other leaning back against the wmdowsill.

  Nigel edged closer, straining to hear the conversation.

  "We are in agreement, then?" Salvatore asked O'Reilly.

  The big Irishman shrugged. "As long as you can reassure me that I'll be getting what I'm paying for."

  Salvatore nodded to his henchman, who crossed over to a table and lifted the lid off of a small wooden crate. Pushing aside some paper straw, he pulled out an XM8 assault rifle and tossed it to O'Reilly.

  Nigel shot a look at Enrique, whose mouth had dropped open. They'd just moved from big to huge. The XM8 was an American prototype, the next generation of assault weapons for the U.S. military. The fact that Salvatore had the weapon at all meant that his connections were coming from inside the U.S.

  "Impressive," O'Reilly was saying, his gaze focused almost lovingly on the rifle he held in his hand. "And you can provide fifty more?"

  "Absolutely." Salvatore nodded. "Of course, as we discussed, I'll need half the money up front. A token of your good will."

  "And the rest?" O'Reilly asked, still holding the rifle.

  "It can be wired to my offshore account once you've received the shipment."

  "And why should I trust you?" O'Reilly's eyes narrowed in speculation.

  "Because I make my living by word of mouth. If I were to cheat you, senor, my word would be worthless, and that would mean the end of what is, believe me, a quite prosperous enterprise. It is to my advantage to deliver what I promise. Not the other way around."

  O'Reilly studied the older man for a few minutes more, then nodded his head once in acquiescence, holding out the XM8.

  Salvatore smiled. "Keep the rifle, señor. It is my gift."

  Nigel wished he'd thought to bring a tape recorder, but of course there was no way for him to have known the magnitude of what he'd be uncovering. He looked again in Enrique's direction and smiled. The Spaniard, it appeared, had considered every possibility, the digital recorder in his hand silently immortalizing the exchange between Salvatore and O'Reilly.

  Nigel turned his focus back to the office in time to see O'Reilly's flunky handing over an envelope full of American dollars—the first half of the payment.

  As tempting as it was to do more than record the conversation, Nigel knew the best course of action was to retreat with the evidence and let other departments take over from there. Still, there was the small matter of the incapacitated driver. While no permanent harm had been done, there were sure to be questions. And the idea of letting O'Reilly simply walk away did not sit well.

&nbs
p; An intake of breath pulled Nigel's attention from his internal debate and he spun around to find Enrique and one of Salvatore's men fighting for control over Enrique's gun. Nigel aimed the silenced Sig Sauer and shot once, the henchman instantly dropping to the floor of the warehouse, Enrique breaking his fall and stifling the noise.

  So much for decision making. A groggy Irishman might he ignored, but not when one added in a dead man. Nigel met Enrique's questioning gaze with a nod, and the two of them inched toward the office doorway.

  The meeting was on the verge of breaking up, the three Irishmen still standing in front of the desk, the two Spaniards behind it. Although there was no doubt that all five men were packing weapons, none of them had guns in hand. In fact, O'Reilly was still holding the unloaded XM8.

  The odds certainly weren't in their favor, but then Nigel had survived worse, and they did have the element of surprise. After signaling Enrique, Nigel sucked in a breath, counted silently to five, and swung away from the container into the open doorway ordering the assembled men to freeze.

  Of course the word had the opposite effect, sending everyone scrambling for their guns, and Nigel was forced to shoot two of O'Reilly's subversives before he could even get a bead on the two men he wanted most.

  Salvatore's man got off a round, the bullet clipping Enrique in the right arm. Fortunately he was left-handed, and his responding shot took the man out before he even had time to realize what had happened. O'Reilly dropped the assault rifle, swinging around to face Nigel, his gun hand reaching for his holster.

  "I wouldn't," Nigel said, the Sig trained at the man's head. "You'll be dead before you pull it clear."

  O'Reilly nodded.

  Enrique moved quickly to disarm the man, pocketing the Irishman's gun.

  "Now Salvatore." Nigel tilted his head toward the Spaniard, shifting so that he had Salvatore in his gun sight, but the man had vanished behind the desk, the clatter of the opening drawer testament to the fact that he was now most likely armed. Instinct kicked in and Nigel dropped down, yelling for Enrique to follow suit.

  A hail of bullets shot through the room, ricocheting off corrugated metal walls. Nigel rolled under the desk and came up firing, Salvatore only inches away.

  The man's eyes widened as Nigel's bullet found home, and he convulsed once then dropped to the floor, his gun clattering as it spun out of his hand. Nigel rose slowly, his attention on O'Reilly and the possibility that he'd also had time to reach for a gun. But instead, the big Irishman drooped in his chair, eyes empty, a shilling-size hole in his chest blossoming crimson.

  Nigel turned to congratulate Enrique, only to find the man clutching the envelope full of money to his chest, his gun trained on Nigel, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Blood had soaked through his sleeve, the quantity making it fairly certain the bullet had nicked an artery on its way through.

  "You're hurt," Nigel said, ignoring the gun.

  "It's nothing," the Spaniard scoffed, waving the revolver. "Just drop your gun and lie on the floor. I've no interest in hurting you."

  "So what? Your plan is to take off with the Irishman's money?"

  "It seems a reasonable goal." Again the man shrugged, but his gun hand was now visibly shaking, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "And I'll kill you if I have to."

  "Come on, Enrique," Nigel cajoled. "You don't want to do this."

  "Why not?" The man tilted his head, his expression glazed. "I've spent the better part of my life watching scum like this make off with all the money. Why shouldn't it be my turn?"

  "Because I'm afraid that's simply not the way it's done, old boy." As he spoke, Nigel dropped to the floor again, rolling to escape the round Enrique fired, springing back to his knees and taking his shot.

  The bullet entered Enrique's gun arm, the force of contact enough to drive Enrique to the ground, his weapon falling uselessly from nerveless fingers. Nigel slid across the floor and scooped up the gun, keeping the Sig Sauer trained on Enrique. "Sorry to do that, mate. But you really didn't leave me much choice."

  A sound at the door had him spinning again, and Nigel wondered just how many bloody Spaniards were in the building.

  "Seems like maybe you could use a little help." Payton Reynolds leaned against the door, the Beretta in his hand looking deceptively docile.

  "Actually," Nigel said, standing up, his gun still pointed at Enrique, who was slumped dejectedly against the dead Irishman's legs. "I think I've got it all under control." He grinned at his friend. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

  "Same old, same old." Payton shrugged. "Someone's commandeered several canisters of Russian VX. Intel has it targeted for the U.S. Cullen thought if you weren't too busy, you might be interested in helping us out. But of course if you haven't got the time..." He trailed off, his gaze taking in the bullet-ravaged office, his scarred face creasing with a smile.

  Nigel nudged Enrique to his feet and the three of them walked out of the warehouse. The Spanish authorities had arrived and were already questioning O'Reilly's driver. Nigel turned Enrique over to them, along with the tape recording of the deal.

  "Right, then," Nigel said, wiping his hands on his handkerchief, unadulterated pleasure washing through him at the thought of working with his friends again. "Seems I'm all yours."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "I NEED MORE expression. Something that makes it look as though you're enjoying your work here." Melissa Pope adjusted her camera lens, the shot going wide over the woman's shoulder, focusing on the charts on the far wall.

  The UN logistics officer beamed for the camera, her smile luminous. The photograph would have been wonderful, except that Melissa had gotten the shot she needed a half hour ago, and was now concentrating on the more inanimate parts of the office.

  The last of the autumn sun beamed through the windows of the United Nations Secretariat, the glistening East River rolling placidly by. Each office here was very much like the next, cubicles and tiny offices fronted with metal dividers and standard-issue 1950s furniture. The only thing that seemed to have changed from Cary Grant's North by Northwest days was the addition of computer equipment. In this case, a state-of-the-art ThinkPad with seventeen-inch flat-screen monitor.

  Clearly the IT department was intent on dragging the UN into the new millennium despite the dismal decor.

  What Melissa needed was five minutes alone with the computer. But that wasn't going to be easy with this woman. Despite her glowing smile, she was in fact quite territorial. Every time Melissa moved too close to the desk or the information tacked on the walls behind it, Idina Meloski shot her "the look."

  Of course the camera lens was impervious to that sort of thing, but it also wasn't able to turn on a computer and search through the files. What Melissa needed was a diversion. She scanned the office looking for coffee or water and found no beverages of any kind. Not even a cup. It wasn't exactly Sydney Bristow, but she had a hunch it would work.

  Sucking in a breath, she began to cough, pulling all the way from her diaphragm for effect. Bending over for theatrical impact, she shot a look at the woman through her hair. Idina had risen to her feet, her eyebrows raised in alarm.

  "Miss Pope, are you all right?"

  Melissa nodded but continued to cough, straightening enough to hold out a hand gesturing that she needed water.

  Idina swallowed the whole act, rushing from the office with the assurance that she'd be right back. Hopefully, ti would take a little while to find a cup and water.

  Melissa moved quickly around the desk to the computer, tapping instructions to bring up the woman's data directory. She'd already learned that most UN staff logged on to their computers first thing in the morning and stayed connected for the rest of the day, which meant that daytime was her best chance for access, averting the need to secure passwords, or try to end ran past them.

  Unfortunately, Idina's files looked pretty pedestrian. Not that she expected the woman to have labeled something Subversive Efforts to Undermine the UN. St
ill, there could be a clue, it was just a matter of finding it. With a couple of keystrokes she changed directories, again with nothing interesting to report. Standard requisition forms labeled sequentially, and a bunch of letters applying for various other UN positions. Apparently Idina wasn't all that satisfied with her job.

  Popping a CD into the appropriate drive, Melissa ordered the computer to copy a series of files relating to Idina's most recent operations just in case there was a pattern there Melissa was missing If nothing else she could compare it to similar files of other UN employees with the means to be a part of the smuggling operation.

  While the files were copying, she entered a code her handler had given her, the miniprogram designed to find and open any encrypted files, but the resulting search came up empty. If Idina was working with terrorists, she certainly hadn't left a paper trail. Not that Melissa had really expected to find anything.

  Although Idina's job as a junior logistics officer for UN Peacekeeping Operations gave her the necessary access to information that could be useful in the illegal transport of arms and munitions, she really didn't fit the profile of a woman on the take. And more importantly, she didn't have the necessary skill set to pull off a scam of this magnitude.

  But Melissa had learned the hard way that acting on assumption alone was never enough in this business. It was the kind of mistake that could get a girl killed, actually, so she ran the program again, just to be certain. No hidden files. No secrets stashed handily on the office computer. Which meant either Idina was smarter than she looked, or she wasn't the one.

  Melissa was betting on the latter.

  Grabbing the CD, she slipped it into her pocket and was just rounding the desk summoning up a renewed chorus of coughing when Idina returned, water glass in hand, Alexi Kirov, her boss, following right on her heels.

  If Idina was territorial, Alexi was expansive. He'd practically given her the key to the proverbial front door, partly, she suspected, because he didn't seem to care a whole lot about his job. Despite the fact that he was senior staff, his motivation had been left behind in his native Russia. Still, he was on the list, and sooner or later she intended to have a look at his files, as well.