3:13 p.m. (Local Time)
National Crime Agency
City of Westminster (London, England)
Stowing his phone in his leather jacket, Hardy strolled into Hamilton’s office, a quaint and tastefully decorated area. She was seated at her desk. A large painting of Big Ben, the Great Bell of the clock at the north end of Westminster Palace, took up most of the wall facing her. To her right were floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a large room of cubicles. Behind the desk—to Hardy’s right—awards, honors and wood and brass plaques adorned the space above her head. A wide and narrow cart to his left caught his attention. “Is that a coffee maker?”
Cruz and Hamilton turned toward him.
He pointed. “Mind if I have a cup?”
Cruz stood. “That’s not just a coffee maker.” She placed a white cup under the machine’s spout. “It’s a Jura A1 Automatic…” she looked over her shoulder.
“Bean-to-Cup Coffee Maker,” said Hamilton. “That thing’s worth more,” she glanced around, “than anything else in here, present company excluded of course.”
Cruz’s finger hovered around the touch panel. “What would you like?”
He shrugged. “Surprise me.”
She tapped the panel and the machine came to life.
“That was a gift,” said Hamilton, putting another chair next to Cruz’s, “from the man who occupied this office before me; a really nice man.”
Cruz reclaimed her seat, and the women went back to staring at the computer screen.
When the coffee machine stopped, Hardy took the cup and scowled at the layer of froth. Why do people have to take a perfectly good cup of coffee—he sipped—and turn it into a—he smacked his lips and took another drink—that’s good. His inner voice drew out the last word.
“Well?” said Hamilton. Cruz had forewarned the woman of his preference for straight, black coffee.
Joining the women, he lifted a shoulder and tipped his head. “It’s okay.”
Having seen the look on his face after he had taken the first taste, both women grinned.
He set the cup on the desk and crossed his legs, ankle on a knee. “So, what have we found?”
“First of all,” said Cruz, “what about Dahlia and Cherry?”
“They made it to the safe house, and I’m working on getting them out of Germany.” All the news media outlets had Dahlia and Charity’s picture, along with the caption ‘persons of interest in a triple homicide’ and were broadcasting the photo. A phone number to call for anyone with information accompanied the news reports. Hardy tapped his jacket, and the phone inside. “I just need to hear back from an agent, who’s in country.” He lifted a finger toward the digitized sketch of a man on the desktop monitor.
“Our friend,” said Hamilton, “from the warehouse provided the details for this drawing.” She pointed at the bank of windows. “My people are working to find a name to match. I’ve also included the possible names the man gave us. Hopefully, that will speed up the process.” She leaned back and spun the chair toward Hardy. “Were your people able to get anything on the men who tried to kill them?”
Hardy grabbed his cup. “Not much.” He took a drink, Wow…this is really good, and returned the cup to the desk. “Dahlia remembered seeing one of the men when she was at the lab. She said he was with security, but his wallet was empty, except for a security card with his name and picture on it.”
Cruz crossed her legs. “We’ve already run the man’s name and photo through our database, but no matches. Dahlia saw a tattoo on the back of his neck.”
Hardy half-smirked, recalling Dahlia’s exact words—it made a perfect bullseye for my Walther.
“She recognized it,” continued Cruz. “Apparently, it was the modified emblem for the KSK.”
Hamilton sat upright. “German Special Forces? Why are they involved in this?”
“The KSK,” said Hardy, referencing the acronym for the Kommando Spezialkräfte (Commando Special Forces), “went through a purge a few years back. The higher-ups got rid of some of the bad apples. Rumor has it those bad apples started freelancing, taking any jobs they could get. It didn’t matter who was hiring or what they had to do. If a paycheck was at the end, they were in.”
“In other words,” Cruz folded her hands on her lap, “they’re mercenaries. And, if that’s true, then it’s likely we won’t find their real identity. The KSK is pretty tight-lipped about their people.”
“Especially if they’ve gone on to more lucrative illegal activities,” added Hardy.
Staring at the ceiling, Hamilton ran fingers through her long hair. “So, we’re back to the start.”
Cruz wagged a finger. “Not necessarily. Cherry—I mean Charity, our other agent in Germany—said she met with a Dr. Kimmler at the lab. That was one of the names the man from the warehouse gave us. If we can match,” she pointed at the monitor, “this sketch with a real photo, then we can see if Charity recognizes it as the Dr. Kimmler she spoke with.”
Hamilton interlaced her fingers behind her head. “If so, then this Kimmler guy might be the link we’re searching for.”
Hardy drained his cup, “Exactly,” stood and headed for the coffee machine. He put the cup under the spout. “What button,” he leaned forward, “did you hit, Cruz?”
The women exchanged glances. Before either one could reply, a man knocked on the window and held a photo to the glass. Everyone in the office went back and forth from the picture to the computer screen three times.
As Hamilton motioned for the officer to come in, Hardy abandoned the empty cup and pulled out his vibrating mobile. He glimpsed Cruz. “I’ve got to take this. It’s the agent in Germany.”
“Go,” she shooed him away, “we’ll deal with this.”
He started for the door, but stopped when she called out to him.
“And, Hardy…”
He turned.
Cruz leveled a finger at him. Her face was stoic, lips drawn into a thin line. “Do whatever you have to, to get them home.”
Hardy had never seen her so serious. Her tone reminded him of Dahlia or one of his fellow Marines. He nodded, “I will,” and left.