Pearce woke to the sound of the tri-tone coming from his Ghostlink. Wollerton stirred as Pearce reached for the device. Clifton was out cold, lying on the roll-away bed. Pearce grabbed the Ghostlink from the bedside table, slid out of bed and stepped over Wollerton, who had slept on the floor by the bathroom. No matter how much Pearce had insisted, the stubborn mule had refused to take the bed.
Wollerton had told them about what Brigitte had done in China and how angry he was not only at the betrayal, but at the ease with which he’d allowed himself to be tricked. Best case, she was working a con without telling him. Worst case, she’d sold him out.
Leila had filled them in on the corrupt Seattle police detective, Evan Hill, and the other uniforms that seemed to be on the payroll of whoever was pulling Hill’s strings.
Pearce had told them about Ziad Malek, Rasul, Essi and Deni Salamov and the two chemical attacks he’d survived, at least one of which had been carried out by Narong Angsakul. Leila had seen Narong at the disused bike repair shop where Clifton had rescued her and Wollerton, and they’d started working on other links between the players. Pearce had given Clifton a description of the gunman and woman he’d seen in the van outside the community centre, complete with a rundown of all the distinctive tattoos he could remember. Clifton had relayed the information to an NSA contact and was waiting to hear the results of their search.
Pearce shut the bathroom door, and answered the Ghostlink. There were only three other people in the world who had access to the communication system. One was asleep outside the bathroom and the second was in the neighbouring room.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘It’s me,’ Brigitte responded, her distinctive voice unmistakeable.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m at the airport,’ she replied. ‘I need help, Scott. I need to talk to you alone.’
‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Because I can tell you exactly what this is all about.’