The Witness Page 3

  “Hello?”

  “Mags, how you doing?” Ashton’s Scottish brogue reverberated around the bathroom.

  “Good,” Maggie lied. She sat up straight and hugged her knees, leaning towards the phone and wishing Ashton was with her.

  “You settled in okay?”

  “The apartment’s a little shabby, but I guess it will do,” she teased, making a better effort to hide her troubled mind with Ashton than she had with Bishop.

  “Brilliant,” Ashton said. A woman’s voice spoke in the background, announcing several delays to upcoming flights.

  Maggie frowned. “Where are you?”

  “At a layover in Miami. I’m heading to Ecuador.”

  Maggie narrowed her eyes. “What have you got on down there?”

  “You know me,” Ashton said, like butter wouldn’t melt. “A wee bit of this, a wee bit of that.”

  “Well, be careful. I’m tied up here, so I can’t come and save your arse like I did in New Orleans.” Ashton was no stranger to a sticky situation, but that particular trip had been a close one. Too close.

  Ashton laughed, like the trip had consisted of gumbo, good jazz music, and one too many cocktails, instead of murder and mayhem. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  “That’s not promising much,” said Maggie, unable to help the grin tugging at the corners of her lips, despite the growing worry which lay just underneath.

  “Is something’s wrong?” Ashton asked.

  Maggie sighed. “It’s just work. Nothing to worry about.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she assured, changing the subject. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”

  “Of course,” Ashton said, as the woman made another announcement through the airport. “I better go, my flight is boarding.”

  “Stay safe.”

  “You, too,” Ashton replied, before hanging up.

  Maggie shook her head. If there was trouble to be found in Ecuador, Ashton would find it.

  Strictly speaking, Maggie shouldn’t have told Ashton she was in the city on assignment. Especially given the sensitive nature of the job. Old habits die hard though, and they had always kept in touch, checking in with each other even after Ashton left the Unit. Besides, the Unit weren’t aware they’d remained friends, the entire agency having been ordered not to associate with a ‘traitor.’ Not that Maggie listened. As long as they kept their friendship covert, everyone was happy.

  Laying back into the water, she indulged in a further ten minutes of attempted relaxation before getting out the bath and drying off. It was time to get to work.

  Wrapping the towel around her, Maggie sat in front of the dressing table in the master bedroom and propped the background document of her new alias by the mirror.

  Yana Kostina.

  As far as the look went, it wasn’t that difficult. Maggie could have stuck with her natural hair, given that the fake passport was several years old. People changed their hairstyle all the time. In the end, she decided to match the picture exactly. There could be no slip ups. Nothing to make the people inside the Russian Consulate pause or question her.

  Tucking her real hair under a cap, Maggie put on the newly purchased wig she got from a little place in the East Village and pinned it in place. Teasing it out to give the hair more volume, she styled the platinum blond bob into a deliberate messy look to fit Yana’s free spirited personality.

  Yana Kostina was born and raised in Cherepovets, the largest city in Vologda Oblast. Being the daughter of an architect and a notable oil painter, it was hardly a surprise that Yana grew to hold a deep appreciation and love for the arts. So much so, that it led her to study the subject at Saint Petersburg University where she earned a master’s degree in art criticism.

  “I work at a gallery in Cherepovets,” Maggie said into the mirror. Yana returned home after she graduated and quickly became the associate art director for a thriving gallery known in the art world for its industrial inspired installations.

  Yana’s eyes were darker than Maggie’s, a deeper, warmer shade than her ice blue irises. Nothing a set of contacts couldn’t fix. Unscrewing the cap, Maggie slid the contacts over her eyes and blinked them into place.

  “I’ve always wanted to visit New York,” she said in Yana’s native tongue.

  Maggie repeated the phrase a few times, getting the accent just right. She had learned Russian from a Muscovite, and while the language was uniform across the country, there were subtle differences in tone and inflection. Yana’s Northwestern roots should be apparent when she spoke, at least to fellow Russians at the consulate.

  Playing a tourist was the ideal set up for what Maggie had planned. She wasn’t too concerned about infiltrating the Russian Consulate. Getting inside was one thing. It was getting back out that worried her.

  Once they learned Emily Wallace had escaped their clutches, they would stop at nothing to contain the situation, even if it meant killing them on the streets.

  Satisfied with Yana’s appearance, Maggie rummaged in her shopping bags and brought out her outfit for tomorrow. She made sure to buy flats for the mission. The only thing worse than breakout missions, were breakout missions in heels.

  The boots she chose were black leather with steel toecaps. While not conventional footwear for a tourist, they fit with Yana’s quirky style and could also come in handy if she found herself in a fight. Maggie matched the boots with some tightfitting black jeans, red cardigan, and a tank top with a picture of a little cartoon cat on the front.

  Trying everything on, Maggie took in her new persona through the full-length mirror by the bed. While not to Maggie’s taste, Yana was exactly what she needed to be: young, unassuming, and innocent.

  She was ready for tomorrow.

  Chapter 5

  21 September

  * * *

  Maggie walked up Madison Avenue and turned left onto East 91st Street.

  A light wind picked up through the street, the trees along the sidewalks ruffling in a choreographed dance to the whistling breeze. The consulate stood in the middle of the street, a grand four-story building which seemed welcoming from the outside with its plant pots by the windows. Inside would be another thing entirely.

  Like the British Consulate, the Russian counterpart would have a specialized team on guard, waiting in case their expertise were needed. Surveillance cameras were deliberately visible at each corner of the building, two trained on the front door with the Russian flag hanging proudly above it. Another camera watched from the gate adjacent to the building where cars had to wait until they were permitted entry.

  Maggie stored it all in her mind for later. Exit routes were a priority, and if the Russians were as prepared as the British, they could lock the building down in mere minutes.

  Stopping at the consulate’s neighbors next door, Maggie ducked under the scaffolding erected over the outer building and put the finishing touches to her disguise. Construction workers called to each other, men on the roof tossing bricks and other debris into a chute which travelled down the scaffolding and straight into a large skip. Cosmetic work from the looks of it. The city had put a lot of effort into cleaning itself up over the years and residents so close to the park had to keep up appearances. It wouldn’t do to be the shabbiest building on the block.

  Maggie kept a fresh face to give her a younger appearance, the only make-up on her face there to give the illusion of an injury, a new and reddening mark that promised to grow into a nasty bruise.

  She bit down on the capsule in her mouth. The contents burst open, filling her mouth with the tang of cinnamon. Maggie let the liquid spill over her bottom lip and drip down her chin, the fake blood stark red against her pale skin.

  Speeding up her breathing, she took short, shallow breaths. Her heartbeat grew faster and pulsed in her chest, her body reacting to the deliberate signs of physical distress. She paced a little, back and forth, running a hand through her hair. It wasn’t enough to simply act. You had t
o be.

  Maggie forced herself back to when she was a child, bringing up memories which still had the ability to build a sense of panic within her. The day her mother died. The night she killed her first man in self-defense. Of when she was arrested for said murder and held in a police station. Of when she and Leon almost drowned in Venice, just weeks ago.

  It didn’t take long for the emotions to take over. Maggie welcomed it and battled against the urge to stop. The memories were painful, but they also had their uses. Her past could very well help ensure her future.

  Tearing her cardigan and letting one of the sleeves hang over her shoulder, Maggie limped the rest of the way down the street and stumbled through the front doors of the consulate.

  “Help!” she cried in Russian as soon as she entered. “Somebody, please, help me.”

  Metal detectors were set up by the door, manned by a startled guard. Maggie ran past him and through the detectors before he could stop her, the siren wailing as she passed.

  Another guard approached her from her left. Maggie spotted him in her periphery, but Yana wouldn’t have, given the state she was in. Instead, she rushed forward, unaware of his approach and headed past the front foyer and down an empty hallway.

  “Wait, you can’t go back there.” The man grabbed her arm and yanked her back, his vice grip wrapping the whole way around her upper arm.

  Maggie restrained herself from punching him in the throat and carried on as Yana. “Please, you have to help me.”

  The man’s burrowed brow vanished as he lay eyes on her face, spotting the scarlet trail of blood down her chin. His grip loosened and he ushered Maggie back to the entrance and the metal detectors.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, looking uncomfortable and out of sorts at being confronted by an upset and bloody woman.

  “No,” Maggie wept, her voice cracking as she covered her face with her hands.

  The guard cleared his throat and spoke with his colleague who held his radio in his hand, ready to alert backup if it was needed. The second guard shook his head, and picked up a handheld device next to the door-shaped frame of the metal detector.

  “I have to scan you,” he said in a firm voice.

  He motioned for Maggie to stand by the x-ray machine for bags and other personal items and hovered the scanner over her body. It beeped around Maggie’s hand and the guard noted the bracelet around her wrist. The gun she’d been provided with was back in Ashton’s apartment. There was no way she would get through security armed. All she had by way of weapons were her guile and her fists.

  And that was all she needed.

  “Personal belongings must go through the machine before we can let you in,” the first guard advised.

  “I don’t have anything with me,” Maggie snapped, turning to face him with her tear-streaked face.

  The second guard returned the scanner and shared a look with his colleague, the meaning clear. He would deal with her. “Please, come with me,” he said, offering a small and sympathetic smile.

  At least her appearance worked on one of the them. Maggie allowed the guard to lead her through an open door to the right, whimpering as they entered the front-of-house section of the consulate with a line of glass covered kiosks along one wall.

  A few people stood at them, filling out forms and speaking in Russian to members of staff, much the same as it had been at the British Consulate. They all stopped when they spotted Maggie, one woman letting out an audible gasp.

  The guard took Maggie to a row of seats and sat her down with a gentle push. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I,” Maggie said, stopping for effect. “I’ve been robbed.”

  “You poor thing,” said an elderly woman, listening in from a few seats down.

  Maggie let out a burst of tears at the woman’s kind words, and titled her head back in despair. A camera was stationed in the middle of the high ceiling, allowing those watching to get a full view of the entire room.

  “Someone robbed me and I don’t know what do to,” she continued, louder this time for the audio on the camera feed. All eyes were on her, and Yana was making quite the scene.

  A voice called through the man’s radio asking for him to check in.

  He turned away from Maggie and lowered his voice. “We have a hysterical woman claiming to have been mugged.”

  Maggie’s eye twitched at the word ‘hysterical,’ a term men liked to throw around whenever a woman showed any display of unhappiness, anger, or distress. Luckily for him she was undercover, or she would have shown him exactly what hysterical meant.

  A door at the end of the row of kiosks opened and broke her from her temporary rage. Maggie took a deep, shaking breath as another man walked over to them. His gait said military, his gray eyes trained on her as he took in the situation.

  Maggie did some assessing of her own. Six foot one. A lean, yet powerful build. Agile footing. A gun concealed under his suit jacket. His posture was confident, with the air of a man in charge. Maggie was willing to bet he was head of security.

  “Hello, Madam. My name is Aleksandar Petrov. Would you come with me?”

  Yana flinched as he reached for her. “Where?”

  Aleksandar pulled his hand back and bent down on one knee, lowering himself to her level like she was a frightened animal who might bolt at the slightest sound or sudden movement.

  “I understand that you have been in an altercation. Please come with me to my office so we can get you cleaned up and then take a statement.”

  Maggie sniffed and wiped at her tear-filled eyes. Aleksandar offered her a small smile which suited his otherwise harsh face, his nose, jaw, and cheekbones a collection of sharp angles. He kept his dark brown hair long and tied back smartly from his face in a tight ponytail.

  “Go with him, dear,” said the elderly woman with an encouraging nod. “He’ll see that you are okay and looked after.” She tutted and shook her head. “Americans. Stealing from a young, helpless girl.”

  Maggie was many things, but helpless wasn’t one of them.

  She looked from the woman to Aleksandar, showing Yana’s trepidation before finally agreeing. “Okay,” she said, hugging herself.

  “Right this way,” said Aleksandar. They left the guard behind to return to his post by the door and Aleksandar led Maggie deeper into the large building. Maggie kept an eye on the cameras, instinct causing her to avoid them capturing her face. Not that it mattered. Her face on their CCTV was the least of her worries as she followed Aleksandar up a set of marble stairs and further into enemy territory.

  Committing each step to memory, Maggie kept an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. For anything indicating a higher level of security.

  Nothing.

  The hallway on the first floor was like a fancy five-star hotel, lavishly decorated to impress visitors, no doubt. Their footsteps were muffled thanks to a pristine cream carpet, the walls covered in matching wallpaper veined with gold designs and large paintings surrounded by gilded frames.

  They turned a corner and Aleksandar stopped by the next door. He swiped a card across a reader at the door and the locks clicked open. “Ladies first,” he said.

  Maggie stepped inside, Yana careful not to touch Aleksandar as she entered past him. He followed, closing the door behind him, and she flinched at the noise.

  “It’s okay,” said Aleksandar, holding his palms out, ‘you’re safe here.”

  He gestured for Yana to take the seat across from a maple desk and she complied, sitting on the seat edge and shuddering as the tears subsided. The room was much like any other office, computer, shelves filled with folders and files, a well-watered plant by the window. For all the office said, Aleksandar could have been an insurance salesman.

  Before sitting down, Aleksandar walked into a connecting bathroom and came back out with a damp towel. “Are you hurt?” he asked, handing the towel over and examining her from a distance.

  Maggie dabbed at her mouth and winced for good measure. “
More shaken than anything else,” she replied, voice meek.

  “Nothing appears to be broken,” he concluded, sitting down across from her once satisfied that her wounds were superficial. “Your face and neck will bruise, though. I’ll call and get a doctor to examine you, just in case.”

  “Okay.” Maggie made sure to leave a smear of blood at the corner of her mouth to distract him. The more Aleksandar saw her as a victim, as a scared and defenseless young woman in a big, strange city, the better.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, moving the mouse of his computer and typing in his password.

  “Yana. Yana Kostina.”

  Aleksandar typed her false name into what Maggie assumed was an incident report. “Where are you from, Yana?”

  Maggie cleared her throat, making a show of discomfort as she spoke. “Cherepovets.”

  “I have family there.”

  Maggie stayed quiet. Small talk was a dangerous route for her to take. Digging too much into the past of an alias led to slip ups, and she played on Yana’s shock and fear to avoid any chitchat about a hometown she’d never visited.

  “Yana, can you tell me what happened to you?” Aleksandar asked, repeating her name to ground her in the moment and calm her down, a tactic she’d used before when dealing with people riddled with fear or shock.

  “I was robbed.” Maggie waved her hand in front of her face like she was about to cry again.

  “It’s okay,” Aleksandar soothed. “Let’s take it slow and start from the beginning. What brought you to New York?”

  “I’m an art director at a gallery back home. Nothing big, but our latest exhibition got a glowing write up in the Media Center,” she said in Yana’s nervous prattling, having checked the name of the local newspaper in Cherepovets the night before. “I came here to visit the Guggenheim.”

  Aleksandar stopped typing and clasped his hands, giving Yana his full attention. “Can you believe I’ve been here for almost nine years now and have yet to visit?”