Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [132]
“What do you mean?” she asked.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Who do you work for?”
“Vortex,” she said.
“I mean who do you really work for? Amnesty International? Some other NGO with a left-wing agenda?”
“I work for your company,” she said.
Littleton tightened his stare, saying nothing, or rather letting his silence do the talking. Andie didn’t flinch, but she noticed the file folder on the seat next to him. Littleton picked it up, opened it, and said, “Bad weather or not, there’s a plane waiting for you.”
“Yes, I understand I’m being activated.”
He smiled sardonically, then shook his head. “You’re not being activated.”
“What’s the problem?”
Littleton pulled a photograph from the file, switched on the interior spotlight in the ceiling, and held the before her eyes. “This is Olga,” he said.
Olga looked to be at least six feet tall and about 180 pounds of solid muscle and steroids. The tight black hot pants, studded leather jacket, and black lipstick were straight out of Capital Pleasures. Her head was shaved, except for a single wisp of red hair that hung in her eyes. Her nose, lips, and ears were pierced with multiple metal rings, and she had her mouth wide open to reveal the tongue piercing. Tattoos covered her neck and right arm, mostly Chinese characters and random figures that vaguely resembled them. Andie took special notice, but she didn’t recognize any gang symbols.
“Olga is one of our most successful level-five activations,” said Littleton.
He returned the photograph to the file and removed another. “This is the last person we sent to meet Olga.”
Andie tried to show no reaction, but the difference between her level-one activation and level five was more dramatic than she’d thought. Olga appeared to be removing the man’s pubic hair with her teeth.
Littleton closed the file and put it aside, but he laid the last photograph faceup on the seat, where Andie could still see it.
“We can go one of two ways here,” he said. “You can tell me who you are and what you’re doing here. Or we can put you on that airplane, you can meet Olga, and you can tell her.”
Andie glanced at the photo, then back at Littleton. “I told you the truth. Would you like me to tell you again?”
Littleton’s smile was even more condescending than the last one. “Yes, tell me again,” he said as he switched off the light.
The partition behind her head slid open and Bahena grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head back. Andie was staring up at the base of his chin. Even in the darkness, she could tell that he was enjoying himself.
“But this time,” said Littleton, “Danilo will make sure you don’t lie to me.”
“You’re making a mistake,” said Andie, her heart pounding.
“No,” said Littleton. “You made the mistake.”
Chapter Seventy-three
Poplar is the nearest tube station to the Billingsgate Fish Market, but with a quarter million pounds in her backpack, Shada sprang for a cab. The market complex covers thirteen acres, and the driver dropped her as close as he could to the trading hall. Doors opened at four A.M., and as Shada approached the entrance, buyers were already walking out with fish. The surrounding neighborhood wasn’t the Cockney crime scene of Hawthorne’s day—“a dirty, evil-smelling, crowded precinct, thronged with people carrying fish on their heads.” But it was still the East End before dawn, and the shadows were plenty dark. Shada tried not to look paranoid by checking over her shoulder too often as she hurried into the building.
Habib had called it the busiest place in London before sunrise, and once inside, Shada found that was no exaggeration. Billingsgate merchants sell over twenty-five thousand tons of fish and fish products annually, much of it straight out of ice-packed coolers at one of ninety-eight booths in the trading hall. The floors were wet, the noise was constant, and with open warehouse doors inviting January inside, Shada kept her coat on. Porters wore traditional white sailcloth smocks, and salesmen didn’t just sit on their coolers and wait for the fish to go bad. Like