No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(49)

Kurt said, “Well, this time he found the right trouble.”

Palmer said, “Why didn’t you report this earlier?”

“I had no reason to. It was all conjecture. My niece really is missing. Pike is really trying to find her. We still don’t have confirmation about the VP connection, but it was growing too hot to ignore. I felt it prudent to report.”

Warren said, “You mean because that lunatic killed two Serbian thugs? So you could give him sanction? Report it to me, and now he’s working for us? After we specifically cut him free?”

Kurt scowled. “Hell no. Not at all. Because I believe he’s onto something. Something real for the problem set here. If it was just Kylie, I’d let him continue on his own. But it’s not just Kylie. He’s onto the vice president’s son.”

Palmer said, “How do you know?”

Kurt let out a sigh and said, “I don’t. All I know is Pike Logan’s instinct. And that guy is never wrong.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“Redirect assets. Give him help. Get Knuckles’s team out of Morocco and into Ireland.”

“Ireland? Pike’s in London.”

“Uh . . . no, he’s not. We found a cell phone on the Serb. He was talking to a guy in Dublin. I geolocated the grid and Pike’s on his way to investigate. He has this crazy idea that an Irishman is behind this whole thing.”






32




Braden McKee stepped off the Métro at the Chateau Rouge stop, the people swirling around him all of African descent. He walked up the stairs toward rue Doudeauville and was swarmed by several young men surreptitiously flashing smartphones for sale from the palms of their hands. Samsung Galaxies, iPhones, HTC Droids, each man vied for his attention with a different flavor.

He ignored them, not wanting to do business in view of anyone entering the Métro. He walked a block and turned in to an open-air market, the only Caucasian to be found. Shouting in French, two of the men followed him, as he knew they would.

Their persistence would earn his business this day.

Getting to the center of the market, surrounded on all sides by people hawking goods, he turned and waved them forward. They sprinted to him, both fighting for his attention. And his money. He said, “You speak English?”

The smaller one, holding a Galaxy, said, “Yes. Good phone. Unlocked.”

The thief manipulated the touch screen, showing a multitude of apps and that they functioned.

Braden said, “Does it have a SIM card?”

“Yes! It work right now!”

The taller one, with an iPhone 5s, blurted, “My phone real. His is junk. Fake.” He began the showmanship dance, flipping through apps left and right. Braden ignored the iPhone, focusing on the Galaxy thief. “Dial someone. Right now.”

The boy began to do so, and the iPhone thief became agitated, pushing the Galaxy away and saying, “My phone real! Unlocked. You hook to your service.”

Braden needed both but only the Wi-Fi capability of the iPhone. He cared not at all that it wasn’t hooked to a cellular service. He said, “How much?”

The iPhone thief said, “Two hundred euro.”

Braden didn’t even bother to haggle, not concerned about the cost. “Okay. I’ll take it.”

The Galaxy thief became irate, believing he’d lost the sale in the time he was dialing. He shouted, “His won’t work. Listen! Listen!”

He held the phone up to Braden’s ear, a ringtone coming through. A man answered in French, and Braden hung up, saying, “I’ll take yours as well.”

He pocketed both phones, letting the little thieves scamper off with a smile. He left the market, walking east, deeper into the neighborhood of Goutte d’Or, a lone Caucasian in a sea of Africans. He passed two gendarmes, both looking at him curiously, and he understood why.

Unlike England, which worked to prevent localized concentrations of indigenous populations and attempted to force immigrants to integrate, France had specific pockets that—if it weren’t for the distinctive French architecture—could be mistaken for a different country. Goutte d’Or was one such area.

Since the Algerian War, it was known as the place for African immigrants. Originally full of Algerian expats who fled the troubles of their home country in the ’50s and ’60s, it had spread to include people from all over Africa. Somalia, Eritrea, Kenya, and others, they all came here—illegally or otherwise.

As a Caucasian, Braden had raised the gendarmes’ interest, because he was either lost or clearly looking for something shady. He opted to appear lost, knowing that if they had any idea what he was truly planning, they would have done much more than stare at him.

His brother Seamus had called him in Brussels the night before, agitated and asking if the Serbs were ready to execute their jewelry heist. Originally having told Braden he’d have a five-day preparatory window, Seamus now wanted the operation conducted immediately. He’d asked if it could be done.

Braden had said, “Maybe. But it’ll be something like two days. One, I need to establish the trap. Two, the Serbs are going to want at least a day for a final look-see.”

“I thought you said the explosives were ready?”

“They’re staged but not primed. That’s the easy part. The Serbs are harder. Ratko Illic is no joke. You know his two men haven’t contacted him in twenty-four hours? He’s asking why, and I have no f*cking idea what to tell him. He’s liable to go off.”