The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

First, he did divulge that Charlie had indeed gone missing. The normal protocol for an experienced field operator like Charlie was that he checked in by text or call every 12 hours. When he missed his ten o’clock send the night before, the security services that monitored field agents had notified Erickson, and they began a simple search of the most obvious places.

“We sent someone by his home in Highgate last night, but the lights were off, no one answered the door, and there were no signs of anything out of the ordinary.”

“That sounds about right,” Matt offered. “I spoke to him before I took off from Frankfurt. We were supposed to meet for drinks at the Heathrow Hilton, the one at T4, but he never showed, and the bartender hadn’t seen anyone who looked like him the whole night. He didn’t respond to my calls, texts, or emails. I even left a message, here, on his office line.”

“Yep, we saw all of those come in,” Erickson stated, verifying Matt’s account. “So, we’ve got a variety of search avenues, from CCTV and communication intercepts to boots on the ground, as they say. If he’s alive, we’ll find him. And that now brings us to you.”

Erickson sat forward on the sofa and slowly took in his missing counterpart’s office, lingering on framed photos and various mementos before turning his attention back to Matt. “Although I know you and Charlie were friendly, very close indeed, I find it odd that a week after U.S. Ambassador Wilkerson and his wife and adult son were all killed in Moscow, an American operator who was with them at the time shows up at MI5’s door, fully weaponized and looking for one of our agents, whom he was supposed to meet up with but has now gone missing.”

“What’s your point?” Matt said.

Erickson’s responding laugh was tight and his smile not at all amused. “Charlie always said you could be a smart-ass,” he responded. “We need to formally ask you a few questions. To facilitate that, I’d like the team to sit down with you in an interview room before we proceed any further.”

Matt smiled. He could have protested. But Erickson could have him held for 24 hours, and that would be time best spent looking for Charlie. Matt hadn’t used his diplomatic identification when he presented himself; he’d used his FBI version, and that had left him vulnerable.

“So, there’ll be video, audio, face temp sensors and the like?” he asked.

“Of course,” Erickson said.

“Can I bring my guns?”

Erickson laughed and shook his head no.

“Okay, just my knife?”

Erickson continued to be less than entertained. “Nope.”

“Last question, then,” Matt said, “is the coffee any good?”

“Only the very best for a friend of Charlie’s,” Erickson insisted.

They both stood and headed for the door. Matt placed his hand on the knob, but before turning it, he whispered to Erickson, “You need to put little Jason here in a room, too.”

“Oh?” Erickson looked intrigued.

“If you know anything about me, through Charlie or anyone else, when I say something’s amiss, you can count on it. That kid – there’s something amiss.”

Matt was pleased to see the look of concern wash over Erickson’s face. Yes, they had been bantering back and forth, jockeying for position before they got down to a serious interrogation. But both men wanted to find Charlie, by any means necessary. And if they were to find their friend and colleague – alive or dead – they needed to consider every possible angle and every possible player. No one could be assumed to be above suspicion.

Erickson stepped back from the door and made a call on his cellphone. He waited a minute while he and Matt continued to look back at Charlie’s possessions. Would Matt ever see his friend again? He hoped so, but Erickson’s expression wasn’t reassuring. When he nodded his head for Matt to open the door, they found two MI5 plainclothes internal security standing on opposite sides of a distraught-looking Roberts.

Led by Erickson, the five of them headed down the long hallway to the elevators. He pushed a button for a level he’d never visited. It was in the building’s sub-basement.

A nervous Roberts murmured, “I thought the interview rooms were on the fourth floor.”

“They’re all in use,” Erickson responded bluntly.

“What’ve you got going on out on the river?” Matt asked conversationally. “Building an employee lounge on the Thames? Or a heliport or something special for assault boats?”

Erickson smiled. “Two out of three, not bad. A heliport and marine base of operations for MI5 are being built. Should be done by month’s end. They’re pouring concrete pilings this week.” Charlie was right, Erickson concluded, this man was a smart cookie. He doesn’t miss a thing.

The small talk concluded as soon as they arrived at the selected floor. Erickson indicated Roberts should be taken into Room 3.

“We’ve got hot coffee waiting for you in Room 4,” he said to Matt, gesturing to a door a few feet down the hall. “I’ve got a few things to look into upstairs, but I’ll send one of our best in to take your formal statement. Then we’ll see what happens next.”

Matt had been in interview rooms like this all over the world. Ninety percent of the time, he was the one asking the questions, with others watching and listening behind the one-way mirrors that were commonplace in these environments. This room was slightly different, though. It had a mirror in front of and behind the table and the two opposing chairs.

Twenty minutes later, his coffee consumed, Matt’s patience was wearing thin. Then he heard a voice from the doorway that was eerily familiar to him.

“Agent Christopher, my name is Bruce Allan. I’m a special investigator for the British intelligence services.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Matt was amazed. Erickson had locked him in a room with one of the men who had tried to drown him in Washington, D.C. The memory of the incident was