23
Lost in thought, running through my conversation with Kurt, I had stopped counting the stops in the London Underground. Jennifer brought me back to the present, saying, “This is us.”
I saw the sign for Sloane Square and stood up, following her out the door along with a flow of other people. We exited to street level, and I got my bearings, saying, “It’s over this way.”
We started walking down Sloane Street in silence, Jennifer recognizing my mood and letting me think. We reached Royal Hospital Road, and I could see the Royal Hospital Chelsea in the distance. Home to the Chelsea Pensioners—retired veterans of the British military—it was not unlike our own VA system in the States, although it was much, much older. And also my last clue.
Before I’d gone to sleep the night before, Kurt had managed to hack into the servers of Sentinel Security and retrieve the footage from the Eagle. He’d sent it to me, along with a detailed report that basically said there was no evidence of Nick Seacrest. Kylie was there with a man, but the camera wasn’t positioned in such a way to get positive ID. All they could see was the back of his head. The tone of the email made it seem as if he was somewhat relieved, but he’d sent it to me anyway.
With Jennifer, I’d stayed up for hours reviewing the footage, and he was right. Along with the video package he’d sent the official military photo of Nick Seacrest, and I couldn’t match the face with the person sitting with Kylie. She’d been with someone, but it was impossible to positively ID the man. I’d stopped trying and taken a look at the footage from a different perspective—surveying for anyone who appeared interested in the couple. And had found something.
Kylie had sat outside, on the patio, and was clearly close to the man she was with, touching his hand and laughing at what he said, which I know must have broken Kurt’s heart to watch. Her date returned the gestures, whispering in her ear and laughing at her comments, silent on the tape. Jennifer had turned away at that point, knowing how the night ended. For me, it brought a feeling of impotence. I wanted to reach through the camera and tell her to leave. To go back to campus. To prevent what was going to happen.
I’d refocused, studying the patrons around her. Most were clearly there solely for the pub, the tables full of college kids and tourists. One small table, though, caught my eye. It sat right behind her, in full view of the camera, and held a single man. He was drinking coffee and doing nothing but smoking a cigarette. Twenty-three minutes into the tape, he was met by another man. A rough-looking guy in a black leather jacket and with a three-day beard. They sat together, not talking, just looking. Both smoking cigarettes.
Eventually, the date took Kylie’s hand and led her off camera. The two men waited for about thirty seconds and left as well. An indicator.
I went through the footage until I located the outside cameras, trying to identify when the second man had arrived. Eventually, I’d found it. He’d driven up on a beat-down Honda motorcycle, missing fenders and rolling on threadbare tires. But its license plate was in view of the camera.
When the two men left, they walked right by the bike. As if it wouldn’t be useful for what was about to happen. At least that’s what I thought.
I’d called Kurt with another request, the night now growing into morning. With the time difference, it was 8:00 P.M. in the United States, and the Taskforce was going to bed. I’d told him what I had and demanded that he run the plate.
He’d said, “How? This isn’t The Rockford Files. I don’t have a contact in the British police to do that.”
“Hack it. Get into their system and give me who owns it. You want to find Kylie or not?”
He exploded. “Don’t accuse me of that, damn it! Of course I do.” The phone went quiet, then, “You really think this is something? Because I’m about to go deep into the red. I hack UK government systems, and we’re treading on dangerous ground.”
I said, “I have no idea if it’s anything at all. None. But it’s all I’ve got. Those guys were sketchy, and maybe this has nothing to do with the VP, but my gut tells me those two assholes had everything to do with Kylie.”
I could almost hear the smoke grinding off the gears in his head. I was asking him to step one foot deeper into the chasm. In the end, he did so, and I got an email about two hours later. It said, Here you go. Don’t do this again. I want Kylie back more than life itself, but I can’t use national assets on a whim. If this comes to light, there will be no explanation. I was all set to ask Kurt for some support, maybe redirecting Knuckles, but that was cut short by the information he’d sent. The bike was registered to a retired British noncommissioned officer. A guy in his eighties now living at the Royal Chelsea Hospital and retirement home. I could see why Kurt was aggravated. It wasn’t exactly a smoking gun, but it was all I had. I didn’t have the courage to call Kurt back. In truth, I felt a little like an ass.
We entered the grounds of the hospital, the security guard telling us we could visit freely and pointing to an ancient cemetery as a highlight. Jennifer thanked him and we moved down an old stone walkway to the newer infirmary.
The lady at the front desk said, “Are you here for a visitation?”
Unsure of how this worked, I jumped right in, saying, “Yes, I’m here to see Dylan McKee. I understand he’s staying here.”
She tapped on a computer and said, “Yes. Is he expecting you?”
“No. Not really. It’s a surprise.”
She smiled as if that were the best thing in the world. She said, “He’ll love that.”
“You know him?”
“No. Not personally, but they all like surprise visits. Take a seat in the coffee shop. I’ll send someone to fetch him.”