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“The store in Kuzminki? Great idea.”
He hung up and turned to me.
“That was Erin Sebold. She wants to meet us at one of the Agency’s facilities. She can help with the photos.”
I nodded and he started the engine, pulling into the slow-moving rush-hour traffic that was circling the park.
“How long have you been stationed here?” I asked as we drove through the city.
“Six years,” West replied. “It’s my last posting. Assuming I don’t re-up. You were in the Corps, right?”
I nodded. “While back.”
“You know you’re a legend?” he remarked, and I shook my head. “Seriously, even if you were a flyboy, a millionaire hero Marine is a role model for so many.”
“I don’t know who that guy is, but he sounds cool.” I smiled. “And I won’t take offense at you calling me a flyboy.”
“None intended,” he scoffed.
“I just see a problem and need to fix it,” I said more seriously. “Everything else is noise.”
“Did you always know you wanted to start a detective agency?”
I shook my head. “It was my dad’s. I took it over after I left the Corps. That was something I never expected, but after what happened in Afghanistan, I couldn’t stay. I lost people. Buddies.”
“I feel that. It cuts deep,” West replied.
We sat in silence for a while, and I reflected on those I’d lost.
“What do you think you’ll do if you don’t re-up?” I asked.
“Who knows? Maybe close protection. Maybe I’ll start my own detective agency.”
“Ha! Well, if neither of those works out, look me up. There will always be a job for you at Private.”
“Thank you, Jack,” he replied.
He seemed genuinely touched. Maybe he wasn’t as connected to the CIA as I had thought?
We talked about our military experiences and traded war stories as we crossed the Russian capital. Finally, when we were in the south-east of the city, West turned onto a narrow sidestreet full of old warehouses and storage facilities.
He parked outside a rundown yard where dozens of ancient trailers and trucks were stored.
“Come on,” he said, and we got out.
The gate wasn’t locked and he led me into a graveyard for huge trucks, trailers, and containers that would once have transported tonnes of goods around Russia. We went deep into the yard, navigating the maze of rusting metal machines and containers, until we reached a Soviet-era ZIL truck.
West knocked on the back door and it opened slowly to reveal an empty container. As I looked closely at the interior, I realized something wasn’t quite right and then the far wall rose. It wasn’t a wall at all. It was an LED display a few feet from the door, showing an image of an empty trailer. It retracted into the ceiling, and in the gap beneath it I could see a glimpse of workstations and surveillance equipment.
West climbed in and crouched to go through the gap. I followed. Once we were inside, the door swung shut and the screen descended.
The container was about thirty feet long, eleven wide, and twelve tall. There were six workstations but only two were occupied. The analysts were a couple of women in their thirties who were focused on their screens.
Erin Sebold was supervising them. She turned to welcome us as we approached.
“Mr. Morgan, Master Gunnery Sergeant, how can we help you?” she asked.
“We’ve got photos of the men who took my country manager, and the license plates of the vehicles they used to abduct her,” I replied.
