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“You would have threatened the investigation.”
Freddie keeps his voice low but sharp. “What bloody investigation is that, Portia? All I’ve done is trail him around Manhattan and New Jersey like some deranged internet stalker. What’s the investigation? Why is he being looked into?”
Portia says, “I’m under no obligation to tell you.”
Freddie sees his error and tries to walk it back. “Then, please. My boss back at the Yard will want to know what went wrong, in detail. Help me, then—what is the investigation?”
A pleased look flashes across that severe face. “Immigration.”
“What?”
A confident nod. “Immigration. Somehow Mr. Patel quickly got the necessary papers and funds to come here to the States. We believe he’s part of an organized ring—located here in New York and Manchester—that is part of a large illegal-immigration organization. And that, Mr. Farrady, is that.”
Portia picks up her coffee and leaves the little coffee shop.
Freddie checks his watch.
Fifteen minutes have passed.
His career has just taken a serious hit. You don’t screw up an MI5 op like this and not suffer some consequences.
But damn it, he knows he’s right!
He takes out his iPhone, starts scrolling through a directory.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he whispers, as he finds the number he’s looking for—745-0200—and waits for it to be picked up.
It doesn’t take long.
“British Consulate,” a cheery young man answers.
Freddie digs through his memory. Remarkably, he comes up with the name that was passed on to him a long time ago by a retired MI6 field officer giving a lecture on overseas operations and what to do in the event of an unanticipated, serious threat.
“Amanda Trevor,” he says. “Agricultural attaché, please.”
Chapter85
AT THESouthern Terminal dispatch office for the Hudson Valley Railroad near Hoboken, Orrin Block tries to stifle a yawn as he leafs through that day’s manifest for his trip up to Albany. Orrin’s been an engineer for Hudson Valley for three years now and hates every minute of it. His father had been a train engineer, his grandfather had been a train engineer, and like a dope, he had agreed to join the family trade.
He takes a deep swallow of his coffee. It’s very early morning on May 29 and Orrin doesn’t care what the clock says, it’s the goddamn middle of the night. The dispatch room is crowded with other engineers, conductors, yard personnel, and there’s the smell of coffee, sweat, smoke, and always, always, the stench of diesel fuel, and he hates it so.
But Dad and Granddad had kept on yapping about the joy of being out on the rails, wind in your hair, watching the beauty of the Great Plains, the Rocky Mountains, the Pacific Ocean, the Great Lakes,blah blah blah.
The only thing he’s seen is the depressing corridor between here and Albany, and with jobs tightening up and most of the railroads consolidating, Orrin’s been stuck here—and stuck here as well with his girlfriend, Kimmy.
Another yawn. He had stayed out way too late with Kimmy and her posse of girls—tight clothes, fake nails and boobs, tramp-stamp tattoos—and once again, after a quick lay back at her place, she had gone on about how long they had been seeing each other, and wasn’t it time to set a date, and how it isn’t fair to lead a girl on like this…
To hell with that.
He looks up from his manifest and checks out his conductor, sitting across from him: Miguel Marcos, quiet guy from the Philippines, with dark-olive skin, brown eyes, and thick black hair, which he combs back in some kind of thick pompadour. Miguel is okay, but he sure is quiet in the cab—all business. Orrin’s not sure what kind of experience Miguel had back in Manila, but he’s quick on the job and is a good guy to have at your side.
Orrin remembers being at a bar in Weehawken nearly a year ago with some of the other guys from the yard. Some big biker started giving Miguel crap and Miguel tried to ignore it, staying really calm until the biker just started grabbing him and pushing him. Then Miguel snapped and used some Filipino karate shit that left the guy bleeding from his nose and with two broken wrists.
And never again did Miguel say a word about it.
“Hey, Miguel,” Orrin says, kicking his conductor’s boot with his own under the table. “Ready for another day in paradise?”
Miguel smiles. “Sure am, Orrin.”
