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Jake shrugged. “I don’t know. They wouldn’t shut up in the SUV, but repeating their demand that we call Cyrus Ahmadi isn’t really the conversation I’m looking for.” He patted Ryan’s shoulder. “Go get your caffeine. We’ll wait for you to start.”
Ryan headed to the canteen and popped a pod into the single-serving machine. While the machine sputtered and steamed, he kept an eye on the doorway. Chelsea’s Forester had been behind them all the way up the interstate, but so far, he’d seen no sign of her or her passengers on campus.
It would be understandable if Leilah had Chelsea take her back to her loft. She had been through an ordeal. She was probably as drained as he was. Besides, knowing Jake, tonight’s conversation would not include local law enforcement. Leilah probably wouldn’t need to give a statement until the morning.
He turned back to the coffee machine, replaced the used pod with a fresh one, and topped off his coffee. Trent had taught him the trick. Half the water and twice the coffee cups yielded a decently strong beverage.
He sipped the drink as he made his way to the basement. He pounded on the metal door and nearly spilled his coffee when Marielle opened it.
“When did you get here?” he asked as she ushered him inside.
She gave a Gaelic shrug. “A few minutes ago, I suppose.”
He scanned the room. Leilah and Olivia sat in a pair of chairs along the wall. Ahmadi’s men sat in three chairs arranged in a row in the middle of the room. Trent, Omar, and Jake loomed over them.
“Where’s Chelsea?”
“She dropped us off and went home. Jake told her no civilians. She was steaming, but she left.”
Although she spoke in an undertone, Jake must’ve heard her. “You take off, too, Moreau.”
Marielle made a small mew of protest, but Jake preempted her argument. “I know you’re not a civilian. But this isn’t your type of operation. And this room is crowded. Thank you for your help, but please, go home. Get some rest.”
She snorted in displeasure but crossed the room to give Leilah a quick hug. Then she swept out of the cell without another word.
“Now then,” Jake said as soon as the door closed behind Marielle. “Start talking, and do not, for the love of all that is holy, tell me to call Cyrus Ahmadi.”
The three men exchanged bitter looks, but nobody spoke.
Ryan stepped forward. “Let’s start with an easy one. What are your names?”
No response was forthcoming.
Trent growled. “We could just call you the ugly one, the stupid one, and the stupid, ugly one. But that might get confusing for you.”
The leader huffed. “Adrian Macklin, formerly with MI6.”
“From British Intelligence to hired goon. Interesting,” Jake responded.
Macklin shrugged.
“Your turn.” Omar kicked the restaurant guy’s chair.
“Noam Blum.” He paused. “Former Mossad agent.”
Jake and Olivia exchanged a look that Ryan could read from across the room: What was Ahmadi doing employing not one but two former foreign intelligence agents?
“What about you?” Ryan said to the guy who’d called Ahmadi. “SVR? DGSE?” He rattled off the acronyms for the Russian and French intelligence agencies.
“Not hardly,” the guy scoffed. “Dane Armistead.”
Ryan waited.
“Former FinCEN Special Investigations.”
“Treasury?” Ryan sought to clarify.
“Correct.”
