Page 27 of Undercover Infidel
He set his cup down. “I thought perhaps you’d prefer to return to London.”
“I’m baffled, Con. You’re again assuming I want to return to London? Why would I have agreed to you setting up the workspace yesterday if that was my intent?” I studied his profile. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about our collaboration?”
“Not at all.” There was something closed off in his manner that hadn’t been there the night before.
“When will the helicopter arrive?” I asked, looking out the window to the pad where it usually sat.
“I prefer to drive. Traveling by air is too visible for what I have in mind.”
The prospect of spending hours confined in a car with this cooler, more distant version of Con wasn’t appealing, but I agreed anyway. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
The drive began in strained silence. Beyond the windscreen, the Highland landscape rolled by, hills giving way to farmland as we moved southeast. After nearly an hour of neither of us saying a word, I couldn’t bear it any longer. “Is there something you want to tell me, Con?”
He kept his eyes on the road. “Such as?”
“You’ve been…different since this morning. Are you still upset about me conferring with Dr. McLaren?”
“That isn’t it.”
I raised a brow. So there was something. “Go on.”
His hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly than seemed necessary. “I received an alert last night. Someone from MI6 attempted to access my system.” His eyes flicked to me briefly. “Unlike your successful breach, they failed.”
The subtle accusation hung between us. “I assure you it wasn’t at my request.”
“I never suggested it was.” He returned his gaze to the road. “Though the timing is curious, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” I said under my breath.
For the remainderof the journey, we slipped into professional mode, discussing potential locations connected to the suspicious transactions Gus had identified. Con knew Edinburgh intimately, mapping out observation points and possible approaches to each target.
By early afternoon, we were staking out a high-end art gallery in Edinburgh’s New Town. The elegantGeorgian building housed exclusive collections that, according to Con’s research, frequently changed hands through private sales rather than public auctions. What made it even more interesting were the many well-dressed figures who came and went while we sat at a café across the street, watching the entrance.
“I haven’t seen anyone I recognize from previous or current briefings.”
“I haven’t, either. However, it’s the perfect setup for money laundering,” he said as I sipped my tea. “Artwork values are subjective enough to justify almost any price.”
After an hour with no significant activity, Con suggested we move to our next target—a private club with known connections to Russian business interests. Located in the Old Town, the club occupied a building with medieval foundations, its entrance discreet and unmarked.
“How do you propose we get in?” I asked as we observed from across the narrow street. “I doubt they welcome walk-ins.”
The smile that curved his lips held a hint of mischief. “We won’t be using the front door.”
Con led me through a series of winding closes andwynds—narrow passages between buildings that dated back centuries. We descended worn stone steps into what appeared to be a dead end until he pressed against a particular section of wall.
“Edinburgh’s underground history is one of its best-kept secrets,” he explained as a hidden door swung inward. “The Old Town is built on layers of earlier structures. From what I read, if you know the paths, you can move beneath much of the city. That’s not even taking the tunnels into account.”
We navigated the damp passageway illuminated by the flashlight function on Con’s mobile. The stonework looked ancient, and water was seeping through in places, forming small rivulets along the floor.
After fifteen minutes, Con stopped, placing a finger to his lips. Above us, muffled voices became audible through what appeared to be a ventilation grate.
“The club’s private meeting room,” he whispered. “It’s directly overhead.”
We listened intently. The conversation was in English, but with heavy Russian accents. They were discussing shipments, delivery dates, and defensiveprotocols using coded language that, nonetheless, made their meaning clear to trained ears.
“The package from St. Petersburg cleared customs yesterday,” one voice said. “We are pleased with the components.”
“And the integration?” another asked.
