The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI 5)

“We do need him. Trust me. No one in MI5 and MI6 will be thinking about vulnerabilities in MATRIX—or us—after this. And Drummond will be elsewhere. It’s perfect.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Govan Shipyards

Glasgow, Scotland

Mike and Ben followed Chief Inspector Mackenzie to the far end of the shipyard to a huge building with no windows, no activity at all, and a brawny cop standing in front of the door, his hands behind his back.

He came to attention. “Sir. No one’s been around. The lock hasn’t been disturbed.”

Mackenzie said, “This is Inspector Lloyd Westcott. He and I will be handling this investigation. Caine and Houston, FBI.”

Westcott’s accent was thicker than Mackenzie’s, and he spoke quickly, so Mike had a hard time keeping up.

“Good to meet you. Chief, we’ve swept for booby traps, have put a camera under the door—all surreptitiously, though no one’s been around here. If they’re watching, it’s not obvious. Let’s go in, shall we?”

At Mackenzie’s nod, Westcott picked up a massive pair of bolt cutters. With a single powerful snap, he cut through the lock, catching it before it fell to the ground.

“In we go.”

And he lifted the latch.

It was pitch-black inside the warehouse. It smelled musty, with a thick overlay of oil. Nothing unusual for a shipyard warehouse.

Mackenzie raised a Maglite to shoulder level and thumbed it on.

Mike blinked. “All I can see are crates. There must be hundreds.”

“This warehouse is about sixteen thousand square feet. Not so big for the area, but big enough.” Mackenzie gestured to the first crate, and Westcott used a pry bar to wrench it open. It was packed with what looked like shredded cardboard.

“Oh-ho. What do we have here? Five guesses,” he said, pulling it aside, letting Mike and Ben look.

The crate was full of weapons. Automatics. Westcott moved things around carefully. “M4 carbines, twenty, twenty-five to a crate. I assume that’s not our only weaponry, considering we have variable-size crates in here.” He looked at his boss with a crooked smile. “Bugger me, mate. It would appear Paulina Vittorini was running guns right under the navy’s nose.”

* * *

They sat down with a pot of tea inside the Govan Shipyards offices. Mackenzie said, “The full assessment of the warehouse will take days, and we can start taking apart Vittorini’s books in the morning. I have a forensic accountant who is practically magic. If anything’s hiding in the company books, we’ll find it.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to believe this, I mean, Vittorini is a patriot, a local legend. I’ve always believed her above reproach. I can’t believe she’d be running guns to terrorists or countries that run counter to our beliefs.”

Mike asked, “Could she have been holding the guns for someone else? What we have to find out is where the guns were headed when they left the warehouse and who they were being sent to. When you find out, please notify us.”

“Yes, all right. When will you head back to London? Or are you going to stick around and lend a hand?”

Mike saluted him with her teacup. “As soon as we get confirmation of the poisoned needle and finish the tea, sir, we must be on our way back to London. We have to discover how Donovan, Hemmler, and Alexander fit with Vittorini.”

Ben said, “And we know they fit together. They all crossed the wrong person or people.” He started to pull his cell phone from his jacket, then sh

ook his head. “It’s very annoying not to be able to pick up a cell or the phone and call, update my team on what’s happening.”

Mackenzie laughed. “It’ll turn you youngsters into old-fashioned gumshoes, like I used to be.”

The phone rang, and Mackenzie, startled, answered it. He listened for a moment, then hung up.

“You can leave now, agents. The poison has been confirmed. As you said, the cause of death is the same as the other three. Tree frog venom, of all things.”

Mike finished her tea and rose, Ben following suit. “Thank you for your help, Mackenzie. We will be in touch.”

“Good. Let’s get you back to Prestwick and your plane.”