Sinful beauty, p.1
Sinful Beauty, page 1
part #1 of Arrow Tactical Series Series
Sinful Beauty
Arrow Tactical Series
Isabel Jolie
Copyright © 2024 by Isabel Jolie
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
William Shakespeare
Contents
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Untitled
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Foreword
This is an outdated, first draft version. If you are reading this, then you are not reading the most updated version and the retailer you purchased it from needs to update their versions.
Prologue
Tristan
Yesterday
London, England
* * *
The conference room door opens, and Saint peers in, checks the backside of the wooden door, glances over his shoulder at the hall, and enters, closing the door behind him.
The agents cautious actions are unnecessary. No one will enter the hall because an untraceable shell company reserved all the meeting rooms at St. Martin in the Fields.
Saint’s gaze locks on a small white dome in the right quadrant of the ceiling.
“The camera has been deactivated,” I assure him. “Our team currently controls the video stream on the property. If someone is monitoring your activity, they will observe you entering the church on London surveillance, but they’ll never see where you went inside. There’s a service at the moment and we are placing you in the grainy footage in a middle pew close to the aisle.”
“That’s a complex approach. Did you hate the safe house that much?”
“Needed a bath after quitting the space.”
Saint snorts and steps up to the refreshments a lovely woman named Patricia prepared an hour earlier. He passes over the wine and tea, opting for water.
“Do you know why this room is called the Peter Benenson room?”
He picks up a scone, sets it on a small plate, and his nostrils flare. He may not play along. But then, Saint’s an amenable chap. “He made a sizable donation to the church?”
“In 1961 Peter visited St. Martin’s to reflect on two students being imprisoned in Portugal for drinking a toast to freedom. From the pews of this historic sanctuary, Amnesty International was born.”
He places the plate and glass on the table. He balls a hand into a fist and twists his neck, eliciting a cracking noise. “Two students. Does this story somehow relate to the two sisters?”
“Only in the loosest of senses.” He glares at me, and unexpected contrition wrenches me. “If you wish to meet elsewhere next time, we can. I recommend the countryside, far from London surveillance.”
I was straight up with him, the safe house we previously used to meet is beyond dodgy. But with London surveillance getting tighter by the day, and too many with access, greater precautions are warranted.
He pulls out a chair, flips it around, and sits on it backwards, legs wide, facing me and not the table. The posture and his cowboy boots add to his American aura, a role he’s been playing for so long I suspect it’s become ingrained in his nature.
“The sisters are safe?” Yes, of course, their welfare is his primary concern.
“Indeed. I was with Sloane in Grand Cayman two nights ago. You have my word. She’s unharmed and doing well. She’s currently on the outskirts of Washington D.C. being debriefed by your people.”
His face contorts with displeasure. “I was promised she would be looked after.”
“And she is.”
He shifts in his seat, moves one arm beneath his suit jacket, and lifts a handgun. He sets it on the table, pointed to the frosted glass wall that overlooks an atrium.
My gaze flicks pointedly from Saint to the gun.
“It was uncomfortable.”
“I’m your friend, you know?” I’m not blowing shit up his arse. I’ve been his contact for years. I might not know his real identity, but I know his character. The man is deep undercover on a mission with the highest level of security, so high that I’ve only been partially briefed. He’s been too deep for too long, if you ask me. A man can lose himself when all his effort is spent pretending to be someone he’s not. But he’s not working for us, and it’s not my call.
“Wasn’t tickle fucking you. The gun really was uncomfortable.” His lips turn up and there’s a trace of amusement. It’s good to see he’s still capable of humor. “What else do you have?”
“Too little. We’re tracking William Salo’s colleagues with emphasis on his supervisors. If he wakes, he’ll be a valuable intel source, but the doctors aren’t optimistic. We’ve looked into the employee Sage Watson spoke with who claimed Sloane resigned. She’s an executive assistant. Interestingly, she has family members in prison in Brazil, but we haven’t uncovered any connection. Right now we expect the people behind the scheme work for one of the big pharmas.”
One of Saint’s eyes narrows into a slit, his head tilts and his lips purse. “I’ve dug around on my end. The syndicate isn’t behind it. But whoever is has Russian connections.”
“We’re looking for Russians?”
“Didn’t say that. You’re looking for a wealthy, connected individual or individuals with connections to a Russian cartel. My source says the contact is an older man, Swiss. I don’t have a name for you. But it’s someone within Lumina.” An older Swiss man matches the profile of a significant percentage of Lumina employees. “You’re off on the big Pharma hunch. The group is within Lumina.”
“Who’s your source?”
“The information won’t help you.” He leans back and rests a forearm over the back of the chair, and one hand goes to his waist. “Why are you defensive?”
I hold up my hands, palms out, and cross an ankle over a knee, downplaying what he perceived as defensiveness. “Curious.”
“You’re looking for someone who has traveled to Moscow, possibly placed frequent calls to Moscow, but chances are he won’t be sloppy enough to leave a communications trail. Might not even leave a travel trail. The contact with the cartel is the one who hired Zolonov.”
Anton Zolonov has been on Interpol’s Red Notice list for years. He abducted Sloane and contracted help to attempt an abduction of the other sister.
“If I get anything else, I’ll let you know. But I’ve dug as deep as I can.” I nod, comprehending all that remains unsaid. If there’s a connection between Saint and these sisters, it’s one he doesn’t want coming to light for their safety. Saint infiltrated a powerful syndicate that boasts expansive and uninterrupted global reach. The international community is relying on him to uncover the members, specifically the members that are currently entrenched in governments around the world. I’m not officially his handler, but I am his contact and I’m one of the few aware he exists.
“What do you have for me?”
He passes a burner mobile to me. “In the notes app, you’ll find a link to a file. Password LetThereBeLight, all one word. The file is a listing of bank accounts contributing to four shell companies that will be contributing to candidates around the world. The bank accounts are from legal enterprises within the syndicate, but Kontinuum owns all four shell companies. From what I can tell, they’ve been created with the sole purpose of influencing elections and stoking unrest. If you find candidates with funding from these companies, then Kontinuum is backing them.”
I slip the mobile into my inside breast pocket. “Anything else?”
“I’ll be in Moscow for the next few weeks. I’ll send communication through the normal channel for our next meet.”
I pass a folder to him. He opens and flicks through the photographs. His face softens, and a thumb runs over one photograph inside. In our roles, we don’t share personal details. But, his reaction to the photographs speaks volumes.
“They’re doing good.” He says it more to himself than to me.
“It’s my understanding the younger one got engaged.”
“No shit. To who?”
“An American. Arrow employee. We’ve crossed paths a couple of times. Likable fellow.” I recall him at the hospital in Kuala Lumpur. “Serious.”
“Name?”
“Ah, Knox.” I rack my brain, but the last name eludes me.
“No fucking shit.” The grin on Saint’s face is one I’ve never seen before. “The scoundrel. Would’ve never seen that coming.” The guy loo ks genuinely pleased, relaxed and, dare I say it, happy. “Can you do me a favor? Find out when they set a date. And can I get you to send an anonymous gift? Can you do that without creating any red flags?”
“Absolutely. I’ll remain apprised of the situation.”
He closes the folder and slides it across the table, returning it to me. “And see if you can’t help Sloane locate employment in the States for the next couple of years?”
“It’s my understanding that’s the plan.” I set my foot back down on the ground and lean forward. “And your plan is to remain in place?”
It’s my understanding he threatened more than once to blow the entire op if we didn’t secure Sloane Watson.
“Quitting isn’t an option. Good things are coming out of this.” His eyes narrow, and he transforms from friendly chap to operative. “Interpol will crack down on the operation in Cambodia?”
“We’re doing what we can. From a diplomatic standpoint—” He raises an eyebrow and his fingers closest to the handle of his pistol twitch. “I give you my word we’ll catch the person who ordered hits on the Watson sisters.”
“That’s not good enough, Nomad. You need to take them all out. Every single one of them. They’re like ticks. Smash only a part and the full body grows back.”
“Trust me. We’ll get everyone involved.” Saint can’t possibly understand, as he doesn’t know my identity, but for me, this case is personal.
Chapter 1
Tristan
Lyons, France
* * *
The world rewards those with purpose, and little cares for truth. Take a few threads of truth, stitch in the necessary fictions and weave it all together to form the lie you require for your purpose. Such is the world in modern times. Has it always been so?
“Sir, Nigel can see you now.” The petite assistant with cropped stark white hair, dramatic black oversized frames and a close-lipped smile breaks me out of my reverie and opens the impenetrable walnut door to the director’s office with the practiced ease of someone who has filled the assistant role for decades, as I’m certain Ms. Penny Lanshire has.
“Thank you. Did I mention how lovely you look today?”
The phone on her desk, a vintage contraption with multiple clear buttons along the bottom, rings, one of the clear buttons glows, and she charges forward, the only sign that she heard my belated cordiality a slight uptick on the right side of her maroon-stained lips.
“Get in and close the door,” Nigel calls with his usual authoritative gruffness.
With a good twenty years on me, I imagine Nigel, my boss and a direct report to the Deputy Secretary General of Interpol, has a plenitude of reasons to be surly. Our job is to facilitate international police cooperation and to control crime that crosses borders. It’s the cooperation piece that is a thorny bugger.
“Hun Tap Tareth died.”
The door closes with a firm push and a click and I attempt to place the Cambodian name. “He was the senator who had been willing to speak with us?” He blinks acquiescence.
“The official account states he committed suicide by shooting himself three times.”
“Ah. One of those.” I sit across from the expansive walnut desk and glimpse myself in Nigel’s spectacles. To avoid the temptation of fixing my unruly hair, I shift back in the armchair, out of the range of my reflection, and consider the situation. No one commits suicide by shooting themselves three times. To state it in an official account is a warning.
“Who do you think orchestrated it?” A silvery eyebrow rises above Nigel’s circular wire frames. “The suicide,” I clarify. “Do you think it has to do with our inquiry into Manet’s compounds?”
“Possible. No evidence that’s the case, of course. What did you learn from the girl?”
And this is where it’s my turn to weave fiction and truth. Because I have a purpose.
“Anna Sloane Watson, an esteemed scientist.” I pause for emphasis, acknowledging her maturity and status. “She shared what we have long suspected. Research companies are using the compounds for preliminary testing to speed products to market. Although her direct experience pertains to the compound near Phnom Penh, one can infer that similar practices are likely employed across all compounds. For years, we have been aware of the use of these compounds for organ sourcing, so the notion of testing comes as no great surprise. All compounds are under scrutiny; be it China, Vietnam, Malaysia, or Cambodia.”
The criminal enterprises in Southeast Asia have turned human exploitation into a lucrative trade, enticing vulnerable migrants into deceptive work agreements. These egregious violations of human rights span from A to Z, constituting crimes that transcend borders and squarely demand Interpol’s attention. Regrettably, powerful players profit from the arrangement, making the case for engagement problematic. Moreover, when it comes to international diplomacy, the appetite to anger China is nil. It’s why I wouldn’t promise Saint, a liaison, resolution in Cambodia.
“Why’d they go after her?” Nigel steeples his hands, elbows planted on the ergonomic office chair armrests. He’s sent me thrice to meet with the Americans working on the Watson girl’s abduction case, all because we need more evidence before we can act. He might not have agreed to send me, except his acquaintance with Jack Sullivan, one of the founding partners of the black ops firm Arrow Tactical, goes back decades to Jack’s CIA intelligence days. One night over scotch, Nigel shared he owed Jack his life. He didn’t divulge details, but he imparted enough for me to understand I needed to handle the missing American’s case in earnest. Over time it became apparent Jack Sullivan wasn’t the only individual who cared deeply about the case.
“She unwittingly assimilated data that proves organs are being sourced from individuals either exposed to cancer-causing substances or, as we suspect, they are being used as human guinea pigs. In essence, she uncovered the evidence we’ve been needing to open an investigation.”
“She’s a whistleblower?”
“Not exactly. She didn’t comprehend what she uncovered. Obviously, someone else did. Someone who had much to lose from an investigation.”
“Why abduct her?”
“The instructions from the power players were to kill her. An ex-lover intervened.”
“How romantic.” His tone conveys the sarcasm his muted expression conceals.
“She nearly killed him.” Another single silvery eyebrow raise requests I explain, so I comply. “The ex-lover. It’s my understanding his wife is distraught.”
“Lovely.”
“Quite. The full report is in your inbox.” The report leaves out any mention of Saint, and we won’t mention his name in these offices, either. There can be no mention of an undercover officer having penetrated the Kontinuum Syndicate. “An investigation into the compounds won’t stop anything. You know this as well as I do. They’ll give us the same spiel as always. The workers are there legally and come and go as they please. They’ll tell us we are overstepping and that it is of no concern to Interpol. International concern for immigrants and the world’s poor isn’t terribly high. If an investigation is opened, it will be swiftly closed.”
“I concur. But we have enough information to open a formal investigation into Lumina International. Once we brief the Swiss authorities, they’ll take over. They’ve enough damage from banking scandals. The last thing they need is a pharmaceutical scandal that will further undermine their position on the world landscape. They’ll handle it seriously.”
He’s speaking the truth.
“Why are you hesitant?” Nigel’s intuitive skills are legendary.
