the multiple windows and doors fail to grant me entrance, I move toward a garage-type shed in the back corner of the property. It’s daringly sitting on the edge of a cliff, appearing more hazardous than safe.
My lips twist when the sliding door opens with only the quickest pop of the mechanism. It has a silent alarm rigged into the tracks, but the wire cutters in my multi-combination pocketknife soon stop the speakers above my head alerting the neighborhood to an intruder.
The space inside is more appealing than its outside shell. It appears to be an office. A desk faces the Tiburon vista I mentioned earlier, but most of the space is gobbled up by shelves and shelves of files. They’re four shelves deep and at least ten shelves long. The number of files here is nothing compared to the Bureau’s field office in San Francisco, but it’s impressive for a private file storage unit.
A smile tugs on my lips when I take in the paperwork scattered across the desk. For the most part, the drawings at the bottom of the stack appear to have been done by a child, and they’re all signed Izzy, but the ones on top show an advancement in technique that comes with age. There are also a number of college papers, theses, and textbooks.
The evidence proves Isabelle was raised here, but why did Tobias hide her location?
“Why, Tobias? Why go to so much effort to hide your daughter’s identity?”
While seeking answers to the many questions filtering through my head, I pace down the first line of shelves. When I drag my finger along the files, dust kicks up. It isn’t the only thing spiking, though. So is my heart rate. The sequence of text written across the files is in the same configuration as the leftover code on the anagram Tobias gave me. A letter and two numbers followed by another letter and another two numbers.
After removing the sheet of paper from between the pages of Tobias’s book, I head in the direction of the first letter on the code. I find the I’s rather quickly, and even faster than that, I’m fanning through the files until I find the ‘09’ section. My heart rate slows when I locate a file with the exact sequence of code I’m chasing. It’s not overly thick, but the information inside is nothing like I was anticipating.
Isabelle isn’t Tobias’s daughter.
She was purchased on the black market when she was six.
I crash into the shelving when I take a step back, shocked about the next tidbit of information I unearth.
Isabelle isn’t like the many other children stolen to be sold.
She has the blood of mafia royalty.
She’s a Popov.
Vladimir Popov, Col Petretti, and Henry Gottle, Sr. are names commonly exploited during training at the academy. Excluding terrorist hub leaders and world diplomats we’re not allowed to mention, the men stated above are three of the top ten most wanted by the Bureau. They all have mafia connections, they have all been in the game for decades, and they have over twelve billion dollars in assets funding their organizations.
The Popovs are only second to Gottle—not that Vladimir would ever agree with that. They’re rivals. So much so, at one stage, rumors are Vladimir and Col joined forces with the hope of taking Henry down. Clearly, they failed, but it’s said their union is the reason Henry branched out years ago.
Could that branch have extended to the CIA?
With my discovery giving me more questions than answers, I continue flicking through Isabelle’s file. I discover the reason Tobias wanted me to know this information when I find an envelope at the very back of the file. It’s addressed ‘To the agent who watched me die.’
A set of instructions are printed on the back. They’re brisk and to the point.
Return the file to its rightful position.
Leave the envelope inside in a place Isabelle will find it.
Leave.
That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Tobias was never known for a fondness of words.
My throat grows scratchy when I carefully pry open the envelope the instructions are printed on. The envelope inside is an inch shorter and half an inch narrower than the one casing it. It’s pink in color and appears as if it was written quite a few years ago. The familiar handwritten font on the front is faded, and the edges are frayed. Even the greeting is as direct and forward as Tobias had always been.
To Isabelle
There are no other markings on the envelope, and it’s