Double Deal

by John M. Green

  ‘Vitali, a moment, please.’ He picked up the phone to the cockpit. ‘Captain Boris, seagulls to starboard.’

  Tushkin had been wary of gulls at airports ever since a tragedy he’d witnessed at Moscow’s Domodedovo airport in 2007. Still an FSB officer back then, his flight was landing at the same time birds struck the engine of a cargo jet taking off on the parallel runway. He watched it crash, later learning that all seven people on board died instantly. Ever since, he always studied the ‘airport’ tab in his security briefing folder. Like this morning, when he read that Barcelona’s El Prat was built on a former bird sanctuary, a drained natural wetland, so that, like a number of European and North American airports, it maintained a stock of raptors to scare off the pesky birds that refused to find another habitat.

  ‘Boris, tell the tower to release their falcons.’ He put down the cockpit phone. ‘Vitali, my apologies. A few logistics.’

  ‘What about the girl, Mr President. Your daughter’s double?’

  ‘Of course. You met her at the plastic surgeon’s. We are taking care of her family too. You do not need to worry on her behalf. Vitali, remember that whatever happens in that church, you are there to represent our Mother Russia. Hold your head, my head, high.’

  The president put down the phone.

  Hoodwinking Hermes by exploiting the sap’s soft spot for the planet was still a beautiful thing, even if the plan hadn’t succeeded all the way.

  He checked his watch. Casals would be first – good riddance – and a minute after that Hermes would kill Zoya’s double and two minutes more it would be Vitali’s turn.

  So be it.

  He leant forwards and took two shots of vodka from Natasha’s tray and handed one to his daughter. ‘Zoya, take this. Let us make a toast.’ Zoya put down her book, a proof copy of his upcoming autobiography, which his publisher, he’d told her, had said was ‘a masterpiece’ that would outsell the Bible and Tolstoy combined.

  After father and daughter downed the liquor, Tushkin put his glass on the console and took up his phone again, messaging Hermes in English so the clown could not possibly misinterpret him.

  Hermes, you won’t get one more rouble out of me, you greedy fuck. Do your worst.

  107

  Tori knelt behind the dumpster until the next squad of cop cars passed. She rattled the padlock on the gate, locked, slid Akono’s belt under the fence and vaulted herself over the top.

  The front door was open, but not enough to see inside. She reclipped the belt, took off her gloves, and drew the weapon out of its holster. With the muzzle pointed at the ground, she pressed the paddle on the grip to release the magazine into her left hand – ten rounds, fully loaded, Bless you, Akono – unclipped the release and pulled the slide rearwards to check the chamber was empty, no cartridge or casing. She re-slotted the clip and cranked the slide to chamber a round. The gun was primed.

  She raised it up in a two-handed grip and nudged the door open with her foot. It didn’t creak but she still let a few seconds pass before stepping over the threshold. Outside, more sirens whizzed past, but the interior was quiet. So far. She knew that wearing the helmet wasn’t ideal for listening but decided to keep it on, a protection against a surprise blow from behind.

  The front room was fairly dark thanks to the hoarding outside, though her eyes adjusted quickly. She lifted her visor and took a sniff. There was a chalkiness in the air, a smell you’d expect from the demolition of bricks and plaster inside a building site. A hint of wood shavings, too, and a lingering tang, quite sharp, probably from paint-stripper solvents.

  Nothing about the place suggested an assassin’s lair, not so far.

  She scanned the room for wires and threads, tripwires, lasers, cameras, her eyes sweeping up and down the floorboards like a cleaner’s broom, then she checked along the skirting boards, up the walls, around the cornices, the ceiling.

  Nothing, except for some short worms of coloured wire dangling out of holes in the walls and ceiling, their live ends taped over.

  The space behind the front door was clear, no cables or touch plates to set off an alarm.

  She had a good line of sight up the stairs and most of the way down the corridor. She closed the front door behind her and tiptoed down the hall, the sneakers she’d filched finally coming into their own. Moving beyond the staircase she passed a small elevator, the kind that would fit one person comfortably and two at a pinch, but it was not in use according to the red ‘X’ taped over the glass of its door. Further along were three rooms, doors removed, spaces empty, floorboards also bare, wallpaper stripped.

  What did start to puzzle Tori was how tidy the place was. Too tidy. No tools lying around. No piles of debris waiting to be wheelbarrowed out.

  Her pistol up, she headed back to the stairs and inched up the first flight, giving each step a look over before she placed so much as a toe on it.

  The next floor was much the same, gutted yet tidy. But when she got to the second flight of stairs what looked like a gold-backed playing card was overhanging the edge of the bottom step.

  She flipped it over with the muzzle of her pistol. It wasn’t a playing card. It was a photo of Freddie Mercury in one of the Queen frontman’s iconic poses. She’d seen it many times, the one with his right fist held high above his head, his left holding the mic, the stretch pulling on his yellow military jacket to reveal the deep vee of his skin-tight white T-shirt.

  Another flurry of sirens whizzed past outside as Tori stared at the card. His left hand. He wasn’t holding a mic. It was a pistol.

  The Queen Killer.

  Was it a message? A warning? Was she the queen, a killer, or the one to be killed?

  She picked up the card and studied the gun in the picture. An H&K USP. The same as Akono’s. She suddenly felt as if her skin was shrink-wrapping her bones.

  If she went upstairs, she might well find The Voice, but what use was that if the truth died with her? Creeping back downstairs and running the hell out of here seemed no better, not with the carloads of police whooshing past. They might have something else on their minds right now, but that could change in a flash. They were, after all, under orders to be on the lookout for her and to shoot her on sight if they had to.

  In hindsight, coming here without backup, without Frank, without the help that Axel had offered, was more than impulsive, it was crazy. She’d put herself in a position where either choice – to stay or go – risked death.

  Tori didn’t believe in fate but, even so, she flipped the Freddie card up in the air. If he landed face-up she’d continue upstairs. If he landed face-down she’d take her chances with the cops outside.

  108

  Boston

  Axel and Ron were still working the phones. It was just after 6 am in Massachusetts, 8 am in Greenland. The Arctic country’s deputy prime minister and justice minister had moments ago hung up to rejoin the emergency Cabinet session that Axel had dragged them out of.

  ‘At least they didn’t say no,’ said Ron hopefully.

  ‘How could they once we gave them Thatcher’s proof?’ Axel looked to his doorway. His long-time personal assistant Lucille stood with a platter in one hand he hoped wasn’t full of those awful crackers that tasted like dried plaster.

  He nodded to her and she entered, going over to the bay window first, her blue eyes sparkling in the glare of the sunrise coming across Boston Common. She turned the slats on the venetians down a little and then placed the salver on the desk between Axel and Ron.

  Argh. He hated these insipid Swedish crispbreads even if, as Lucille incessantly claimed, they were good for his ‘3 Ds’ of diet, digestion and disposition. He couldn’t speak to the first two Ds, but he knew for a fact the crackers did nothing for his temperament.

  Lucille, as always, was immaculately dressed: her one concession to today’s early hour was that she’d pulled her silver hair back into a ponytail instead of her usual French roll.

  She picked up the remote for his wall TV and swi
tched it on. ‘You’ll both want to see this,’ she said, and left.

  An NBC newsflash logo was swirling at the top right corner of the screen and the picture showed Axel’s friend President Casals inside the Sagrada Familia. Uri’s eyes were wild, and chunks of glass – yellows, blues and greens – were scattered through his hair and over his shoulders.

  In Barcelona, Spain, a swarm of killer micro-drones – slaughterbots – have killed five people at the Sagrada Familia, the iconic church where terrorists calling themselves Endz of the Earth are holding five hundred funeral-goers captive, including American President Isabel Diaz and other world leaders.

  A few moments ago, a spokesman for the extremists denounced Catalonia’s President Oriol Casals as a traitor and …

  Axel’s usually rosy cheeks paled. He put the TV on mute, unconsciously took one of the crispbreads and snapped it in two. ‘Five dead, Ron. Our president a hostage. And Uri … That man is a saint, not a traitor.’ He turned over the two halves of the cracker and put one in his mouth. ‘With everything else that’s happened today,’ he nodded, a few crumbs blowing out of his mouth onto his desk, ‘I’m thinking this has to be—’

  ‘The Voice.’ Ron shifted his wraith of a body on the chair and a pinkness came to his insipid skin as if he’d sucked it out of Axel. ‘That’s if such a person actually exists.’

  ‘Ron,’ said Axel, the sharpness of his tone a clear warning to lay off his contempt for all things Tori. ‘What if this Endz of the Earth group and The Voice are fellow travellers?’ He put down the rest of the cracker and dialled Frank’s latest burner. He put the call on speaker. While the number was trilling in the background, he went on, ‘Until this,’ he pointed to the TV screen, ‘I believed Francis’s new plan was smart. Risky for sure, but smart even so. It’s just become a whole lot riskier.’

  ‘And a whole lot less smart.’

  After Frank lost Tori, he’d raced back to the market to get a new phone and got Thatcher to tell him where Tori was headed. He convinced Axel that instead of taking Thatcher’s evidence to the local police, the best way forward was to win over public opinion first. Through Axel’s connections, they’d got a TV network to agree to run through the proof package on air. They wouldn’t play the depraved video, only the frames that showed it was a deepfake. Then they’d display the metadata that identified where and when the recording was made – i.e. not in Room 420 – and blurred photos of the sex workers’ bodies in front of the green screen at Bar Canona. That way, the public would at least be open to the possibility that Tori was framed, which in turn would place considerable pressure on the police to start looking for the real killer, and to withdraw the order to shoot her on sight.

  Frank, meanwhile, had set off to find Tori and explain what they were doing, and stop her from risking everything by confronting The Voice. Once he’d found her, he was to call the police and give them the address. But he and Tori wouldn’t wait there. Instead, he’d escort her to the TV studio, where she’d go on air to tell her side of the story. With the whole world watching, they’d all agreed the cops couldn’t possibly come in with guns blazing when they turned up to arrest her.

  Frank’s phone kept ringing.

  ‘Francis, answer your damn phone. Ron, why isn’t he picking up? Lucille,’ he called out, ‘something’s wrong with my phone.’ He slammed his hand down and crushed the crackers.

  109

  Barcelona

  The thrust of the take-off pressed Tushkin back into the soft white luxury of the calf-leather seats. He allowed himself a smug grin, an indulgence he was prepared to give himself since the crew were belted up in the galley and Zoya was his only witness.

  ‘What is it, papushka?’ Zoya asked, smiling back.

  The president adored his daughter but leadership was a lonely place and he couldn’t share his satisfaction in calling Hermes’ bluff, not even with her. He settled back and was about to close his eyes when his smartphone buzzed. The phone identified the caller, in Russian, as You definitely want to take this.

  ‘So, Tushy, you’re sitting back, seatbelt fastened, patting yourself on that muscular back of yours over how you pulled the yak’s wool over my eyes. Correct?’ Tushkin’s mind was in a whirl. He said nothing as he tried to calculate his next move. ‘Tushy, have you been bragging to Zoya about how brilliantly you slipped off my hook? Not the you you, the Vitali you. Cancer-guy. The poor dupe who only you and I know is shitting himself in the church because, for the first time since that plastic surgery you paid for, he’s actually expecting to sacrifice his life for yours. Except the thing is, Tushy, poor old Vitali is not the boob who fleeced me. And the Zoya I kidnapped is not your daughter. Yes, I threatened them both but that was my little game, a misdirection. Your two doubles are safe. You’ll be pleased to know that they are not in my sights.’

  Tushkin’s smile had long dropped off his face. The jet engines were roaring as the wheels lifted off the ground, the dials on the console showing him the climb … 75 metres above sea level … 95 … 230 … 480 … and the speed at 180 knots … 250 … 460. He heard then felt the landing gear retracting, too late to get the captain to abort take-off.

  ‘Cat got your tongue, Max baby? It’s so strange for such a rich and powerful man as you not to have all the answers. You’ve got your own planes, army, navy, hypersonic nuclear missiles, secret police, six or is it seven billion stashed away in secret bank accounts. And despite all that, you’re still a measly prick who swindles an artiste like me and tells them to fuck off. Except, Maxy, nobody fucks with Hermes. Oh, I almost forgot, I’ve got a little gem of information for you. You know those little drones you gave me? They have a truly amazing characteristic, one that real birds don’t. Airport falcons can’t scare them off. You do know about airport falcons, don’t you?’

  ‘Papushka,’ said Zoya, leaning over and placing her hand on her father’s wrist. ‘What’s wrong?’

  He shook her off.

  ‘Maxy, is that the lovely Zoya I hear in the background? She has her late mother’s gorgeous eyes, don’t you think? But enough chitchat. Crane your head back out of your window. Do you see how your microdrones have magnetised themselves to the outer casings of your engines? Hey, do you feel that slo-mo constriction in your sphincter? Well, suck it up. You’re in good company. Goliath felt the same thing watching the pebble from David’s slingshot fly towards him just before it smashed his giant skull open. Get ready to blow, big boy. Here goes, three, two—’

  The Russian held the smartphone in front of him and screamed into it, ‘Hermes, you said Casals was first! You gave me your word!’

  ‘You gave me yours, and look where that got me.’

  ‘I’ll pay, do you hear me? Hermes, I’ll pay double what you asked. Do not do this. I’ll pay triple.’

  ‘The window for atonement was closed, but I’ll re-open it. For Zoya, not for you. So, yes, do double the money – I’m not greedy – but do it right now. You’ve got twenty seconds. Tick, tick, tick. You know the drill.’

  Tushkin glanced at Zoya, who was about to speak. He shook his head, looked down at his computer screen and logged into his account. ‘I’m doing it, Hermes. Right now, I’m typing in my password … I’m in … Ninety—’

  ‘Times two is $180 million.’

  ‘Transferring it … Here goes. The money, all of it, it’s on its way to you.’

  ‘Such a shame you won’t be able to buy that British football team or that penthouse in Paris you’ve been looking at for Zoya’s birthday.’

  ‘How did you—?’

  ‘I’m a magician. But enough about me. As I started saying before, three, two—’

  ‘But Hermes, I paid you. I did what you asked. You can’t—’

  ‘Actually I can, and I will. In fact, I am. Tushy, you can’t possibly appreciate how much of a kick this is giving me. Where was I? Oh yes … two, one, and kaboom, baby.’

  110

  Freddie Mercury won Tori’s card toss, which was supposed to mean sta
y except his outstretched arm was pointing down the stairs. Was that a sign? Was he telling her to scoot? While Tori didn’t believe in signs or omens, weirdly it did feel like the dead singer was warning her.

  She still had to make her choice. Upstairs, downstairs … which?

  After thinking for another moment, she had a different idea and turned on her heels, leaving the fallen rock star to sing his heart out. Thirty seconds later, she was at the elevator on the ground floor, jimmying the door open with one of the blades on Akono’s multi-tool.

  She stepped inside the cabin and swung her arms out sideways, pressing her palms flat against the opposite walls, her elbows bent and, thankfully, they had plenty of give.

  She placed her helmet on the floor and stretched up to the hatch in the cabin roof, shifted it to the side and … one, two, three, bob and spring … pulled herself up through the opening.

  Standing on top of the cabin at the base of the narrow shaft, she looked up, six wedges of light filtering through the glass doors above her. It was a long way to the top.

  The lift well was the perfect width for what she was going to try, a dà ratchet. It was a technique her parkour coaches mostly described as a split-leg body-wedge, but Tori preferred her tag. She’d named it after the Chinese character dà – 大 – because the symbol mimicked the shape of the required body stance: hands and legs out to the sides, the four extremities pressed against opposite walls.

  The first time she’d used it in the field was in Tunis, to sneak up on a suicide bomber who’d been spotted vesting up on the fifth floor of a heavily defended apartment building. When Tori looked at the images beamed down from their drone and saw the tight, unguarded alley at the building’s rear, she killed the plan to precision-strike the place and, after zig-zagging her way through five alleys to get there, did a dà ratchet up the exterior walls, reaching a terrified fourteen-year-old girl and saving her as well everyone else in the block.

  After that, Tori had no more call for dà ratchets until she took her job with SIS and started doing it for fun, spending quite a few of her weekends scrambling up walls all over Boston with a local parkour group.