The First Order

by Jeff Abbott

  Weapon. Usually a gun. This time it would be the rarest of poisons. If he had not been able to acquire the polonium-210, there was no point in the rest of the preparations. Now that he had it:

  Escape route. Both a way to vanish and a name to frame for the kill, given that polonium was only produced by governments. He needed someone to blame, to serve as a distraction while he vanished into a different identity.

  Access to target. That would come soon enough. Sergei had taught him about the circle while keeping him away from it. He had an idea of how to get inside.

  But first he needed an escape route. Normally right before and after a kill he stepped out of being Philip Judge—the name he used the most—and stepped into one of the other identities that he and Sergei had built over the years. The identities Sergei gave him were ironclad, but it might be best to have a new name to slip into. So, starting a year ago for insurance, he had established another name he could assume, based in Miami.

  Robert Clayton ran an online store selling used books cheaply. Clayton had his own social security number and a Florida driver’s license and paid his taxes promptly. According to a hacked database he had attended public school in Miami. He owned property, and twice a year Judge had gone there, put in an appearance, met the neighbors, and explained that he had to be away for extended periods due to a parent suffering from Alzheimer’s in Denver. The neighbors thought him odd but quiet and the house was well maintained by people he paid to mow the yard and fix any issues that arose, so they thought he was the perfect neighbor: rarely around yet conscientious.

  But what Robert Clayton didn’t yet have was an American passport. He needed a legit one, with a history already activated in the consular database. So, before leaving the country, he would need this final bit of documentation. Because Philip Judge would soon vanish forever, and he would have to be Robert Clayton. And over the next few years, he’d move the money paid to him by Firebird into accounts that Robert Clayton could access. What would make that easier, especially for overseas accounts, was a passport in Clayton’s name. He didn’t have time to set up an overseas identity that he hadn’t used before. Clayton would have to do.

  Now he had to pay a visit to the Miami-based expert who could deliver that rarest of documents: an actual US passport, not only faked, but with a history registered in a consular database. He’d had to call Shaw when he took the Morozov job, and ask him to accelerate completion of the Robert Clayton identity. He was to collect this final and most important document from the forger, Shaw, who had created Robert Clayton’s entire digital footprint over the past two years.

  When Judge landed at Miami International, tired, irritated, and hungry, Shaw had left several messages urging Judge to call him back.

  “There’s a problem with the Clayton passport,” Shaw told him. “I need to meet you face-to-face to discuss options. Meet me at Clayton’s house at nine this evening.”

  “What is the problem?”

  “I’ll explain when I see you. But it’s an expensive one to fix. You’ll need to bring cash.”

  He had, like Sergei had taught him, hidden resources and cash where he could easily access them. He only lived off half the earnings from his kills; the other half was hidden away, in various places, in case he needed to run. He had such a hidden deposit in Miami.

  “What,” Judge said slowly, “is the problem?”

  “Not over the phone. Nine o’clock.” He hung up.

  Judge turned off his phone and walked out into the Florida rain. He didn’t like problems appearing at the last minute. They were almost always human error. Or human folly.

  Maybe Shaw was getting greedy. Or maybe—someone knew that Shaw worked for him.

  He could call Mrs. Claybourne, ask her for help. No. The job was in motion; they were not to have contact. It was too risky for them both.

  Tonight could be a trap. He’d have to treat it as such.

  23

  Brooklyn

  THE CLAYBOURNE GALLERY was in Williamsburg. Avril Claybourne had bought the property three years ago and Sam had found an archived website from the sale, with the layout shown. Her offices were upstairs from the gallery. If she had information on his brother, he thought it would be there.

  Mila was stationed outside, in a café down the street, as his backup. She seemed unhappy about missing the party.

  But there was one big risk. If Claybourne knew Danny’s real name—and he had no idea if she did know it—then she couldn’t meet a guy named Sam Capra. He’d been careful to tell Dominique that he just wanted to be introduced by his first name. “Just Sam. Like, you know, it’s a brand.”

  She’d rolled her eyes. She had brought two other clients with her, a married couple who were only a few years older than Sam and seemed very determined to let everyone know they’d made their money very young. They were eager to buy. He liked them; they would keep Dominique busy.

  He snagged a glass of champagne from a waiter and drifted away from Dominique, angling through the crowd. It was probably well over a hundred people. He made out four security men, all of whom outweighed him by fifty pounds and looked very professional. He thought, It wasn’t like the video art could be stolen. Maybe these men were more about Avril’s security than the art’s.

  On giant flat screens mounted on the walls played a variety of animations, some purposely primitive but oddly hypnotic. Some mixed video from a wide variety of sources: war footage, home movies, custom shots. One screen showed a silent film hero, froze him, broke the image down into a swirl of moving pixels, and re-formed it into a photo of a war hero, then a child, then a criminal mug shot. The effect was unsettling.

  “What do you think?” a young man next to him asked.

  “I don’t know much about art,” Sam said. “At first I thought this was random, but there’s a pattern behind it.” He might as well steal the Magpie’s ideas on the world to bluff his way through this evening.

  “I’m Dane; I’m Avril’s assistant.” He was lean, handsome, with wide-spaced piercing blue eyes and dark short hair.

  “I’m Sam, Avril’s potential customer.”

  “You might put in offers quickly. I expect everything shown tonight will be bought.”

  “I thought there would be more pieces,” Sam said.

  “Avril works primarily via private commissions. But sometimes she likes to make art solely for her own pleasure.”

  Private commissions. One way to account for money if this was a cover business, Sam thought. “Dominique Cross represents me. I own thirty bars. I might be interested in a different installation in each bar.” He put his gaze back to the closest video.

  Thirty commissions. Dane tried to keep his eyes from lighting up but failed. “You must meet Avril.”

  “She’s busy right now and I’d rather talk in a private setting,” Sam said. “Is there a private room where I could see a range of her custom work? And maybe alone—I feel awkward judging her work in front of her.”

  “Of course. There are samples on her website.”

  Sam managed to look imperious. “I’m not going to stand here and watch them on my phone.”

  “Of course not, sir. There’s a custom portfolio upstairs…”

  “Could you please show me?” Sam gave him a smile.

  “Sure, let’s go upstairs, but just for a few.”

  Sam followed him, past the swell of the guests, upstairs to a combination studio/office. A large-screen computer stood on a table, and nearby was a desk, spotlessly neat, with a laptop on it. Dane led Sam to the widescreen and activated a program, and a custom portfolio began to play.

  Sam frowned, studying it in silence as the videos played. He kept a critical expression on his face, as though uncertain as to what he thought.

  Dane’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. He glanced at the screen. “I’m needed downstairs…Have you seen enough?”

  “For thirty commissions?”

  Dane had the good sense to look embarrassed.


  Sam said, “I’d like for the portfolio to finish running. Can you come back up or I’ll meet you downstairs in a few?”

  “Of course.” He seemed hesitant about leaving Sam, but Sam put his gaze back on the screen and let himself look utterly absorbed. Dane left but kept the office door open. The sounds of the party drifted up the stairs.

  Sam went to the laptop on the desk.

  Sam took the fake Audi key Jack Ming had given him in Paris. He flicked the control and the hidden flash drive emerged from the key. He opened the laptop.

  It was secured, and a password requested, according to the screen.

  He slid in the hidden drive. A program on it launched and began a serious assault against the laptop’s password.

  One minute. Two. He felt a trickle of sweat down his ribs, under his Burberry Prorsum suit.

  The desktop appeared. He pressed the unlock symbol on the car key and a light began flashing. It was vacuuming up all the data on the hard drive, far faster than a commercially available drive could. Jack hadn’t told him how long the drive would take.

  He heard voices laughing, talking, closer than the party.

  The key to his brother could be here. He couldn’t leave.

  More laughter. A woman’s voice, clear and bright. The drive’s light went green. He pulled it free, powered off and closed the laptop, and slipped the keys into his pocket as he came around the desk back to where he was supposed to be.

  When Avril Claybourne came into the office, Sam stood in front of the monitor, head tilted as though studying the portfolio. The animation was a set of colored blocks, moving, shifting through the spectrum, weirdly hypnotic.

  “Hello,” the woman said to him. Dominique and Dane stood behind him.

  “Hi, je suis Sam,” he said. “So wonderful to meet you.”

  “Avril Claybourne.” She didn’t ask for a last name. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  The key was in his pocket. He pulled his hand from his pocket to shake her hand. “Dane was kind enough to give me privacy to look at your exquisite portfolio.”

  “I’d be glad to set up a meeting with you and Dominique after the party.”

  “Of course. I just didn’t want to waste your time, or my time, if we weren’t a match.”

  “Of course.” Avril’s voice was cool.

  “Well, I’m thirsty,” Dominique said. “Dane, let’s confab at the end and we’ll find a time to meet.”

  “That sounds good,” Dane said.

  Sam could feel the weight of the stare from Avril.

  “Sam, shall we?” Dominique said.

  “We’ll see you downstairs,” Avril Claybourne said.

  Sam nodded and smiled and followed Dominique back to the party. He had to get this stolen data out of here, now.

  Avril Claybourne glanced around the office. Nothing looked disturbed.

  “He wasn’t up here but maybe two minutes. Or three,” Dane said.

  She opened her laptop. Turned off, as she’d left it. She started it up. The screen arrived, asking as usual for its password.

  “Did I do wrong? Thirty commissions, Avril, do you know how much…”

  “Shut up, Dane.” The start-up completed. She signed in and then ran a scan program. Waited for the results.

  “I’m sorry if I messed up,” Dane said, his voice small.

  “No, of course you didn’t,” she said. Dane didn’t know about her side business; he was just window dressing, and that was fine. “Go back downstairs. Watch him.” She brightened her face with a smile. “I mean, we don’t want a good catch like him getting away.”

  Her laptop was shielded, designed to text her an alarm if penetrated or if an unauthorized hard drive was attached. The software didn’t exist that could bypass it. Or so the Estonian hacker who designed it promised her. The scan ran. She waited.

  There were no indications of a problem.

  Still. She texted Dane and told him to send the security chief up to her office.

  24

  Brooklyn

  WHAT THE HELL was that stunt?” Dominique whispered to him.

  “Stunt? I wanted to see her not-on-display work. Dane showed it to me.”

  “Well, if I’m your buyer, then you ask me and I take care of that for you. That’s part of the service, Sam. And why the sudden pretentiousness? Je suis Sam. Oh, please.”

  “I’m just trying to fit into your clientele.”

  She barely managed to suppress a smile. “Oh, dear.”

  The key carrying the stolen data felt like an anchor in his pocket. There was security at this party, mainly to keep the uninvited at bay (although Sam couldn’t imagine wanting to crash this party, for the food or the company) and to keep an eye on the drunkenness of the crowd, which seemed minimal. They were well behaved. But at a command from Avril, security could take him and search him and take the key, and he’d either have to play along and risk being caught or fight his way out.

  He saw Avril Claybourne come down the stairs, followed by one of the guards. Sam could see that under the jacket the man wore a holster. There were two other guards in the room, in suits, but miked up and with earpieces. If he had to fight his way out there was a busy avenue a block away. But if he had to fight his way out, then it would be on the news—violence erupts at artist’s showing—and he did not want that.

  But he suspected Avril Claybourne didn’t want that either.

  “I feel like there’s a different agenda here,” Dominique said, “than buying art.”

  He glanced over her shoulder and saw the guard Avril had spoken to watching him. He needed to get the key out of here. Off of him. In case he was questioned. A woman who worked as an associate to a man like Sergei Belinsky would not hesitate at violence. But if he panicked, he could telegraph to them that he was guilty. And he could do nothing that would put Dominique under suspicion.

  He sent a coded text to Mila, thumbing the phone in his pocket. Just the number 6. Their code for I have something to pass to you. “I have no agenda,” he said.

  “My other clients are buying a piece,” she said. “I’ve got to stay and negotiate.”

  He felt giddy with relief but he kept his expression neutral. “I understand. Thanks for bringing me tonight.”

  “You’re welcome. Call me if you want to commission Avril.”

  “Yes. Of course.” He thanked her again and headed into the night, fingers touching the key in his pocket. It could be the information that could lead to his brother.

  He didn’t see Mila but he knew she was close. He ambled down a couple of streets, people watching, window shopping. A man, in no hurry. He walked down Parkside Avenue toward the subway.

  And spotted one of Avril’s security men following him.

  He considered his options. If he lost the man, Avril could simply ask Dominique where he could be found. If he let the man follow him, it might confirm to Avril that he was just a bar owner, just as described. If she could tell that her data had been copied off her laptop, though…

  He moved through the evening crowds. He saw Mila ahead of him, on the other side of the street, closer to the subway station. He crossed the street, for all appearances heading to the subway. Mila, talking loudly on her phone to an imaginary friend, walked past him and bumped him while the shadow was navigating around a crowd in front of a bar. Sam passed Mila the key without a word; a flick of fingers and it was done.

  Sam kept going. The shadow followed him down into the station. No sign of Mila. If all went according to plan she would follow in a cab or on the next train.

  The shadow followed him into the subway station, past the street musicians, past the crowds. They waited at opposite ends of the platform, Sam staying focused on looking at his phone. The shadow did not move. But he wore an overcoat now, a lightweight one, and Sam imagined that he was still armed.

  Sam took the Q train back into Manhattan. The shadow was in his subway car, but at the opposite end. Sam gave no sign of recognizing him from Claybourne’s pa
rty.

  He got off at Times Square, thick as always with tourists and tip workers in their various costumes, and started the short walk toward Bryant Park. The shadow stayed with him. On his phone. Hanging back.

  Claybourne suspects you’re not what you seem, Sam thought.

  He ducked into one of the large, noisy tourist-catering restaurants. Servers swarmed the busy tables, waiting on families and tour groups, past four servers serenading a table with a birthday song. Sam dodged past people carrying trays and headed straight back to the kitchen. An assistant manager tried to block his way as he went into the kitchen and Sam moved past him with a shove. “That man in the trenchcoat is armed. I’m not staying here.”

  He saw the manager’s gaze lock on to the shadow. Sam ran through the kitchen, the curtains of steam, the loud sizzle of grills, and out the back service exit. He hurried down the broad alley to the cross street. No sign of his pursuer. He melted into the crowds.

  When he got back to the bar, Mila wasn’t there. No sign of her.

  He tried her phone. No answer.

  And she had the data that could lead to his brother.

  25

  Miami

  A BLOCK PARTY was in full swing. A Cuban band was playing at the end of the street. Judge parked his airport rental car a street over, put on a fake smile, and walked through the crowd, nodding politely at the next-door neighbor, already well-lubricated with beer, who called out, “Hey, Robert, great timing!” He did the sociable nodding, shaking hands, saying quietly that there wasn’t much difference in his mother’s condition back in Denver, thank you for asking. He held up his house key and said he had to go water his plants; it had been six months. Laughter, waves, an invitation to come back out and fix a plate from the barbecue table.

  He smiled and unlocked the door of his Robert Clayton house, steeling himself for unpleasantness.

  As he stepped inside, he saw Shaw: a small man, but wiry with muscle, with jet-black hair and a frown. Shaw had a key because he handled the maintenance on the house. Judge shut the door against the blare of music halfway down the block. He noticed that all the shades and curtains were still drawn.