by WOOD TOM
‘What? To who?’
‘To someone who can help us. There’s a man I’ve used before. An expert.’
‘An expert?’
‘A killer.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s not on our files, he’s SIS.’
‘As in the British Secret Intelligence Service? That’s insane. What about the British government?’
‘They’ll never know. He’s a contract agent. He’ll just do some moonlighting for us.’
‘Moonlighting?’
‘MI6 can’t pay him what I can.’
‘What’s the guy’s name?’
‘You won’t have heard of him. His name, or at least the name I know him by, is simply Reed. From this point onward he takes over the hands-on part of this operation.’
‘This is ridiculous; we don’t need an outsider. It’ll only complicate matters.’
‘I don’t care if it does complicate matters. Getting this mess buried is all I give a damn about. The only way we can proceed is by using an outsider.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
‘If you can’t speak like a grown-up, don’t speak at all. What else are we going to do? Gather together another bunch of clueless mercenaries? Or just dispatch more former company men and hope no one joins the dots if they don’t come back?’
‘We can still make it work.’
‘You’re not hearing me. Now that McClury is dead our hands are tied. You’ve had your chance and you’ve failed. Reed is our only hope of getting this situation cleaned up without bringing us into the spotlight.’
‘And where are you going to send this Reed? Like you said, we don’t know where Tesseract is any more.’
‘Tesseract can wait for the moment. Reed can be in Paris by the morning.’
‘Why Paris?’
‘I don’t think we have any time to waste. Do you?’ Sykes shook his head, unsure what question he was answering. ‘Good,’ Ferguson continued. ‘When Reed lands in Paris I want him to meet up with your man on the ground as soon as possible. What’s his name again?’
Sykes kept his face level, trying not to show he didn’t have a clue what was being discussed. ‘John Kennard.’
‘That’s right,’ Ferguson said. ‘Have Kennard supply Reed with a list of everyone who’s had an active role in this operation. Reed will then take care of the rest.’
‘What do you mean? Why would he need that list?’
Ferguson didn’t answer, but his eyes, peering through the steam from his cup, said it all.
‘Jesus,’ Sykes gasped, finally understanding. ‘All of them?’
Ferguson nodded as if it was of no consequence. ‘And they will be missed.’ He didn’t skip a beat. ‘But sacrifices must be made for the greater good.’
‘The greater good?’
‘All right,’ Ferguson admitted with a half smile that Sykes didn’t appreciate. ‘Maybe not for the greater good, but for the good of you and me. I am still assuming that you don’t want to spend the rest of your life behind bars?’ Ferguson paused and Sykes didn’t respond. ‘I didn’t think so, and that is the price of failure here, Mr Sykes. You are still aware of that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘This operation of ours has failed.’
‘Sir, I think it’s too early to—’
‘Shut up and let me finish. This operation has failed. Achieving our original objective is now a secondary consideration. Getting our hands on those missiles is going to take nothing short of a small miracle, so I suggest we focus our efforts elsewhere.’
‘What about the list of buyers I’ve been working on?’
‘For the time being you can forget the money, Mr Sykes. Our priority at this moment is to make sure we come out of this with our skins intact. The only way this could’ve worked was to have no loose ends, but we’ve gone way past that. Now, it’s damage limitation. We can’t have people walking around with knowledge of an illegal op that spectacularly failed.’
‘But none of them know the full details of what we’re doing or even who they’re working for. Only one is true agency anyway. And besides, we’ll need to use them again if we’re going to make this work, and they’re good, they’re trustworthy.’
‘Don’t kid yourself. They’re about as trustworthy as you are.’ Sykes’s eyes narrowed. ‘Or I am for that matter. What if one of them puts the pieces together about what’s been going on here, what are we going to do then? Hope they don’t tell anyone?’ Sykes looked away. ‘Alvarez is already on the scent and looking as if he might actually be getting somewhere. Or maybe that fat idiot Procter will stop worrying about his promotion prospects long enough to make the appropriate leap of faith. Do you really think that this disaster will stay buried if anyone besides ourselves knows even some of the details?’
‘But two are Americans, for Christ’s sake.’
Ferguson’s expression didn’t alter. ‘It’s unavoidable.’
Sykes’s head rose slowly. ‘You haven’t just decided this, have you?’ You would have had them killed even if things had worked out perfectly.’
Ferguson nodded. ‘Eventually yes, using Reed over an extended period of time, but this accelerates the urgency.’
‘And when did you plan on telling me?’
‘Don’t get all precious on me now, Mr Sykes,’ Ferguson said. ‘I told you at the very beginning if we were going to pull this off it had to be completely clean. No traces back to us. What did you think I meant?’ Sykes’s eyes dropped a fraction. ‘You’ve been in this business long enough to know what I was talking about. You may not have admitted it to yourself, but you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into, so don’t act so shocked now. There was always going to be a clean-up phase to this operation, and Reed was always going to be part of that. Experience has also taught me that you need a back-up in case the unexpected occurs, and I knew Reed could be that trump card. And, as events have transpired, it’s a good thing I had that foresight. Until now you didn’t need to know the details.’
‘Evidently.’
‘I trust this isn’t a problem for you?’ He paused. ‘Is it?
Sykes’s voice was quiet. ‘No, sir.’
‘That’s settled then. Reed will need all their details straight away, and I do mean all their details.’
‘I’ll make sure he gets them promptly.’
‘That’s my boy.’ All sympathetic smiles now, Sykes noted sourly, like a father explaining to his son the necessity of having the family dog put to sleep to avoid the veterinary bills. ‘It’s for the best.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sykes said, finding himself staring into space. He realized Ferguson was watching him closely and straightened up.
‘I do hope you have the stomach for this, Mr Sykes,’ Ferguson said.
‘Of course, sir.’
Ferguson’s voice dropped a few decibels. ‘Because I would be very disappointed to find my trust in you to be misplaced.’
‘You don’t have to worry about that, sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘This Reed character,’ Sykes said to take the spotlight from himself, ‘just how good is he?’
Ferguson raised an incredulous eyebrow.
‘He’s killed more people than Stalin.’
CHAPTER 24
Charles de Gaulle Airport, France
Thursday
07:30 CET
She saw him approaching, walking towards her in a perfectly straight line, relaxed, unfazed by the chaos of the airport around him. He was about five-ten, broad shouldered yet slim. Dark haired. He was wearing a fine black suit, jacket open, top button of his white shirt undone. No tie.
There was something almost mechanical about his movements, each action measured, controlled. He already had his passport in hand, and she took it from him, opened it up. Borland, James Frederick. James. He looked like a James.
He hadn’t shaved today, and the dark stubble disguised his otherwise strong jaw line. His skin badly needed some colour, and
his hair wasn’t styled, just cut short and fashionless. He had great bone structure but clearly didn’t make the most of himself.
‘What is the purpose of your visit to France, Mr Borland?’
The man’s reply was candid. ‘Business.’
His British accent was cultured, refined, the voice of a true gentleman. He had the natural class of someone who didn’t have to try. With a bit of work she could make him into a real head turner.
His eyes were blue, incredibly intense. He was especially handsome she decided, but it took a second look to realize. She compared the passport photo with the face before her and noted how in life he wore the same serious expression. She could tell he was a very deep person. If he blinked she didn’t see it.
She remembered she had a job to do. ‘What kind of business are you in?’
Again a one word answer.
‘Removals.’
He wasn’t a big talker, but that didn’t matter. Nothing worse than a guy who never shut up.
‘Are you from London? I love London, it’s a fantastic city. I think you English are the nicest people in the world.’
No reply. Not one for chit-chat then. He just waited with that unwavering blank look on his face. Maybe he was just shy. Yes, that must be it. She managed to sneak a glance at his left hand. No ring. No jewellery of any sort, in fact, and his watch looked like the kind of thing a diver would wear, not a businessman. What was with this guy? It was almost as if he was trying to play down his appearance. What was the point of being a looker if no one looked? If he hadn’t been walking directly towards her, she probably wouldn’t have noticed him.
She smiled, touched her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, ran a finger along her neck, fluttered her eyelashes like mad – anything to give him the signal to chat her up. He wasn’t taking the bait. Yet. Maybe he liked to tease.
She checked the information on her computer. The man flew a lot: Luxembourg, Egypt, Hong Kong. And they were just in the last month. She added well travelled to his list of qualities. She hit a few buttons on her keyboard and handed the passport back to him. He took it from her fingers so smoothly that she had to look down at her hand to make sure he actually had it.
‘Enjoy your stay in France.’
She gave it one last try, tilted her head to the side, and looked at him all doe eyed with her best take-me-to-dinner-and-fuck-me look. He walked away without a word.
Arrogant prick, she thought. He was probably queer.
CHAPTER 25
Budapest, Hungary
Thursday
17:46 CET
The sky above the city was overcast. The rain soaked through Victor’s overcoat. He shivered as he walked down a narrow street lined with puddles. The road was cobbled, the sidewalks uneven flagstones. There were no streetlights, just the glow from overlooking windows providing illumination. No one walked nearby. His footsteps echoed.
He hadn’t dared stay in Switzerland, where both the police and his hunters would be looking for him. Hungary seemed like a good idea. Victor hadn’t been to Budapest for a couple of years, so there had to be less chance of his being tracked here than some other cities. He didn’t believe a private operation could have followed him to Saint Maurice without his knowledge. It would take multiple teams of skilled shadows, precise coordination, access to CCTV footage, aerial and probably satellite surveillance.
Only an intelligence agency would have those kinds of resources and man power. Even then, few organizations had the reach to make such a thing possible. The assassin who’d tried to kill him in Switzerland had been an American. The leader of the kill team in Paris had been American too. Victor didn’t believe in coincidences. It could only be the CIA.
The walls of Victor’s world were crumbling down around him. He was on the execution list of the furthest-reaching covert service on the planet.
He was as good as dead.
His hotel was lost within the backstreets of Budapest’s red-light district. The room came with a bed with a sturdy metal frame and a whole drawer full of fliers for hookers, male as well as female. The hotel was the kind of place where he could lie low for as long as he needed while he collected his thoughts and decided on the next course of action.
Victor left the alleyway and kept walking, staying to the side streets, avoiding people, watching for shadows. He walked for longer than he planned, thinking, analysing. He thought about Paris, thought about his chalet in flames. Two attempts on his life within a week. He felt unpopular.
The sands of his life were running out with every passing second. Already the CIA would be scouring surveillance recordings, liaising with the Swiss authorities and foreign intelligence services – all the time narrowing down their search, closing in on him. He found an Internet café and took a terminal where he could watch the door. There were things he had to check if he was going to formulate a plan. And whatever plan he put into practice would require money. It was possible that if the CIA knew where he lived they had also frozen his bank accounts. There had been a time when a Swiss bank would never have revealed information about its clients, but the world had changed that day in September 2001. Now anything was possible.
He was relieved to find his money still in place at the primary bank he used. He would have to withdraw all the money as a precaution and booked an appointment at the bank. Victor had cash stored in various safety-deposit boxes around the Continent, but at the moment he was only concerned with his money in Switzerland. He realized he hadn’t eaten for a while and devoured three cheeseburgers at a nearby café. He finished off the milkshake on the street.
Nothing made sense to him any more. Did the CIA want him because of Paris, or did they arrange it in the first place? Did they hire him or did they hire the guys who tried to kill him or both? Did they track him from France to Switzerland or did they already know where he lived? Any answers he could think of led to more questions. He was reduced to speculation, guesswork, and he hated it.
He thought about the broker. This is not what you think, whoever they were had said. Maybe he should have listened. Perhaps the CIA had found out about his job and had tried to kill him afterwards; maybe Ozols was a CIA asset; maybe the flash drive belonged to the CIA; or maybe the CIA just wanted it for itself. Maybe the broker had been part of the set-up; maybe the broker was the CIA; or maybe the broker was on the same hit list as he. Too many maybes, not enough certainties.
Victor hailed a taxi, deciding at the last second to walk instead. The taxi driver hurled abuse at him in Hungarian, the gist of which Victor understood to be a reference to his mother. He didn’t look back. Falling snow mixed with the rain. It felt good on his skin. He walked past a group of homeless men passing around a bottle of something potent, judging by the stink in the air. He felt eyes watching him.
He put a hand to his chest for a moment. The pain was an annoyance but far from debilitating. There would be no longterm damage, but he now had a large bruise in the centre of his chest. When his current predicament was over, he planned to visit the company who had supplied him with the glass and creatively demonstrate to them just how bulletproof it really was.
The broker must have known something, he was sure of that now, but he had been so convinced they’d set him up he didn’t contemplate anything else. Now he was running for his life, maybe because of that bullheadedness.
He performed countersurveillance on autopilot, passing through side streets, doubling back, taking buses, changing. He’d decided to contact the broker long before he reached another Internet café, after trying unsuccessfully to come up with a course of action that didn’t go against his paranoia. If he had been right the first time and the broker did have a hand in what had happened in Paris, it wouldn’t matter, he would still be up against the same odds. But perhaps the broker knew something that could help him. He still had the flash drive. It could be the bargaining chip he needed.
He logged on to the game’s message board. The broker wasn’t logged in, but there was a per
sonal message in his profile’s in-box. From the broker, dated Monday. He opened it. A response to their last communication, a rant about honouring the arrangement, about ‘trust’ of all things. Victor deleted it. He composed his own message:
Tell me what really happened in Paris and I may deliver the package.
He thought it short and sweet. All he had to do now was wait.
CHAPTER 26
Paris, France
Thursday
22:22 CET
Kennard walked through the deserted street with his hands deep inside his coat pockets. Clouds of moisture billowed around his head with each step. He had a lot to do, like checking his operational email, but this was the most important task. He reached the public toilet and had a cursory look around. Protocol dictated that he should check the area out first, but it was too cold for that by-the-manual shit.
His shoes echoed on the concrete steps as he descended beneath the ground. The stink of piss was perhaps less overpowering in Paris than it might have been in LA, but repugnant is repugnant, whatever the strength. He slipped a coin into the slot and pushed his way through the creaking gate.
Only one of the three ceiling lights was working. A single bare bulb providing the grim illumination, casting deep shadows from the fixtures. The air was even colder than it was outside. The American saw his breath misting in the gloom. The walls were stained, the urinals cracked, taps rusted, floor wet.
What a shithole. No wonder the French were such a miserable people when they had to put up with public restrooms like this. At first glance the place was empty, and Kennard checked his watch. He was exactly right on the button. He rubbed his palms together, hoping the asset wasn’t going to be much longer.
He became aware there was someone in one of the stalls a second before a toilet flushed. A moment later the door opened and a figure emerged. He moved to the sink, casting Kennard a brief sideways glance.