The Hunter

by WOOD TOM

  It was a shame that Stevenson was dead, but only because Hoyt had lost an easy revenue stream. Just to be on the safe side, he’d put some of his underlings on the scent to see if they could find out anything about what happened. It wouldn’t do his reputation any good if Stevenson had performed poorly. So far, the overpaid and undertalented simpletons working for Hoyt had given him nothing more than what he had read in the papers. In this instance it seemed no news was good news.

  Even still, Hoyt had been expecting a communiqué from a pissed-off client for a few days now, but none had yet arrived. He was not overly concerned by this. The nature of such business meant that things could go bad and go bad publicly. The client obviously understood this, or maybe the hitman had been killed after the job’s completion so that the client didn’t care. Either outcome suited Hoyt. He didn’t know what the job had been and was glad of that fact. It was easier to sleep at night when he didn’t have to think about the messy consequences of his illicit dealings. Shame to have lost a revenue stream, but better to have maintained his reputation.

  That last particular business arrangement had been obscenely profitable. The client had offered a $200,000 purse, of which Hoyt had passed on a mere $128,000 to the American mercenary. For a few e-mails and a delightful afternoon in Brussels, Hoyt had personally pocketed $72,000. If he rounded up his billable hours to a working day of seven, which he knew was being very generous, that became $10,285 an hour. Even for Hoyt that was an exceptionally good rate. If only all business deals could be so satisfying.

  He opened his bottom drawer, took out a small black wooden box, and placed it on his desk. From the box he took out a hand-folded paper envelope. He tapped out some cocaine onto the desk and made a line of it with a razor blade. It was premium Nicaraguan, and the best money could buy – so finely cut it didn’t need any more chopping. Using a silver tube designed for just such a moment, Hoyt sniffed up the drug.

  He slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, pinching his nostrils. Christ, that felt good. He resisted doing another line and packed the cocaine box away. Hoyt prided himself on his self-restraint. It was time to head home. There was no one else at the office, so he made his way to the elevator in semi-darkness. His corporation, though highly profitable, was a small affair and consisted merely of himself, his personal assistant, five analysts, and a receptionist. They all worked from Hoyt’s plush offices in central Milan.

  Hoyt had lived in Italy for so long that he could easily pass as a native. The decades under the Mediterranean sun had stained his skin a dark tan, and his Italian was fluent. His naturally dark hair and eyes aided the illusion. If asked where he was from he would say Milan. Hoyt loved Italy – the land, the culture, the language, the people. It just suited his tastes perfectly. It was perhaps not the best place to conduct business, but over the years he had found its location provided many advantages. With clients in both Western and Eastern Europe, Africa and the Middle East, Italy served as a fine centralized base of operations.

  It was a short drive back to his townhouse. Hoyt lived alone, had never married. He liked women, but the idea of one day losing half of everything he owned did not appeal to his work ethic. Inside, Hoyt fixed himself a big martini and ran a bath. He was tempted to call up a particular prostitute who did a special thing with her tongue that he was particularly fond of, but he was probably too tired for anything like that. A few drinks, bath, and bed were all he needed. It was going to be another busy day tomorrow.

  He was yawning heavily by the time he was on his second martini and getting into the bath. There was an unpleasant taste in his mouth that he dismissed on account of the large amount of cocaine he’d consumed throughout the evening. He lay with his head resting on a folded towel and his eyes closed, wondering why the hell he was so tired. He had been up late every night for a week, granted, but he had still got plenty of sleep. I’m getting older, he reminded himself.

  The sedatives he had unknowingly consumed in the martinis ensured that he was sound asleep fifteen minutes later, that he did not hear the bathroom door open or the ever-so-quiet footsteps approach him.

  A shadow fell across his unconscious face.

  Reed squatted down next to the bath and took a large leather wallet from inside his suit jacket and rested it on his thigh. He unzipped the wallet and withdrew a small glass medical vial and hypodermic syringe. He unscrewed the cap and rested the vial on the floor before taking the plastic safety sheath from the syringe. He estimated Hoyt’s weight to be no more than 180 pounds, so, after picking the vial back up, he inserted the needle through the membrane and pulled eight centilitres of potassium-chloride solution into the plunger.

  Gently, Reed took hold of Hoyt’s jaw with his free hand and opened his mouth. He placed the needle under Hoyt’s tongue and pushed the tip into the lingual artery. With a slow, smooth motion, he injected the solution into Hoyt’s bloodstream.

  He checked his watch. It was 11:05 PM. With calm efficiency Reed packed his things away in the order he had taken them out and stood. He washed out Hoyt’s cocktail shaker to get rid of any trace of the sedatives before placing the half-empty prescription bottle next to Hoyt’s glass. Reed then exited through the house the same way he had entered, disturbing nothing and seen by no one.

  The potassium chloride would induce cardiac arrest within approximately three minutes and would kill Hoyt after another two. The chemical would then break down into separate molecules of potassium and chlorine, both of which are found naturally inside the body after death, ensuring a pathologist would find no trace of the poison in Hoyt’s system. There was a chance the needle mark might be detected if a complete autopsy was performed, but with no indication of foul play the chances of this taking place were extremely slim.

  Should Hoyt survive the heart attack, which was possible, albeit unlikely, he would still die. The attack would leave him in a massively weakened state and he would be unable to prevent himself from drowning in the bath. This would take no more than another two minutes, judging by Hoyt’s poor physical condition.

  In his rental car, Reed took his smartphone from the glove box and composed a message to confirm the success of the operation. He looked at his watch and waited until the hands read 11:12 PM before hitting send.

  Reed liked to be exact.

  CHAPTER 43

  St Petersburg, Russia

  Monday

  13:57 MSK

  Victor, briefcase in hand, strolled through the crowds of Russians in the mall, all dressed in heavy layers to protect against the cold that even the shopping centre’s heaters couldn’t combat entirely. Victor took the escalator to the upper level, one gloved hand resting on the rubber handrail as he ascended. He moved the lollipop with his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other.

  At a payphone he called Norimov’s bar and gave the bartender who answered the location and time. He then made his way to the main stairwell and climbed the stairs to the top parking-lot level. The parking lot was mostly empty, only a dozen or so vehicles parked beneath the sky above. He breathed in the crisp air, watched his breath form thick clouds of moisture. He was too focused to feel the cold. His pulse was perfectly steady.

  The maintenance door was locked with a stainless-steel padlock that barely slowed him. On the other side Victor took the metal steps to the actual roof, one storey above the top parking-lot level. The sky was near cloudless, the bright November sun making him squint. He drew a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and slipped them on. He moved to the edge of the roof, squeezing around the large ventilation pipes protruding from inside the building. The thrum of fans duelled with the rush of the wind.

  Victor peered over the edge, saw the exterior parking lot six storeys below him; at this time of day it was half full of cars. He turned, squatted down, and placed the briefcase on the roof. He unlocked it and opened the lid. It took less than a minute to assemble the Dragunov and calibrate the sight for the distance to the ground. He then selected the magazine containin
g the standard rounds and loaded it. Victor sucked on the lollipop while he waited, resisting the urge to crunch.

  He saw the same black BMW he’d ridden inside two days before enter the parking-lot entrance. It meandered slowly and found a parking space close to the centre, ten yards from a ticket machine as instructed. A moment later the rear off-side door opened and Norimov climbed out. Through the scope, Victor watched him as he walked up to the ticket machine.

  There was at least one of Norimov’s men in the car, the driver, but there could have been more. From Victor’s position he couldn’t see through the windows, but he doubted Norimov would have come with less than a car full. There could even be another car in the area, back-up in case anything went wrong. Whatever their history, Norimov wouldn’t fully trust him.

  Victor scanned the area. New people were coming and going all the time, moving around the space, some walking to cars, some just taking shortcuts. He only paid attention to the men, those between twenty-five and forty. If Norimov’s contacts had betrayed him or if Norimov had been compromised some other way, the FSB, SVR, or both would be in the parking lot. Russian intelligence had never made much use of women in the field, and Victor doubted they would have changed decades of tradition just for him. He used the scope to examine necks, searching for the spiralling wire that would give agents away. None of the likely suspects had them that he could see. Earpieces could be wireless, but Victor doubted the SVR or FSB could afford the latest tech.

  If someone planned to make a play for him it would be from within the parking lot itself after he’d revealed himself. They would need to be within running or shooting distance of the ticket machine. The parking lot was flanked by roads on three sides, with numerous parked vehicles, most of which had been there for long periods. Surveillance could be anywhere. Victor had noticed three vans enter the area and park in the previous thirty minutes alone. There hadn’t been enough time to get snipers in position, but he still checked every few seconds. Dozens more vans and SUVs had come and gone or had been parked since before he’d arrived. Any one of them could have a kill or snatch team in the back.

  Or none at all. Maybe he was being arrogant, assuming he was still a wanted man after so many years. Arrogant or not, he spotted a potential twenty yards from Norimov. A dark-haired man in a long coat was chatting on a cell phone, loitering near his car. Similarly, there was a tall blond man making his way across the parking lot. He wasn’t close to Norimov, but he was close enough. Victor couldn’t wait it out though. If Norimov was being watched and he made no contact, any surveillance would be kept in place until the next time. But Victor was confident in his plan. Should anything go wrong, it wouldn’t be because he hadn’t been careful.

  He hit a speed dial number on his phone, and through the scope he saw Norimov’s head move, a confused expression on his features. It took the Russian a few seconds to work out where the sound was coming from, and he turned around and checked the ticket machine. He went around the back of it before finally reaching underneath.

  Norimov found the phone and prised it from where it had been glued. He flipped it open.

  ‘Very good, Vasily,’ he said instantly.

  ‘How are you, Alek?’

  Victor saw Norimov looking around, obviously trying to see where he was located, without luck. He even looked up to the building, but Victor had positioned himself such that anyone looking up from the parking lot would only see the glare of the sun in the sky above him. It was the reason he had chosen that particular time and position, where the sun was in the perfect place in the sky to disguise him.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Norimov asked.

  ‘Could your contacts decrypt the information?’

  ‘Yes, Vasily, they could. Everything went well.’

  ‘Thank you for this,’ Victor said.

  ‘What are friends for?’

  Victor couldn’t answer. ‘Do you have it with you?’

  ‘In my pocket.’ He tapped his chest.

  ‘Under the ticket machine where you found the phone there is a padded envelope. Put it in there.’

  ‘Cute.’ Norimov fumbled under the ticket machine for a moment. ‘Hold on, I can’t reach. I’m going to put the phone down for a second.’

  ‘You’re getting old.’

  ‘I am old. You too will be one day.’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  Norimov found the envelope and placed the drive inside. At least Victor hoped he had. Through the scope Victor saw that the blond man had stopped walking. He now stood maybe ten yards behind Norimov, acting as though he was waiting for someone. But not very convincingly. Clear wire spiralled from his ear to his collar. Victor frowned.

  ‘Don’t make any movement. There’s a man behind you with an earpiece. Smile, laugh as if I had told you a joke.’

  Norimov did and asked, ‘What do we do?’ The smile still on his face.

  ‘They were waiting for me to show, but the phone’s confused them.’

  ‘How did they know?’

  ‘Whoever decrypted the drive either told them or was discovered decrypting it. They’ve probably got your bar bugged, your office. When you leave, they’ll follow you.’

  ‘I’ll lead them round half the country. See how they like that.’

  ‘Any victory, however small …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Head back to your car and drive away normally,’ Victor said. ‘When they realize I’m not going to show, they could bring you in.’

  ‘I’ll tell them you didn’t show. Which is true.’

  ‘They’ll make your life difficult if they can.’

  ‘Fuck them. I can take care of myself. I was thinking of moving anyway. The Caribbean maybe. I like the women.’

  He spoke lightly, too lightly.

  Victor’s jaw muscles flexed. ‘I’m sorry for getting you into this, Alek.’

  Norimov was still pretending to smile. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’

  It was crowded and hot inside the back of the removal van, but no one complained. There were four men in total, aged between twenty-five and forty. All professionals, all experienced operatives for the SVR. They all watched the images of Norimov and the parking lot displayed on the seventeen-inch monitor. Colonel Aniskovach watched too. A directional parabolic microphone was covering Norimov, but it was too far away, and the ambient sound too loud to decipher Norimov’s words.

  ‘He’s definitely talking to him,’ an operative said. ‘Where the hell is he?’

  ‘He must be nearby,’ Aniskovach replied. ‘He’ll want to see Norimov with his own eyes to make sure he’s alone. He’s out there somewhere. When he is convinced everything is safe he’ll show to collect the package.’ Aniskovach grabbed a radio to speak to the men outside. ‘Do not move until the target is identified and I give the command.’

  With less than an hour’s warning of where the exchange was taking place, Aniskovach hadn’t had the time to get snipers in position or a better plan put into action. Which was why, of course, the assassin had arranged things as he had. Aniskovach had to appreciate his cunning, but he had enough men in the area to trap him the second he showed.

  On the monitor Norimov hung up the cell and placed it in his pocket.

  Aniskovach spoke into the radio. ‘That’s it; they’re done talking. He won’t show until Norimov has left. Kill him only if you are forced to, wound him by all means, but I’d like him alive.’ Aniskovach turned to his men. ‘Be ready.’

  Clouds obscured the sun. Victor closed the phone but kept watch over Norimov to make sure he was safe. It was the least he could do. Norimov strolled back to his car as if he had no care in the world. He moved to the passenger door and opened it. As he did so, Victor looked back to the blond man and saw he was talking, seemingly to himself. For a second the man glanced upstairs, straight at Victor.

  The blond man must have eyes like a hawk. Victor took a breath, knowing he didn’t have long before they locked down the location and
trapped him. But for the moment he was up here and they were down there. With both hands back on the rifle, Victor swung it towards the plain-clothes operative. He was already moving, knowing he had likewise been spotted, his right hand reaching to his belt.

  Victor fired.

  The bullet flew over Norimov’s shoulder and hit the blond man in the face. When his body struck the ground most of the head was no longer attached to his neck.

  The Dragunov’s suppressor massively reduced the sound caused by the escaping gases, but the high-velocity round it fired created a sonic boom as it broke the sound barrier – unmistakably a gunshot. Victor watched the ensuing effect carefully. People in and around the parking lot ducked or flinched – shocked, scared, confused. All but two.

  Victor killed the first with a bullet through the chest. The second, realizing what was happening, tried to run. He didn’t get far.

  Norimov’s men pulled him into the car and the BMW’s tyres screeched as it reversed out of the parking space and headed towards the exit. Victor risked standing up to get a better view. They knew where he was now, anyway. He looked around. Below him there were screams, hysteria, people running back and forth. Where were the others?

  To his right, he spotted a white removal van. The man behind the wheel had a frantic look on his face and a spiral of clear wire descending from his left ear. Immediately Victor crouched back down, grabbed the Dragunov, and swung it to the right. The reticule rushed over the parking lot.

  The driver’s mouth was moving. Shouting something.

  A small hole exploded through the side window, and the glass turned red.

  Hearing the sound of breaking glass and a wet thunk, Colonel Aniskovach stopped barking orders and looked through the partition separating the driver’s cab from the van’s rear compartment. His mouth fell open at what he saw.

  Bright gore plastered the front windshield. The operative behind the wheel was slumped to one side in his seat, his head split in two.