by WOOD TOM
The tourist, eating his perfectly ripened peach, was never far behind.
CHAPTER 61
21:01 CET
The bar was noisy with conversation, laughter, and traditional Greek music. Rebecca sat alone at a small table along one wall. She had a feta cheese salad in front of her, untouched except for the odd black olive. It was hard to eat when she was so tense. She looked at her watch every few minutes. He’d been gone for hours. He needed to get ‘equipment’. It would have been nice to have some idea of how long he was going to be.
She didn’t like being on her own, knowing she was vulnerable, knowing that without his help, if anyone made a play for her, she was dead. Initially she had been terrified to be in his, a hired killer’s, presence, but the rational part of her brain told her that she was safer with him than alone. He had survived two CIA-sponsored attempts on his life, and she had witnessed first-hand how he’d dealt with the French RAID team. At the moment he was the best and only friend she had. Rebecca was desperate to be near him again, to feel safe again.
She felt a little better being around lots of people. The bar was full of dining couples and partying tourists, only a few locals. There was an especially loud group of guys at a table close to Rebecca’s playing drinking games. The bar was across the street from her hotel, and from where she sat she could just about see the hotel entrance. He’d told her to wait in such a place.
Maybe he was testing her. Rebecca could tell he didn’t trust her fully. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he was watching her right now and had been minutes after he’d supposedly gone off to get whatever else he needed. Maybe he is waiting for me to set him up, she thought. If he didn’t trust her by now, then, not to put it too bluntly, he could go to hell.
A couple of times a guy from the group nearby would shout something to her. They looked like navy types. Brits by their accents. They seemed pretty harmless, just guys out getting drunk. She didn’t respond, just smiled the polite but uninterested, universally recognized, leave-me-alone smile and averted her gaze.
Rebecca stabbed her fork into a piece of feta and again into a slice of tomato. She forced a small amount of food into her mouth. Her clothes were starting to feel a little loose. It took a long time before she finally swallowed and then felt immediately full. She hailed a waiter for another glass of wine.
When a guy got up from his seat with the encouragement of his buddies, she kept her gaze directly at her food, silently hoping he would lose his nerve at the last second and walk away. He didn’t. Some men just couldn’t take a hint.
‘Hey, I’m Paul,’ he announced as he took the seat opposite her.
‘Hi,’ she said, giving him just a second of eye contact. He wasn’t bad looking but wouldn’t have been her type even if she had been in the mood.
‘You got a name, love?’
She hesitated, partly because she didn’t want anyone to know her real name, but mostly because she just didn’t want to talk to him.
‘Rachel,’ she answered eventually.
He smiled. ‘Cute name.’
He did the talking, asked the questions, made the jokes. Rebecca responded each time in as few words as possible. She tried her best to discourage him, but Paul had too much Dutch courage inside him to give up without a hell of a fight. Occasionally he would receive leery encouragement from his friends.
‘Listen,’ he said, eventually coming to the point. ‘My distinguished colleagues and I are moving on to another bar. I would be honoured if you’d join me.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
He hadn’t expected that. ‘Why not?’
‘I’m just not interested.’
‘Sure you are.’ He was persistent, if nothing else. ‘I’m a goodlooking guy, you’re a good-looking girl; think of all the interesting things we could do.’
When charm failed, the desperate ones always tried a deluded appeal. ‘Just leave me alone, Paul.’
He scowled for a moment. ‘All you Yank bitches are the same; you think you’re so superior.’
‘That’s probably because we are,’ Rebecca said, finally losing patience. ‘Now do us both a favour, and, if you can find it, go fuck yourself.’
He stood up fast, glaring, and for a second she thought she’d pushed him too far. A voice interrupted the stand-off.
‘I got us both a drink.’
Rebecca glanced up. It was him. Tesseract. The killer.
With complete nonchalance he placed a couple of glasses on the table. ‘Vodka tonics,’ he said. ‘No ice in yours.’
Paul looked him up and down. ‘What are you, her boyfriend?’
‘We’re business associates.’
‘Then you won’t mind me and Rachel here getting to know each other.’
‘You’re in my way.’
Paul sneered. ‘Just fuck off, mate. Let a fella work.’
‘I’ll say this as simply as possible so you don’t get confused.’ His voice was icy cool. ‘Leave.’
Paul stood, turned, reached a hand out as if to push him. Big mistake. In less than a second he was on his knees, his arm twisted and locked, ready to be snapped with an ounce more pressure. Paul yelled in pain.
His drinking buddies were out of their chairs. Tesseract applied a fraction more pressure to Paul’s arm and they froze at his scream.
‘Whoa, whoa.’ Rebecca was on her feet, palms up. ‘Easy, we don’t have to do it that way.’ She looked at Paul. ‘Do we?’
‘FUCK NO.’
She looked at her companion. ‘Let him go.’
His eyes were focused on the four other guys, but he spoke to Paul. ‘Do you promise to behave yourself?’
Paul frantically nodded.
He released him. ‘Find another place to drink.’
Paul pulled himself to his feet, cradling his sore arm. He went back to his friends, and, while they threw threats and insults, they backed off out of the bar. Everyone else was quiet. People were looking at them. Her heart was thumping. Equal parts relief and anger surged through her.
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her against him and into an awkward hug. Rebecca resisted for a moment before wrapping her own arms around him, her chin resting on his shoulder, any anger vanishing as she felt their bodies together, the protection of his embrace. He stank of smoke, but she didn’t care. It felt good.
She noticed she was holding him tighter than he was her and realized it was for show, for the people watching, to maintain the couple act.
Rebecca pulled away. She could see the surprise and awkwardness on his face. She sat down, embarrassed. He sat down opposite her, picked up her fork, and started eating her salad. Slowly, the bar’s noise levels began to rise back to normal.
‘What the hell was that?’ she asked quietly.
His tone was frustratingly casual, ‘What was what?’
Rebecca frowned. ‘Are you making a joke?’
‘I told you I don’t make jokes.’
She shook her head. ‘Look, you didn’t need to do anything. I was taking care of it.’
He looked up and paused chewing. He said nothing.
‘I was taking care of it,’ she said again.
‘I would say that’s a flatteringly positive assessment.’
She glared at him. ‘When I want your help, I’ll ask for it.’
‘When I deem it necessary to help,’ he began, ‘I’ll do so whether you ask for it or not.’
She noticed something in the way he said it, an unexpected protectiveness. He saw that she’d noticed it too and looked away. He continued attacking her salad so he didn’t have to look her in the eye. She took a drink of the vodka tonic.
‘Thanks for getting it without ice.’
He nodded without looking at her.
Rebecca watched him for a minute. ‘Did you get everything you needed?’
He nodded, said nothing.
‘So, what next?’ she asked.
He continued eating for a few moments before speaking. ‘I’ll break into O
lympus and get the files.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
She nodded. ‘Then we’re one step closer to the bad guy.’
He gave her an expression she didn’t get. Rebecca looked at him quizzically. ‘What?’
He raised an eyebrow at her.
‘I am the bad guy.’
CHAPTER 62
Paris, France
Thursday
21:20 CET
Just to make Alvarez’s day more frustrating it was raining. Hard. He didn’t carry an umbrella, never had, never would, and he walked quickly with his wide shoulders hunched up around his neck. Rain pelted the top of his head and ran down his face and neck and soaked his coat and shirt. He’d only been out of the cab for three minutes, but already he was wetter than a coed on spring break. The rain suited his mood though. The investigation was quickly running out of momentum. With Hoyt dead and the only solid lead gone with him, Alvarez was virtually stalled. Ozols’s killer and the location of the missiles were getting further and further away.
It took him another minute of getting drenched before he spotted the right café on a street that seemed to have dozens and hurried inside. The interior was small with a low ceiling and every table was taken. Alvarez swiped some of the rain from his hair and face and looked around the room. He saw Lefèvre sitting on his own and reading a newspaper. The short, meticulously groomed French lieutenant looked exactly the same as when Alvarez had first encountered him a week and a half ago outside the killer’s hotel. His manner seemed different now though; then he had been all arrogance and superiority. Now he just looked like a regular guy. He hadn’t seen Alvarez enter and only looked up as Alvarez was pulling out a chair opposite him.
‘I’m glad you didn’t stand me up,’ Alvarez said as he took his seat. ‘Because after getting this wet I would have had to hunt you down.’
Lefèvre closed his newspaper. ‘Drink?’
‘Yeah. Coffee, please.’
The Frenchman called over a waitress and ordered two coffees and a pain au chocolat for himself. Alvarez smiled. Cops were the same the world over. They all ate their national donuts. Alvarez took off his saturated coat and hung it over the back of his chair.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Lefèvre nodded. ‘That’s right. Thank you for coming.’
‘No problem.’
‘I believe we can help each other.’
‘I tried to tell you that over a week ago.’
Lefèvre shrugged. ‘And I should have listened. But I had a hotel full of dead bodies to deal with. Please accept my apology for any rudeness on my part.’
‘Accepted.’
‘I’ll keep this short.’
Alvarez wiped some more rain from his head. ‘Suits me.’
‘Andris Ozols,’ Lefèvre began, ‘was a retired officer of the Russian and Soviet navies. Correct?’
Alvarez didn’t respond.
‘I’ll take your silence as a yes,’ the French lieutenant said with a half smile. ‘I know this is true, and I’m quite sure you do too. Anyway, we both know that he was murdered last week by a professional killer. A killer who was himself targeted only two hours later at his hotel, where he shot a large number of people. This asyet unnamed killer then returned to Paris a few days ago. He was recognized and followed but escaped arrest, and in the process killed several police officers. Before his escape he met with an American woman.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Alvarez asked.
Lefèvre leaned back. ‘Because you can do more with it than I can.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘John Kennard,’ Lefèvre said.
Hearing the name made Alvarez picture the guy in his head. Dead. Stabbed to death and lying on a shitty bathroom floor. ‘What about him?’
‘He worked with you, yes?’
‘Listen, I’m not here to answer your questions, okay?’
Lefèvre nodded. ‘That’s up to you. I’m telling you what I know, and I’m asking for nothing in return. But I hope when I have finished you will be more forthcoming with me.’
The waitress returned with their order. Alvarez took a sip of coffee. ‘Go on.’
‘A day after Kennard was murdered, a homeless man, well known to my people, tried to use his credit card to buy alcohol. He was picked up by an officer and questioned. On his person, among other things, was a cellular phone that had belonged to your colleague. After extensive interrogation the man claimed to have retrieved the items from a trash can after seeing another man discard them. I believe him. He has no history of violence, and there was no knife on him nor any blood on his clothes, clothes he neither washes nor takes off.’
Lefèvre continued, ‘The man who threw the phone and credit card away is described as wearing a suit and speaking with an English accent. As you might expect this did not sound like a typical Parisian mugger to me. There was clearly more to the murder than anyone first thought. As part of the investigation Kennard’s most recent calls were all checked. They were to friends, family members, colleagues, and so on – nothing suspicious except a single French number that called Kennard’s phone twice after he had been killed.’
Alvarez did his best not to react to what he was hearing.
‘That number corresponds to an apartment in Marseilles where we found sophisticated communications equipment. My equivalent in Marseilles found this residence abandoned. Female fingerprints were taken there that match those found in an apartment here in Paris. The same apartment where Ozols’s killer escaped with that American woman.’
Alvarez was stunned. He put his coffee down.
‘As you can see, there is some connection between your colleague, this American woman, and the man who murdered Andris Ozols. I don’t know what this connection is, and I’m taking a big risk in telling you all this information. For all I know you’re involved, too.’
‘I can assure you that is definitely not the case.’
Lefèvre nodded as if he didn’t need to be convinced. ‘I’m a police officer. It’s my job to bring criminals to justice. But I know how the intelligence business works. I know there are things I will never be told, things that I need to be told, and without all the evidence, how can I solve anything? ‘
Lefèvre took a brown leather briefcase from the floor and removed a file.
‘What’s that?’ Alvarez asked, looking at the file.
‘For you,’ Lefèvre explained, ‘everything we have so far. All the evidence.’
Alvarez picked up the file. He asked a simple question. ‘Why?’
‘As I said, because you can do more with it than I can. I would prefer one of us to succeed than us both to fail. Justice matters more to me than credit. People are dead. They deserve to be avenged. For this, I am deferring to you. All I ask in return,’ Lefèvre said, ‘is that you tell me, off the record, when you are successful.’
It was a small price to pay. ‘I will,’ Alvarez said and meant it.
Lefèvre gestured to the file. ‘Inside you’ll find the fingerprints of the American woman. I suggest you start by finding out who she really is.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
Lefèvre smiled. ‘You don’t have to.’
CHAPTER 63
Nicosia, Cyprus
Thursday
23:49 CET
Rebecca sat on the end of the bed, flicking through the hotel’s satellite-television channels. It was a bizarre mix of both English and Greek language channels with local Cypriot TV. Tesseract was packing his backpack. Her curiosity had made her ask what the equipment was for and, to her surprise, he’d told her. First there was a portable high-capacity hard disk to clone the contents of computer hard drives. Next a transmitter, radio receiver, and sound recorder to bug a phone should he not find what they needed. Items she didn’t need explained were screwdrivers, pliers, a wrench, hexagon keys, pencils, and paper. Lock-picking tools, a glass cutter, and a suction cup were place
d together in a separate small bag, which was then added to the backpack.
‘Do you think you’ll need all that?’ Rebecca asked.
He shook his head. ‘But better I take what I might not need than find myself without what I do need.’
When everything was securely packed away, he took a set of clothes with him into the bathroom and closed the door. It wasn’t closed all the way, and through the crack she could see his reflection as he changed. She glimpsed his bare arm, lean but with ridges of hard muscle. She continued watching to sneak a peek at the rest of his body but instead flinched at what she saw.
She caught a glance of his torso and the scars that marked his flesh. A huge circular bruise the size of a fist dominated the centre of his chest. She saw two scars that could have been bullet wounds and more that she guessed were caused by blades. There were others, but she didn’t look long enough to identify them. Rebecca turned her head away, shocked and horrified.
‘That pretty?’
She looked up and saw he was looking at her through the mirror. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she averted her eyes. Before she had worked up the courage to respond, he closed the door fully. She heard the bolt slide across.
He came out a few minutes later, and she watched him take the folding knife from the bedside table and slip it into his pocket. He’d bought it from town. Trying to find a gun would have attracted too much attention, he’d told her.
‘I expect you hate instant coffee as much as I do,’ Rebecca said. ‘So I made us both a tea.’
He took the mug from her and sipped. It must have been okay because he took a longer sip a second later.
‘I still think I should go with you,’ she said.
He didn’t look at her. ‘I work alone.’
‘That hardly matters. I—’
‘Besides,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘It’s safer for you if you stay here.’
She sighed. It was useless trying to argue with him. He was like a child. Stubborn and narrow minded, too used to doing things his own way to accept that someone else might be able to help.