by WOOD TOM
Here the roads were laid with asphalt, gravel or hard-packed dirt formed the surfaces. Reed had yet to see a pavement. The air was hot and humid, somewhere in the low eighties. He could smell grilled chicken, frying fish, and marinated mishikaki kebabs from the nearby market. Vendors used seed rattlers to advertise their wares and customers haggled for better prices.
A thin film of sweat covered Reed’s skin. The time in Cyprus had taken it a few shades up from the pasty complexion he normally sported as a typical Englishman. He was dressed like a tourist in loose-fitting cargo trousers and a light linen shirt. Long sleeved. Sandals would have been appropriate but didn’t afford the kind of grip needed when moving with haste, so he opted for some conservative-coloured athletic shoes.
The target rushed up the hotel steps with his two companions following behind. Each had a backpack over their shoulder and one carried a large sports bag in each hand. The dossier had stated that they would be armed. Both were former commandos, and that alone gave Reed cause to respect them, but they were on a diving-and-demolitions expedition and were not bodyguards. Reed had no plans to kill either unless they were unfortunate enough to get in his way.
The client had arranged weapons for him to collect on arrival: a rifle and a handgun. The rifle, an Armalite AR-15 assault rifle equipped with an optical sight for sniping, was hidden under some discarded tyres half a mile away. The handgun, a Glock 17 with attached suppressor, was in Reed’s shoulder bag. Both had already been checked, stripped, and thoroughly cleaned by Reed. Given such firepower, his employer’s note – that the target’s death should not appear natural or accidental – was somewhat redundant.
Reed did not plan on using either weapon. The locale was not a good one for sniping – narrow, busy streets that offered little chance of a clean line of sight. The handgun was more appropriate to the environs, but given the choice Reed preferred the more intimate effect afforded by a blade.
He was still waiting for the order from the client and had already decided the hotel would be the best strike point. Executing the target on the street was an option, but Reed didn’t want to create a scene unless he had to. A quiet execution in a hotel room was considerably more appealing. He was eager to complete this job without creating a commotion. That he had used a bomb in Cyprus continued to gnaw at his professional sensibilities.
The target disappeared through the hotel’s front entrance, and Reed checked his watch. A Tanzanian man in an oil-stained T-shirt tried to sell him coconuts. The man spoke in his native Swahili. Reed spoke several languages fluently, had a reasonable grasp of several more, but Swahili was, and never would be, one of them. When Reed shook his head, the man tried broken English, the language of Tanzania’s post-German masters. Reed removed his sunglasses, and the man, unnerved by the look in Reed’s eyes, turned and left him alone.
Reed replaced his sunglasses and approached the hotel. The bright sun prevented him from seeing through the glass of the windows or doors. He gave the target a generous four minutes to leave the lobby and then crossed the street. He pushed through the revolving entrance. The lobby was several degrees cooler than outside, the large ceiling fans working hard to keep the room a pleasant temperature. Immediately Reed became more aware of the sweat on his skin.
As he expected, the target and his companions were absent. Reed approached the front desk and paid for a single room with cash and took the stairs to the fifth floor. The hotel used regular metal keys, and Reed found a quaintness that at least one corner of the world had yet to be modernized. It would also make it easier to get through locked doors if he had to be quiet. Reed’s room was functional and clean, but the décor was bland. No matter. Reed was not there to enjoy himself.
He unslung his shoulder bag and removed the handgun. He placed the weapon under one of the bed’s pillows. Carrying the bag around was to be avoided. It would draw attention. He spent ten minutes examining the room before he opened the balcony doors to let in some air. Reed had a view of the harbour and the dhows floating on the bright turquoise sea. He had no plans to stay in the hotel, but the room gave legitimacy to his presence. His white face made him too recognizable to linger in the vicinity otherwise.
The dossier already told him that the target was staying in room 314. The two divers were down the hall in 320. There was an elevator and two sets of stairs. Reed always preferred to use stairs if it was practical to do so. In an elevator he was virtually trapped and completely exposed when the doors opened to whomever was waiting. He exited the room and returned to the lobby.
There was a modest hotel bar that seemed pleasant enough. He bought a bottle of mineral water and took a seat where he could see enough of the lobby to know if the target left. Reed had been informed that his prey would be in Tanga for at least a couple of days, but the Englishman was nonetheless prudent. The mineral water was refreshingly cold. He was a little bored.
Though Reed had killed five people inside a week and was due to kill another shortly, only killing the target he knew as Tesseract had given him anything close to satisfaction. Even that was limited, since dispatching him had placed no real demands on Reed’s considerable skills. He had originally given Tesseract credit for his performance in Paris, but now concluded that surviving that attack had more to do with the incompetence of the assailants than with Tesseract’s own ability. A truly capable professional would not have been killed so easily in Cyprus. It was a shame that a potentially worthy adversary had been found so wanting – lamentable, but Reed had yet to encounter anyone who lived up to such a mantle. In short, Tesseract was an amateur compared with Reed.
The bar was almost empty except for some foreigners who were grouped in a corner and laughing over a few drinks. Reed took a small sip from his water. Maybe it was time to only take challenging contracts. It was more befitting to his abilities that way. Perhaps until the new year he should perform only for the Firm and decline any private offers that came his way. Well, unless they appealed to his sense of adventure. Reed was getting ahead of himself, he knew. He still had this job to complete, and untaxing as it was, he still needed to keep his focus. When one’s concentration waned, mistakes followed. Reed’s smartphone was in the pocket of his trousers. He took it out and placed it on the table before him.
He waited.
CHAPTER 71
Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, USA
Monday
09:15 EST
It took a few seconds for the ringing phone to pull Ferguson from his nap and another few before he understood what had woken him. Decades had passed since Ferguson had needed to be on guard while resting, and his once-acute senses had dulled with age and inactivity. He reached out a thin hand to grab the phone. He’d only meant to close his eyes for a moment.
His voice was croaky. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s done.’
‘Who is this?’
It was Sykes. He spoke hurriedly, frantically. ‘We’ve got the missiles, well, two of them, what we could get from them. We’ll go back tomorrow, see what else we can salvage. They doubt we’ll get anything though.’
‘Slow down,’ Ferguson said. ‘And tell me again.’
Sykes spoke more slowly, describing exactly what had been extracted and the situation regarding the remaining missiles. Ferguson took a few moments to digest what he was being told. He sat up.
‘You have two of the missiles? In your possession?’
‘Not one hundred per cent of them, but propulsion, electronics, et cetera. In a truck outside.’
Ferguson stared out of his office window. He felt as though someone had injected him with pure joy.
‘That’s tremendous news. Well done, Mr Sykes.’
‘Thanks.’
Sykes’s toned echoed none of Ferguson’s own happiness. Not that it mattered.
‘Stay in your hotel and keep a low profile tonight, and tomorrow you can see what else can be recovered.’
‘Okay.’
Ferguson hung up. He felt tired, both in
mind and body, but at least it was almost over. Just another messy assignment in a lifetime of necessary but untidy service to his nation. A nation that had registered him obsolete. After all those years of faithful service it was surely only right that he receive a generous retirement package.
It would be nice to have more missiles, but the greater the number, the harder it would be to transport and store secretly. Two missiles were plenty. Hell, he only needed to sell one to bank more money than he could ever spend.
Once the dust had settled, Ferguson would be whiter than white. There wouldn’t even be the barest hint he had anything to do with Tesseract or Ozols or the missiles. He thought about all the events that had conspired to create this result while the computer powered up. What could he have done to have made things work out more smoothly? Even with the benefit of hindsight there wasn’t much that should have been done differently. No one could have foreseen Tesseract’s surviving that ambush in Paris. Things had only become messy after that. The one mistake Ferguson knew he’d made was in using Sykes, but fortunately he was in a position to correct that.
His loyal deputy would take the blame for everything. Sykes had the power to have seen this thing through thus far, with the ambition and the idiocy to get himself killed in the process.
Dalweg and Wiechman had been contacted the day before and briefed on what was about to happen and what they were to do afterward, so Ferguson had only one message to send. The email took him seconds to write and gave him considerable satisfaction to send. The email contained just one word.
Proceed.
CHAPTER 72
Tanga, Tanzania
Monday
17:17 EAT
The kitchen was even hotter than outside and carried the loud noise of busy work. There were maybe a dozen members of the kitchen staff working frantically, preparing and cooking food, washing up, cleaning. A huge chef was shouting orders with the vigour of a drill sergeant. Victor, with a small crate of fruit on his shoulder, drew neither looks nor words as he dodged around the working bodies. He appeared to have a purpose and a reason for being there, and busy people rarely interrupted their work to challenge someone else who also seemed to be working.
Victor kept his head tilted slightly forward so it was hard for anyone to see his eyes. Eye contact helped people remember. His gaze passed over the work surfaces as he moved, trying to find a knife to palm. He saw none and didn’t want to risk loitering and attracting attention just to get one. A weapon was always useful, but for what he was planning he could go without. He left the crate on the floor by the interior door before he slipped through.
The assassin had still been waiting outside when Victor left him. He’d taken the same flight to Tanzania, flying coach while the assassin flew first, and had followed the man since. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have fancied his chances at shadowing so skilled a target, but Victor had one considerable advantage. He was supposed to be dead.
Victor had imagined sliding a knife into the assassin’s flesh alongside the spine and piercing the heart or maybe hamstringing the man first to watch him writhe on the ground before finishing him off. But that wasn’t what Victor did, even if he had been able to. He didn’t stab people in the street in front of dozens of witnesses, no matter how much he wanted to. That’s what amateurs did, and amateurs got themselves killed.
Even if the opportunity presented itself, Victor couldn’t kill him, at least not yet. The assassin was nothing more than a hired gun, a paid killer no different than himself. Victor hated the comparison. The man he’d followed wasn’t his true enemy; he was just a limb. Victor wanted to cut off the head.
The back corridors of the hotel were narrow but reasonably cool. In places the plaster on the walls was cracked and the doors thin and poorly painted. There were no cameras in this part of the hotel. No security guards either.
Victor stopped when he came to a door and passed his ear close to it for a few seconds. He heard people talking. He moved on, pausing to listen at another door. This time there was no noise. He moved on. He tried three more before he heard the quiet hum of electronic machinery. He slowly tried the handle. It was unlocked.
Inside the room was tiny, barely more than a closet. There was just enough room for the chair, table, two television monitors, and accompanying recorders. On the TV screens were the simultaneous live feeds from the hotel CCTV cameras. Each screen carried four feeds; one at the front entrance, lobby, elevator, and one for each of the floors.
Victor sat down and pressed rewind, watching the time until he reached midday. He then hit play and watched. A couple of minutes later he saw the assassin’s target and two companions enter through the front. They disappeared from one feed and appeared on the other as they crossed the lobby. The elevator took them to the third floor, and the camera there recorded them as they entered their respective rooms.
The picture quality wasn’t good enough to see the room numbers, but Victor counted how many doors were between the camera and the rooms, specifically the room where the lone man entered.
He was the key. It was obvious the other two were just the hired help. Victor’s first instinct was that they were bodyguards, but he had seen how the three operated together and dismissed that idea. Earlier in the day Victor had followed the assassin while he in turn followed the man to the harbour, where the target had joined the other two men. The equipment Victor saw on the boat indicated that the men were divers.
That the nameless target was being shadowed by the assassin meant he was important. By the way he carried himself, he wasn’t a case officer. He was someone’s subordinate sent out to personally oversee the last part of the operation. To salvage whatever was on that sunken ship that was so valuable and that was no doubt now in the truck outside.
He left the room and closed the door behind him. He made his way to the stairs and began ascending to the third floor. The assassin’s target knew something, something that made him a target, something that was a liability to whomever was in charge. And that something Victor needed to hear.
He just had to get to him before the assassin did.
*
Reed closed the email and stood. He placed the smartphone back in his trouser pocket. He left the water on the table. The lobby was peaceful. Noise of merriment drifted out from the bar as he reached the stairs and took them to the fifth floor. He walked down the corridor and entered his room.
The gun was under the pillow as he had left it, and he pulled back the slide, loading a bullet into the chamber. He tucked it into the front of his trousers so the suppressor extended down along his left thigh. His shirt, hanging loose, disguised the gun’s grip.
The trousers were likewise loose enough so that, if he was careful how he walked, no one would notice he was armed. Though descending stairs was not possible with a big piece of metal down the front of his trousers. No matter, he could take the elevator down the two floors instead.
Reed took the spare magazines from the satchel and placed them in the pockets of the trousers: two in the left, one in the right. He did not expect to even use a single magazine of bullets, and only then if circumstances were truly against him. But Reed had risen to the very top of the killer’s ladder by being meticulous and prepared for the worst at all times. He was not about to change his habits now.
He left the room and headed for the elevator. He pushed the call button and waited patiently. Reed knew himself to be very good at waiting. He also knew, however, that he was considerably better at killing.
Victor reached the third floor and stepped out into the corridor that formed a rough square around the hotel. He walked around the circumference, getting his bearings while he located the camera. There were around fifteen rooms per floor. The corridor was wide but uncarpeted. The floorboards were polished and clean.
He found the camera near the elevator, positioned so it could see the elevator doors and the adjoining corridor. Victor counted the doors and saw the room he wanted halfway between the
elevator and the far intersection. Victor knew the man was alone, but there was always the chance that one or both of his companions had joined him in the room since Victor had watched the CCTV footage.
If they had guns, which Victor had to assume, things could quickly turn bad. But if he was fast he could get the information he needed, probably just a name or an address or maybe a phone number, and, he hoped, get out before anyone else realized he was there.
It took mere seconds to reach the door, but, before he had a chance to make a move, another door opened farther along the corridor. Victor kept walking as one of the two big guys exited his room. He was marginally shorter than Victor with blond hair and a scrappy beard. He wore long shorts and a loose T-shirt. His strength was obvious. The man’s gaze stayed on Victor as they passed each other.
Victor kept his pace and turned the corner at the end of the corridor, resisting the natural urge to look back. The man would be watching him until he left his vision. Victor stopped when he was out of sight and listened. He heard a knock, then a few seconds later a door opened. Hushed voices before the door closed again.
Two in the same room complicated things, but at least it meant each would be a distraction to the other. It would give him a better chance of gaining the element of surprise. Victor carried on down the corridor instead of doubling back. He didn’t want the camera to get a shot of his face, poor quality or not.
He walked as fast as he dared without appearing to hurry. The hotel seemed relatively empty. He didn’t imagine it did much business even at the best of times. His pulse was slow and steady.