The Export

by J. K. Kelly

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Matt sat quietly against the headboard of the massive bed at his hotel. Room service had delivered everything he needed to get his day started and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign at his request on the outside knob when they left. He wanted to think through every move and every possible action and reaction both he and his prey might incorporate into the chess game they were engaged in. His cell vibrated, the caller ID read Clydesdale – it was Claire Dale.

  “Yes, should have this wrapped up within a few days,” Matt assured her. “There’s much more to this guy than Charlie has let on. The uncle, Thomas Sinclair, from what I can find, is totally connected to just about everyone and everything over here.” The pause on the other end of the call surprised him, and that set off an internal alarm.

  “You still there, Claire?” Matt asked. “Don’t tell me you know this guy Sinclair.” No response. “Shit!” he said very slowly, letting the air out of his lungs as his brain went into overdrive.

  “You’re right, Matt, about his connections,” Dale responded finally. “You know the deal better than any of us. While presidents and prime ministers come and go here and in the UK, the true powerbrokers and their descendants are the constant despite any upheaval in politics.” She paused. “It’s a statement of fact, not a commentary on anything about the Christophers. I hope you know that.”

  “No offense taken. I get it.”

  “By the way, your Lieutenant Baral from Everest called me the other day to thank me for your services and spoke very highly of the work you did with him on Everest.”

  “Thanks. Nice guy. Can’t drink worth a damn though,” Matt laughed.

  “Let me know when you’re finished there. I will want you back in D.C. to discuss other projects you might be interested in.”

  “Ten-four,” Matt said, “I’ll let you know. Cheers for now,” and then the call ended.

  After an hour or so, he called Charlie at his office to let him know today might very well be the day it all came together.

  “And you weren’t able to connect any of the dots between the dead girls once you realized Rogers was tied to Sinclair?” he asked a second time.

  “Not a one,” Charlie assured him.

  “And if you had been able to prove Rogers was the killer, Sinclair would have been hands-off as he watched his nephew go to a five-count murder trial?”

  “He would have financed the best defense barristers in the land and may have encouraged them to petition that this broken Marine was suffering PTSD and having to deal with his broken legs,” Charlie suggested. “They would have gone for a discharge due to mental issues. They might also have argued a cripple couldn’t possibly have committed the acts, that MI5 set the boy up as a move against the uncle.”

  Matt shook his head in disbelief.

  “And I thought politics and the system in America was fucked up!”

  Both men laughed, but then Matt had to ask his friend one simple question. “Someone isn’t setting me up on this, are they, Charlie? If I thought for a second someone was, someone like Sinclair, if he has ties to my enemies back home, I’d walk and never be heard from again.”

  Charlie delayed as he tried to form the words that would assure his friend he was safe.

  “You’re in a very strange, very dangerous business, my friend,” Charlie said in a soft tone. “We have joked about it before. It’s like having a part in the Godfather movies. The hired killers always wind up getting in trouble because of distrust and vendettas.”

  “Live by the sword, die by the sword, as they say,” Matt responded. Both men were quiet for a time.

  “I got you into this one, Matt,” Charlie said. “If you don’t feel safe, if you feel you have to watch your back, then go use one of your many passports, buy a one-way ticket to Tahiti, and get out of this damn business once and for all, mate.”

  “Screw that,” Matt came back with, his voice sounding strong and full of enthusiasm. “I’m after a killer of women. If I don’t stop this one, he may keep going. If he’s cleaning up his uncle’s messes, then maybe the uncle needs to go, too.”

  “Step away from the coffee, my friend. You’re definitely over-caffeinated now.”

  “Time to go to work. Talk soon,” Matt said and then killed the call.

  Hours later, his bag packed and left with the bellman in the lobby, he was back on the Express train headed for Paddington and what he hoped would be the final act in this play.

  The two men met back at St. Stephen’s Tavern just past 8 p.m. and were able to sit at the same table they had shared during their first meeting a few days earlier. Tourists, locals, and businessmen preferring to stay and drink rather than go home to the missus or an empty residence stood firmly at the bars, laughing it up or drowning their misery.

  “I was surprised to get your call,” Rogers said, staring at Matt’s face. “Thought for sure I’d checkmated you with that last demand.”

  “It’s all a game, Billy, until the big man upstairs says otherwise,” Matt responded.

  “Been meaning to have a few words with him myself when the time comes,” Rogers said with a grin. “Just not yet.”

  The two exchanged small talk for a few minutes while they waited for their drinks to arrive. Once the server dropped them off and turned away, it was time for Matt to enact his plan.

  “So I accept your challenge, and now I’m going to show you how it all works,” Matt said as he pulled a cellphone from his pocket and typed a brief text.

  “New phone?” Rogers noted. “How many of those do you carry?”

  “Well, the phone you typed your contact info into last time we were here – that was a disposable burner. Sometimes people enter a number that, once called, turns the phone into a tracking and listening device.”

  Rogers listened to Matt’s explanation, his expression registering surprise, as if he had no idea that was even possible. Matt looked at his watch and then back at Rogers with a smile.

  “I slid that burner into the bag of an old Irishman and his wife who were boarding the Eurostar train at Paddington for the Chunnel crossing and their ride to Warsaw to visit her ailing mother. Cute couple. Amazing how much people will volunteer while you’re helping them with their luggage. If anyone was tracking it or trying to track me, they’d be somewhere in Eastern Europe by now.”

  “That’s brilliant, but– ” Rogers began, only to stop when he saw Matt’s new phone light up with a message.

  Matt went on to show Rogers what he considered Spy Stuff 101 to begin his training. Matt slid his chair around so it was next to Rogers. He explained how anything he and other operators did that was clandestine often involved a second and sometimes third verification before information was shared. He showed Rogers that text stating Enter Verification Code 78199000. The men stopped and sat back in their chairs as the server returned for a food order. After begging her to give them just a moment, both read through the menus propped up by the Worcestershire, HP, ketchup, and mayonnaise bottles in the center of the table. Bangers and mash for the American and a fish and chips for the Brit. With thanks and a smile, the server was gone as quick as she came. The two wasted no time getting back to it.

  “No surprises so far, I hope there’s more to it than this,” Rogers said, faking a dramatic yawn.

  Matt then switched to the calculator app on the phone and added the numbers 7 ,8, 1, 9, and 9 for a total of 34 and explained that if he entered the number as sent, it would alert the sender that the phone or the operator was compromised and they would enact other protocols as simple as cutting the communication, tracking the phone, or sending in the cavalry to help. Matt looked at Rogers to be sure he grasped what had been said and then continued. Switching back to a site on the phone, Matt entered M34C, his initials separated by the sum of the text numbers, and hit enter.

  Turning the phone away so that only he could see the response, Matt smiled and said, “You wanted me to prove that this was all real and not a setup before you went any furth
er. Well, tonight’s the night. I’ve got an assignment, an address, and an hour to get there before the target arrives. You in?”

  Rogers thought for a moment. He was a smart, well-trained military veteran who had taken lives and wasn’t averse to doing it again. He was intrigued by the mystique of this game and was keen to get something on this American that he thought of as an insurance policy to keep him out of jail.

  “Where we off to then,” Rogers said as he stood from the table, the adrenaline pumping, allowing his legs to respond much quicker to movement after resting for so long. Matt left a 20-pound note on the table under the salt shaker and led his accomplice out the door, left toward the bridge across from Big Ben and Parliament, and then left again along the Thames.

  It wasn’t long before they entered an alleyway that ran between two high-rise buildings. It was dark and cold, the smell of trash, garbage, and who knows what else in the dumpsters adding to the ambience. While Matt had expected Rogers to be slowed by the temperature, he was impressed that he kept up the pace. Minutes later, they entered a building through the delivery entrance and entered a service elevator. Matt tapped the button for the eighteenth floor and noted Rogers’ demeanor had changed.

  “My Uncle Thomas maintains a condo on the nineteenth floor in this building. You had me worried for a minute,” Rogers said, a sigh of relief in his voice.

  “That’s the best part of this life, Billy,” Matt replied. “You’ve got to enjoy a good adventure.”

  Once the door opened, Matt stepped out and headed to the end of the long hallway, past a dozen doors that led to spacious, high-end condos held by some of the most powerful people in the country. It was a building that lent itself to discretion. Residents often entered through an underground car park and connecting tunnel from the building next door. If you wanted the best and could afford it, you stayed on this street. If you wanted to be famous, you stayed at the Ritz; if you wanted discretion, you stayed in this building. By design, there were no security cameras.

  “Up one flight of stairs, and we’re there,” Matt said. “Keep as quiet as possible from here on, Billy.” Matt opened the fire escape stairway door and held it for Rogers, who had stopped abruptly in the hallway.

  “Coming?”

  “This is getting pretty fucked pretty fast,” Rogers stated, his body language screaming to Matt that he wasn’t sure whether to fight or turn away and head back to the elevator. Normally, a Royal Marine would never turn and run, but this one was damaged, and his emotional state was in question.

  “Don’t worry, Billy, you’re safe,” Matt assured him. “You’re not the target. The target is the person who ordered me to kill you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The fire escape was void of any sounds other than Billy’s labored breathing and a faint squeak from the door’s heavy hinges. Rogers wasn’t having any of it. He reached into his pocket and removed a Walther P99 pistol and raised it toward Matt’s torso.

  “Go ahead on up those stairs, Agent Christopher,” Rogers directed. “We’ll sort this out once you show me what’s next.”

  Matt smiled. “Smart move. I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t come prepared.”

  “Show me your pockets. Raise your jacket and show me your waist,” Rogers ordered, the gun still pointed directly at Matt.

  Matt obliged, slowly unzipped his jacket, held both sides open for Rogers to see, and then turned to show there were no weapons tucked in his waist. “Satisfied?” Matt watched Rogers closely and read his expression. This turn of events hadn’t been expected by the man with the gun, and Matt could see that paranoia had begun to creep into his mind.

  *

  He turned and looked down the hallway as if he expected the elevator to open. He listened as if expecting to hear voices from behind one of the condo doors. There wasn’t a sound. Turning back to Matt, he gestured with the gun toward Matt’s shoes.

  “Slowly pull up your pant legs,” he commanded, and Matt complied, no ankle holster or weapons, just black socks.

  “Okay, let’s keep going, but slowly. Take one step for every one I take. Slowly,” Rogers insisted. Twenty steps and the two were standing at the rear entrance door to number 1910. Matt turned to Rogers, asking if he wanted to type in the door code.

  “You do it,” he replied. “Let’s see if your intel is as good as it has been so far.”

  “Need my phone again,” Matt said as he pulled the phone very slowly from his jeans pocket. The info on his phone that gave the name and location of the target also contained the code to the keypad that Matt proceeded to punch in. Hearing the latch release, he slowly opened the door and entered the dark hallway.

  “Uncle Thomas doesn’t have any dogs, does he?” Matt asked half-jokingly and continued down the hall and into the massive living room. Motion sensors set off the ceiling lights as Rogers followed him in, closed the door, and entered a code to relock the device. His uncle had thought of everything – if he didn’t want someone to leave, they didn’t. Both men walked farther into the space, and Matt headed straight to the window to admire the view. Rogers remained at a distance, gun trained on Matt the entire time.

  “So, what’s the next move here?” Rogers asked.

  Matt turned and smiled. He gestured toward the black leather sofa. “Mind if I take a seat?”

  Rogers gestured with the gun, giving him permission. Sitting down across from his captive, Rogers took a deep breath, looked around the room, and smiled as he nodded his head.

  “Here we are, sitting in my uncle’s hideaway.”

  Matt smiled. He was confident, and his expression and body language showed it. “Now we wait, Billy. We wait until the man who ordered the hit to show up. I was simply directed to bring you here.”

  Rogers looked confused, and Matt watched, assuming Rogers was running the scenarios through his head over and over.

  “You still don’t get it, do you, Billy?” Matt asked. “You don’t know where you fucked up and brought your uncle into this, do you?” Rogers shook his head.

  “MI5 found you because there was only one person in British intelligence, even at the low pay grade patronage job your mighty Uncle Thomas got you, who asked the question ‘Which CCTVs are inoperable in Central London’ five times. You typed in that question five times. And five times, underneath one of the locations that were identified, a woman’s throat was slashed.”

  Rogers began to reconstruct the days in his head. He began to rerun the interrogations, and none of it added up.

  “Let me give you the short version of it all,” Matt suggested. “MI5 found you because of the questions you posed regarding the CCTV but couldn’t pin you down because you always had an alibi. And there was never any physical evidence to tie you to any of the crimes. Your uncle never vouched for your whereabouts those five nights, but some of his connections did. Unfortunately, as time went by, and those connections were leaned on and scrutinized by MI5 and the London Police, the heat started to come from them back to him. He’s a big, powerful boy, alright, but having his nephew flagged as a murder suspect, a slasher of women’s throats no less – that has caused him problems. He now owes five huge favors. Some of the women in their lives are getting a bit worried for their own well-being. In summary, you’ve put him and many others, like Mick Jagger says, between a rock and a hard place.”

  “So, he’s put a hit on me through the covert side of American intelligence?”

  “Yes, he has, Billy. But there’s a way out of this mess.”

  “Yeah, shoot you in the bloody face, and I’ve got my way out of here. I can’t believe you came here unarmed. How was it you were going to kill me then? Pour a soda in the kitchen and then stick a butcher knife in me?” Rogers looked to the front door, thinking he heard the keypad activate.

  “No, I like my idea better,” Matt laughed. “You take out your uncle since he’s the one who ordered the hits on those five women. Confess to me and me alone that you killed them, and then I hand you a shiny ne
w passport and a plane ticket to Tahiti.” Gesturing to his inside jacket pocket, Matt slowly reached in, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it to Rogers as he sat across from him. Rogers fingered through the packet and poured a Canadian passport, a plane ticket, and a stack of Canadian hundred-dollar bills out onto the coffee table in front of him.

  “You always carry foreign money with you?” Rogers asked.

  “Not usually. I do have accounts at banks around the world so cash, any type of cash, is never far away. That’s the money your uncle paid to have you killed. Ten grand.” Rogers seemed to consider his options for escape.

  “Think of all those bikinis out there in the Pacific, Billy. Those legs of yours would do just fine in warmer climates.”

  “The bloody passport, where the hell did this come from?”

  “Charlie Chaste. He asked me to get involved to help you. His gut was screaming that your uncle was behind all of this madness, and he offered me this solution. Get him to confess, he said, and I’ll give him another identity and a way out of this.”

  Billy pushed back. “His job is to put criminals behind bars or in front of a firing squad. He wouldn’t just let me run loose. There’s no way.”

  “Politics, my friend. Politics. Apparently, he’s had a hard-on for your uncle for years. Once he was sure he was involved in these killings, he was like a dog with a bone. He wouldn’t let it go. He worked it and worked it, found the connections from the victims back to people your uncle influenced in some way. I tell you, Billy, he’s determined to get him. But you don’t have to get burned with him.”

  Matt let the explanation soak in and, when he got no response, continued. “Charlie feels, and I agree, that ultra-powerful Thomas Sinclair took advantage of a tormented nephew suffering from a physical injury and post-traumatic stress disorder. He got you to eliminate or punish any threats to him or his band of buddies.”

  Rogers looked crushed. His uncle had taken him in as a teenager and encouraged him to head in one direction or another, eventually coming back to London to serve at his pleasure.