The Price of Time

by Tim Tigner

Limited Options

  AS MUCH AS I WANTED TO, I could not fault Tory’s logic. Going to the police would not be an option if I inflicted additional detectable physical harm.

  On the other hand, I could kill Tory with a clean conscience—and save the taxpayers a few hundred grand. I had witnessed the crime and heard the confession. Capital punishment was justified. The rest was bureaucracy.

  But justice for past actions wasn’t my primary goal. Preventing additional attacks took priority. To obtain the information that would empower me to stop Tory’s employer from cremating more innocent people, I was prepared to do whatever it took.

  Up to a point.

  I wasn’t certain precisely where that point was. But standing there studying the war-torn face before me, I had to admit that Tory’s cracking point was likely well beyond it.

  Fortunately, Tory had been wrong about the number of options available. I had more than one. I had two. Negotiation and deception.

  “What’s your offer?” I asked.

  Tory resisted the urge to smile, which must have been tough. “I tell you everything, and then you turn me over to the police—with a clean conscience. Let justice prevail.”

  I looked at Skylar.

  She signaled accord with a slight dip of her head.

  “Telling isn’t good enough. You’ll need to show us. Prove to us that your words are more than an elaborate con. We happen to know that you’re good at those.”

  This time, Tory did smile. “But of course. Consider me the penitent man, ready to cooperate.”

  Tory’s angle was clear. Appear contrite before the court and police. No doubt play himself off as a pawn. Attempt to cut a deal. Testify against his employers in exchange for lenient sentencing. No doubt they had paid him well enough to provide for a first-rate defense. He’d hire a team of top lawyers, men with courtroom skills and political connections. Enough BS to bamboozle any jury.

  Not on my watch.

  I set down the omelet pan, then pushed Tory over, off his knees and onto his side. I pulled another zip tie from the packet and hog tied the hitman, binding his ankles to his wrists. “We’ll start with your laptop.”

  “Whatever you like,” Tory said, not reacting to the additional restraint.

  “Is it on the Grey Poupon?”

  “No. It’s in my hotel room.”

  “Lie to me and I’ll pluck out your other eye.”

  “It’s in my hotel room.”

  I sailed the Miami Viceroy back to the marina, just long enough for Skylar to disembark with Tory’s hotel key. He had an executive suite at the Fontainebleau, which was two miles north of the marina on Collins Avenue.

  As she set foot on the gangway, I repeated the highlights of our earlier discussion, a move more reflective of my needs than hers. “Be careful, and bring everything. Have the valet hold your car. Tell him you just need to grab your bag.”

  “I got it.”

  “I know you do. I’ll be listening.” I tapped my earbud, then surprised myself by kissing her on the cheek.

  What was that about? To camouflage the act, I called down through the hatch to Tory. “At the first sign of foul play, I’ll put a fork in your eye.”

  “She won’t have any trouble. I work alone.”

  I believed it, having watched the Finnish freelancer work in Williamsburg.

  Skylar started walking down the dock.

  I returned to the helm and immediately pulled away. I didn’t want to linger where we could be overheard if Tory started to scream. “Testing, testing.”

  “I hear you fine,” Skylar said, glancing back. “We did it!”

  “We don’t know that yet. It remains to be seen how much he knows. But in any case, you were amazing.”

  “It feels fantastic, like I’ve been freed from a great weight. Now that I’ve beaten the man who bested me, I’m ready to become my old self again. My old self before the accident.” Her tone was absolutely exuberant. “I can hardly believe that I just pulled off a sophisticated covert operation. With your help, of course.”

  I knew the feeling. “You were fantastic. You’re a natural. But please put that elation aside for now and focus on the task at hand. A lot could still go wrong.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Seriously, Skylar. Ops are often blown because agents think they’re already home.”

  “Got it,” she said. Her voice an octave lower.

  I killed the yacht’s engine. We were far enough from the marina. “I’m going back below deck to keep an eye on our man. Please talk to me about what’s going on.”

  Skylar did. The valet. The elevator. The five-star executive suite view. The laptop. The toiletries. The search for anything hidden.

  She packed all the personal items into Tory’s roller bag, and stepped back onto the dock forty minutes after stepping off.

  I picked her up and pulled offshore again. Not too far. I needed cell reception to set up a hotspot for Tory’s computer.

  Before beginning the interrogation, I wanted to search the roller bag. With Skylar watching, I placed the black Travelpro onto the drink table behind the captain’s chair and pulled the laptop from its front pocket. Setting the computer aside, I unzipped the main compartment and then went straight for the zippered pockets on the sides. “Bingo!”

  “What is it?”

  I extracted three items. “My phone, watch, and gun.”

  “Congratulations.”

  I set them aside and continued rummaging. I didn’t find my car key, and it wasn’t until I unzipped the inner pocket of Tory’s toiletry bag that I found anything interesting beyond the owner’s Glock 19 and lock blade knife. But it was very interesting. Three prefilled syringes. Either an anesthetic or an antipsychotic, I would guess. Probably the latter, given the relatively small size. “Did you check the minibar refrigerator? See any vials?”

  “Nothing there but overpriced booze.”

  “I bet this is his knockout concoction. The one he used on you.”

  Skylar grimaced.

  I set the syringes aside and searched for hidden compartments. I found none.

  Satisfied that I’d gleaned all available information from Tory’s belongings, I picked up the laptop and led Skylar below deck. I set the computer on the dining table, sliced Tory’s hog-tie restraint with his own lock blade knife, and hoisted him onto the bench seat, wrists and ankles still bound. “Scooch to the corner and we’ll get started.”

  Tory complied.

  “We’ll start with the password for your computer.”

  “Fly_Eagle-Owls_Fly. With first-letter caps, underlines between words, and a hyphen after Eagle.”

  There were so many ways this could go wrong.

  I walked to the galley and grabbed a teaspoon from a drawer. Turning to Tory, I thumped it on my open palm and said, “I’ve agreed to go down the path you selected. But if you deviate, my reaction will be extreme. If this password erases your computer, I’m going to pop out your good eye.”

  “What, no forks?”

  I simply stared.

  “It’s a cheer for the Finnish football team.”

  Ironically, Tory’s handicap also disabled me. I couldn’t read his face. Not his expressions, not his eyes. That increased my need to rely on logic and threats. I gave the spoon a final thump. “You’ve been warned.”

  I slid around the bench seat until I was sitting close enough to Tory to sense his reactions. Skylar stood where she could see his face.

  I typed in the cheer.

  The computer unlocked.

  I positioned the laptop so Tory could see the screen.

  Skylar slid in beside me so she could watch as well. I didn’t like being boxed in that way, but with Tory bound and chained I decided not to exclude Skylar. She deserved a seat at the table.

  I navigated to Recent Documents. There were ten folders in active use. One called Admin, the other nine designated with first names. Allison, Aria, Camilla, David, Eric, Felix, Lisa, Pierce, and Ries. On a
hunch, I used command-space to search for “Lars.” The Mac rewarded me with a file nested under David. I clicked it open and was greeted by my college roommate’s charismatic face. The file included his picture taken from multiple angles, his biography in great detail, and multiple screens’ worth of notes and linked article clippings.

  I clicked back out to the parent file named David. The man pictured there was the one I had seen impersonating Lars at his apartment. The man who drove a BMW i8.

  “You have nine clients?” I asked.

  “A month ago I did. Only six are still alive. Either they’re a very unlucky group, or someone has been killing them off.”

  59

  Tough Call

  WITH THE VISION in his right eye now clear, although constricted, Tory studied the opponents seated to his left. Chase had the look of an agent. Clean-cut and athletic. A far cry from the leather-clad scruffy-faced motorcyclist Tory had first glimpsed in California. He wondered if Chase had been undercover. In any case, he was working alone now. Or rather, with a washed-out athlete rather than with fellow officers.

  Both his captors were sitting within striking distance. That was bad tradecraft, even with Tory’s wrists tied. He hoped the mistakes would continue.

  Of course, they’d already made the big one, consenting to his proposal. By agreeing to forgo torture as a means of extracting information, they had shown their true colors, their humanitarian stripes. Now he had the advantage, and they didn’t know it.

  Chase began opening the other eight named files. Skylar gasped when Aria’s face appeared. The woman did look like her. And sure enough, nested inside were folders labeled, Skylar, Sandy, Amy, and Jenny J.

  Chase finally turned his attention back to Tory. “Why didn’t Aria turn up when we searched for Skylar’s lookalikes?”

  “None of my clients show up in searches,” Tory said, struggling to show his superiority by speaking normally. “Clearly, they’ve worked hard to avoid and eliminate electronic fingerprints. But I don’t know how, and I don’t know why.”

  “All nine?” Chase asked.

  “All nine.”

  “And who are they?” Skylar asked.

  “I wish I knew. It would be worth a lot of money to me to figure that out, so I’ve tried.”

  “Blackmail?” Chase asked.

  “They have money, lots of money, and secrets worth killing for.” Tory could see that Chase believed him, but Skylar was still skeptical. The naïveté of one unfamiliar with his world.

  “What do they have in common?” she asked.

  “You’ve now seen the same pictures I’ve seen. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “How do you contact them?” Chase asked.

  “I work exclusively with Felix. We chat using Darknet services routed over a dedicated phone.”

  “On one of the phones I found in your pocket?” Chase asked while opening the Felix folder.

  “Yes. The generic one. They gave it to me. Each of the nine has a matching device. They’re VoIP-based, and specially programmed to go through a Darknet relay in Dallas. Untraceable. Feel free to try.”

  “Your payment?” Chase pressed.

  “My fees are paid from an offshore shell corporation to an offshore shell corporation. For expenses I have a platinum Amex linked to a Delaware shell company, which is funded by the same offshore shell corp that pays me.

  “In a nutshell, that’s all I know. Now, as anyone can plainly see, I’m in urgent need of serious medical attention. Depriving me of that treatment constitutes torture.”

  Tory knew they wouldn’t give in right away. But he also knew he could wear them down. And once they turned him over to the police, he’d be taken straight to a hospital. There, he’d be a suspect, but nothing more. Security would be inconsequential. Handcuffs with a guard or two at the door. He’d act all weak and feeble, not a hard sell given the appearance of his face. Then Wham!

  Chase did not look sympathetic to his cause. “We’ll talk about your needs once ours are met. Tell me the story from the beginning. I want dates, instructions, and activities. I want the transcripts of your texts plus your personal observations.”

  Tory told them almost everything. He left out only the special instructions for Allison, Felix, and Lisa. The desire to replace an actress and separating military officers. He wanted something to bargain with, on the off chance that he remained in police custody beyond his hospital visit.

  Chase sat in silence after Tory finished round two. His laptop was closed by then, and he was back across the table with Skylar by his side. Eventually, he voiced his conclusion. “So basically, you’ve become a professional assassin?”

  Tory understood this ploy. Chase was painting his captive as less than human. Justifying what he’d done so he could walk away with a clean conscience. Well, Tory wasn’t going to give him that psychological crutch. “As an intelligence officer, I was always a professional assassin, of sorts. Now I just work for individuals—rather than a government. The pay is much better. You might consider making the switch yourself.”

  “I worked for my government to make my country safe.”

  “So did I. Now I work for individuals to make them safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s not unusual. Soldiers are rarely told what the generals are thinking.”

  Chase remained unblinking. “Guess.”

  “My working theory is that they’re spies. Some foreign government or organization wants to weave them into the fabric of American society.”

  “To what end?”

  “If I could figure that out, I wouldn’t have to guess. As you’ve just heard, the replacement identities are from random locations. Spies would want specific locations. So it’s weak, but I can’t think of a better explanation.”

  “Who do you think is killing them?”

  Tory shrugged. “It did occur to me that if the CIA discovered what was going on, they might execute the foreign agents in a way that makes their deaths look like accidents.”

  “That’s what you’re giving me? The CIA? That’s not going to get you to a hospital.”

  “What else can I say?”

  Chase got up and poured himself a glass of water. He stretched his quads, triceps, and shoulders before sitting back down.

  Tory knew the simple actions were designed to make him uncomfortable, to draw focus to his own cramping muscles, constricted blood flow, and overall lack of freedom. He ignored it, as he did his other discomforts, by keeping focused on the future.

  “What would happen if you called Felix and asked for a meeting? What if you told him you had to show him something in person?”

  “He’d never agree to it. He’d know it was a trap. What could I tempt him with that I couldn’t reveal over the phone?”

  “You could tell him you’ve identified the killer,” Skylar said, commenting for the first time in a while. “Tell him you need to show him what you’ve found. That he needs to experience it for himself.”

  “Experience it?”

  “Use those words. It’s intriguing. It’s BS, and he’ll likely suspect as much, but he won’t know for sure. And given the level of desperation he’s likely feeling, he may bite. Remember, you already know what he looks like, and you know his new name, so what does he have to lose?”

  “His new name is worthless. It’s just a shell identity. My clients aren’t moving into their replacements’ houses. Knowing their new Social Security numbers doesn’t give me their locations. I couldn’t find them if my life depended on it, and they know that. They work very hard to keep it that way.”

  Chase rose again, this time to stand behind Skylar. “She’s right, and it’s a good idea. Call Felix. Sell him as if your life depends on it.”

  Tory couldn’t think of an objection. He decided to ask for something instead. Start getting them in the habit of giving, and maybe even free his hands. “Will you brew some coffee while I compose my pitch? A handful of aspirin would also be
nice.”

  Chase walked to the galley where he found a coffee pot and grounds. While it brewed, he rummaged around, obviously looking for something else.

  Skylar went to the restroom. She returned before the coffee was done brewing. “No aspirin in the medicine cabinet. It’s bare.”

  Chase poured three mugs, and set one before each of them.

  Tory decided not to ask Chase to free a hand. He’d just make a pathetic go at it with his burned lips and hope for the best.

  What he got was the plastic straw Chase had extracted from a go-cup.

  “What is Felix’s number?” Chase asked.

  “Speed dial 1.”

  Chase checked the call log and found a long string of SD 1 entries. It was a smart move, ensuring that Tory had called it often, that it wasn’t a warning bell. “How do I display the actual number called?”

  “You can’t. It’s a feature of the Darknet service they use. I told you they’re crazy about security.”

  Chase held the phone close to Tory’s mouth so it would sound less like a speaker phone. Another smart move, but one that ultimately made no difference. The other end rang repeatedly without an answer.

  Chase ended the call and began tapping the phone against his open palm. “How hard is it to reach Felix?”

  “Easy. In seven months, this is only the second time he hasn’t answered my call.”

  “Does he keep tabs on you? Could he know that you’ve been taken?”

  “No. I’d have noticed. He’s a numbers guy, not an ops guy. He doesn’t think like us.”

  “Defense, not offense?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about emergency communication? What’s your backup method?”

  “They can reach me on my regular phone, but my only link to them is in your hand. Security freaks, remember?”

  Chase was clearly getting a headache from running into so many dead ends. He continued tapping the burner phone through an extended silence. “We’ll try again in fifteen minutes.”

  Tory wasn’t optimistic. “Okay. But given the developing pattern, I suspect that Felix may never answer a phone again.”