The Hunter v-1

by Tom Wood

  The new wires were in turn attached to a small transmitter the size of a bottle top fixed to the telephone casing with superglue. The transmitter worked by emitting the electrical signal running through the wires as radio waves. Because the transmitter was so small, the signal sent was weak and could only be picked up from short distances. To be sure of an excellent recording, Victor had placed the receiver only a few feet away beneath the bed.

  He removed the transmitter and wires from the phone before fixing the receiver back together. Victor left the hotel room and made his way back to the lobby. Outside, the keycard, radio receiver, and transmitter joined the newspaper.

  The night of the explosion Victor had recognized the assassin straight away. There could have been be no mistaking him. No one who witnessed a bomb blast behaved like that. Not unless they also happened to be the bomber. He had walked away casually, seemingly without a care in the world. He was dressed in khaki pants and a white long-sleeved shirt. He looked like a tourist, not a killer. That was the point.

  Victor saw the telltale signs of countersurveillance in the assassin’s manner, even though he believed his job to be complete. He never walked at the same pace for long, sometimes crossing the road for no apparent reason, sometimes crossing back suddenly. He frequently paused to look in shop windows, to check in the reflection for anyone who might be following him. He was good, very good.

  Victor had kept pace with him, mirroring his movements, staying out of sight. He stayed close but not too close, his face lost in the crowds that lay between them. Despite his precautions, the killer wasn’t as thorough as he could have been. But letting your guard down when the job was done and the danger past was a mistake everyone made at some point.

  Victor corrected himself. Nearly everyone.

  Once he had discovered where the assassin was staying, Victor had bribed an unhappy-looking concierge to find out which room was his. After stealing the key card, Victor had bugged the room when its occupant was eating dinner in the hotel restaurant. Now he knew that his mark was leaving Cyprus and where he was heading, even which flight he would be taking.

  That he was leaving proved Victor’s enemies believed he’d died in the bomb blast. He was no longer a target. With such extensive fire damage, the authorities might never be able to conclude that only one out of the two guests were present in the room at the time of the blaze. All Victor had to do was get off the island and disappear. Even if his enemies eventually realized he was still alive, he would be ten thousand miles away with a new face and a new life. They would never find him.

  The plan had been to kill whoever wanted him dead, to erase the threat, to stay alive. Now he didn’t need to do that. He could live his life without expecting an assassin’s bullet.

  He’d won.

  Victor hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to the airport. He sat in the back, silently staring out the window. He thought about where he might go, thinking of those countries where he had never set foot, where he had always wanted to go. For prudence it would be best to go to somewhere in South America first. His Spanish was good, and he would quickly become fluent. He could pay for a new identity there, a genuine identity, become a citizen of Argentina maybe. Then from there, Who knew where he would go?

  But he wasn’t going to South America, sensible as that idea would be. Because there was something he needed first. Something he couldn’t live the rest of his life without. Something he’d never wanted before.

  Revenge.

  CHAPTER 68

  Harrisonburg, Virginia, USA

  Saturday

  08:12 EST

  ‘I always wanted to ride when I was younger,’ Procter said. His arms were folded and resting on top of a sturdy wooden fence. In the field on the other side grazed two bay quarter horses. ‘Never got the chance though. Now I’m too old and too fat to start.’ He didn’t look unhappy about this declaration. ‘They’re amazing creatures, full of character and grace.’

  Alvarez stood to the side of Procter. ‘All I see is two big dumb animals eating grass.’

  Procter laughed and looked at him. ‘Never wanted to be a cowboy, then?’

  ‘I hear horse meat tastes pretty good.’

  They were in the heart of rural Virginia, farm country. Their cars were parked on a narrow road flanked by fields. No other vehicles had driven by so far. The sun was shining, but the air was crisp. Procter was dressed in jeans and a casual shirt underneath his coat. Alvarez wore a suit and overcoat. He’d barely worn anything else for weeks.

  Procter turned around. ‘How was the flight?’

  ‘Long.’

  ‘I can tell. You look worn out.’

  ‘I’m tired as dead dog.’

  Procter rubbed his hands together. ‘You should try going to bed. I hear it’s the recommended cure for tiredness.’

  ‘I’ll sleep later.’

  ‘I’ve got a thermos in the car. You want a cup of coffee?’

  Alvarez shook his head. ‘I’m trying to reduce my caffeine intake.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s not good for the body.’

  ‘And how’s that working out for you?’

  ‘Not so good.’

  Procter turned around again and leaned his considerable weight against the fence. The wood made a loud, threatening creak.

  ‘You didn’t hear that,’ he said.

  ‘Hear what?’

  The associate deputy director had always been a chunky 3XL kind of guy, but without a suit to thin him out a bit he looked like he was carrying more weight than was good for two people, let alone one. Alvarez, who measured his own body fat in the single percentiles, saw a heart attack waiting to happen.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ Procter stated, ‘the weekend.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know what a weekend is?’

  ‘I used to.’

  ‘What’s on your mind that couldn’t wait until Monday?’

  ‘A woman.’

  Procter smiled. ‘My dad used to say behind the scowl of every man lurks a member of the fairer sex.’

  ‘That’s probably true,’ Alvarez said. ‘But this isn’t just any woman.’ He drew a notebook from inside his coat and opened it. ‘Her name’s Rebecca Sumner, aka Rachel Swanson, American citizen, used to be one of ours, formerly of the Directorate of Intelligence working the Europe office until around four months ago.’

  Procter’s face became serious. ‘The woman who met with Ozols’s killer?’

  Alvarez nodded. ‘She was a good analyst, a hard worker, on the rise, ambitious, all that shit. She resigned her post to work in the private sector. On the surface nothing more than a government employee off to land a bigger paycheck. Only she didn’t take a job with any of the usual suspects. In fact, she left the country under a false passport three weeks after leaving her desk with the company. She went to France and rented a small apartment in Marseilles, paid for six months’ rent in advance. In cash.’

  Procter looked sceptical. ‘On an analyst’s take home?’

  ‘If it was,’ Alvarez said, ‘then I’m in the wrong job and you can take my verbal resignation right now. But no, there were no withdrawals from her bank account to match the deposit. Someone else gave her the money. She had no means of employment in France, but monthly donations were made into her US bank account to the amount of her former salary.’

  ‘No kidding?’

  Alvarez flipped over a couple of pages. ‘On Wednesday, French police entered her apartment and discovered a few things of note, such as a sink full of burned documents and communications equipment. Half her clothes were gone. Drawers were left opened. The front door hadn’t been locked.’

  ‘What spooked her?’

  ‘A neighbour confirmed she left her apartment in the early hours of Friday morning. Before she left, Sumner made a couple of calls to John Kennard’s cell phone. He was already dead by then, of course, and Sumner didn’t leave a message. It was the first time she’d ever phoned him
. They had never worked together at the agency or trained together at the Farm. They lived twenty miles apart, had different social circles, no family in common, no reason to explain why she had his phone number. Seems when he didn’t answer her call, she packed her bags and disappeared.’

  ‘To Paris.’

  Alvarez nodded. ‘Her cousin owns an apartment there that she was using. Anyway, she’s there less than a day when French authorities try to apprehend a suspect they believed to be the man responsible for the hotel massacre. He was seen entering the building with Sumner. Obviously we know what happened next.

  ‘The killer knows Sumner, who knows Kennard. For argument’s sake, let’s say they’ve been working together. Kennard was in Paris with me working on getting the location of those missiles from Ozols. He had access to all my notes. More important, he was there when Ozols gave me the time and location of the meet. Maybe he passed that on to Sumner, who did the same to the killer. A nice arrangement. Efficient. Fewer risks.

  ‘But something goes wrong because Kennard is killed, which spooks Sumner into leaving Marseilles. She thinks she’s next, so she’s meets with Ozols’s killer, who survived an assassination attempt. Hoyt drowns in the bath.’

  ‘A clean-up.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So who’s behind it?’

  ‘I don’t know for certain,’ Alvarez answered honestly. ‘I can’t see Sumner and Kennard, two young CIA employees, turning mercenary. Kennard maybe, but the fact that Sumner continued to receive a pay packet equalling her old salary tells me she could have been tricked into thinking she was part of a legit, albeit off the books, op.’

  ‘Only someone within the agency could pull that off,’ Procter stated. ‘You’ve got a suspect, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve no proof.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Remember: Russian missiles, only six people knew about Hoyt. I’m one of them, a techie in Paris is another, and the rest are the four people in the briefing room when I gave my report.’

  ‘And I’m one of those,’ Procter said.

  Alvarez nodded.

  Procter blew out some air. He shook his head. ‘Old bastard’s retiring next year.’

  ‘Maybe he wants to add to his retirement fund.’

  Procter looked thoughtful. He didn’t speak for a long time.

  ‘You’ve done a good job, Antonio,’ he said eventually. ‘But given the sensitivity of what you’ve just told me, I don’t want you to speak of this to anyone again. That includes me.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m going to tell you this because I like you, not because you need to know,’ Procter explained. ‘I’ve known for some time that we had a problem in NCS, someone playing by their own rules. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I’ve had people looking into this whole thing for a while, from other angles.’ They watched a car drive past until it became small in the distance. ‘But I’ve never been able to get close before. And I never would have guessed Ferguson would be who I’m after, but now we might just have made that all-important break. You’ve helped immeasurably already, but you’re too close to this. You-’

  Alvarez scowled. He adjusted his footing. ‘Sir, don’t take me off this now when I’m this close to nailing this fucker. If Ferguson really is behind this and we get him, we’ll be able to catch Ozols’s killer next, then whoever murdered John. Everyone.’

  Procter put a hand on Alvarez’s shoulder. ‘I respect your dedication but you’ve done as much as you can. If it is Ferguson, then he knows you are on his trail. He’s probably got people watching everything you do.’

  ‘You seriously believe that?’

  ‘Why not? Ferguson has been so careful about covering his tracks that he’s killed or tried to kill everyone who even knows a piece of the puzzle. If that’s the case, he’s sure as shit going to keep an eye on the person trying to put those pieces together.’

  Alvarez looked around. He thought back, trying to remember if he’d seen anything that could be surveillance. There wasn’t, but he just might not have detected it. Alvarez was a good operative, but he wasn’t deluded about his skills. He couldn’t guarantee no one had tailed him.

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘If you continue openly investigating, we may force him to abandon his plans and might never get this close to him again. We can’t have that. We’re going to pretend the matter is closed and make Ferguson feel secure while we look for evidence. You can’t be involved in that. Look what happened when you found out about Hoyt. He was dead twenty-four hours later.’

  Alvarez couldn’t hide his disappointment. ‘I’ve worked my ass off for the last two weeks on this, losing a good five pounds in the process of trying to track down Ozols’s killer and that goddamn flash drive — not to mention all the months it took me to get Ozols to play ball so we could get those missiles and stop any rogue states from getting their fingers on the technology. A colleague of mine is dead, killed by the same people who murdered Ozols. That person is someone inside Langley, if it’s Ferguson then he’s a fucking traitor whose hand I have shaken, and you want me to let it go?’

  It had taken all his will to keep from raising his voice.

  Procter looked at him sympathetically. ‘Not let it go, hand it over. You’ve done everything you can.’

  ‘Sir, I still think I can be involved without anyone knowing. We can-’

  Procter moved away from the fence and pointed his key fob at his car. ‘My mind’s made up, Antonio.’ He took a few steps before turning around. ‘Get me hard copies of everything you have and drop them off at my office Monday morning. Destroy your own copies. That’s an order.’

  Alvarez took an almighty calming breath.

  In the field the quarter horses were running. Procter watched them for a moment before looking back at Alvarez.

  ‘Go home,’ the big guy said. ‘Go home and get some sleep.’

  Alvarez’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel of his Dodge sedan. His eyes stared ahead, seeing the road, the traffic, but focused on a point far away. His nostrils flared with each big, regular exhale. The anger inside him made his heart thump hard. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been driving, an hour at least, maybe two. He didn’t know where he was heading but he was going nowhere. He passed the same landmarks, took the same intersections, circling the countryside so he could talk — try to talk — himself out of doing something stupid.

  But it wasn’t working. The more he thought, the angrier he got, until he made a right where he’d taken a left three times before, and twenty minutes later he was slowing down to drive past the big colonial house where a certain traitorous a-hole made his home. It was a nice place, that much was obvious, and Alvarez wondered how much had been paid for by dollars other than Uncle Sam’s. Ferguson was home, judging by the two cars on the drive.

  Alvarez pulled up on the opposite side of the road a couple of houses along. He turned off the engine and adjusted his mirrors so he could see Ferguson’s driveway. He checked his watch, figuring he wouldn’t have to wait long.

  If he’d been anywhere else he’d be asleep by now, but anger, adrenaline, and determination kept the tiredness from taking hold. It happened ten minutes later, one guy in a tan-coloured Ford. He pulled up on the same side of the road as Alvarez, two properties along, the other way back from Ferguson’s. Through his mirrors Alvarez watched the guy adjusting his own mirrors.

  Good. Alvarez had been worried Procter wouldn’t act soon enough, but he’d made a call and got someone watching Ferguson pretty damn quick. Very good. Now it would be impossible for Alvarez to kick Ferguson’s door down and threaten to plug the old fuck if he didn’t come clean.

  Alvarez gave it a minute or two before starting up the engine. He saw the guy in the tan Ford register him and expected a note would be made. Procter would probably give him crap about it when he found out, but Alvarez had been forced to eat enough crap today that some more would just seem
like dessert.

  He headed for DC, a little above the speed limit, and reached his destination in good time. Again he pulled up on the opposite side of the road and used his mirrors to watch the building. Sykes was on the third floor of the plush brownstone that was a good way above what he should be able to afford. Alvarez knew that Sykes’s parents were wealthy, so he wasn’t about to jump the gun and assume the guy was rotten just because of where he lived.

  Cars came and went, but Alvarez didn’t see any surveillance. That figured. It cost a lot to watch people, especially agency people, and Ferguson was the suspect, not Sykes. But Alvarez was convinced that if this whole thing was a rogue op run by Ferguson, he sure as hell wasn’t running it alone.

  Ferguson was too thorough and too careful to have gotten his hands dirty personally. There had to be a conduit between him and the assets on the ground. If it wasn’t Sykes, then Alvarez was going to have to look elsewhere, but if it was Sykes, then Alvarez was working a lead just sitting in his car. Procter had told him to keep off Ferguson. He hadn’t said anything about Sykes.

  After an hour Alvarez was starting to need to piss something bad, but ten minutes later he’d forgotten about his bladder entirely. Sykes was coming out of the building’s front door. He was carrying a suitcase and looked in a hurry. Alvarez sat up in his seat, watching Sykes intently as he hailed a taxi, starting the engine as one pulled up, putting the Dodge in gear as Sykes climbed in.

  The taxi was easy to follow. Alvarez hung back two cars, quickly realizing that it was heading for Dulles. Maybe Sykes was going overseas, somewhere sunny on the coast of the Indian Ocean.

  Alvarez took out his cell phone and cycled through his numbers until he found the name he was looking for. He hit dial, switched the phone to speaker, and put it in his lap so he could get both hands back on the wheel.

  After seven rings a man answered. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Joe, it’s Antonio. I need a favour, fast.’

  ‘Man, I’m only a Fed on weekdays. I’m at the park with my kid. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Would I be calling if it could?’