The Hunter v-1

by Tom Wood

  A pause. ‘Okay, what can I do?’

  ‘I need you to check credit-card transactions in the name of Kevin Sykes.’ He gave Sykes’s address.

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘He’s bought an airline ticket, and I need to know where he’s going.’

  ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘He’s on the way to the airport now, so not long.’

  ‘My wife is giving me dirty looks. I’m not going to get any tonight.’

  ‘Spare me the details. Just hurry, please. It’s important.’

  ‘I’ll phone the office now.’

  Alvarez thanked him and hung up. His phone rang after eleven minutes.

  ‘Okay, your friend Mr Sykes used his AmEx to buy a round trip from Dulles to Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, by way of Paris and Amsterdam. Air France leaving at eleven fifteen. That’s a twentyfour-hour flight. And I figured if you wanted to know where he’s flying to, you’ll want to know where he’s going when he gets there.’

  ‘Yeah. Where?’

  ‘Some city in Tanzania, Tanga. It’s on the coast. He’s booked himself a room at a hotel there.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘Same way I know about his flight. His credit card.’

  ‘Shit, I didn’t even think.’

  ‘Well, you sound tired.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘There you go then. Plus, you never were very smart to begin with.’

  A few seconds later Alvarez was calling the airport. He couldn’t risk taking the same flight as Sykes, even if the two had only met a couple of times in person. Alvarez learned that the next Air France flight left six hours later, which would give Sykes too much of a head start. He also learned that a Northwest flight leaving an hour after Sykes could get him direct to Amsterdam in time to join the same flight down to Tanzania. It was also cheaper.

  Surprised but pleased, Alvarez gave his credit-card details to the operator without hesitation. If Sykes was going to Tanzania, it could be for only one reason.

  He knew where the missiles were.

  CHAPTER 69

  Eighty Miles East of Tanga, Tanzania

  Monday

  12:27 EAT

  Sykes squinted against the glare of the afternoon sun. He stood on the deck of the commercial salvage vessel hired by Dalweg and Wiechman. The pair were former Navy SEALs who ran their own diving-and-salvage company based a few hundred miles up the coast in Kenya. They didn’t have the greatest of service records before leaving their respective teams, Dalweg in particular. He’d left the navy with a dishonourable discharge for beating a prostitute so bad she almost died. But the retired special-forces guys had been used by the company before on deniable operations and knew how to keep their mouths shut.

  The pair had arrived in Tanga the day before Sykes and had hired the boat and purchased equipment they weren’t able to bring across the border. A sizeable chunk of cash had already been wired into Dalweg and Wiechman’s company bank account. They would get the same amount again when the mission had been completed.

  As Ferguson had made clear, Sykes had first informed them of the rough details of their task and had only given them a full briefing when they were on the boat.

  ‘That’ll increase the fee by twenty-five per cent,’ Dalweg had said.

  Sykes had assured him that he would see to it when the job was done. Figuring that would happen, Sykes had only offered them half of what Ferguson was willing to pay. Even with their increased fee, Sykes would still walk away with a fat few K’s of the total in his own pocket. He was pretty pleased with his brokering skills, and it felt good to be ripping off that fucker Ferguson too.

  Sykes found Dalweg and Wiechman to be typical ex-military types, particularly ex-spec ops guys. They were big built and tanned, with lined and weathered faces and stares that could curdle cream. Both were around forty and had the scars and stories that only men who had fired rifles in anger carried. Despite their penchant for expletives and bad taste in jokes, Sykes found them to be all business.

  The temperature had slowly been on the increase since the boat had left port, and Sykes was sweating more than he had in years. He wore long shorts and a T-shirt that was showing dark stains under the armpits and at the centre of his chest. He would’ve taken his shirt off, but, despite his weekly gym visits, he felt very body conscious alongside the two former SEALs, who both had arms as thick as his thighs. He knew, even without their taking a look at his love handles, that they already looked down on him as a soft CIA pen pusher who had no place in the field.

  They had dropped into the sea twenty minutes ago and had assured Sykes their recon dive would take no more than half an hour. With the aid of standard dive tanks, they had descended to the seabed to examine the frigate and the missiles. They would then surface and plan how best to extract them from the sunken ship. With luck they would be back at port before dark, and anything they couldn’t get today would be extracted tomorrow.

  There was a big hydraulic winch fitted onto the deck, next to which was a large amount of equipment that Sykes didn’t recognize, and he didn’t want to show his ignorance by asking for it to be explained. He knew it was salvage-and-demolitions equipment, but that was the extent of his knowledge. He unscrewed the top from a bottle of water and took a long drink.

  The ocean was far calmer than he expected, but Sykes was a certified land lover who much preferred a swimming pool and a deck chair to a beach and surf. He’d popped a couple of sea-sickness pills just in case, and it was almost time for some more.

  Normally waiting around with nothing to do would have frustrated Sykes, but he was deep in thought. It wasn’t long ago that he was fantasizing about briefcases full of dollar bills and bank balances with lots of zeros. Not any more. The close calls and narrow escapes of the past couple of weeks, combined with the new insight into Ferguson’s plans, had left him feeling scared and regretful. If he wasn’t in so deep, Sykes would have gone straight to Procter to fess up. Ferguson’s comment about the lethal injection was never far from Sykes’s mind.

  Whatever else happened, Sykes was sure of one thing: it wasn’t going to end well. Ferguson had shown himself to be a thoroughly unscrupulous and spiteful bastard who Sykes could barely trust. After the way Ferguson had made sure everyone who knew anything about his plans had met with the grim reaper, how did Sykes know he himself wouldn’t end up being a similar liability that needed silencing?

  That thought had meant he’d barely slept since Ferguson had ordered him to fly to Tanzania. He put a hand to the back of his shorts and checked that the SIG was still there. He’d kept it on his person every second since landing. Dalweg and Wiechman didn’t strike him as the kind of guys who would turn hitman for a few extra bucks, but he wasn’t about to take the chance.

  He knew he was probably just being paranoid. Ferguson needed him. But Sykes, who was aware of his own considerable usefulness and the irrationality of having him killed, was also perfectly aware that Ferguson had shown himself to not always be the most rational of individuals.

  Until things had calmed down, Sykes would stay on guard. If anyone so much as looked at him funny, he would turn himself in. Maybe he’d be able to cut a deal, testify against Ferguson to avoid the needle. Better to spend his life behind bars than end up victim of Ferguson’s madness.

  He stared off into the distance. All around was water. Endless blue sea that met the sky at the horizon. He felt utterly alone. There was a splinter of worry at the back of his mind. What if Dalweg and Wiechman got chowed on by sharks or their tanks ruptured? Sykes didn’t know how to drive the boat, and he certainly didn’t know how to navigate.

  He took another gulp of water and turned around as he heard a noise. A head emerged from the sea a few feet from the boat. Wiechman. He pulled his goggles up from his eyes and removed his mouthpiece. He pushed sandy blond hair away from his face.

  ‘What’s it like?’ Sykes called.

  Wiechman shook his head. ‘It�
�s a wreck.’

  ‘I know that.’

  The former SEAL swam the short distance to the boat. When he reached the back he pulled himself on board. ‘It looks good,’ he said. ‘Hull’s split open real nice, so we’ve got an open channel straight to the missiles.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘There’s eight on board, four are crushed, smashed, or otherwise totally fucked up. The casings on two more have ruptured, and the seawater has corroded them to hell. We can get two for sure. It’s going to take all day, though, because of the amount of other crap down there burying them.’

  ‘Two’s good.’ Sykes’s eyes squinted behind his sunglasses. ‘We never figured on getting them all.’

  ‘Looks like they’re just practice warheads.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Dalweg surfaced and swam to the boat. Wiechman wiped the water from around his eyes. ‘Fuckers are big, though, bigger than I thought; we’re never going to get them up here in one piece. We’ll have to dismantle them as best we can first. Then bring them up with balloons before we winch them on board.’

  ‘Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Dalweg joined them on the deck. ‘Reckon with a little luck we’ll get you the two good ones up before we have to head back later. Can always come back tomorrow to see if anything else is recoverable.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Sykes said. ‘Just make sure you don’t blow yourselves up.’

  Dalweg laughed, but Sykes hadn’t been joking.

  He took a seat while the two divers sorted through their gear. He didn’t understand how the hell he’d landed himself in such a mess. He’d thrown away his honour for nothing more than money. It wasn’t as if he was even poor to begin with. He’d just wanted more than he had. Sykes put a hand to his chest, feeling the sudden burn of rising acid. If his insides didn’t melt away before the end of this thing, he was going to be very surprised.

  Luckily it was almost over now. They would have two extremely valuable missiles within twenty-four hours, and they’d sell them to jihadists or North Korea or whichever psychos paid the most. Then they could develop their own arsenals of antiship cruise missiles, and Sykes would spend the rest of his life praying one was never used to sink an American vessel.

  Sykes knew he was greedy and stupid and a coward.

  But at least he was going to be rich.

  CHAPTER 70

  Tanga, Tanzania

  Monday

  17:03 EAT

  The target was quite clearly troubled. His manner bespoke of a man anxious and distressed. His movements were rushed and awkward, his face a picture of concern. What perturbed him Reed could only guess, but even if he could guess correctly, he wouldn’t care. Reed stood with his arms folded in front of his chest, leaning against a low wall. At least two dozen people were between Reed and his prey. Reed’s eyes were hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

  Two large men, one blond, the other dark, disembarked from the cab of a three-ton truck caked with dirt. They were the target’s travelling companions. Both had deep tans and bulky limbs. Along with the target, the two men walked around to the back of the truck and peered inside. Seemingly satisfied, they crossed the road and approached their hotel. None of the three saw the Caucasian man who stood within a crowd of locals, watching them with an amoral gaze.

  The hotel was a decent one, or at least it was for this part of the world. Tanga was large and sprawling, but seemed quiet and sleepy, almost deserted in its centre, where once-impressive German colonial buildings had succumbed to age and disrepair. Around the bustling market Tanga was more vibrant and crowded, with colourful, busy streets lined with more modern but less-grand structures.

  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 decor 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 th
e 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.