by Tom Wood
She wasn’t sure if it was a joke or if he were serious. He tilted his head up to look at her. His expression showed nothing. It never did. He was as close to inanimate as she imagined a person could be.
“Seif takes his computer out to lunch with him,” she said.
“Then he’ll take it everywhere.”
Rebecca said, “I think you can rule out the office as a strike point.”
“Elaborate.”
“There are a lot of employees and one of his bodyguards stands outside his office door, and he’s not going to let you past in a hurry. I’m sure you could force your way past, but if anyone else enters the corridor, which is highly likely, they’re going to see the two-hundred-plus pounds of meathead lying slumped on the floor.”
“I wouldn’t do it that way, but my way wouldn’t be easy. The same bodyguard won’t be posted there all day. The tedium would make him lose focus. They’ll rotate, probably once every couple of hours. If they’re smart, these times will seemingly be irregular and changed on a daily basis. There’s no way of anticipating a changeover. How did Seif’s bodyguards behave inside the office?”
“Alert, watchful, even with a hot receptionist to stare at.”
He nodded. “They evidently paid attention during their protection class about the danger of complacency in familiar environments. If they didn’t let their guard down in the office they won’t anywhere.”
“Then they’re good.”
He shrugged. “They’re good and bad. Big and scary is great for pushing through crowds but makes them bulky and slow, but while they look like dumb apes they’re armed and very observant. Seif didn’t hire them just for show.”
“You saw that they were carrying?
He nodded, showing no surprise, no alarm, nothing.
“Handguns?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “What were they wearing under their raincoats?”
“Suits.”
She smiled. “You looking for fashion tips?”
“What kind of fit?”
“You are looking for fashion tips.”
“Loose, tight, what?”
“Tight enough to need repairing if they bend over too fast.”
He nodded.
“Is that good?” Rebecca asked.
“It might help.”
“Listen, I really think this is a bad idea. If it was just Seif it would be different, but these two guys change everything. They’re like hawks, big mean hawks with guns. You won’t get near him without them making you.”
“If Seif is a target of the cleanup, I’ll have to take any opportunity that comes my way. Seif owns a London apartment as well as the mansion in Surrey, right?”
“Right. We’re going to have to split up,” she said. “I’ll reconnoiter his apartment, you his house. If he turns up at the apartment, I can call you. Either way, you can avoid the bodyguards. Stealth it.”
“And how are your breaking and entering skills?”
She sighed. “Okay, good point. But what are we going to do now? We didn’t anticipate he would have two armed guards.”
She took a sip of her espresso. It wasn’t a match for Melanie’s.
The man she knew only as Tesseract said, “When you’ve finished that, I want you to wait a little while and get yourself a large cappuccino or something that you can drink slowly while you watch Seif’s building. Let me know the second you see him leave. If he does, phone his office and ask to speak to him. They should tell you if he’s coming back or not. If he’s not, try and follow him, but better you lose him than one of his bodyguards sees you.”
“Okay, but where are you going?”
“I’m going to get a gun.”
“You have access to one in London?”
He looked at her. “Is that a question?”
“I knew where you lived, nothing more,” she said. “If that’s what you mean.”
“It is.”
“Whether anyone else does is another matter.”
“Seif’s bodyguards are armed, so it’s a chance I’ll have to take.”
“It’s still two against one.”
His expression didn’t change. “Poor odds for them.”
“What exactly are you planning?”
“We don’t know whether he’s going to be at the house or apartment later, and, like you said, his office is out. That leaves one option.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll have to get to him somewhere between all three.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, U.S.A.
Tuesday
08:17 EST
Procter walked at a pace slightly faster than normal, which for a guy of his size and age wasn’t an easy feat. He was late for the morning briefing and getting his fat ass into one of the skinny agency chairs three minutes late instead of four was his priority. He entered the elevator and rode it up to the top floor. He nodded and grumbled greetings to colleagues as he strode down the corridors. When he pushed open the heavy soundproof door to the briefing room, three sets of eyes looked his way.
“Sorry I’m late. Patricia’s been up half the night with her head hanging over the toilet and looking like an extra from a zombie movie. I got stuck with the school run.”
Chambers smiled and gave him a look that said no problem. For once she was looking a little rough around the edges. Ferguson and Sykes were sitting together on the opposite side of the conference table and looking like they were their own private boys’ club. Procter pulled out a chair between the two camps.
There was some perfunctory small talk before Alvarez began his report.
“Last night, Paris time, agents from the French police’s counterterrorism unit attempted and failed to apprehend a male suspect who they believe murdered Andris Ozols and seven other foreigners a week ago. During the attempt a shootout ensued that claimed the lives of several police officers and left others in the hospital.”
“How sure are we that this suspect is Ozols’s killer?” Chambers asked.
“The French certainly think so. As I understand it, an agent with the DGSE at Charles de Gaulle on other business identified the individual as he left passport control. He was put under immediate surveillance until he left the airport when he entered a taxi, after which he was followed around the city by a police helicopter. I doubt they knew for certain when he was first spotted at De Gaulle, but they wouldn’t have tried to take him down if they weren’t sure. And the fact that he shot his way out of a RAID assault definitely fits our guy’s MO. I think there can be little doubt.”
Procter asked, “What was he doing back in Paris?”
“That’s yet to be established,” Alvarez replied. “But he was observed entering an apartment occupied by a woman. That’s where the RAID team attempted to take both persons into custody. It’s unclear at the moment exactly how they managed to escape.”
“I don’t suppose that makes much difference,” Ferguson muttered.
“At the moment those details aren’t the most important point,” Chambers said. “What I want to know is, Who’s the woman?”
“The French claim she’s an unidentified Parisian and not much else,” Alvarez answered. “But they know a lot more than they’re telling us. They’re aware we weren’t exactly forthcoming about Ozols, so until we enter a little quid pro quo I think we’ve reached the limit of what they’ll tell us just yet.
“The authorities have managed to keep the press at bay so far, so we’ve got no intel that way, but a second major shooting in a little over a week is a pretty fucking big deal in that part of the world. More details might come out in the news. However, we’ve been lucky, and the NSA has grabbed us a few useful intercepts. According to the French Secret Service she’s an American.”
Procter, who had been looking out of the window, straightened in his seat. “An American?”
“Her name is Rachel Swanson, but the DGSE believe this is an alias.”
“What else do
we know about her?” Chambers asked.
“That’s it so far.”
Sykes asked, “Do we have anything to indicate why he met with her?”
“That’s the question,” Alvarez said. “Maybe she’s his lover or just a friend, but I’m thinking business associate is more likely.”
“Employer?” Procter asked.
“It’s a possibility.”
Chambers gestured to Procter: “I want to know everything there is to know about Miss Swanson, alias or not.”
Procter nodded.
“In light of this Swanson development,” Alvarez said. “I think we should check past and present CIA employees.”
Chambers’s eyebrows rose.
“Excuse me?”
“Something’s been bugging me for a while now,” Alvarez began. “We assumed that another prospective buyer for the missiles or the Russians had Ozols killed. But we can’t dismiss that it’s someone within our own walls.”
“I’ve already had words with the director to make sure it wasn’t us who put the contract out on Ozols,” Chambers said.
“I’d dig anyway. Someone might be operating off the books. Before, there was no reason to suggest this was the case.”
“And what is there now to suggest otherwise?” Procter asked.
“A hunch.”
“A hunch?”
“My hunch, to be more specific. Sebastian Hoyt is dead.”
Chambers leaned forward. “Say again.”
“Hoyt, in case anyone has forgotten, paid the American hitman, Stevenson, that briefcase full of cash to kill Ozols’s killer. He died of a heart attack on Sunday night while he lay in the bath. According to the autopsy, there are no signs that his death was anything other than natural, but it’s a hell of a convenient coincidence for whomever Hoyt was working for.”
Procter couldn’t disagree. “I’ll say.”
“Chances are Hoyt was murdered simply as a precaution, but the timing of it, just after we found out his role in all this, makes me suspicious.”
Ferguson shook his head. “Hardly enough reason to think we have a mole.”
“I’m not saying we have a mole—maybe a leak, maybe a rogue operation running under our noses.”
“Okay,” Chambers said. “There’s no harm in trying to find out if this Swanson is or was affiliated with us. I’ll authorize full access to our personnel records, asset lists, and so on.”
“And may I suggest that any information found goes no further than the people in this room.”
“Of course.”
Sykes tried not to shift in his seat.
FIFTY-FIVE
London, United Kingdom
Tuesday
16:46 CET
It was getting dark outside when Elliot Seif and his bodyguards reached the parking garage beneath the building. His spot was in an area reserved for the building’s elite, and there were only a scattering of cars under the hard white glare of the fluorescent lights.
Seif would be arriving home late tonight. Work rarely kept him beyond his scheduled hours, but his latest mistress—the very young and very nubile Isabella—often ensured he missed dinner with his wife. After years of serial adultery, he was as discreet as ever and believed his wife still had no idea of his escapades. Although Seif could lie and mislead with the best of them in the boardroom, he was utterly unconvincing when lying to his wife. He knew it; she knew it; but they both pretended otherwise.
The smell of exhaust fumes hung in the air. There had been some ventilation problems earlier in the week, and it still wasn’t quite fixed. Seif had complained on several occasions. It screwed with his asthma, and he needed every ounce of stamina his aging body could muster to keep up with Isabella’s youthful insatiability.
He knew she was only his for the endless stream of expensive gifts he lavished on her, but Seif didn’t care. He was well aware he had no charm to go with his frail body and wrinkled face, but a certain breed of woman found his wallet irresistibly erotic. Money, he had long ago discovered, was the world’s number one aphrodisiac. He considered it perfectly fair that Isabella desired him only for his money as he wanted her purely for her tight young body. Above all else, Seif was a deal maker, and he considered theirs to be a very good arrangement.
The echoes of heavy footsteps interrupted the silence as the bodyguards stepped out of the elevator. They took the most direct route across the expanse of concrete, one bodyguard walking in front of Seif and to the right, the other behind and to the left. Under normal circumstances they could get Seif from the elevator to the car in under forty-five seconds. Seif never walked fast.
His bodyguards were alert. The underground garage was a dangerous space, but they knew it well. Their gaze constantly shifted between potential places of concealment where someone might be hiding. Just because they’d done the same thing a thousand times and more without incident didn’t mean they ever got complacent.
Any face or vehicle they didn’t recognize in the area was watched closely. More than once Seif had found himself apologizing on his bodyguards’ behalf after they’d been rough with someone who’d made a seemingly threatening action. It may have been a ballpoint that time, one of the bodyguards had told Seif, but next time it might be a gun. Did he really want to wait to be sure? Better to apologize for a mistake than to die for one. Seif had readily agreed.
They were there for show more than anything else. Seif dealt with plenty of less-than-reputable individuals, some of whom were uncouth enough to try to intimidate their way into a better deal, or at least they would do so if Seif didn’t have two mean motherfuckers in his corner. And if one day any of the Euromafia scumbags realized he was stealing their money, to get to Seif they’d have to get through five hundred pounds of pure badass first.
Neither of his bodyguards liked the location. It was designed to be as pleasant a space as possible with no mind to security. As such, it was full of blind spots that had to be watched with care. Still, it was far safer than an exterior parking area. In here they could protect their client.
At least that’s what they believed.
The silver Merc SUV was parked at the far end of the garage in the most secure location. It had been reverse parked so that Seif, who rode in the back, had the bodyguards in front of him and the wall behind him when they were most vulnerable, as well as for a quick exit. In addition, the car was armored and all windows fitted with bulletproof glass by a specialist firm in Germany.
Seif gripped his mobile phone to his ear and gulped as he listened to Isabella describe in lurid detail exactly what she was going to do to him when he finally arrived at her apartment. The volume on the phone was turned high to compensate for Seif’s poor hearing, and his bodyguards listened to every explicit word and groan Isabella uttered. They never let on that they could, except to each other.
The first bodyguard unlocked the car with an electronic key fob while Seif waited with the second bodyguard a few yards away. Alongside the driver’s door, the first bodyguard peered through the windows before lowering himself into a press-up position to check underneath the SUV for explosive devices. The bodyguard had done it hundreds of times. It was boring, a pain in the ass. And a waste of time.
Suppressed gunshots echoed in the close confines of the parking garage.
The bodyguard collapsed onto his stomach, screaming.
There was a second of stillness before the other bodyguard went for his gun, struggling to pull it out from under his jacket. It was tight against his chest to better show off his muscles.
He yelled at Seif, “GET DOWN, GET DOWN.”
The bodyguard dropped to one knee, unsure where the shot had come from. His first instinct was to look behind them for the shooter.
Seif just stood there, open mouthed, unable to react, staring at his injured bodyguard. He was lying on the concrete, face down, right arm and leg thrashing around but his left limbs, those alongside the Merc, were bizarrely still. Seif realized the man had been shot in both his
left arm and leg. He was too big, too heavy, and in too much pain to right himself. He tried to get his one good hand beneath his jacket, to his gun, but his arm was too bulky to squeeze beneath his chest. He was trying to speak, but he couldn’t get his words out among his cries. Glistening blood crept along the ground.
The second bodyguard kept a tight hold on his own gun. He looked around frantically, eyes searching their surroundings, checking the likely points from which someone could have taken a shot. Aside from cars the place was empty. He could see no sign of any attackers. Where the hell were they?
He gestured to Seif. “Get back to the elevator. I’ll—”
He cried out, bullets catching him in the knee, thigh, and ankle, rounds shattering bone and sending explosions of blood across the concrete. He fell backward, all thoughts of the .45 forgotten as he clutched at the bloody mess of his legs.
Seif hadn’t moved. He looked on with horror at the two guys writhing around on the ground. He heard a noise, saw a man in a suit slide out from underneath the Merc and come to his feet. He was wearing a black ski mask. He had a gun. With a silencer.
Seif still had the mobile phone clutched to his ear, the incessant sexual drone of his mistress not missing a beat. His gaze was locked on the masked gunman. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t even think. He’d hired bodyguards so they could protect him from a day like this, but he’d never seriously entertained the notion that anything this bad might actually happen.
The gunman walked past the face-down bodyguard, who had given up trying to get his weapon, and now lay still and quiet, tilting up his head as much as he could to watch what was happening. The other bodyguard stayed where he was, on his back, face screwed up with pain. Blood soaked his trousers. He was trying to hold his splintered knee together with his left hand while his right stretched across the ground for his pistol.
Victor walked slowly toward Seif, angling his gun for a second at the guy reaching for his .45.
“Don’t be stupid,” Victor said.
The bodyguard pulled his hand back, and Victor kicked the gun away as he passed. He stopped directly in front of Seif, holding the handgun at arm’s length, the end of the suppressor no more than an inch from the terrified accountant’s face.