The Game

by Tom Wood

  ‘There is no client. At least, the broker and client are not different people. Robert Leeson, otherwise known as Ruslan Lisitsyn. He was SVR, privileged background, educated in the UK and the US, and was hotly tipped to make director someday. He fell off the grid a couple of years ago after a botched assignment in Odessa where he was running an operation that tried and failed to kill the head of the Georgian mob. They’ve been after him ever since according to the guy you left in that trunk. He also claims Leeson’s own people set him up.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I have a theory: let’s say Lisitsyn made himself an enemy of Prudnikov, perhaps he found out something he shouldn’t, but whatever, our boy Lisitsyn was too slick for the set-up. He goes underground, only travelling by boat or car to keep hidden from his hunters in the Georgian mob and SVR. He uses his private wealth and contacts in the intelligence world to reinvent himself as a broker, but all the while working on a plan to erase the threat posed by Prudnikov without the blame turning his way. He bides his time and to make his plan into a reality he assembles a team of killers from those he’s been hiring out to other people.

  ‘Rome police found the body of a Clarence James Coughlin in an apartment overlooking the Russian embassy. He killed himself. Slit his own wrists. No sign that anyone else was in there with him and no trace of anyone going by the name Hart matching your description.’

  Victor nodded. ‘Coughlin didn’t kill himself.’

  ‘I believe you. Hart’s still out there, but he must be long gone by now.’

  He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew an object wrapped in acid-free tissue paper. He handed it to Muir, who unwrapped it.

  ‘Would you give it to Peter for me?’ Victor asked. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Sure,’ Muir said as she turned the carved wooden figurine over in her hands. ‘But it looks like it’d give the kid nightmares.’

  ‘It won’t. Trust me. He’ll like it.’

  ‘Okay. Should I tell him it’s from you?’

  Victor shook his head. ‘Just say it’s a present.’

  Muir nodded and rewrapped the figurine. ‘You ever thought about coming to work for us full time?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Take care of yourself, Miss Muir.’

  She offered her hand and he shook it.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Iceland

  Victor’s cabin had been built in the late nineteenth century as the summer house of a wealthy trawlerman on land that Norwegians had once settled, and a millennium ago Vikings had wintered here before undergoing the final stretch of the long voyage home across the Atlantic from adventures in faraway Vinland. The strategic benefits of the cabin’s remoteness had been the primary reason for its purchase for use as a safehouse, but the history of this particular swathe of land had been the deciding factor between this particular cabin and others like it. Victor felt a kinship with the warriors who had come before him, though he wondered if he would have stood in the shield wall and survived that hellish test of prowess, where cunning and guile came second to strength and ferocity.

  He estimated there was another week’s work to do on the cabin to finish the security renovations, and then he would be concentrating on the aesthetic qualities of his building. ) It was a safe house, not a home, but it didn’t seem right to secure it and not restore it to the best possible standard. He’d never liked leaving a job half-finished. He would be making several long-distance trips in the Land Cruiser to pick up furniture, and would have made progress on that front had he not been bringing in boxes full of secondhand books with each supply run. The spare bedroom was nearly full of them. He had novels and nonfiction in a variety of languages, and not all in languages he could read. He selected a novel at random and took it to his kitchen, where he placed it on the table along with his pistol while he worked on the boiler.

  Victor had reached the end of the first chapter when he looked up to see Hart standing on the far side of the kitchen, next to the doorway that led further into the cabin. He held a gun in his right hand. The muzzle began a straight line that ended at a point between Victor’s eyes.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ Victor said.

  ‘Then you really shouldn’t have let me get the drop on you so easily.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  Hart said, ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘How did you get past the alarms?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Hart said again.

  Victor shook his head.

  Hart stepped forward. ‘You know how this works, don’t you? Leeson hired me to ensure there was no comeback, and now he’s dead but you’re still alive and well. Who sent you after Leeson? Americans? Brits? Russians?’ When Victor didn’t answer, Hart said, ‘It doesn’t really matter. But what matters is there are no loose ends leading back to me.’

  Victor nodded. ‘So what are you waiting for?’

  Hart shrugged. ‘I thought we could talk a little first.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you for a start. I know you’re not Kooi. I know this place was bought under a bogus identity. I know you travel under several different passports. But what I don’t know is who you really are. What is your name, kid?’

  ‘People keep asking me that.’

  ‘So, tell me. In a couple of minutes it’s not going to make the slightest bit of difference.’

  Victor’s lips remained closed.

  ‘Suit yourself. I thought maybe we could end things on a cordial note. You know that this is nothing personal. I like you. You remind me of myself, but I don’t think even I could have pulled off what you did. You fooled us all so easily, didn’t you?’

  ‘Nothing about it was easy.’

  ‘Take the compliment. It won’t hurt you.’ Hart exhaled. ‘I like this place you’ve got here, compadre. It’s secluded. Self-sufficient. Maybe I’ll keep it.’

  ‘You can have it, but I don’t really have the time to talk.’

  ‘Sure you do, kid. You’ve got as much time as I’m willing to give you.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He looked to his left. ‘We’ll pass out soon.’

  Hart looked too, just a glance so he didn’t take his eyes off Victor for longer than a split second. But he had to glance again, then again, until he understood what he was looking at.

  On the wall was a standard gas-powered boiler. Pipes ran down from beneath it and disappeared behind the kitchen counter, leading to the 250lb gas canister outside the house. The pipes were copper and segmented, those segments secured together with bolts. Two bolts sat on the kitchen counter. As did one small length of pipe. On the adjacent window sill was a basil plant. Its leaves rippled from a localised wind.

  ‘Natural gas,’ Victor explained. ‘Straight from the earth. It fills a canister, which in turn feeds the boiler and the generator. It’s one of the reasons I got this place. Secluded. Like you said, self-sufficient.’

  ‘I don’t smell anything.’

  ‘That’s the thing about natural gas. It has no smell. Gas smells because they scent it, so you know if you’ve got a leak. So you don’t blow yourself up lighting the stove.’ Victor stared at Hart. ‘Or when you fire a gun.’

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  ‘If you don’t believe me then just wait a few minutes until you start feeling woozy. I already feel a little lightheaded. You do too, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ Hart said again. ‘You’d die too.’

  Victor cocked his head to one side. ‘I knew if you tracked down Kooi’s family you’d find me too. I knew you wouldn’t leave such a loose end. So if I’m going to die anyway, I may as well take you with me.’

  Hart said nothing.

  ‘So squeeze the trigger and send us both to hell.’

  Hart said nothing.

  ‘Else keep waiting until there’s more gas in the air than oxygen. You’re closest to the pipe, in case you hadn’t noticed. Perhaps you’ll drop first and I crawl away.’ Victor smiled.

  Hart smiled
too. ‘I don’t think I’d like that very much.’ He stopped smiling. ‘But you’re not thinking two moves ahead.’ He stepped forward and placed the pistol down on a countertop. ‘I don’t need a gun to kill you, whoever you are.’

  He took out a folding knife and extended the blade. It was only a couple of inches long, but it would be enough. He stepped around the table until only two metres separated them. Victor didn’t move.

  But he did pick up the FN Five-seveN handgun from the table.

  Hart froze. Two metres away. Out of range for a knife attack. But point-blank range for a bullet. He glanced at the boiler, at the removed segment of pipe, at the basil plant with its leaves rippling in odourless natural gas ready to explode when ignited by a firing gun.

  ‘You’ll kill us both,’ Hart said.

  Victor shook his head. ‘Not unless the bullet does a U-turn after it exits you.’

  Hart started to say, ‘The gas…’ but stopped himself.

  ‘Won’t explode,’ Victor explained. ‘Carbon monoxide isn’t flammable. But it would eventually have killed us both if you’d waited long enough. I wasn’t lying about that part.’

  Victor squeezed the trigger and a hole exploded through Hart’s chest.

  He stumbled a step through the mist of blood and fell face down on the slate tiles. He didn’t move. Victor held his breath for the minute it took him to reaffix the removed section of copper pipe and left the kitchen door open while he went outside to fire up the incinerator.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A big thank you to the brilliant and talented people at my publisher for doing all the essential behind-the-scenes magic on this book, and I do mean magic. They are: Nick Castle, Jade Chandler, Thalia Proctor, Hollie Smyth, Tom Webster, Jo Wickham, Emma Williams and Ed Wood.

  Thanks to my agent Philip Patterson for years of support, guidance and friendship, and to Isabella Floris and Luke speed at Marjacq for all their hard work. Thanks also to Scott Miller for his efforts across the Pond.

  Thank you to Mike Farmer, whose expert advice on hand-to-hand combat ensured Victor triumphed over his foes and lived to fight another day.

  Finally, thank you to my brother Michael for heaps of advice and encouragement at every stage of this process.