Game of Greed

by Charlotte Larsen

  Beneath Francis’s apparent detached manner, Dhammakarati detects a certain grim determination he has seen only once before. And he is reminded of the stories he’s heard over the years. Stories of the careers Francis has ended, the marriages he has ruined, the reputations he has smeared; and Dhammakarati is inclined to concede that there are worse destinies than death, should you have made an enemy of Francis Scott-Wren.

  Aloud he says, “Are you certain de Lingua is in Sri Lanka? He may be traveling.”

  Francis sighs. “I am not sure at all. Thomas can’t find anything, even though we’ve monitored the bastard’s phone. But I suspect it is likely. Unless, of course, you have a better idea?” The look in Francis’s eyes reveals that he doesn’t expect the monk to come up with any ideas at all but asks out of politeness.

  Dhammakarati gets up. “No, I don’t have any other suggestions. But I better leave straight away if we are to get to him before Jo does.” With that, he folds his hands flat against each other close to his chest and bends his head in a silent, respectful farewell to Francis.

  Unfortunately for de Lingua, Dhammakarati was too late.

  Chapter 23

  Outside a small but fashionable SoHo art gallery housed in an old Victorian building, an older man is leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, watching busy Londoners hurry past. He’s wearing an ankle-length black leather coat; his stringy gray hair is pulled into a small ponytail. He could be a Russian mafioso or a semi-successful painter, depending on the circumstances. Here, in the early evening, he does not look out of place. Jo walks up to him, pulling a cigarette from a case in her purse, and asks him for a light. As she uses both hands to shield the flame, she passes a note folded into a tiny square into his left hand, which holds the lighter. Standing back, she exhales, nods to him in thanks, and asks casually whether he can direct her to the Montague Hotel. He points to the north and advises it will take her less than fifteen minutes to get there on foot.

  Jo thanks him again and, as she turns, he says, barely moving his lips, “Give me till tomorrow evening.” She walks away without looking back.

  It has been two hours since she checked into the hotel. She’s feeling extremely restless, and the decor is not helping. All English over-the-top interior decoration. An onslaught on the eyes. Multiple patterns and flowers and colors in a dizzying arrangement. She needs to get out. Breaking her own rule not to plan an operation before gathering sufficient intelligence, she decides to start equipping herself for a trip to the tropics. To Sri Lanka, specifically.

  Getting the right clothes is her first step. That is the easy part. There is nothing remarkable about a young woman shopping for a bikini or a T-shirt, even in the midst of winter. She might be planning a vacation in the sun, after all. She spreads her purchases over a number of different shops, partly out of prudence and partly because it will keep her occupied a little longer.

  Somehow, she makes it through the night and through the next morning without tearing herself apart. After a good night’s sleep, she goes for a run, eats breakfast, and then reads all the major newspapers. Just as she’s wondering how to kill the next hours, there is a knock on the door to her room. She knows instinctively that it is Krause, and that, of course, he has managed to circumvent hotel security and reach her door without being compromised.

  She quickly opens the door and lets him in, offering him the remains of her breakfast. Instead, Krause walks directly to the mini bar and grabs himself a beer. “Jo, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I think I should warn you. This guy is not somebody to be trifled with. The extent of his resources and connections is rather impressive.” He looks at Jo, his eyebrows raised. “But then, I guess you already knew this?”

  Jo nods and gestures for Krause to join her at the table.

  “All right, then. Let me give you the outline of what I’ve found out. Then you may want to read the file in more detail before deciding whether you need more information for whatever you have in mind.” He looks at her, a question in his eyes, but her face is blank.

  Krause sits down and spreads out a map of Sri Lanka on the table. “De Lingua was born to very wealthy parents in this town.” He points a finger to a small town in the northern part of Sri Lanka. “He was a spoiled child, in a way we Europeans find hard to believe. It is hard to know whether his upbringing defined his character, or he genetically was born without empathy. But the fact is, de Lingua grew up to be an unscrupulous bastard. Elegant, charming when he wants to be, unusually intelligent, but absolutely unscrupulous. He went to Harvard, graduated first in his class, and went back to Sri Lanka to run his family’s tea plantation. But he has maintained close ties with his former classmates, and through them, he has built an impressive international network of businesspeople and politicians.”

  Jo notes that Krause is either unaware of Schwartz or doesn’t deem him important. She listens without giving anything away. He doesn’t need to know just how familiar she already is with de Lingua. “What about assets?”

  “Yeah,” Krause says, scratching his chin. “This is where it gets complicated. It would seem that he runs his own little army of well-trained local men, but also on occasion has been known to draw on the services of ex-special forces. My guess is that someone in his political network has put him in touch with these kinds of men. And you know, once the connection is made, money and secrecy are the only two prerequisites for this kind of collaboration to continue.” He looks at Jo. “You do realize what you’re dealing with here, right?”

  Jo nods, her face impassive. She knows exactly with whom she’s dealing. “Does he have any weaknesses? Women, drugs, people he cares about?”

  “No. Not as such. He’s slippery like that. He’s fond of the ladies, though. But I don’t think it amounts to a weakness. Rather, it’s a preference for aesthetics. His relationships are short-lived, and usually with beautiful Western women.” Krause looks obliquely at Jo. She keeps her face blank. “Otherwise, no drugs; he drinks only in moderation; he would probably kill his own grandmother if it proved convenient; and he is the consummate gourmet.”

  Jo is silent for a while, nursing her cup of coffee, which is now very cold. “Did you manage to find about his schedule?”

  Krause looks up from his papers. “Yes. Believe it or not, he will actually be coming to London to attend a fundraising dinner thrown by one of his close associates from Harvard. He’s expected to arrive…” Krause consults his watch. “In a bit more than seventy-two hours.”

  Jo can’t help but sit up straighter at the news. So much for shopping for the tropics. “Can you find out where the party will be held, where he will be staying, and who he will be traveling with?”

  Krause nods, never taking his eyes off her. “You sure you want to do this, Jo?”

  “Yes. And I’d like you to stick around for a while. Can you do that?”

  She doesn’t really want to go all the way back to Denmark to secure what she will need. But getting it in England would involve dealing with people whom she had only come to know through Francis. And that was not an option. So here she is, doubling back along the route she covered only a few hours earlier. She tries to make the most of the trip by going over her plan detail by painstaking detail. Thanks to Krause, she now knows not only where the party is being held, but also in which hotel de Lingua is presumably registered. Krause has also uncovered the surprising fact that de Lingua is traveling only with two of his Sri Lankan bodyguards, which is a very stupid choice, indeed. They will stand out like sore thumbs and be completely on foreign ground if for no other reason than winter makes a metropolis like London a very different place in which to maneuver due to reflected lights, the texture of cold materials, and the slippery ground. He must be feeling very secure, Jo thinks. That arrogant bastard has no idea what’s coming to him.

  Jo doesn’t know how Krause has gotten all of this intel in such short time, but she trusts him implicitly. A man who has managed to stay alive in this business for as long as he h
as knows what he’s doing, doesn’t take any chances, and doesn’t cut corners.

  Thinking back to the last time she saw de Lingua at that horrible dinner several weeks ago, she shudders. His calculating but deadly charm is particularly insulting because she distinctly picks up some very strong misogynist vibes from him. He loathes women, and yet has perfected the cover of an extremely charming gentleman.

  Is that why she hates him with such a cold fury? Because he has the character of a snake, the one animal she’s most afraid of? Or does she hate him because he is the rich exploiter of poor people, the consummate imperialist, even though his skin is only a few shades paler than that of the people he’s exploiting?

  She dismisses that as a reason. Not that she doesn’t disapprove of exploitation, but her disapproval is not great enough to make her willing to commit murder. She has done enough soul-searching and people-watching over the years to realize that to be sufficiently enraged to put one’s own safety aside requires one to have been hurt at the very core of her being to see the DNA of one’s value system attacked. In her case, she lost her freedom and was humiliated, to boot. Not only did de Lingua keep her incarcerated for close to two weeks, but he forced her to have dinner as if she were free to refuse. That, combined with the degrading way she’d had to obtain contact with the outside world, had been the ultimate humiliation.

  De Lingua had proved to be the bully of the schoolyard, throwing her aside like she was a rag doll while killing people she cared about very much. People who represented the only kind of redemption she has ever known. For that, for taking her freedom, for humiliating her, for threatening her only place of peace for that he must die.

  A bit more than fourteen hours later, she pulls up outside a derelict farmhouse on the eastern coast of Jutland. A couple of German Shepherds come straight at the car, teeth bared, barking. She stays in the car, not wanting to upset them further and certain that she won’t have to confront them. Sure enough, a loud voice yells from the house and the dogs leave, joining their master who is just now coming out the front door. He looks like a man who has spent most of his time outside. He is confident of his body, confident of his skills. She notices how his right arm is slightly bent in front of his body, no doubt ready to reach for the holster he carries on his left hip.

  She gets out of the car, and he seems to relax at the sight of her. She hugs him, and he ushers her into a surprisingly clean and modern kitchen. She knows from earlier visits that the rest of the house is just as clean and modern, and furthermore, it is enhanced with top-drawer security; the outer shell providing further protection with its innocent, decrepit appearance.

  “Coffee?” he asks with his back to her. She doesn’t really need coffee, but in this country, coffee is a ritual peace offering, and it is impolite to refuse. While he rummages around for beans and filters, she checks out the kitchen. She feels safe here. There is something about this man, this kitchen, these German Shepherds, that seems to be the ultimate protection against evil. She feels like she is five years old and wants to stay here in this derelict farmhouse, wired to the gills and hiding the newest in protective technology, with a man who is not easily thrown off balance.

  He hands her a mug of steaming coffee, black as sin, with an aroma like a dream from the highlands. He sits down opposite her, unrolling a small, black bag that resembles a handyman’s tool belt. He points to a small pipette. “I have prepared two items for you. One is a pipette with saxitoxin. Nasty stuff. Odorless, clear, tasteless, very difficult to trace. In fact, it is untraceable by any forensics test. And the best part, in this case, is that it’s lethal in very tiny quantities and causes death seconds after ingestion. Even if a medical team happens to be standing by, there is no medical technique known to save the victim. It has been used by the US military for suicide by hypodermic needle for soldiers in hostile environments.”

  He points again to the pipette. “Can you imagine carrying around a needle with this stuff, knowing that you just might have to use it to bring on your own death one day? Because the alternative is unacceptable?” She can, but doesn’t answer, figuring it to be a rhetorical question. He can imagine that; she can, too. And he knows she can.

  He points to the other item in the bag, a small aerosol can. “This also contains saxitoxin. Obviously, using aerosol is a much riskier operation. Anyway, you know how to do it. But this is clearly your second choice. And only to be used if you can’t get close to something he or she is going to eat or drink.” He glances at her to see if she reacts. She does not.

  “I know you’ve been trained for this,” he grins, “since I trained you myself. But you do need to be careful. This is serious stuff. A tiny mistake and you’re gone.” He slides a finger across his throat, looking straight into her eyes.

  She returns his glance, nodding. “I’ll be extra careful.” She has learned, in the course of their brief companionship, never to make light of his warnings. He’s a man who takes few things seriously, but when he does, it pays to heed his words.

  “I threw in a few other things that may come in handy.” He smiles a bit shyly at her. She returns his smile and enjoys his evident pleasure in caring for her. “You know, just common single-operator attack stuff, like a couple of clean phones, a tiny magnetic recorder, an untraceable GPS, a small handheld, and a couple of your favorite knives, small sizes.” Rolling up the bag, he secures it with the string.

  She’s touched. Putting her hand on top of his, she says, “Thank you.” She is slightly concerned, however, that she has given away enough for him to surmise that whatever she’s planning, she’s planning to do it close up, and publicly. Otherwise, the weapons he’s provided would have been an entirely different size. She makes a mental note to be more careful in her briefings in the future.

  Jo spends another hour with him at the kitchen table, safe in the present and comfortable in a shared past. They can talk of nothing much besides a few memories from a training camp in Greece. Nevertheless, this is pleasant, and she wants to prolong the time she spends with him before embarking on a mission on which she will be completely on her own. He stalls her by taking her arm and leading her up the stairs. Of course, she spends the night. Why shouldn’t she?

  Chapter 24

  The dream stays with her all morning, following her on her way through the drive back to Copenhagen: She is unexpectedly invited to a party but has nothing to wear. Her date takes her to a clothing shop, but the shop only has white, country-style dresses. Too naïve, too innocent. Complaining to the owner, Jo is invited into a back room where hundreds of unbelievably gorgeous dresses hang. She spends hours trying one dress after another, and finally, she spots the right one. It is to-die-for beautiful, a Versace gown with a slim bodice of lace and a ruffled skirt, stretched tight over the bum but flared out from the hips down. The dress is the color of the softest mink, the bodice slightly darker than the rest; it has hundreds of layers of chiffon. She has never seen anything quite so beautiful. But when she finally emerged from the shop, all dressed up, lovelier than she will ever be again, her date had left, and the party was over.

  The sadness was unbearable.

  Ever since she took up meditation, her dreams had become more vivid and easy to remember. For several years now, she has used her dreams in her professional life as an additional information source on an operational level, and occasionally as an indication of existential issues. As she sips her coffee, wrapped in a blanket to hold onto the protection of the night just a little bit longer, she thinks about what the dream is saying. One message is clear: plan sufficiently, or you’ll be too late for the party. But it probably also is a reminder that when you spend time searching for perfection, life slips away. Something like that.

  The dress was magnificent, though. Absolutely stunningly beautiful.

  She gets up and starts attending to her disguise, pulling clothes out of the closet that will make her look like a young, punkish woman who is not at all concerned with her appearance. Black tights with
holes in them, biker boots, a man’s large checkered shirt, and a huge faded sweatshirt with a convenient hood, topped off with a worn leather jacket. Enjoying the ritual of transformation into a fictional character, she allows herself to enter the action phase of the operation. She savors the feeling of power and control that comes from being the only person who knows the full extent of her plan. The sense of secrecy rushes through her veins, additive and arousing.

  With a finger, she smears the eyeliner around her eyes, leaving black smudges as if she has slept for days without removing her makeup. She powders her skin a few shades paler than her own skin tone and paints her lips a dark, ominous color. As a last touch, she works a good handful of wax into her hair, making it look in dire need of washing.