The Blowback Protocol: A Sam Jameson Thriller

by Emmerich, Lars

  The answer was obvious. They still needed him.

  He didn’t have time to ponder the implications. A sound startled him, making him jump. It was loud, insistent, penetrating. It was the goddamned phone, sitting on the desk, four feet from his pounding skull, bleating at an unreasonable volume.

  It wouldn’t stop. He thought an answering machine would pick up, or voicemail, but the phone just kept ringing. How many times? Twenty? Thirty?

  He stared at it, suddenly more tired than he had ever felt before. Finally, he picked it up.

  “It’s your lucky day, fuckwhistle,” a rasping, obnoxious voice said.

  Hayward reacted viscerally long before his cognitive processes produced a name to match the voice. A look of disgust crossed his face. Bill Fucking Fredericks. “You,” he seethed, gauzy images of DC and Caracas and Cologne and the Farm flooding his mind, reminding him that as far and fast as he could ever run, the Agency would always be one step ahead.

  A loud cackle. “Who’d you expect?”

  Hayward could picture the man: fat, balding, jowly, sweaty, vile in fundamental ways.

  I’d rather be dead, Hayward thought. “What do you want from me?”

  A snort. “Asked and answered,” Fredericks said, “a dozen times over. They want everything.”

  “They?”

  “We . . . they . . . what’s the difference?”

  Hayward shook his head but didn’t respond.

  “I’ve been asked to relay a new set of marching orders,” Fredericks said.

  “Why you?” Hayward asked. “I thought you ripped off some hacker and retired to Bosnia.”

  “Croatia. It didn’t take. Shut up and listen. In fact, you should take notes. You don’t want to fuck this up. I think they’re pretty pissed and they might kill you.”

  “They’re going to kill me regardless.”

  “Don’t be a drama queen.”

  “I’m hanging up now,” Hayward said.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Fredericks said. “Something about . . . Katherine, was it? Katelyn?”

  “Katrin,” Hayward said, instantly furious at himself for speaking her name.

  “Right. Katrin. Sweet little slice of ass. Not really your type, though, am I right?”

  Hayward said nothing.

  “I get it. Not taking the bait these days. They trained you up proper, didn’t they?”

  “You’re wasting my time,” Hayward said.

  “That’s right,” Fredericks said. “You’re on a timeline, aren’t you? Maybe you’ll reach her before they flay the skin off her.”

  Hayward’s jaw clenched and his hand tightened into a fist. “Fredericks, I will enjoy watching you die,” he growled.

  Fredericks laughed. “So tough,” he said. “Not at all like when we first met. Ah, how you’ve grown.”

  “Goddammit, say what you have to say.”

  “North pier, slip fourteen, Swan Song. No friends, no firearms. On the hour.”

  “And if I don’t show?”

  Another derisive laugh. “What the hell else are you going to do with the last moments of your pathetic little life?”

  Hayward seethed. “I want proof she’s still alive.”

  “I want seventy-two virgins,” came the foul man’s reply. “But neither of us is going to get any satisfaction tonight.” Then the line went dead.

  * * *

  If you had to walk into a terrible situation, it paid to do it as smartly as possible. Hayward wouldn’t have hesitated to bring both a friend and a firearm, counter to Bill Fredericks’s phone instructions, but he didn’t have any friends to speak of. So that left the firearm, which pressed into the small of his back—loaded, cocked, with the safety on, just to prevent shooting himself a new tailpipe as he crawled around on the deck of an extremely expensive-looking sloop called Faer Wynds. Hayward wasn’t sure what they were going for with the cute spelling.

  It was the Faer Wynds’s geography that interested Hayward. More specifically, its location on the north pier, three slips away from where the Swan Song was moored. Hayward took cover in the shadows on the far side of the Faer Wynds’s cabin and began a steady, disciplined scan of the area.

  The boats bobbed gently in the calm nighttime harbor. Hayward heard the distant grumbling of a big diesel engine, probably pushing a hardy fishing vessel out for a nighttime foray. Or maybe a smuggler was taking his chances, making a midnight run for riches or glory. Seagulls registered occasional complaints, perched atop light poles and superstructure. Riggings creaked and hulls groaned.

  Other than that, nothing.

  Hayward hazarded a look at his watch, sheltering the glowing hands to avoid drawing the attention of any would-be watchers. Twenty minutes to the top of the hour. Twenty minutes until the start of a new day. Twenty minutes until the deadline. Slip fourteen, north pier, Swan Song. Those were the instructions.

  Hayward wasn’t good at following instructions. The cast on his broken arm was proof of that. Hell, the whole predicament was testament to his waywardness.

  He continued to watch, scanning his eyes over the pier, checking behind him at regular intervals, watching for motion. The dark was famous for playing tricks on the eye. Was that lump in the distance a human form, still as a statue, with a sniper rifle trained on him? Or was it some nautical object whose name Hayward had never bothered to learn? He caught himself staring, which he was taught never to do. Always best to keep the eyes scanning, searching for motion, without pausing long enough to let the imagination take over.

  Minutes passed. He controlled his breathing, drew his weapon, anticipated someone’s arrival. Probably several people. They’d undoubtedly be well-armed and well-equipped, maybe even with night-vision devices, which would make his choice to hide on the deck of an adjacent boat seem a very silly decision. But maybe they wouldn’t have night-vision goggles, and even if they did, following their instructions would violate the cardinal rule of survival: predictability kills.

  Then again, they had taught him those rules, so they would expect some degree of unpredictability from him. And in that light, maybe the most unpredictable option would have been to just follow the damned instructions.

  He shook his head. Fatigue was catching up with him, toying with his thoughts, roughing away whatever sharp edge might have remained of him after the events of the past week. If there was going to be any chance of surviving the encounter, he would need every bit of his wits about him.

  He became conscious again of the time. Five past the hour. Had he heard the instructions correctly? Was it really the Swan Song at midnight? “At the top of the hour,” Fredericks had said. Which hour? He’d assumed this hour, but now he wasn’t sure.

  Hayward waited and watched for five more minutes, then ten, then twenty. Half past the hour came and went. And then it was quarter to one in the morning, which was when his patience ran out.

  He stuck the pistol back in his belt, rose from his hiding spot, found a ladder on the far side of the Faer Wynds’s deck, descended to the water’s surface, and silently slipped into the harbor.

  He smothered a gasp. The cold took his breath away. His face tightened into a grimace and the muscles in his back spasmed. Have to get moving. He swam silently around the back end of the Faer Wynds, keeping his arms and legs beneath the surface of the water to avoid splashing, and turned landward toward slip fourteen and the Swan Song.

  It took several minutes to reach the Swan Song, and despite the debilitating cold, Hayward didn’t rush. Stealth was extremely important. He chose a waterborne arrival for surprise, but it was a risky decision. If he was discovered, being in the water could instantly become a fatal disadvantage.

  He observed the Swan Song for several moments before approaching. No sounds, no lights, and no movement except the gentle rolling of the tide. He swam to the rescue ladder, listened for movement, and slowly hoisted himself out of the water.

  His legs shook with cold as he ascended the ladder. He drew the pistol from his belt
and pressed the butt into his gut to silence the sound of the safety lever clicking off. He threw one leg onto the deck, then another, then rolled the rest of his body aboard, ending up in a prone firing position, ready to engage.

  No movement. No sounds. He crawled slowly and silently around the deck, pistol ready.

  Carefully, he descended the short stairway leading into the cabin. The shadows were darker and it took his eyes time to adjust. Then he saw them: two feet, no shoes, smooth, bare legs ascending to shadows. Hayward thrust the pistol forward into a firing position. “Don’t move,” he said.

  Silence. Seagulls. Creaking hulls and lapping waves. Hayward’s heart pounded in his chest. “Who the hell are you?”

  No response.

  Hayward crept forward, pistol trained where he imagined the person’s torso to be, more of the body becoming visible with each step.

  In the pale glow, he began to make out a few details.

  Naked.

  Female.

  Oh, Jesus, no!

  Hayward charged into the cabin. “Katrin!” he yelled.

  His eyes adjusted to the dark. What he saw made him nauseous. Goddamn, the blood. It was everywhere. Her head was slumped forward toward her bare chest. Long, blonde hair obscured her face. A wide leather belt was fastened around her lap, securing her to the chair. Both arms were strapped to the armrests.

  God, no, please! Not this!

  Her left wrist had been sliced open.

  Hayward leapt forward, tilted her head back, breathed twice into her mouth. He pressed his fingers to her neck, praying for a pulse. There was none.

  He shifted position, trying to apply chest compressions. His feet splashed in something. He looked down at the floor. Blood. Half a gallon of it. There was no way she was still alive. She was gone.

  He stroked her neck. It was warm to the touch. She had died very recently.

  A cry of anguish escaped him as the realization set in. She had died while he sat there on the other boat, doing nothing but imagining demons in the darkness.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, stifling a sob. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  He lifted her chin, wanting to see her eyes one last time, which was when he saw the woman’s face—really saw it—for the first time. It was familiar, beautiful, with strong but feminine lines, the kind of face a man could admire for decades.

  But it was not Katrin! His eyes pored over her face again to be sure they weren’t deceiving him. It was Maria Ferdinand-Xavier, Katrin’s mother.

  “Jesus,” Hayward whispered, hating himself for the joy he felt that the dead body wasn’t Katrin’s.

  He looked around, disoriented, shivering, shock settling in. He hadn’t expected anything good to happen aboard the Swan Song, but he sure as hell hadn’t prepared himself for this.

  Bright flashing blue lights suddenly played over the cabin windows. Police, coming from the direction of the pier access road. Hayward’s innards clenched in cold fear. He looked around. He was covered in Maria’s blood. His passport wasn’t stamped. He was armed.

  He was fucked.

  More precisely, they had fucked him. They’d undoubtedly notified the police of the murder. Hayward was certain they’d included a few savory details, such as the fact that the suspect—James Hayward—was still on the boat.

  Quickly, he dashed to the deck, gathered the ropes from around the pier cleats, and tossed them aboard. Then he returned to the cabin, found the controls, and bashed in the ignition box with the butt of his pistol. His fingers fumbled as he stripped the wires with his penknife. He held his breath as he touched the bare ends together.

  The Swan Song groaned to life and Hayward inched the throttle back. The boat backed gently out of the slip. He turned the wheel and moved the throttle forward a couple of inches, fighting the urge to slam it all the way to the forward stop.

  He guided the Swan Song away from the pier and into the darkness, running lights off, just moments before the first police cruiser pulled to a stop in front of slip fourteen.

  23

  Hayward felt miserable. He’d never been much of a seafaring man, and he had finished donating to the ocean’s scavengers whatever might have remained in his stomach hours earlier, so it was down to dry heaves.

  The Swan Song was large and sturdy, as ego-boosting harbor hot rods went. But he’d spent a good portion of the night—and just shy of half the vessel’s remaining fuel, if the gauges were to be trusted—getting himself far away from any nearby harbor and out to the open ocean. A stiff morning breeze pushed the water around in two-meter waves, and the Swan Song might as well have been a dinghy for all its steadying capacity. Hayward felt every ripple in his twisted, seasick gut.

  The stench of Maria Ferdinand-Xavier’s blood was thick on his tongue and deep in his nostrils, and he wondered if he would ever be rid of it. He was certain her body was starting to decompose. The air was starting to take on an eye-watering, feces-and-methane foulness as the temperature rose with the morning sun.

  He couldn’t exactly bob around the ocean with a murder victim, waiting to be picked up by some country’s coastal patrol. It turned his stomach, but he was going to have to do something with Maria’s body.

  He removed his shirt, doubled the fabric over itself, placed it over his mouth to filter the stench, and tied it tightly in a knot at the base of his skull. He took care not to aggravate the sore spot from last night’s blow to the back of his head. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a damn sight better than breathing Maria’s unfiltered decomposition.

  You’re going to have to search her body, he realized. There was a lot at stake, and it wouldn’t have been out of character for the Agency animals to use her body to make some sort of a statement. Gruesome as such a discovery would be, it might provide a useful clue regarding Katrin and Joao’s whereabouts.

  Assuming the Agency animals hadn’t killed them already.

  Hayward crowded the grim thought from his mind and busied himself freeing Maria’s body from the cabin seat. Maria hadn’t been a large woman, but rigor mortis had set in and the corpse was awkward and hard to move. He kept slipping on the blood on the floor of the cabin.

  He was sweating by the time he’d removed her from the seat and positioned her against the bench spanning the starboard cabin wall. “I’m sorry, Maria,” he breathed. He took a breath and started his search. He inspected her body for markings of any kind, anything that might have held a message or clue. Laying his hands on her corpse felt disrespectful and inappropriate, and he second-guessed the decision.

  But then he thought more about the context. They could have killed him hours earlier in the condo after he had opened the safe, but they hadn’t. Instead, they had merely knocked him unconscious, given him time to awaken and recover, then summoned him to the boat. Perhaps to witness Maria’s final moments. Perhaps to save her.

  Perhaps to hear her deliver an important message about Katrin and Joao. Or to deliver a message to him from his employers. Maybe Maria was meant to be a messenger. Maybe he had fouled up her delivery by letting her die while he hid on the other boat, imagining bogeymen lurking in the dark.

  He found no markings on Maria’s body. He began the grim task of a cavity search. Would they have defiled her in this way? Would they defile him by making him invade her corpse to retrieve their message? He gritted his teeth, vowing the most painful possible death for those responsible for this vile act.

  He found nothing. He looked over her corpse again, just to be sure. No markings, no hidden objects. Just the hideous gash on her wrist that had drained her life.

  He sat on the bench, rested his elbows on his knees, and let his head hang. The sun crested the cabin window’s edge, sending blinding beams into the cramped space. Bloody footprints were everywhere. Dark red handprints covered the control console.

  “What a fucking mess,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar, but maybe he was onto something. He surveyed the bloody scene again. Maybe Maria hadn’t died to del
iver a message. Maybe they had killed Maria to set him up.

  But why? It made no sense. Why set him up for a fall when it would have been just as easy to do away with him themselves?

  So it was back to motivation, he surmised. Help us get what we want, or we’ll do this to Katrin too. Maybe that was the message. As if at this point in his all-too-lengthy relationship with the Central Intelligence Agency, Hayward needed any further reminder of what they were capable of.

  “Fuck you,” he said.

  He had another grim task ahead of him. He didn’t have the stomach to handle the both pitching sea and the cloying smell of decomposition. He was going to have to bury Maria at sea.

  Hayward found a set of binoculars hanging by their lanyard from a nail next to the throttle quadrant. He used them to scan the horizon, to make sure there would be no witnesses when he let Maria go. He also wanted to make sure the boat was far enough from the shore to preclude her washing up on some beach anytime soon.

  Satisfied, he hoisted her corpse onto his shoulders. Gas shifted in her gut and he retched. Then he righted himself, hauled her up the stairs, and set her gently onto the deck.

  Hayward repositioned his grip to pull her toward the aft end of the boat. He wanted to lower her as reverently as possible into the water. His right hand tightened around her leg just above the ankle, and that was when he felt it—something small, hard, non-biological. It was just beneath the surface of her skin in the depression between her heel cord and ankle. It felt like a small cylinder, maybe half an inch long and an eighth of an inch in diameter.

  Hayward made a small incision in Maria’s leg using his penknife, then used the flat of the blade to force the small object from beneath her skin.

  He knew instantly what it was. He had to get it ashore as quickly as possible.

  Hayward set his jaw and released Maria into the sea. “I will do right by you and your family,” he said, watching the waves toy with her shape until she was lost in the glare of the morning sun.