The Final Hour (Victor The Assassin 7)

by Tom Wood

  She took a sip. ‘Suits me. I have a busy day ahead.’

  ‘I won’t take up too much of your time. I just have a few questions for you.’

  ‘That’s what your message said.’

  ‘I’m looking to apprehend a professional assassin. Someone who you know quite a bit about, as I understand it.’

  She resisted the urge to take another sip of water, to stall, to hide her nerves. Procter had said nothing about Alvarez knowing of her own involvement.

  ‘I’m going to be straight with you, Janice,’ Alvarez said. ‘I’m a stickler for justice. I can’t like a movie if the bad guy gets away with it, you know? And I’ve never gotten over the fact there is a piece of shit hitman out there who was allowed to just slip away from my grasp. That irks me. That keeps me awake at night. It’s kept me awake at night for years. Now, I think I can get this guy. Now I think I finally have a chance to sleep like a baby again. Maybe banish these bags once and for all.’

  ‘What does this have to do with me?’

  ‘You and Procter are close. When he got busted up by that Hummer you visited him in the hospital more than anyone else. In all, you were there nineteen times.’

  Muir sat back. ‘You checked the hospital visitor logs?’

  ‘I’m thorough, Janice. It’s what I do. Now, bear with me on this because it’s going to take a moment, but I have very good reason to believe that not only did Procter allow the killer to escape when he ordered me to stand down, but he then employed that very same assassin to do all manner of black ops work directly for him.’

  ‘I’m still waiting for what this has to do with me.’

  ‘So, not only did Procter allow a criminal to escape justice but he then used and protected that criminal for his own personal benefit.’

  Muir huffed. ‘If you think you can convince me that Procter is some rogue operator, out for himself, then you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘I’m making very good use of my time, Janice. It’s how Procter had you use your time that is the important point here. There’s no name for this assassin, but he’s been spotted now and again over the intervening years. I call him Mr Eighty-Seven Per Cent for reasons Procter can explain if you care to ask. He’s tall, white, dark hair and eyes, and that’s all anyone can say for certain. He’s like an apparition, appearing now and again; a rumour, a myth. Hearsay. Not verified. Not real. You have to want to believe in him to see that he exists at all.’

  ‘Where are you going with this?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked. There’s a name I’ve heard, a codename. Tesseract. I had to look up what it meant. Some weird geometry term. Four-dimensional object. I don’t really understand it, but it’s a nice-sounding word, right? I’ve come across it a couple of times over the years and whaddya know, this Tesseract and my Mr Eighty-Seven Per Cent are one and the same.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I believe he was here in the States last year. I believe he was in New York. For the briefest time everyone was looking for a tall white guy with dark hair. And then, like magic, they weren’t. No one cared. Eliminated from enquiries. No longer a person of interest. From suspected terrorist one minute, back to no one the next.’

  ‘Happens all the time.’

  ‘Sure it does, but I checked it out because I check out every potential sighting of Mr Eighty-Seven Per Cent, and you know what happened?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘I met resistance.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means people didn’t answer phones. It means I was fed BS. It means someone was getting in my way.’

  ‘And you think that was Procter? You think Procter was sitting on his porch giving you a hard time?’

  ‘Funny, but no. I think it was you.’

  Muir smiled. ‘You know what, Antonio? You have to be careful with all these assumptions and suppositions you’re flinging around the place, because sooner or later you’re going to tell me something I didn’t already know. You’re going to put two and two together and come up with five, and the very fact that you do is going to give me something you don’t want me to have.’

  ‘You can’t make me doubt myself. Don’t bother.’

  ‘Good,’ Muir said. ‘Hold on to that unshakeable confidence. That always works out so well.’

  ‘I think you were the one Procter asked to liaise with his assassin while he was out of action.’

  ‘Do you have any proof of that?’

  Alvarez sat back. ‘You know I don’t.’

  ‘Then we’re through.’

  ‘But you also know the proof is out there, just waiting for me to find.’

  Muir went to stand.

  Alvarez said, ‘I don’t want you, Janice. You were doing your job. At least, I can believe you thought you were doing your job. And, frankly, I don’t care if you knew you were breaking the law, because we’ve all done it. But Procter doesn’t get the same pass.’

  ‘You only want Procter because it’ll look good. He’s a big score. People will pat you on the back and say good boy.’

  ‘Hardly. Truth is, that assassin of yours – did you ever stop to ask yourself what he’d done for Procter before the accident, before your involvement? Now, I’m sure you’ve been told some of it.’

  Alvarez opened the folder and took out a series of A4 photographs. He set them on the table, one by one.

  ‘American citizens. Dead. This guy here was a CIA officer. He was working directly for me. Look at the mess your killer left him in. This woman here was a former analyst.’

  Muir was shaking her head before Alvarez had finished. ‘No way did Procter have current or former CIA killed. It’s hilarious that you would believe it, and even funnier that you would expect me to.’

  ‘Did I say that? I don’t think I did. But Procter knew about them. He knew who killed them and not only did he let that person get away with it, he employed that very same murderer. Do your diligence. Check them out. Both deaths are unsolved. First one was put down as a mugging gone wrong, and I swallowed it at the time because I had other things to take care of. But the muggers left no evidence. They’ve never been apprehended. The second death, in Greece, made the news. It was a bomb. Two people checked into a hotel room, a couple. Man and woman. The woman never left, but the man was never found. Tall. Dark hair. What are the odds?’

  Muir sat still and maintained her concentration on the images.

  ‘I know you’re telling yourself that this can’t be true, that I’m bluffing, I’m lying, but there’s a simple way to know.’

  Muir met his gaze.

  ‘That’s it, Janice. That’s all you have to do. Just look me in the eye, and then make sure you look Procter in the eye while he lies to you. Procter used you, so don’t protect him now. You don’t owe him anything.’

  ‘He’s my friend.’

  ‘He’s your boss. He doesn’t care about you. Why do you think he came to see you already?’

  ‘You can’t rattle me, Antonio. I don’t care if you’re tailing Procter, or me for that matter. It’s not a crime for me and him to meet.’

  ‘That’s not my point. He came to see you under the guise of warning you, asking for your help, yeah? Whatever, it doesn’t matter what he told you. The point is, he didn’t have to see you, did he? But he did. Because he wants me to see it. Because, if it comes to it, he’s going to set you up to take the fall for everything he’s done.’

  ‘Now you’re just being childish.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘It’s borderline ridiculous that you’re trying to make me turn on Procter by making me scared he’ll turn on me first. Which isn’t going to work. That you could think it might work shows you have nothing. And it shows me that the only reason you got this job is because you play golf with the president.’

  Alvarez couldn’t hide his surprise.

  ‘Yeah, I know about that, or did you forget I’m CIA? So before you make me doubt myself, maybe you should be asking you
rself those same questions.’

  He leaned forward, jaw flexing. ‘You’re wrong. I have plenty. You want facts, Janice? Fine. You want proof, then you can have it. I know for certain that your boy – Tesseract – he’s worked for MI6 too. This same Eighty-Seven-Per-Cent-er – tall, dark hair, no name – their people have heard of him. Only they call him Cleric over the Pond. I think I prefer that. Tesseract don’t mean squat to most people. Whereas Cleric is emotive, it’s got some imagery with it. Word is he’s been on the books in a more official capacity for our British cousins. They haven’t tried to hide him to the same extent you did, because he’s not wanted for any crimes over there. There are no dead Brits attributed to his handiwork – at least none anyone cares about.’

  Muir said, ‘What would I know about any work he’s done for another nation?’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you didn’t broker that arrangement? I know you were at a meet-and-greet with Cleric’s former handler and I know you have another shindig coming up with his new handler. Or are you telling me that’s purely coincidental?’

  Muir said nothing. She looked at the grooves between Alvarez’s eyebrows to keep her mind empty, lest her thoughts show on her face.

  Alvarez said, ‘I know you’re a good person, Muir. But I also know you care about the end result more than you care about how that’s achieved. Which is a judgement call, and I’m not judging you for that. But if I have to challenge those judgements to get what I want, then I will. If I have to put everything you’ve done under a legal microscope to encourage your cooperation, then that’s what I’m going to do.’

  Muir said, ‘And if you can’t get Procter then you’ll settle for me instead.’

  ‘It never needs to get that far.’

  ‘You’re asking me to betray my mentor.’

  ‘I’m asking you to do the right thing. Answer me this: if you found out that one of your colleagues was murdered and I not only allowed the murderer to escape justice but then employed him, how would you feel?’

  She stood.

  Alvarez said, ‘We’re not done here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Muir said, ‘we are.’

  EIGHTEEN

  The bank didn’t look like a bank. There were no ATMs outside, and there were none inside either. The foyer was laid out like the lobby of a grand hotel. The receptionists were beautiful women and the clerks were handsome men. Every front-of-house employee wore a black suit. No hair was out of place. No tie was off centre. The bankers themselves weren’t actually bankers. They were accountants and lawyers.

  The bank offered no interest. It took only fees. There were no savings accounts. No current accounts. Just accounts. A customer could have as many as he or she wished, and the more money they had at the bank, the more fees they paid. Those fees were high, but they were far cheaper than any tax rate. Which was the point.

  Raven had been in many such places – in Switzerland and Panama, the British Virgin Isles and Singapore. The business of hiding money was the fastest growing of all. As the world economy grew, the desire to mitigate tax liability rose with it. For those like Raven, whose primary desire was to hide the source of the payment and the reason for it, the proliferation of such establishments made her life a little easier. She was able to move funds and access them. She could cover her tracks and hide her future movements. She had powerful enemies but she was liquid – mobile, unpredictable, impossible to grasp.

  She’d had an account with this particular bank for six months. She had a sizeable amount of money in her account; no sum of note compared to the bank’s other customers, but enough for her to get a meeting with one of the associates at short notice, enough to receive polite treatment when she waited, but not enough to be remembered. Today’s disguise was a wide-brimmed hat to hide her hair and large-lensed sunglasses to disguise her eyes. The dress and the heels did the rest – Chanel and Louboutin. Elsewhere they would make her stand out. Here, she was just another woman with expensive tastes.

  It had taken weeks to regain her fitness and lost strength, and months to claw back her dexterity, her speed. She had seen many doctors and therapists, in many countries, never the same one twice, always lying and holding back details. This served to protect her anonymity, but the downside was it prevented the specialists from helping her to their full capabilities. Maybe that was why it had taken so long to recover from the pain that required her to sit down, else fall down. She still dreamed of paralysis, inescapable torment, longing for death.

  The poisoning, the hospital, the assassin disguised as a nurse had all helped to bring her here to Rome.

  Twelve months before she had been sitting on the hard floor of the mortuary, her back against the cold steel of the dissecting table, her chest heaving from the exertion, trembling from the adrenaline and pain. The cute nurse – cute assassin – lay before her in a lake of blood that spread further in perfect straight rivers between the floor tiles. She sat there for a while, watching the ever-slowing crawl of those lines of blood, wondering how far they would reach as she rested from the crippling exertion of the fight.

  The blood was coagulating by the time she felt strong enough to stand. It was harder than climbing back into bed after exercising, but she did it. Then she rested again. Only a short rest this time, because walking wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t as stressful on her weak muscles and weaker nervous system.

  She considered the corpse. A problem, because there was no way she would be strong enough to move it, even cutting it up first. The incinerator was on the same basement level, she knew. But it was out of the question, given her weakness. So the body would be discovered just as soon as the mortuary reopened.

  That it was shut down made her think. The assassin’s employers – the Consensus – had arranged that. They had managed to get him a job at the hospital. Their pervasiveness was her advantage here. They wanted her dead. They didn’t want her questioned by the police, or worse, detained. There would be another cover-up here. They always covered up their mistakes. She had helped them often enough.

  She explored the mortuary until she had found gloves and galoshes, bleach and alcohol, magnifying glasses and tweezers, and set about sterilising the scene of her presence. It was exhausting, it was time-consuming, and she doubted she could erase all traces, but anything was better than nothing. The Consensus would do the rest on her behalf.

  She bagged up all the clothes and other items she had come into contact with and used the showers meant for morticians and pathologists to wash the blood from her hair and body. She changed into hospital scrubs and a pristine white doctor’s coat she found hanging on the back of a door. There was no convenient ID badge to clip to the pocket, but she found a pair of reading glasses and a couple of pens to complete the look.

  In the drawer where she found latex gloves was a similar box of disposable hair nets. She bunched her hair inside one and checked out the disguise in a mirror. She looked as though she belonged here. The drawn face, bags under her eyes and tired complexion of her recovery all helped. She was just another overworked hospital employee. Busy, harried, not to be stopped or hassled by security, not to be noticed by inquisitive cops or anyone on the Consensus’ payroll.

  The dead assassin had a few coins in his pocket – for the vending machines dispensing soda and peanuts – and a set of keys, but nothing else. She checked the keys. The one for his car was obvious, as was the small key for a padlock. The latter was for his locker, no doubt. His wallet would be inside. A fake ID, of course, but that in itself could prove useful. The risk of getting to the locker was huge. It would be near the ward where the other nurses and doctors would recognise her face, or worse, where the cops might be waiting for her to return. It might be inaccessible in a room protected by a punch-button lock. She couldn’t take the risk. It was frustrating to know she was close to perhaps invaluable intel on her enemies, but it was out of her reach.

  She rested again before heading to the elevator, because she was feeling lightheaded from being on her
feet so long and needed to be at her best when she made it out of the basement. She would have ignored the elevators and taken the stairs had it not been for her condition. A few flights of stairs now seemed an insurmountable obstacle, a mountain she couldn’t hope to climb. The elevators increased the risk of discovery, of exposure, but she had no choice. She could bluff her way past almost anyone with a smile or a shrug, but her basic disguise wasn’t going to fool someone who had treated her.

  In the foyer she felt dizzy and had to fight to maintain not only her equilibrium but her guise of balance and poise. The disguise worked. She passed by dozens of people. No one gave her a second look. She found the section of the parking lot reserved for hospital staff and walked through it with her hand in her pocket, pressing the button on the key fob until she heard locks thunk.

  The car was a Prius, common enough in Canada. She climbed behind the wheel and shut the door.

  Sitting in a comfortable car seat felt good. Encased in a steel and glass shell, she felt safe. She could relax for a moment, resettle and rethink. Just for a moment, because she had to get as far away as possible. But she favoured a tactical withdrawal over an out-and-out retreat. There was nothing to run from at this moment. Better to take a few minutes and work out her next move instead of hurrying into doing the wrong thing.

  She checked the glove box. A cell phone sat inside. It was an old handset, blocky and heavy. Plenty of marks and scratches. Well used, sold and resold and traded in; multiple owners, a long life. Her pulse quickened. She knew a burner phone when she saw one. A new SIM card, prepaid credit. Untraceable.

  There was no pin to unlock it because it contained nothing. No call history. No messages. It might never have been used.

  She used it. She called Fast Flowers.

  ‘I’m wondering if you could help me,’ she began. ‘I received a lovely bouquet of lilies last week in hospital… Yes, I know that’s unusual, but the man who sent them has a bizarre sense of humour. Anyway, this joker is something of an admirer, but he didn’t leave his name on the card… No, he’s not exactly a secret admirer, but I’m hoping I can appeal to your romantic sensibilities and you’ll give me his details, because here’s the crazy thing: I’ve lost my memory…’