The Final Hour (Victor The Assassin 7)

by Tom Wood

She said, ‘Yes?’

  Leyland never gave her name. The person calling should know who to expect, and if they didn’t then she would be hanging up pretty fast.

  She didn’t recognise the voice at first, because it had a neutral accent. Something middle class and austere, quintessentially English, yet modern and relaxed – an average kid done good; well educated and well travelled. Worldly. She heard such accents all the time in her job. The old boy network had almost been phased out. The Oxbridge mafia days were over. Progress. Diversity. Thank God.

  But this accent, common enough and ordinary as it seemed, was different from the one she had heard the first time they’d spoken. Then it had been Eastern European, Baltic. Something harsher, but at the same time subtle. It was the tone she had heard before, the tone she recognised.

  The man she knew only as Cleric said, ‘I apologise for calling you unannounced.’

  She replied, ‘You’ve never struck me as a man who is sorry for his actions.’

  ‘Manners cost nothing.’

  ‘But I was expecting you to be in touch.’ Leyland felt the urge to shut the French doors. ‘How did you get this number, by the way?’

  ‘You gave me your card a long time ago, if you remember.’

  ‘My card had my work details only. This is my home number. It’s unlisted.’

  ‘I have ways and means.’

  She said, ‘I assume this call relates to the message I sent you regarding the visit I had from your former paymasters.’

  ‘Naturally. You need to turn your food, by the way.’

  Leyland said, ‘What?’

  ‘The chops are burning. You need to turn them.’

  She would have said, ‘How do you know that?’ but she realised he was in the room.

  She turned to face him. He stood in the living area, close to one wall so he wasn’t exposed by the large window. There was no light on in that room, but she recognised his silhouette. Her first instinct was to look at the hands, which she was relieved to see held only a mobile phone.

  She hit the end-call button on the handset and set it down. ‘Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?’

  ‘It’s in the job description.’

  He was right. The pork chops did need turning. She checked the wedges too. They were done and she used oven gloves to take the tray out and shake them into a bowl.

  ‘Did you wreck my alarm?’

  He said, ‘You’re going to need to call out the engineer.’

  Leyland sighed. ‘It was an expensive system.’

  ‘That’s why I had no choice but to break it.’

  ‘The point of an alarm like that is to stop someone like you, not cause you some difficulties.’

  ‘No alarm is going to stop someone like me, but I did my best to disable it without causing irreparable damage. I didn’t want to leave you with the cost of replacing it. I don’t imagine SIS pays all that well.’

  ‘How thoughtful. And accurate. I dare say it takes me a year to earn what you do from a single contract.’

  ‘I don’t want to sound conceited, but it probably takes you more like ten.’

  ‘Fancy paying off my mortgage?’

  ‘I give a lot to charity as it is.’

  She drained the corn and took a homemade dipping sauce from the refrigerator. The sauce was made from pureed spinach, raw garlic and olive oil and went well with the wedges. She slid the pork chops on to a plate and set the food down on the kitchen table.

  ‘That smells good,’ Cleric said. ‘It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.’

  She gestured to the bowl. ‘Would you like a wedge?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  He stepped out of the lounge and into the kitchen. His actions were slow and unthreatening but she couldn’t help feeling a little nervous having a hired killer in her home.

  ‘Beer?’ she asked.

  He shook his head and picked a sweet potato wedge from the bowl on the table. He took a bite before she could say, ‘Careful, they’re a little spicy.’

  He coughed. A lot.

  She poured him a glass of water and placed it on the table before him and tried not to laugh.

  ‘If I didn’t know better,’ he said, ‘I would think you’re trying to kill me.’

  ‘I assumed you could handle a little fire, but I suppose I grew up with jerk-spiced food so what I think of as spicy isn’t on the same scale as yours.’

  ‘It caught me unawares.’

  ‘Sure it did.’

  She finished assembling her meal and sat down at the kitchen table. It was too big for the space, but an impressive piece of furniture. The oak was so thick she fancied its chances of stopping a bullet should things turn bad.

  ‘I’m going to eat,’ Leyland said. ‘I’ve had a long day and I’m starving. There’s not enough to share, because you didn’t tell me you were coming.’

  ‘I’m okay with keeping the skin of my throat intact.’

  She smiled and ate for a moment. He looked through the window. In part to check for threats, she could tell, but also because he was trying to be polite and not watch her eat.

  After she had swallowed she drank from the beer bottle. ‘Look at us, meeting again so soon. People will start to talk. I take it you’re suspicious of Muir’s warning to keep your head down.’

  ‘The last time I worked for the CIA it led to a huge mess. I was happy to wash my hands of them when your old boss tracked me down. I’m not happy that they’re still making my life difficult. I’d like to know your take on it before I decide how to handle it.’

  ‘Muir seems like a straight arrow to me. I don’t think she’s setting you up, if that’s what you’re thinking. As for Alvarez, I’ve done a little homework on him. He was CIA, working in Clandestine Services for Roland Procter, but he’s recently taken a role for the Director of National Intelligence, which puts him above his old boss. He’s a big deal now, and seems to have made catching you a priority, given the heat he’s putting on your old handlers. They’re in his sights too, according to Muir. They want you to disappear as an obvious precaution.’

  ‘They want to protect their own skins.’

  Leyland nodded. ‘Who doesn’t? But Muir was gracious and clever enough to give me plausible deniability.’

  ‘Alvarez made contact with you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not directly. It would be a foolhardy play on his part to try and beg or barter with a foreign intelligence officer, but he put in an official request with SIS for information on you. And given that our association is sensitive, that might have put me in a difficult position. I can’t very well lie to my director, can I? But Muir ensured I wouldn’t have to. She was nicely vague about why she needed my help. Of course, when the request came in it was easy to discern the reason. I had a diplomatic attaché from the DC embassy courier a secure burner phone and she filled me in on the rest of the details.’

  Cleric was quiet for a time. She left him to his thoughts while she continued with her meal. Eventually, he said, ‘Why are you helping them?’

  ‘We’re allies, for one. And we have a shared interest in you.’

  ‘Are you saying that you’ll be similarly in trouble if Alvarez catches up with me?’

  ‘I’m saying that I don’t want a useful asset to be thrown away without a key. And if I can avoid any difficult questions in the process, then that’s an added bonus. But, whatever my interests, they align with your own.’

  He was quiet for a while. She carried on eating, then said, ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Alvarez has made you a priority. What have you done to warrant this?’

  ‘I’m a bad person.’

  ‘I suppose I don’t want to know,’ Leyland said. ‘What you’ve done in the past is none of my business. I’m interested in what you can do. Maybe you are a bad person, but maybe you’re necessary. We all set out to do the right thing, but some of us realise the best way to achieve that isn’t always by doing
the right thing. Your handlers across the Pond knew that. My predecessor knew it. I know it. Alvarez isn’t of the same mindset, apparently. He’s – how do they put it? – a boy scout. But this is personal to him too. I know how you boys don’t like to lose.’

  ‘How did Muir know to contact you in the first place?’

  ‘I was curious too. It transpires that Alvarez inadvertently tipped her off to our arrangement. So yes, it would seem that the file on you that ended up in Phoenix’s hands also found its way to him.’

  He didn’t get angry, as she had expected, to learn that his involvement with British intelligence had given him not one, but two, powerful enemies. Instead, he asked, ‘How is that even possible?’

  ‘I have no idea. But it’s another reason to get to Phoenix.’

  ‘Has Wilders’ stash been of any use?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. There’s a lot to go through. I’ll contact you as soon as I have anything.’

  He nodded. ‘I understand. How did Muir seek you out?’

  ‘Embassy party,’ she explained. ‘Pre-planned, which was fortunate.’

  ‘So you’re not likely to meet her again.’

  ‘Our paths aren’t due to cross.’

  Cleric said, ‘Can you find out any other travel arrangements she has?’

  ‘I already know. She’s due in Helsinki in a week or so for a few days to give a series of lectures at the university. She told me in case I needed to talk to her in person. Why?’

  ‘Because I want to know more about the threat Alvarez poses.’

  She put down her knife and fork. ‘Is that wise? Alvarez is bound to have her under surveillance. He probably had her shadowed at the embassy party. It’s not a stretch to imagine him anticipating a face-to-face between you and Muir. Could very well be a trap.’

  Leyland wasn’t often surprised, but what Cleric said next couldn’t have been more unexpected.

  ‘I certainly hope so.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Kevin Sykes didn’t hear the doorbell at first because he woke up hungover. The piercing shrill of the bell permeated his unconsciousness and triggered waking, but his alcohol-ravaged brain was slow to power up and slower to understand. He felt terrible.

  He didn’t have a headache – not really – but he had that feeling in his stomach, the nauseating sickness that only booze could produce. It seemed to pulse out from his core, infecting his entire body with gut rot, making him feel in the clutch of some lab-created pathogen. The nausea made him woozy; made him breathe hard; made him feel like his insides belonged outside.

  Sykes drank to sleep. He drank to forget. All the classic reasons. He would spend these early waking hours regretful as he nursed his self-inflicted sickness. He had to stop, he knew. He told himself every time. He was killing himself, for sure. He was no longer young or fit and healthy. He had never taken care of himself beyond a youthful vanity. He had nightmares of looking in the mirror and finding his skin had taken the yellow tinge of jaundice. When the gut rot was at its worst he wondered if this was the day his liver gave up on him. Every irregularity in his mouth and throat was the beginnings of a tumour.

  He hadn’t yet begun drinking in the day, but he knew it was coming. Once, he had waited for it to get dark, but in the summer the wait was too damn long. So, the evening had been the boundary. At first, anyway. Because when did the evening begin? After six p.m.? After five? Five was the cut-off point, he had concluded after much careful thought. It was almost about the time he had shrugged off the day’s hangover to such an extent that tomorrow’s inevitable repeat didn’t seem so bad.

  The doorbell rang again. This time there was no mistaking the sound. It hurt his brain as much as the gut rot hurt his stomach.

  He dragged himself off the sofa. It was slow and hurtful to do so. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in the bed. The sofa had a woollen throw that he had bought for decoration in the days before he drank every night. Now, he sometimes used it as a blanket, but only when it was cold outside.

  ‘All right,’ he yelled, as he neared the front door.

  He didn’t bother to get dressed because it was Saturday morning – afternoon, when he checked his watch – he had on a pair of boxers and an undershirt. He looked a state, but no one would judge him for getting shit-faced on a Friday night. It was only the rest of the week he had to be careful. He didn’t want his colleagues or superiors picking up on his problem. He carried around eye drops to ease the bloodshot appearance and would slap his cheeks before interacting with people to put some colour into them. For the same reason he used a different store each night, and never shopped only for alcohol. He bought food too or cleaning products, spreading out his weekly needs in case anyone was observing him and to hide his habit from those serving him. Even so, it was tough to pretend he needed all those limes.

  He figured it would be the postman with something to sign for, but when he heaved open the door he saw Alvarez on his doorstep.

  ‘Hey, Kevin,’ Alvarez said. ‘May I come inside?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Sykes said when the surprise had worn off.

  ‘I want you to put some trousers on. You’ll scare the neighbourhood kids with those legs. How do they manage to hold you up, anyway?’

  Sykes frowned, and sighed, and swallowed. He gestured for Alvarez to come inside and he led him to the lounge.

  ‘Party for one?’ Alvarez said, wincing at the smell while Sykes fished his trousers from the floor and pulled them on.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Sykes asked, zipping himself up.

  Alvarez’s gaze passed over the collection of empty bottles of booze – too many scattered around the coffee table to be explained away – and the fast-food containers.

  ‘You need to sort yourself out,’ Alvarez said.

  ‘Who are you to tell me what I need?’

  ‘I care about your well-being, even if you once pointed a gun at my face.’

  Sykes looked away. ‘I didn’t pull the trigger.’

  ‘Hey, no hard feelings,’ Alvarez was quick to add. ‘But, let’s face it, you’d have probably missed. You’re no shooter.’

  Sykes headed to the kitchen in search of coffee. Coffee with a hangover was all he could handle. He couldn’t stomach the thought of food just yet. He was in the hangover paradox: he was ravenous, but the very idea of eating made him want to throw up. It was a familiar sensation. It would pass. The first step was caffeine. Then in an hour maybe some dry toast. By lunchtime he would be okay to eat something substantial. Something greasy. At one time he had kept orange juice in the fridge to help fight off the hangover – long experience had taught him its benefits in such a capacity – but long-term alcohol abuse had irritated the lining of his intestines to such an extent orange gave him worse nausea than the drink.

  ‘I’m over the whole gun-in-the-face deal,’ Alvarez added. ‘But it’s still hard to believe that you got away with it. Some of us are just lucky, I guess.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sykes said without commitment.

  ‘And what good did it do you?’

  Sykes settled on a glass of water because he’d forgotten to refill the drip machine and it now seemed like far too much effort. ‘I made a mistake back then. I’m paying for it. What’s your point? Why are you bringing this up again?’

  ‘Because whatever prison you’ve created for yourself is a hell of a lot roomier than a cell in a supermax. Not so easy to get hold of Johnnie Walker and Domino’s behind bars.’

  ‘You can’t threaten me. I have protection.’

  ‘I know, I know. All those lovely documents proving you were following orders. A regular hero, working undercover to root out corruption.’

  Sykes didn’t try to keep the smugness from his tone when he said, ‘That’s what it says in black and white.’

  ‘Irrefutable, I know. Bulletproof.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Sykes said.

  ‘Didn’t you get some sort of medal?’

  ‘A commendation
.’

  Alvarez sniffed one of the empty whiskey bottles. ‘What you are is a mess, Kevin. These people you work with now over at that lobbying firm didn’t know you before. They didn’t know the Sykes I knew. You look like dog shit. You look ten years older.’

  ‘Stop talking about how I look.’

  ‘I’m telling you to give you some perspective, not to make you feel bad. You may think you have it together because no one sees all this, but you don’t. You need to get yourself sorted out.’

  Sykes said, ‘Your concern is touching.’

  ‘I have your best interests at heart.’

  ‘Only because you’ve been using me.’

  Alvarez nodded. ‘I don’t want you to drink yourself to death when I might need you again. You’re right about that.’

  ‘I’ve told you what I know. I can’t tell you anything beyond that.’

  Alvarez nodded again. ‘And I’m grateful. You filled in plenty of blanks for me about your boy Tesseract and all that other good stuff. It’s really helped me put pressure on Procter.’

  ‘I’m delighted for you,’ Sykes said.

  ‘But you had better not have held anything back,’ Alvarez continued. ‘I had better not find out you know more than you’ve told me.’

  Sykes shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t. I told you what I knew to keep me out of this, not to get myself in deeper. I’m done with all that. I just want to get on with my life. I want to move on.’

  ‘What life are you talking about exactly?’ Alvarez asked, not expecting an answer. ‘This?’ he toed a pizza box. ‘Tell me about Poland.’

  Sykes was hesitant. ‘What about Poland?’

  ‘Since our agreement I’ve found out that you were once in charge of an enhanced interrogation at a black site outside of Warsaw, correct?’

  Sykes didn’t answer.

  ‘You don’t need to confirm it and it’s pointless to deny. I’ve spoken to one of the contractors you were there with. Nice British fellow. Such a character. Salt of the earth, you know? I’ve a signed statement from him swearing you were there. You see, that’s what happens when you use freelancers for your dirty work. They got no loyalty.’