The Final Hour (Victor The Assassin 7)

by Tom Wood

  ‘That’s not all,’ Victor said. ‘One of my previous employers has been in touch. There’s a guy looking for me. He’s trouble. Some big shot working for the director of national intelligence.’

  ‘A double whammy then. Poor baby.’

  ‘Which is further complicated because this ex-employer delivered this message to me via my current employer.’

  ‘You don’t like that they know about one another?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But it’s more than that.’

  ‘And if they’re chatting with your other employer then it’s another intelligence agency closely allied to US interests. So are we talking Mossad or MI6?’

  ‘The Brits.’

  ‘Then I can’t say I’m following your problem.’

  ‘Why does my CIA handler need to pass a message to me through my SIS handler? Because they’re in trouble too. They can’t contact me directly because the guy after me is watching their communications. Therefore I’m on my own. No assistance. No intel.’

  ‘So you’ve been doing black-bag jobs for a faction of CIA under the rest of the intelligence community’s nose, but now that nose has caught a big old whiff of your scent.’

  ‘Seems that way, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It must be dire straits if your old handler can’t even risk contacting you directly. I take it you haven’t tried to contact them?’

  ‘I have no wish to expose myself without help.’

  Raven pursed her lips. ‘I’ll help you expose yourself.’

  Victor didn’t react.

  ‘Hey, sorry, you seemed so serious I figured you would appreciate a little light relief. And yes, that is another offer.’

  ‘Could you be serious for a minute?’

  ‘I’m only serious in the bedroom, so…’ She shrugged with her hands.

  ‘If I don’t respond then you can’t turn it against me.’

  ‘Shrewd tactic,’ she said, then: ‘Here we are.’

  She had taken him to another square, larger and busier. The last of the tiger-stripe sky could be seen to the west. Multiple sets of tables and chairs sat outside bistros, restaurants, bars and cafés. Diners and drinkers chatted and laughed. It was noisy, and therefore a good place to talk.

  She picked out a table for them both and they sat down. A waiter was quick to arrive and take their order. He saw they were not locals and so spoke in English, ‘Do you know what you’d like?’

  Raven glanced at Victor. ‘I know exactly what I’d like.’

  The waiter chuckled.

  ‘Only he doesn’t want me back.’

  The waiter gasped at Victor. ‘What? She’s beautiful.’

  She slapped the table. ‘You see, even the waiter knows what’s good for you.’

  Victor said, ‘I’ll have a sparkling water. The lady would like a Scotch, no ice. An Islay, if you have one.’

  ‘Very good.’

  When the waiter had left them, Victor said, ‘Must you draw attention to us?’

  She didn’t answer, but she looked particularly smug, even for her. ‘I know you like me because you remembered my drink.’

  ‘I can have the waiter bring us some pudding wine instead, if you’d prefer.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Ouch.’

  They were silent until the waiter returned with their drinks.

  Raven said, ‘Perhaps you should tell me where this heat originates.’

  ‘A few years ago I had a contract. The target was a Latvian named Andris Ozols. It was a kill and collect, which should have been a red flag, but the years before that had been quiet. I’d been successfully freelance. A few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. The contract itself was simple. Easy, in fact, which should have been another red flag. He was flying to Paris. I knew which flight he was on, which hotel he was staying, where and when he was meeting his contact to make the exchange. I ambushed him en route. He never saw me coming. I took the flash drive he was carrying with the plan to stash it later that day and arrange a pickup, but when I returned to my hotel there was a clean-up crew waiting for me, sent by the broker to protect the client. Turned out Ozols was selling secrets to the CIA, so I was on the run from them and other killers looking to pick up where the crew in Paris left off. In the aftermath I ended up working for the CIA. At least, one guy there had me doing black-bag jobs for them. Now, the CIA officer who was trying to track me down back then has got a new job and is coming after me again. But instead of taking orders, he’s the one giving them.’

  ‘And he hasn’t forgotten about you.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You do tend to rub people up the wrong way.’

  Victor nodded. ‘It’s an unfortunate side-effect of the profession, yes.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be that way.’

  ‘Some Americans lost their lives in the aftermath. I didn’t kill them, but their deaths have been attributed to me.’

  She regarded him, detecting something in his voice he tried to hide but there was no glib comment, no follow-up question. He was thankful for her rare tact, but he didn’t like the fact she could read enough in his tone to elect to apply it.

  She said, ‘So, you have a serious problem.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed.

  ‘And the fact that we’re discussing it tells me there’s some reason you don’t want to end the problem in your usual manner.’

  He nodded. ‘There are reasons why that is not the most viable course of action.’

  ‘Such as putting yourself in the crosshairs of the entire US intelligence community?’

  ‘That’s certainly up there.’

  ‘And going on the run won’t work, even with my help. Posing as a couple would only throw them off in the short term. Eventually, they would work it out and the benefit would be lost, but we wouldn’t know, so it would end up as a disadvantage.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘That’s the first and best two options right there. Faking your death isn’t going to be easy.’

  ‘I never said it was going to be.’

  She sipped her whisky and thought. ‘You’re going to need something loud, something messy. Something that leaves lots of evidence behind for the right people to discover. A pre-established narrative: two assassins who have crossed paths before. It’s a story that tells itself.’

  He nodded. ‘There’s a potential opportunity coming up with my old CIA handler, which I think will be a good one. But before I go, I need to know whether I have backup or not. So, will you help me?’

  ‘What did I tell you? I’m the only person out there who can have your back. You gave me a second chance at life. The least I can do is give you the same.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  The old man’s innocent smile was the first thing Cornish saw upon waking. His eyes were slow to focus, but blurred colour became blurred shapes became that smile. A headache from hell caused Cornish to grimace and groan. His mouth felt tarry. His lips were dry. He struggled to swallow.

  The old man said, ‘I expect you’d like some water.’

  Cornish was confused. He didn’t know where he was or what was going on, but he had never been thirstier. He nodded.

  The old man moved out of view and a tap squealed. The noise was claws scraping down Cornish’s spine. Water rushed. A glass filled. The old man held it to Cornish’s dry lips and he drank the whole glass down, minus the inevitable spillage. Cornish didn’t care. He’d never tasted anything so refreshing, so delicious.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering where you are,’ the old man said.

  Cornish didn’t answer. Beyond the old man, all he could see was a bare brick wall. It was the same wherever he looked. Not that he could rotate himself, because he was secured to a chair with duct tape. It was wrapped around his wrists, pinning them to the arms of the chair. His ankles were fixed to the legs.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering what this is all about.’

  Cornish managed to say, ‘What’s goin
g on?’

  ‘It’s very simple. Recently you were visited by a woman. She was the one who hurt your wrist, I don’t doubt. She asked about the Totti arrangement, did she not?’

  The fatigue and the disorientation were wearing off because fear was replacing them and the accompanying adrenaline washed away the fogginess of waking from drug-induced unconsciousness. Cornish was terrified.

  ‘Did Totti send you?’

  The old man seemed amused. ‘Totti? I’m afraid Mister Totti is little more than a courier. He doesn’t know for whom he works, so how could he send me? He doesn’t know I exist, let alone why I exist.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is immaterial,’ the old man said. ‘As is any other answer you might request. All you need to know is that what happens in this room is both my profession and my passion.’

  The old man moved out of sight once more. When he returned, he held a long thin instrument. Stainless steel, like a needle only much longer, but unlike any Cornish had seen before.

  The old man said, ‘We think of pain as a reaction. We think of it as a response to injury. But it’s not. It’s a message. It’s a warning. It’s the most powerful warning there is, because we have no power over it. We can manage it. We can ignore it. But it’s still there. It’s the unconscious telling the conscious that the source of the pain is going to kill us if we do not get away from it. It’s evolution’s way of silently shouting run. Pain is the body’s way of saying I know best. It’s humbling. We think we are so very in control of ourselves, but we are merely passengers on this journey.

  ‘What I like about pain,’ he continued, ‘is that it is imperfect. A paper cut can hurt worse than a broken bone. We don’t even have to be injured to feel pain.’

  Cornish’s heart was hammering. His face gleamed with sweat.

  The old man said, ‘This is an acupuncture needle. It’s incredibly thin and sharp, so that it can miss nerves altogether, so that it does not hurt, so that you cannot feel it. See?’

  He used a light jabbing motion to stab the needle a matter of millimetres into the skin of Cornish’s exposed left forearm. The needle was so light it remained protruding straight and true when the old man took his hand away.

  ‘Doesn’t hurt at all, does it?’

  Cornish swallowed and nodded. Scared, but agreeing.

  ‘It can feel good, if used correctly. The benefits of acupuncture are well documented. With half a dozen of these needles I can make you as blissful as you’ve ever felt. Peaceful. Like being awake and asleep at the same time. Like you’re weightless. Like you’re floating on a dream. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I know you would.’

  Cornish said nothing. He couldn’t take his gaze from the needle.

  The old man removed the needle with a slight, waving motion of his hand. Effortless.

  His lips pursed and the needle shone white under the glow of a bare bulb overhead as he continued the waving motion as might the conductor of an orchestra; a melodic movement to guide a tune only he could hear and appreciate.

  He said, ‘Push the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth, please.’

  Cornish managed to say, ‘Why?’

  ‘So you do not bite the end off, of course.’

  The answer seemed so reasonable, so concerned, that Cornish did not understand. Could not understand. He did not do as instructed.

  The old man’s hand stopped the waving motion and the needle plunged downward to again pierce only a few millimetres into the skin of the forearm, but this time near to the pit of the elbow.

  Cornish’s teeth clamped together in a frozen spasm. His face was painted red with rushing blood. Ligaments and veins stood out from the skin of his hypertensive neck. Knuckles whitened. He roared and bucked against the restraints.

  ‘The median nerve,’ the old man said as he used the tip of his little finger to manipulate the long needle with slow, circular movements. ‘It needs to be highly sensitive to carry measures from the hands, for touch is so very important from an evolutionary perspective.’

  Cornish thrashed in the chair. Saliva and blood frothed and spattered his lips.

  ‘It’s like fire, isn’t it? It’s like your whole body is on fire on the inside, but it’s a cold fire. Ice and lightning coursing through you. Amazing, isn’t it? What the body can do. What we can do to it. I like to write the alphabet,’ the old man said as his fingertip continued to guide the needle with tiny, almost imperceptible movements. ‘The skill is keeping the letters small, so the nerve is not damaged by the needle, only stimulated. Q seems to be the letter that causes the most pain. For reference, we’re currently at E.’

  Cornish’s face glowed in the light of the bare bulb, coated in sweat and tears and mucus and blood.

  ‘Would you like me to stop?’ the old man asked.

  Despite the thrashing and spasms, Cornish could nod.

  The old man lifted his fingertip from the needle’s end.

  Cornish vomited over himself.

  ‘Look there,’ the old man said, gesturing. ‘There’s the tip of your tongue. I did warn you.’

  ‘Whatever you want to know,’ Cornish slurred despite the pain, despite the injured tongue, despite the retching, ‘I’ll tell you.’

  ‘I know,’ the old man said. ‘Please tell me every detail about the woman’s visit. Every detail about her accounts at the bank.’

  Cornish spoke for several minutes. Everything he could think of. Every shred of information that might be relevant. He left out nothing. Every word. Every thought.

  ‘That’s it,’ Cornish said. ‘I don’t know why she wanted to know about the money, about Totti. She never told me. I swear it.’

  The old man nodded, ‘I know, I can see,’ and moved the needle again.

  Cornish screamed.

  The innocent, almost shy, smile returned. ‘Remember when I said this was not only my profession, but my passion? That’s why I’m going to continue hurting you. Not because I need to, but because I want to.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Victor had the waiter bring them both a second drink. He resisted Raven’s pressure to order something alcoholic. She ordered some olives too.

  ‘Something to nibble on,’ she said.

  Victor said, ‘I take it you are still on your crusade.’

  ‘Someone has to fight the good fight. Which is why you had to meet me here and why I can’t rush to your assistance here and now. You might have to wait a day or two.’

  Victor shrugged. ‘A few days is fine. I have something to take care of myself too.’

  ‘Good,’ Raven said, ‘because I have a hot date coming up.’

  ‘Who are you after this time?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out, obviously. After you killed me in Canada, someone else tried to do the same while I was still learning to walk again. I mean, where is the chivalry in that? I’ve been working my way through this particular cell of a-holes and, a few missteps along the way aside, I’ve done a pretty good job too. Stopped a major operation going down, took out some bad guys, and now I think I’m close to a top boy. I don’t know who he is, but I’ve found someone who has to know more.’

  ‘What did they do to you?’

  ‘I told you before. They betrayed me. Turned me into a fugitive.’

  ‘And yet instead of running away from them, you keep running at them. I’d like to understand why.’

  She didn’t reply straightaway, but Victor could see she was working her way around to saying something from the way she toyed with the olives. He used the moment to scan the square for new arrivals, for anyone who looked out of place. He saw nothing that made him look twice.

  Raven said, ‘I never really told you about Yemen, did I?’

  ‘You told me a little. You told me you were close to a team member who died there. Because of bad intel, if I recall correctly. And I’ve put a few pieces together from what you just said.’

  She nodded. ‘We were there for a long
time and had lost people already when we shouldn’t have. Me and Stephen, we were more than close. He was more than a team member. A lot more than that. We had worked together a number of times over the years, but didn’t become lovers until that particular operation. In hindsight, it was inevitable we would be together. It’s such an isolated world we operate in. The only people who really know us are those we work with. Have you ever been with anyone who got to see the real you and didn’t mind what they saw?’

  He said, ‘No.’

  ‘Then you can’t really know what I’m talking about, but I’ll try and explain anyway. With Stephen, I could see a life beyond that which I had, but a real one because we would both be starting that life, not one person joining the normal life the other already knew. I saw the end to death and chaos. I could see calm for the first time since I was a kid. I could see a white house on the beach. Matching surfboards. A dog. A big, fluffy one. All that good stuff. I never thought to ask: do you like dogs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ever had one?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Me neither. But that’s what I wanted. Dog walks on a beach. Making a fire from driftwood. He wanted it too. We would be on surveillance and would be planning these little details. I used to look forward to those long nights keeping track of targets. I couldn’t wait for the operation to be over. I couldn’t wait to quit.’

  She was silent for a moment and Victor didn’t press her. He knew she would speak in her own time or not at all.

  ‘But then I found out he was a double agent,’ Raven continued eventually. ‘He was working for the enemy all along. I was nothing to him. He was using me the whole time, and when I’d served my usefulness I would have ended up as one of his other victims. It was him. He was the reason we had lost people. He’d been killing them.’

  ‘So you killed him.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ she explained. ‘But as I told you: it was bad intel.’

  ‘Ah,’ Victor said.