by Tom Wood
Raven said, ‘I don’t know at what point they found out Stephen was getting close, but that’s why they fed me the lie about him being a rogue operative. That’s why they had me kill him. I killed the only man I ever loved to help the rich get richer.’
‘No wonder you want revenge.’
‘It’s more than revenge. They took everything from me. They took away my future, all my hope. They took away my soul. So every one of them I kill, every plot I destroy, I take back a little piece of what I lost. What I’m doing is beyond revenge. It’s beyond justice even. It’s salvation.’
Victor was silent.
‘For a time I was obsessed with who supplied that bad intel, who fed us the lies. I don’t know. I never found him. I doubt I ever will. I’ve killed lieutenants but I’ve never knowingly got close to a general. And a part of me hopes I never find out who is responsible, because then it would be about revenge. Then I would only care about that one man or woman, that one person. But they’re all responsible, if not for Stephen, for others like him. So, they all deserve my wrath, and they’re all going to suffer it. I’m not going to stop until each and every one of them is in the ground. Then I’ll stop. Then I’ll rest. I’ll get that house on the beach and the dog to go with it. But not before. I can’t. I won’t.’
Victor said, ‘How did you know you had been lied to?’
‘Stephen being Stephen, he had foreseen they might come after him, and had left me everything he had discovered. I found out the rest on my own, hoping to find the source, the one giving the orders, but that’s impossible. That’s why I call them the Consensus. It’s not an organisation. It’s worse than that. It’s an alliance of interest, and the collective desire for wealth and power and willingness to do absolutely anything to maintain and increase it. What happened in Yemen was the result of one branch of that, one cell. The Consensus isn’t run by a single man stroking a white cat – its leadership is shared by the billionaire who funds the senator’s campaign in return for a favourable vote on beneficial legislation, and that senator’s chief of staff who wants a promotion… and the CIA case officer who supplies the intel to one of his contacts, now a private security contractor, who hires a bunch of mercenaries to kidnap the daughter of the rebel leader to extort that intelligence, and the black ops operative who kills that rebel after the event to ensure they can never tell the tale. How do you destroy something like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Victor said.
‘You can’t,’ Raven said back. ‘It’s the hydra, but at least the hydra was a single beast with many heads. This is many hydras.’
‘You said you’d only get the house on the beach once they were all dead.’
She smiled, briefly, sadly. ‘Whoever said it was a perfect plan?’
He didn’t answer because there was no answer. Instead, he said, ‘I trust you’ll take every care in your pursuit?’
‘Aw, that’s sweet,’ she replied, ‘and I’ll pretend you’re actually concerned for my safety and not simply worried I’ll get myself killed before I can help you.’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘But seriously, I don’t expect any trouble. He’s not exactly holed up in a fortress with a private army. If anything, it’ll be a walk in the park.’
‘That doesn’t seem likely for a serious player.’
‘I’ve been watching him long enough to know all I need to know. If he has anyone worth worrying about then they’re invisible or ethereal or both. There’s no one else. Trust me.’
‘I don’t trust anyone.’
‘Then see for yourself, he’s sitting over there.’
Victor followed her gaze, turning his head only a little and only when absolutely necessary.
‘Table by the tree, reading the newspaper.’
Four young men sat where Raven referenced. Three were laughing and joking amongst themselves while the fourth sat cross-legged, with a broadsheet open and holding his attention. He was smiling to himself and checking his phone at the same time. They were dressed in expensive but casual clothes. All Italians by the shade of their skin and their hair. Not professionals.
‘Who are they?’
‘Newspaper Boy is Paolo Totti. He might not look it, but he’s a made guy. Local mafioso. The others are part of his entourage. I need to find a way of having a quiet word with Don Totti. Seems he’s been a bag man for everyone’s favourite multinational syndicate of death and destruction. I’ve got it all planned out and will be executing – not literally, unless he forces it – in the next couple of nights. Fancy helping out? Could be just like old times.’
‘Even if I were feeling uncommonly charitable,’ Victor said with a shake of his head, ‘I’m sure you can handle it. And I have something to attend to myself, as I said. Meeting you in Italy is a good excuse to see someone else.’
She looked disappointed, not because she needed his help but because she wanted it. ‘You are such a spoilsport. Which reminds me that I need to think of a new name to call you. Something appropriate. Something annoying.’
‘I’ll leave that to you,’ he said, standing. ‘I’ll be back in a day or two.’
‘Can’t you stay for one drink? Don’t tell me this someone else is easier on the eye than I am.’
He shook his head. ‘I have a train I need to be on soon and a friend who might take some time to track down.’
Raven’s eyes were as big as he had ever seen them. ‘Wait, I didn’t hear you correctly. You said you have a friend. You have a friend?’
‘Acquaintance is probably a more accurate term.’
‘Phew,’ she said, hand on chest. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack and killed me a second time.’
THIRTY-THREE
It was cold because it was always cold. The bookshop had no central heating – at least, none that worked – and a fan heater didn’t do a fat lot to combat the fine Scottish weather. Suzanne Mayes was used to the cold in that she could tolerate it. She dressed for it. She wore lots of layers, and kept her hands in fingerless gloves. The heating was on her list of things to improve, but that was a mighty long list when the bookshop was nowhere near breaking even. It was a labour of love, but one she hoped – prayed – would one day turn a profit. The bank, after all, didn’t care for literature. It cared about the repayments.
Money was tight because the farm struggled to make a profit and the bookshop did its best to take that profit and throw it away. Ben wanted her to be pushier, but she refused to hard sell. She didn’t have it in her and she didn’t believe it worked. Might result in the odd sale, sure, but was that person who felt compelled or embarrassed or forced or tricked into buying a novel they didn’t really want really going to come back to buy another? That’s the question she posed to her husband when he made those little condescending remarks about maybe needing to try harder.
Can’t force people to read. They either had it in them or they didn’t. She saw her job as helping those that did to discover it, and if they already had it, to keep it.
She had a comfortable stool perched behind the counter where she sat and read while letting those people – few people – who came through the door browse and decide. She had a nice demeanour, she knew, and was content to let them look and read and think and dwell and approach her or not. They would if they needed to and if they didn’t then they wouldn’t.
Why can’t you get that through your caveman skull? she would ask He of Little Faith.
This afternoon’s potential customer was a man she had never seen before. The man did the dance, as she called it when someone entered the shop for the very first time and kind of waltzed. There was a certain rhythm to their footsteps. They didn’t so much turn as pirouette.
‘Chilly in here,’ he said when he was near.
‘Yeah,’ she replied.
Not much else she could say, other than plead poverty. And that never sold anything, least of all a book.
The man was an American. Sort of short. Sort of fat. Forties. He had one o
f those faces that looked both young and old at the same time. He was bald and unshaved. He had an open leather jacket and his T-shirt had a band’s name she didn’t know. She didn’t listen to much music these days. All the new songs sounded too produced, too fake, and she had grown out of the artists of her youth. That his jacket was open told her he didn’t mind the cold, whatever he said. It even looked like he was sweating. The type of man who would be a boiler to sleep next to. Her own hubby had feet as cold as her own.
‘Man,’ he said, ‘you don’t see many of these places any more.’
She looked up from her reading. ‘Bookshops, you mean?’
‘Yeah, not so common these days.’
‘We’re a dying breed, I’m sorry to say,’ she said, nodding. ‘I’m guessing you’re not from round here.’
He shook his bald head. ‘My accent, right?’ He pointed, like people did. ‘I’m from the States. I love it here, though. I love Scotland.’
‘Oh, thanks. What brings you over here?’
‘Just business.’ He shifted his feet. ‘You know.’
‘Well, I hope it was worth the trip.’
‘It’s been tough, but I think my boss will be pleased with the results.’
He paused and she wasn’t sure what to say.
‘Anyhow,’ he said after one of those big sighs, ‘I thought I’d pop in and pick up some reading material. You know, for the long flight home.’
She nodded her understanding. ‘What books do you like?’
‘I ain’t never been much of a reader, I’ll tell you that. But you can only watch so many of those in-flight movies. And I can never sleep on a plane, so seems like a good excuse to get into reading.’
She nodded. She understood. He was sweet, in an awkward way. ‘What do you think you might enjoy?’
‘I don’t rightly know. Maybe something about aliens and such.’
‘Speculative fiction?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, that might be my thing. I like those movies.’
He waved his arms in some vague mime she couldn’t quite get her head around, but she nodded anyway.
‘I’ve got some Asimov and a short story collection by Dick.’
His eyes widened. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Philip K. Dick, I mean. He’s an author. Was.’
‘Oh, I see. Like I said, I’m pretty damn ignorant of books and writers and such. But never too late to learn, is it?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘it really isn’t.’
She left her stool to help him pick out a selection of books to keep him company on his flight. She rang up the sale and bagged the books.
He said, ‘Thank you for all your assistance…’ He glanced down for a name tag that wasn’t there. ‘… uh…’
She smiled. ‘Suzanne. Suzy, really.’
His face pinched as he thought. ‘Say, you wouldn’t happen to be related to a guy named Ben?’
She was a little surprised and said, ‘Yeah, I’m his wife.How did you know that?’
He grinned and rapped his knuckles on the counter. ‘See, I had a hunch you might be. I was at the convenience store. I told ’em I was looking for somewhere that sells books. They said Suzy Mayes owns a place. See, I used to go to school with a kid named Ben way back. I heard he’d moved to Scotland.’
Suzanne Mayes’ eyes were huge. ‘No way.’
‘Yes, way. Haven’t seen him in years. I heard he’d scored himself a pretty Scottish girlfriend and moved to Aberdeenshire with her, but I didn’t know your name.’
She blushed. ‘It’s sweet of you to say so, but did you really hear that about me?’
‘Swear down I did. How’s Ben doing these days?’
‘Good. Working hard. He took over my dad’s farm.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine him as a farmer. Tell Ben I said hi. He might not remember me, come to think of it. It was a lifetime ago and I wasn’t exactly one of the cool kids.’ He looked away.
Suzanne Mayes said, ‘I’m sure Ben wasn’t either, whatever he thought. And, just between the two of us, he still isn’t, not really. But I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by. What’s your name again…?’
‘I’m Jimmy.’
‘Jimmy… what?’
‘He’ll know me by Jimmy or not at all.’ The man smiled. He had crooked teeth. ‘Thanks again for the recommendations. I do appreciate your insight.’
‘I’m just sharing my love any way I can.’
His smile broadened. ‘What a nice way of putting it.’
‘I like to think so too.’
The customer who called himself Jimmy left the bookshop with his purchases and strolled along the wet pavement, still with the easy smile, still with the buoyant step. When he reached his car he threw the books in the boot, not caring how the pages creased and the spines broke because he didn’t care about books. He hadn’t read a book in his life. He climbed behind the wheel.
A cursory glance was all that was required to know there were no observers, and he took out his phone, thumbed his contacts and dialled. The smile faded, replaced by a blank expression that hid his excitement, his success.
‘This is Niven,’ he said once the line connected. ‘Second store checked out. I’ve finally found them.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Victor had known Alberto Giordano for years, dating back to his early days as a freelance assassin and Giordano’s first forays into the realms of professional forgery. He had been young then and had somehow maintained that youth and impossible good looks, if ageing at all then ageing in reverse. He thought of himself as an artist and lover, and could have conceivably gone into a career in forgery just to satisfy some revolutionary sentiment. It had been a while since Victor had had any contact with him, which was normal. He would turn up unannounced for a new brace of documents to create a perfect legend like no other available in the world.
Then, Giordano had been hard to find. He had built up a small but effective operation with a multi-faceted defence. Victor was forced to go through several layers of contacts before reaching the man himself. He expected the same this time. He expected to spend a day or more on the streets of Bologna, asking questions, gaining trust, finding the next person who revealed a little more and the next, all the while watched by Giordano’s people or those who owed him, liked him or sought a favour from him.
This time it took Victor a matter of hours.
He found an osteria he had been to before and asked questions – subtle but pointed questions. He had been surprised by the bluntness of the answers.
The barman knew where he could find Giordano, as did a patron who overheard the conversation. Both seemed surprised to discover who he was looking for, as if such a thing was unique and unnecessary. He didn’t ask why. He would find out for himself.
Bologna was one of Victor’s favourite cities, and he had visited enough to know the difference between a place that was good for sightseeing and good to explore. Bologna was the latter. It had everything except trees, but in their absence gained something else, something pure. A city all of brick, of stone, was its own forest, man-made but could be as hostile as any wilderness.
Victor wasn’t expecting trouble, but he identified its potential within seconds of entering a second osteria where he’d been told he would find Giordano. The potential trouble consisted of three men who sat together in the centre of the room, drinking and making a lot of noise. It was not their rowdy behaviour that made his threat radar hum, but the fact one of them had a gun. The grip of a pistol was protruding from his waistband.
They had similar features, and Victor made them as brothers. Criminals, but not professionals. Not here for him.
He discounted them as threats, but he didn’t ignore them.
Victor never forgot a face. He spent his days analysing them for signs, for tells, to distinguish civilian from target, citizen from combatant. He had been taught how to read what facial recognition software now did automatically. Some features of a face could not be changed without surgery an
d those were what he had always focused on first – how he spotted Giordano, anonymous in a crowd he would have once stood out from.
His blond hair was long and greasy, and hung over a face further hidden by an unkempt beard. Women who would have once gazed adoringly at him now walked by, eyes averted. There was no splendour in his clothes, no ostentatiousness in his mannerisms. In some ways he acted like Victor – blending in, attempting to go unnoticed.
There were no pleasantries. None of the playfulness Victor had been expecting. When Giordano realised who was standing over him, he looked up once to acknowledge Victor’s presence, then looked away.
‘What happened to you?’ Victor couldn’t help but ask.
Giordano smirked. ‘What happened? You happened.’
Victor was silent.
‘You, Vernon, my dear friend of all these years. Ally. Compatriot. You did this to me. You took a flower and stripped it of petals, and now you ask why it is no longer beautiful?’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I don’t know who they were. All I know is they came out of nowhere, a month, maybe two, after we last met. They kidnapped me. They took me somewhere I didn’t know. I was so scared. That was not my life. But it was your life. You had led them to my door because you are you and the things you do without consequence have consequences for me.’
Victor didn’t know what to say. He began establishing a timeline from what Giordano said, working out how it slotted together with his own actions and movements. He knew exactly who had taken Giordano.
He continued, ‘I spent two days hanging from chains while they questioned me continuously. They would take it in turns: a man and a woman. Non-stop, no breaks, no sleep. They gave me water so my throat didn’t dry out and stop me speaking. Every question I answered led to more questions. They wanted endless clarifications and ever more details. I never thought I would leave that place.’
‘Did they hurt you?’
He lifted up his shirt, past his navel, to reveal a long, vertical scar that ran the length of his abdomen.