by Tom Wood
‘You need to tell Leyland you were bluffing.’
He looked around. ‘I like it here. I like the air. It’s so fresh.’
‘You’re gambling with your life. Don’t do it,’ Muir said. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’
‘He’s one man.’
‘You don’t know what he’s capable of.’
‘People keep telling me that. I say in return: Let’s see. Let’s see. Because he’s either here already or he’s on the way, and if he does in fact try to kill me, then he’s the one making the mistake. You see, Janice, the difference between a hunter and a fisherman is the fisherman is the smart one. The hunter has to track down his prey. He has to make all the effort. But when you fish, you use a lure and wait for the fish to come to you. You let the fish do the hard work.’
FIFTY-TWO
Alvarez had established an operations centre in the CIA annexe of the US Embassy. The station chief was a woman named Layla Jensen whom he knew from his days with the Agency. She had been happy – content – for him to commandeer her staff of analysts.
‘If you had informed me of this operation, I could have made some headway before you arrived.’
‘I appreciate your eagerness to be of assistance, Layla, but I’ve been trying to keep this as low key as possible. We’re dealing with potential leaks, after all.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed.
It was the kind of standard operations room Alvarez had been in many times. From one wall hung numerous monitors displaying CCTV footage, video recordings, television news, documents and photographs. Two rows of desks faced the screens, with half a dozen monitors on each row, an analyst seated at each terminal.
There were three male analysts, three female. They were all Americans, all dressed in similar office attire, neat and respectable. The room wasn’t quiet, even when no one was talking, because of the constant murmur of keyboards clicking and the persistent whirring of fans, interrupted at intervals by ringing landlines or cells.
The air smelled of coffee and deodorant. Air conditioning kept it at a pleasant temperature.
An Agency paramilitary team attached to the Special Activities Division had been divided between surveillance and standby duties, spread between four SUVs cruising around the city, ready to be deployed on Alvarez’s command. Jensen’s people were crunching data for any sign of the target. The team leader was a guy named Gaten Bradley. He was a pure badass. Alvarez knew that just from looking at him, let alone from feeling the strength of his grip or reading his extensive service record. Alvarez, who had spent four years in the Marine Corps, had never felt more like a civilian, had never felt more beta. He was the larger man, sure, but he was a German Shepherd. Bradley was a Pitbull – a pure-bred, genetically engineered Pitbull from hell. No contest.
Bradley had the respectful manners of a Southern gent and the weather-beaten face of an outdoorsman. He was a few years older, but his hair was still jet black, as was his beard.
‘Afghanistan, Mogadishu and Iraq. Both invasions for the latter,’ Alvarez summarised.
‘I feel I should say that I saw no action in Desert Storm.’
Alvarez raised his eyebrows as he glanced through Bradley’s service record. ‘You made up for it since. Rangers for eleven years; Delta for six.’
‘I’ve tried to serve my country to the best of my ability.’
‘I’ll say.’ He flicked over several pages with increasingly raised eyebrows. ‘Two years in the Special Activities Division. You’ve been busy.’
‘I told you: I am a warrior. I don’t like to sit idle.’
‘Why did you leave the army?’
Bradley stroked his beard as he mentally composed his answer. His hair reached his ears. He wore a dark denim jacket over a pale denim shirt. His trousers were black jeans. Alvarez wasn’t sure he had ever seen triple denim before. Bradley’s shoes were white sneakers stained by grass. He was a slight guy but the jacket was stretched across his back into a pure V.
‘No future there, Mr Alvarez. I was an enlisted man. I joined as a kid at the bottom and I sweated and killed my way up, but that only gets a man so far. Truth be told, I was always happy with that. I’m not the sort of person who can send a man to do a job that he can’t do himself. And by the time the next war kicks off, I’ll be out of the picture. I’ll be too old to be sent into battle, and I don’t want the indignity of being left on the sidelines. So, barring contracting for a PSC – you’ll have to excuse my language, but they’re all a bunch of assholes – I figured joining the CIA would be the best chance of keeping in the action.’
‘Hmm. Would it be fair to say that you’re addicted to combat?’
Bradley shook his head. ‘No, sir. It would not. But I am a warrior. If I don’t get to fight, then what is left of me?’
‘We’re in Finland here, not Fallujah. This is a Western urban environment you’re operating within.’
‘I’m a ghost, Mr Alvarez. Put me on the streets and the first time you’ll see me is my reflection on the knife I’m cutting your throat with.’
‘Jesus,’ Alvarez couldn’t help but say.
Bradley said, ‘Be glad you’re on the home team. I’ve taken more necks than a haji on Eid.’
‘I most certainly am glad to be on your side, not theirs.’
‘So,’ Bradley said, ‘can I tell my guys to saddle up?’
‘Your team as good as you?’
Bradley nodded. ‘They’re all former tier-one operators. All JSOC. I even have a Brit who was SAS.’
‘Good,’ Alvarez said. ‘But this isn’t a battle. I want the target captured, not tagged and bagged unless there is no other option. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I do. But you read my record before you came to speak to me.’
‘And?’
‘And you don’t need a guy like me running the op if you expect this tango is going to cuff himself and save us the bother.’
‘No, I don’t expect that he will. There is every chance this won’t be neat and it won’t be quiet.’
‘Which is why you need a man like me.’
‘That’s correct, Bradley. I most certainly do.’
Flights, hotel and car-hire records were being analysed; facial recognition software was combing through CCTV footage for anyone who matched the man from the Minsk tape.
A voice came through one of the audio channels: ‘Muir is on the move.’
Alvarez clicked his fingers. ‘Put that on screen one.’
An analyst hit some keyboard commands and on one of the large monitors a live video stream appeared of Muir leaving her hotel. The footage was being streamed from one of the SAD operators on surveillance duty.
Alvarez said, ‘Stay with her.’
One of the Agency staff entered the room and approached Jensen, whispering something to her. Jensen then said to Alvarez, ‘You have a visitor.’
‘Excuse me, what did you say?’
‘He says it’s important. He says he has information you need to know. He’s been put in an interview room on the second floor.’
Alvarez said, ‘Did he give a name?’
FIFTY-THREE
Victor slept for a few hours. Not as long as he needed, but enough to refresh. He was used to sleeping for short periods. He had taken one of the bedrooms, sleeping on the floor so he could use the bed to barricade the door. He wasn’t sure if that was simply protocol or because he didn’t trust Raven. He trusted no one, but the average person required no special defence against them. Raven was another matter entirely.
A part of him expected her to be gone when he awoke, to have taken the opportunity to leave the city and the country. She wasn’t going to help him do what he needed to do. He could understand that.
It was dark in the penthouse. He had slept through to the evening. A light was on in the living area.
Raven was sat at a dining table, going through a file. She didn’t hear his approach.
He said, ‘Hey,’ and her head rose.
>
‘You look surprised to see me.’
‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘Why are you still here?’
‘To consider my next move. I’ve been going through the babysitter’s things, trying to gather intel.’ She closed the file. ‘I don’t have much on the target, so I was seeing if I could learn what the Consensus hoped to achieve here. I don’t want to leave with nothing.’
Victor said, ‘I can’t help you there. The guy who led the crew in Scotland was called Niven. He was an ex-cop. He didn’t know anything about the old man or even about Phoenix. He was kept at arms’ length.’
‘I’m sorry you wasted your time then,’ Raven said. ‘But thank you again for what you did.’
Victor remained silent.
‘What did you mean before, about needing answers before you do anything?’
‘My SIS handler warned me that the guy after me, Alvarez, knows who I really am. Before I do anything else, I need to find out if it’s true.’
She tensed. She was as surprised by this as he had been. ‘How… how is that even possible? Does anyone out there know your real name?’
‘Not everyone I encountered in my youth is dead. But would any of them recognise me today? Would any of them understand who the boy they knew had become?’ He shook his head. ‘At one point I lived on the streets. I’d run away from the orphanage. I gave the other runaways a false name because I didn’t want anyone to find me. When I enlisted, I used that alias. The recruiting officer helped me falsify what I needed to. When I left the military I invented another identity. When I went freelance I started changing identities like other people changed clothes. I’ve had fake names for longer than I was ever known by my real name. These days, I don’t think of myself by my real name. To me, I’m someone else. I’m whoever my passport says I am. I’m nothing but the identity that is the cleanest, my name is the one alias that no one will ever break because no one will ever know it. So, Constance, what is a real name?’
She said, ‘Something you’d kill to protect?’
‘I told someone my name, once. Not long ago really. I won’t tell you where or when, but I didn’t think I was going to make it and that person showed me a kindness that was enough to keep me alive and free for another moment. They asked me my name and I told them. It felt like the right thing to do at the time. Was it reckless? Sure. Do I regret it? Yes. But it felt good in that moment. It felt like lifting a burden. Fun. Rebellious.’
He saw he had said too much from the way she looked at him. He realised his guard had started to slip in her presence. He was becoming comfortable. She knew it too.
He said, ‘Why is it so dark in here?’
‘None of the lights work in the whole building. Wiring, I suppose. We have gas and water, if you want coffee.’
He nodded, glad to be talking about something else, but she wasn’t done.
‘I have an idea,’ Raven said. ‘Would you like to hear it?’
‘Probably not,’ Victor said.
‘Come away with me.’
‘What are you talking about? Neither of us is done here.’
‘But we could be, if we wanted. We could drop everything, disappear into the wind. Start a new life.’
‘Together?’
‘You watch my back and I’ll watch yours.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Why am I? We work well together. Alone, we’ll always be vulnerable, but we have strength in numbers. Imagine how much better we could be with a little practice. We could get to know each other. Properly, I mean.’
‘That’s not a good idea.’
‘You still don’t trust me, do you?’
‘You tried to kill me.’
‘I just knew you would bring that up again. It was one time. One.’
‘It’s not something I forget.’
‘Let’s not forget that you actually did kill me.’
Victor remained silent.
‘But you’re just diverting the course of the conversation, I know. What you’re saying is, you don’t want to get to know me.’
‘I’m saying you may think you want to get to know me. But you wouldn’t like what you found out.’
‘Talk about self-deprecating. Dude, there can’t be anything worse than what I know about you already. I mean, you’re not exactly the man my mother – may she rest in peace – would have approved of. Not because you’re a professional contract killer, but because you’re freelance. She wanted me to settle down with a man who had a steady job. What I mean is, I already know the worst of you. I’d like to find out about the best.’
‘That’s where you’re so wrong, Constance. There is no best of me. There is nothing more than this. This is who I am. This is all I am. All I will be.’
‘Even if I believed that, it doesn’t have to be like that. We can be anyone,’ she insisted. ‘Start again. Think of the possibilities.’
‘That’s too much to think about. Don’t feel sorry for me, Constance. I don’t feel sorry for myself.’
‘You should.’
‘Why? Because I don’t float through existence like everyone else? They may live peaceful, happy lives, but I guarantee they’ve never felt more alive than I have when my heart’s pounding and my enemies are dead around me.’
‘So, there is a reason why you do this. It’s not just because you can’t get out. You enjoy it.’
He shook his head. ‘No, but I have enough self-awareness to understand that the closer I am to death, the more I feel alive.’
‘You’re the frog, slowly boiling to death without realising it.’
‘No, because I know I’m boiling to death. But I’m now too weak to jump out of the pot.’
She smiled because she had trapped him. ‘Which is exactly why you need someone else to switch off the stove.’
‘Someone like… you?’
She beamed. ‘However did you guess?’
Victor said, ‘What are you doing, Constance?’
She looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve been doing a good job of keeping me talking. I’d like to know what you’re hoping to achieve.’
‘Nothing wrong with a little chit-chat between friends, is there?’
‘It’s more than simply chat. Maybe it’s because I’ve just woken up, maybe it’s because my guard isn’t as high as it should be, but I’ve only just noticed that you’ve been keeping the conversation away from why you’re here in Helsinki.’
‘You know why,’ she said. ‘I was sent here.’
‘To kill someone.’
Raven was silent.
Victor stood and approached the dining table.
‘Don’t,’ Raven said.
He ignored her. He reached for the slim brown dossier.
FIFTY-FOUR
There was a Sykes, an idea of a Sykes, an ideal Sykes that was almost realised, that might have been realised had he only been born a little taller, a little prettier, a little richer, a little smarter. He had been destined for silver but ached for gold with such longing that silver was squandered, ignored and willingly forfeited. The end result meant less than bronze – a yearning hope for bronze.
Sykes hadn’t slept well. He hadn’t for years. The skin beneath his eyes was now darker than his hair had ever been. What was left of it, at least. He could see the shine of his scalp if he stood under a harsh light, and had taken to using dark bedding to avoid the sight of all those fleeing hairs on his pillowcase each morning. It was depressing, and he fought it hard with every potion and gadget money could buy. Maybe they worked. Maybe he had slowed the inevitable. Maybe his hair would be thinner without them. Which was even more depressing. He was scared of being hairless as he was scared of many things. Sykes was, and always had been, a coward. Once, he had ambition and desire. Once, he had been driven by greed for money and power. Now, he realised that this was driven by his weakness. A strong man didn’t need wealth and power. Needing it meant he was weak. He was weak now and he had always been weak. Th
at weakness had almost made him rich and almost made him dead.
He had dressed in his best suit for this. Dressing used to be such a simple thing to do as a young man. Now, a chore. A hassle. Something he hated. He had to sit down to put his socks on because he couldn’t bend over far enough to reach his toes, let alone stand on one leg that long. Then he had to stand again to fasten his trousers, breathing in and pulling hard to fasten the button. Whatever pride he derived from managing to fit into the same waist size was offset by the swollen muffin-top, pale and hairy, that pride manifested.
Sykes was spent. Not physically, because he could stretch four more decades out of his listless shell. No, he was spent as Sykes. That lonely teenager had strived to be anyone else. Sykes longed to be that lonely teenager again.
He wasn’t drunk enough to be under any illusions. He knew the drink was driving him, giving him a confidence and purpose that he was never meant to possess. He had followed the necessary path, the obvious path; that which was preordained. But from now on he would change that direction. He realised that there was a will buried beneath all that self-loathing, a will that was forged of something greater than he, and which had always been there, but dormant, buried, waiting for the summons.
He summoned it now. Sykes knew what he had to do. He knew that he could not go on as this skeleton of being. Every choice he had ever made was the wrong one, so any action that contradicted those past failures had to be correct, had to be righteous.
He just hoped that he wasn’t too late.
The interview room was small and nondescript aside from a table and a couple of chairs. The walls were painted taupe and the floor covered in cheap linoleum. Alvarez took a seat opposite Sykes, who stank of alcohol and body odour. Alvarez grimaced at the smell.
He said, ‘What are you doing here, Kevin?’