Final Target

by Steven Gore

  “Until just now all I knew about Burch was what that asshole Matson told me.” Milsberg paused, then said, “I won’t help you try to get him off, but I’ll do what I can to make sure he gets his day in court. He at least deserves a chance to clear himself.”

  Gage clenched his fist. “That’s enough for me.”

  Milsberg exhaled. “Now it’s time for show, don’t tell…Get this. Matson’s flying to London tomorrow.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He didn’t say anything. I got a peek at the receptionist’s message pad.”

  “What’s the flight?”

  “United 930. First-class. Can you believe it? The company is in the tank and he’s traveling first-class, 12:50 P.M. out of SFO.”

  “Good work. Maybe you should’ve been a private eye.”

  “No. I should’ve been a poet. Then I wouldn’t have ended up in this mess.”

  Gage hung up, checked his contact list, then dialed a London number.

  “Mickey, it’s Graham.”

  “You old gaffer. How’s work?”

  “Complicated. How’s retirement?”

  “Bloody boring. I couldn’t wait to get out of police work, now I miss it like my best chum.”

  “What’s your schedule like for the next few days?”

  “The same as always—except when you call with a little job. Cheap tea and the Times crossword.”

  “You ready for another one?”

  “Willing and still able. What’s the topic?”

  “You on the Internet?”

  “Only through my grandson.”

  “Have him do a search on a company called SatTek. It’s a stock scam. My friend, a lawyer in San Francisco, is being set up to take the fall.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Help me tail the company president. Two hundred pounds a shift for each guy you need to bring in. I’ll be coming in on his flight into Heathrow.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Twenty-four hours later, Gage was standing in the economy line at the international terminal at SFO waiting for Matson. When first-class was called, Gage watched Matson stroll to the front and nonchalantly present his ticket to the ground crew.

  Gage pulled out his cell phone, then cupped his hand over his mouth. Mickey picked up the call on the first ring.

  “He’s about five foot nine, mid-forties, brown hair, a little pudgy,” Gage said quietly. “Unless he changes clothes on the plane, he’ll be wearing tan slacks, a yellow button-down shirt, and a dark brown sweater. He’s carrying an attaché case, a camel overcoat, and a suit bag.”

  “Will you be able to stay with him?” Mickey asked.

  “He’ll be getting off before me, so I’ll probably lose him at passport control, but I’ll catch up at baggage claim.”

  Gage called Mickey as he followed Matson through customs, and stayed on the phone as Matson met a woman in the arrivals hall. Gage scanned the crowd until he spotted Mickey by an exit. Late sixties, gray-haired, alert eyes that darted, never resting too long on Matson and not reacting when he spotted Gage.

  “Did you see the dumplings on that one?” Mickey asked Gage “She’s a tidy package.”

  “Mickey, you’re supposed to be watching him.”

  “May they stay as close together as a banger in a bun for as long as he’s in London. Amen.”

  “I have a feeling they will. What do you think? French? German?”

  “With her Eurasian features and those tight pants? I’ll bet Russian or Ukrainian.”

  “In any case,” Gage said, “they’re all yours. I’m heading for the hotel. Keep me up on what they do.”

  “With delight,” Mickey said. “And by the way, thanks for getting me out of the house.”

  Gage took the Heathrow Express train to Paddington Underground Station, then caught a cab to his hotel. By the time he checked in and unpacked, Mickey called.

  “She took him to a flat in Knightsbridge. Right off Brompton Road. It must’ve cost a bomb. Top floor. And she was driving a Jaguar XK, red.”

  “Convertible?” Gage asked.

  “Right. How’d you know?”

  “You’ve seen the guy. What else would it be? Did you see the way he draped his sweater over his shoulders like some…what’s the word?”

  “Would that be a five-letter word down or a seven-letter word across?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “Dandy or coxcomb.” Mickey chuckled. “I’m sure either one will do.”

  “You think you can find out who owns the flat and the car?”

  “My dear, dear Gage.” Mickey’s voice oozed with mock disappointment at Gage’s seeming lack of respect for his talents and his remaining connections in the Metropolitan Police.

  “Sorry. Will you find out who owns the flat and the car?”

  “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  “I’m going to take a nap and try to head off some of the jet lag. Come by at 11 A.M. I’m in 1704 at the Carleton Tower.”

  Gage knew exactly what time it was when he heard the knock at his door.

  “I like the beard,” Gage told retired Superintendent of Police Mickey Ransford. “It makes you look like a fuzzy old bear.”

  “The wife says it tickles. Apparently, after forty-three years of marriage I’ve become cute again.”

  Gage smiled to himself as Mickey stepped through the doorway. Just a few years earlier, Mickey’s subordinates had variously compared him to a bloodhound, a bulldog, and a pit bull. Somehow, in retirement, he’d devolved into a pug.

  Gage directed Mickey to a couch, then poured tea from a service resting on a side table and sat in a matching armchair.

  “Any chance Matson spotted you?” Gage asked.

  “No. Old men like me are like lost house keys. You don’t pay them any mind until they’re gone, and then you can’t find them.”

  Mickey stirred sugar into his tea. “There’s an old Ukrainian saying.” He looked up, winking. “It’s something like, ‘Old age is not a blessing.’”

  “So you were right.”

  “As always. Alla Petrovna Tarasova. A long-legged Ukrainian with a beautiful name. Tourist visa. Extended.”

  “And who owns the flat?”

  “TAMS Limited, registered in Wales.”

  “T…A…M…S…Let me guess.” Gage smiled. “Tarasova-Alla-Matson-Stuart.”

  “That’s how the smart money is betting.”

  “Did you happen to find out—”

  “Morely Alden Fitzhugh IV, chartered account. Director. A memorable name.”

  Gage felt SatTek’s offshore financial universe begin to rotate around a fixed point. “That’s the same guy who’s head of a holding company connected to SatTek.”

  Mickey squinted toward the ceiling and raised a forefinger. “How do your American girls say it?” He grinned, then looked at Gage. “I…don’t…think…so.”

  “What? You mean there are two guys with that name?”

  “There isn’t even one with that name. There was, of course, until last week when his various components were found drifting about in the Thames. As I said, a memorable name. One must pass through the news sections of the Times to reach the crossword puzzle.”

  A wave of jet lag shuddered through Gage’s body. The fixed point turned out to be a black hole.

  “And no. No one was arrested. The home secretary was quoted as claiming that the Russian maffiya was responsible. But it’s budget time in Parliament so one can’t take these sorts of announcements seriously. Blaming Russian gangsters for everything is quite popular among the political classes. For all we know, there was a domestic quarrel and he simply went to pieces under his wife’s wrath.”

  Mickey’s cell phone rang.

  “A taxi just picked up Matson,” Mickey said. “Shall we join the chase?”

  Gage slipped on a jacket and dropped a digital camera into his breast pocket. Mickey guided him from the hotel to a black London cab parked on a bordering street.


  “We’re lucky,” Gage said, after getting into the back with Mickey.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it.” Mickey aimed a finger at the driver, a stocky man leaning toward the steering wheel, gripping it with both hands. “Meet Hixon One. Sergeant, Metropolitan Police, retired.”

  “Is there a Hixon Two?”

  “Certainly,” Mickey answered. “Following Matson.”

  “Nice to meet you Mr. Gage,” Hixon One said, pulling into traffic.

  While Mickey relayed the directions from the car following Matson, Hixon One fought the midday traffic from Sloane Street, to Kensington Road, and finally to Kensington High Street, where he pulled over.

  “Hixon Two says Matson went into that pub over there.” Mickey pointed across the street at a heavy wooden door, the center of which was occupied by a stained glass image of an ax. “Shall I go in?”

  “No. Send Hixon Two. But tell him the guy Matson’s meeting may not be as naïve as he is.”

  “You mean her.”

  “How do you know Matson’s meeting a woman?”

  “No. Hixon Two is a she.”

  “My daughter,” Hixon One said, smiling and reaching for his cell phone. “Reconnaissance and Surveillance Regiment, SAS, on leave, helping her old man out. Eighteen months from now we’ll be Hixon & Hixon, Enquiry Agents, Limited.”

  Gage scanned the sidewalks, cars, storefronts, and apartment windows above for countersurveillance or for others also tailing Matson.

  A young woman wearing black pants and a fur-necked jacket slowed near the entrance to the Ax Man Pub. She stopped to read the specials written in chalk on a green board attached to the wall, then pushed the door open and walked in.

  Hixon One glanced over his shoulder at Gage, and smiled with a father’s pride. “Lovely, isn’t she?”

  Gage nodded. “And no one would ever guess what she does for a living.” He grabbed the door handle. “I need to get a closer look at some of the guys on the street.” He glanced at Hixon One. “Why don’t you stay here?” Then at Mickey. “How about a little fresh air?”

  Mickey climbed out after him and they walked along the sidewalk to the corner, stopping first at a flower stand, then inside West London Newsagents for cover while surveying the street.

  “You see them?” Gage whispered to Mickey, peering out through the window.

  “I see one, the rather stout fellow on the opposite corner.”

  “Look at the third car down from the pub, the dark blue Rover.”

  “Ah yes,” Mickey said, “a disturbingly unattractive little creature. His face looks like a bleached prune.” He chuckled. “His mother must be quite embarrassed.”

  Gage nodded toward a silver Mercedes directly in front of the pub. “I think that one may be part of this, too.” He then glanced back and forth between the automobiles. The license plates of both were blocked by the cars bracketing them. “We need the numbers. I’ll slip by the Rover.”

  Gage scanned the news rack and grabbed a London map. Mickey paid for it while Gage headed toward the door and adopted the puzzled but earnest expression of a tourist. He walked toward the next intersection, while Mickey strolled back the way they came.

  They met at the cab five minutes later.

  “Cheap suit,” Mickey said, pointing at the Mercedes and settling into the backseat next to Gage. “Foreign.”

  “The suit?” Gage asked.

  “No, the biceps. Quite expansive. The fellow is an absolute giant. Like one of these Greco-Roman wrestlers in the Olympics. Probably Eastern or Central European.”

  Hixon One wrote down the plate numbers, then dialed his cell phone and passed them on. After listening for a moment, he disconnected and looked back at Gage. “They’re both registered to something called UES Holdings Limited on West Cromwell Road.”

  Gage called Alex Z. “Sorry to wake you up, but I need you to run something.”

  “No problem. I was lying awake and thinking about how I’d feel if my father had been shot down like Mr. Burch. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll meet my dad for breakfast.”

  “That’s a good idea. You’re lucky to have him.”

  “I’ve been realizing that more and more every day,” Alex Z said. “What do you need?”

  “Find out everything you can about UES Holdings Limited in London.”

  Twenty minutes later Alex Z called back.

  “I ran a registration search on the UK Companies House Web site. UES has the same address as Fitzhugh. Looks like there are a hundred offices in the building, mostly lawyers and accountants.”

  “E-mail me everything you downloaded, then run a newspaper search on Fitzhugh. He was murdered last week.”

  “Jeez. Be careful, boss.”

  Just then Matson stomped out of the Ax Man. He started to hail a cab, but dropped his arm and marched up Kensington High Street, hands jammed into his coat pockets.

  “Mickey,” Gage said, “follow him on foot. I’ll stay here and take photos. Have Hixon Two pick you up if he grabs a cab. We’ll meet at my room when you think he’s in for the night.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Hixon One, parked down the block from Matson’s flat, gave himself a discreet scratch, then settled in for the evening. Alla emerged a half hour later dressed in a blue Marks & Spencer running suit. She stretched for a few minutes against the black wrought-iron fence surrounding the property, then ran off, her long legs beating a practiced rhythm.

  Gage had just disconnected from Hixon One’s update when Mickey and Hixon Two arrived at his room. He directed them to the couch and again sat in the wing chair.

  “Is Two what people really call you?” Gage asked.

  “Family and friends,” she said. “My mother died when I was four. Since then it’s been Pop and me, One and Two.”

  She looked even younger up close, but her eyes had a mature depth of experience.

  “How long have you been in the service?”

  “Almost five years. Three in regular army and two in Reconnaissance and Surveillance. I joined after college. It was Uncle Mickey’s idea.”

  “Where’d they send you?”

  Hixon Two grinned. “Around.”

  “Good answer.” Gage leaned forward. “So, tell me what happened inside the Ax Man.”

  She straightened up, as if preparing to report to a superior.

  “Matson met Russians. Or at least Central Europeans who spoke Russian to each other. Mostly friendly. At one point it got tense, then it lightened up. But I’m not sure the meeting ended well.”

  “That was our impression, too.” Gage reached over and opened his laptop to display the digital photos he snapped outside the Ax Man after Matson stormed out. He’d numbered them one through thirty-seven. He turned the computer toward her.

  Hixon Two studied the first fifteen spread across the screen. “Number three, six, and eleven were the ones who met with Matson.”

  She pressed the page-down button, then worked her finger across along the images.

  “Sixteen is the bodyguard. A giant. He came in just for a minute, otherwise he was in a Mercedes outside. Number three did almost all the talking.” She looked up at Gage. “I don’t recognize anyone else.”

  “Could you hear what they were saying?”

  “I played girly-girl at the bar in order not to be too obvious, so I didn’t catch much of the conversation. I went to the WC twice so I could walk by the table. All I caught was ‘leave him out of it’ and ‘when the time comes.’ At one point Matson raised his voice a little and said ‘arranger’ or ‘ranger’ or some word like that a couple of times.”

  “Could it be Granger?”

  “Yes, I think that could be it. At one point number three took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. I saw a tattoo on his arm.” She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a bar napkin that bore a detailed drawing. “It was like this.” She handed it to Gage. “But I don’t know what it means. It’s not the kind Russian soldiers get.”

  �
�It means number three is a thief-in-the-law,” Gage said, “a vory-v-zakone. Each point represents a year in prison. There are only a few hundred vorys in the world. If they were Italian mafia, we’d call them made men. But these are Russians and Ukrainians and it’s a lot tougher to get made. Even a guy like John Gotti wouldn’t have made it past gofer.”

  “Shouldn’t they be called thieves outside the law?” Hixon Two asked.

  “It’s law in the sense of a thief’s code.”

  “Like a no snitching rule?”

  “Exactly.” Gage closed his laptop. The click echoed in the now silent room. He looked back and forth between her and Mickey. “How about I take you two out for dinner and we can make plans for tomorrow?”

  Heads nodded.

  “How about Indian?” Mickey said, smiling. “A little chicken tikka, a little tandoori, a few chapattis. Food in London is wonderful. It’s the only surviving benefit of imperialism. Anytime we want, we get to eat food from all the colonies we’ve been thrown out of.”

  Gage sent them home after dinner, then returned to his hotel room to check his e-mails. One from Faith was waiting. She’d sent it just after meeting Courtney at the hospital: Burch’s doctors had reported that his condition remained unchanged.

  After logging off, Gage rose and looked out of his seventeenth floor window at the city lights, the traffic sounds muffled by glass and elevation. He imagined Burch lying in his bed, insulated from life by his coma. For a moment, he wished that Burch could remain there, suspended in time and space, at least long enough for Gage to construct a seawall around him; for if Burch regained consciousness now, it would be only to see a wave cresting above him.

  A whelping ambulance siren passing on the street below shook Gage’s mind free of the fantasy. Whatever the doctors’ intent may have been in saying it, the notion that Burch’s condition could be unchanged was at best an evasion to comfort Courtney, and at worst a delusion. The truth was that each day he would get weaker and his body would become less able to fight toward daylight.

  CHAPTER 30

  Plump little Totie Fitzhugh had spent the week after her husband’s murder sorting through his papers—at least the ones the police and Agent Zink hadn’t taken, and the ones hidden in the pantry. As she was the only employee, she was not unfamiliar with the companies her husband managed, and where he secreted what he called his Special Project files.