by Layton Green
His heart knew the truth. He was preoccupied, yes.
But Omer did not make mistakes with simple locks, no matter how distracted. In a profession such as his, where the tiniest of details could be a matter of life and death, there was no room for error.
Just in case, he tried once again.
Same result. The key didn’t fit.
Earlier, he had walked to a pub for an English breakfast, and, in less than an hour, someone had changed the locks. He knew that even if he cut through the dead bolt, the biometrics and the code to the steel door would be altered as well.
Two doors down, a white-haired man in a suit approached a neighboring townhome, casting a sidelong glance at Omer, no doubt wondering why he was fiddling with a lock in such a posh neighborhood.
A chill worked its way down Omer’s spine, all the way to the tips of his toes and fingers, followed by a flash of rage.
All these years of loyal service . . . of doing whatever it takes for the cause . . . They can’t just cut me off! I’ve given them everything!
Yet he knew the penalty for failure. The target was not even a high-level operative or a clever scientist from the Society, someone who might know to take evasive measures.
She was a novice. A nobody.
The first time, though he still blamed himself, could have happened to anyone. No one would have expected a graduate student to run for miles at a high pace through the woods, navigating a maze of trails in the dark of night.
And the second time—it was a complete surprise to find her on the street walking right toward him, long before she was expected. Someone had fed him false information. And the target had proved her resourcefulness once again by escaping through the streets of London with very little head start. Yes, his hands were tied by the protocol—he could easily have killed her—and luck favored the bold, and his associates had been a step too slow, and she had disappeared like a ghost that night, and she was Dr. Corwin’s protégé, and Omer suspected she was getting help from the Society.
But all of those things were excuses—none of which mattered to those above him.
Elotisum. The Archon had issued an edict, and Omer had failed to carry it out. It was as simple as that.
And they had banished him for it.
He would never receive another edict, never meet with another disciple, never attend another veiled meeting in a sanctum sanctorum.
A sentence of execution was reserved for traitors. Omer did not fear for his life, yet he knew that among many cultures, banishment was considered a fate worse than death. Until this moment, this was something he had never understood. Could one not simply start a new life elsewhere, even if on a different continent? Find a new family, learn a new trade, join a new cause?
Yet in a flash, in the simple failure of a piece of cut metal to engage the cylinder of a lock, an act that had destroyed his life’s ambition, he understood the sheer horror of exile.
He had given up his career, his family, his entire old life in his quest to join the Ascendants. The knowledge, the secrets, the power . . . With a snarl, Omer jerked on the doorknob and then walked away in a daze, shuffling down the sidewalk of the quiet street, his rage persisting but subsumed by a disappointment so visceral it felt as if an actual weight pressed down on his back, shoving him toward the ground to crawl like a worm, whispering to him to put his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger so the feeling would go away.
Once, as a teenager, Omer’s heart had been broken by a beautiful Swiss girl with eyes of sapphire and hair like spun gold. Her rejection was the closest thing to what he now felt. Except even as a young man, he had known that once the pain subsided, plenty of women existed for him to desire. That even love, while a powerful thing, was not unique to one person.
The Ascendants were different. There was no group on Earth like them. A steel curtain would stand between him and reality, and he would know that everything he could discover on his own was a lie at worst, and at best a shot of whiskey diluted with a bucket of ice water.
He clenched his fists as he hurried down the street. Omer was not a person who let things happen to him in life. He was a lion, not a gazelle. Yet forcing his way into the Ascendants was not an option. This they would never allow.
Even so, as long as he could draw a breath, he could still prove his worth. He could still make them see.
They would send someone else to find her, a team this time. Yet if Omer could reach her before they did . . .
Yes, he decided. He would find the girl first, take out anyone who stood in his way, and drag her by the hair to his own safe house. Then he would cut a deal and demand he be reinstated before turning over the target to the Archon. He knew enough about them to know they would understand the motive behind his actions. Not just understand: they would approve.
By whatever means necessary, Omer would claw his way back inside.
The first call he made was to Juma. A Saudi national, she was a former intelligence operative like himself, also recruited away. Sworn enemies in their past lives, they shared a common goal of joining the Ascendants, and had become lovers. They even had burner phones to be used only for each other, in case they wanted to rendezvous without anyone knowing.
Juma answered on the first ring. He heard the tension in her voice at once, glad she had not tried to hide it. “Omer. Where are you?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I’m so very sorry,” she said quietly.
“So you’ve heard.”
“Your name is already in circulation as a cautionary tale.”
Bitterness flooded his voice. “Is that so?”
“I’ve been told not to consort with you.”
“And will you heed that order?”
When she responded, her voice was almost a whisper. “Wouldn’t you?”
He hesitated. “I suppose so.”
“I will miss you. I want you to know that.”
“Do you know who replaced me?”
“I don’t.”
“It isn’t you?”
“No,” she said without pause. Her relief was evident, and he believed her.
Though he also knew Juma was an expert liar.
He said, “Have they found her yet?”
“Would you really ask that of me?”
“It’s all I need to know. A simple yes or no.”
A touch of cold crept into her voice. “No.”
“Thank you.”
“Goodbye, Omer. I wish you well. I’m sorry that . . . things cannot be otherwise.”
“Don’t be so sure,” he said softly, right before he hung up.
He wasn’t sure how far to trust her—as she implied, had the roles been reversed, he would not have helped her either. But he had gotten what he wanted. Why lie if the target had already been found? It suited no purpose he could envision.
After a deep breath that helped expunge his lingering desire for Juma, as well as ignite the flames of his new mission, he pondered the situation. The girl had arrived in London on her own passport, making it easy for them to track her. He did not think she would do so again. Not after finding Professor Rickman murdered in his flat, and being chased through the city.
He wondered for the thousandth time how much she knew. What was the connection between her and Dr. Corwin? It had to be more than a simple professor-and-student relationship, no matter how bright she was. There was too much at stake. Was she a lover, despite the age difference? Or already an initiate?
He would have guessed the latter, except why remain in the open? Why take the risks she was taking? None of it made sense, unless she was operating on her own.
Which meant she was vulnerable, and he had a very small window before whoever had replaced him tracked her down.
Where would she go? Would she run or hide? Leave the country, return to the United States, go farther abroad?
Using a low-dosage amphetamine, Omer stayed awake the rest of the night and all through the next day attempting to answer
those questions. He would no longer receive the benefit of the organization’s network of information technology and human intelligence. He would not have access to CCTV networks and high-ranking public officials.
That was fine. He had his own network and methods, cultivated over a lifetime of clandestine work.
Most amateurs in similar situations would try to get as far away from danger as they could, as fast as possible. Most—if they had the means—would obtain a false passport and go to a different country.
Add to that the nature of his quarry. Along with visiting the museum, Andie had made contact with Professor Rickman. Was she trying to offload the device? Seek his counsel? Or was something else going on, to which Omer was not privy? He sensed a greater game being played.
All of these factors pointed to a high probability that London was a stopover. He had to act fast, and decided to hang his hat on her seeking a false passport. If that didn’t pan out, he could reconfigure.
Due to the influx of migrants, the number of false passports had risen steeply in western Europe in recent years. Hundreds of illegal-passport vendors existed in London alone. Even with help, it could take him weeks to interrogate them all.
Yet Omer saw one great advantage to the situation. He did not have to concern himself with the forgeries and “look-alike” stolen passports that served the migrant population and the criminal underworld. How many false credentials were procured by a single white woman on a weekly basis in the city? Not counting sex-trafficking documents, which would of course still be requested by men?
His guess was not very many at all.
Most weeks, he might even say only one.
Using his network of underground resources, each in turn with their connections, a pyramid of black-market information that stretched to the gutters of the city, Omer spent the night compiling a list of known passport forgers. Once he had the names of the major players, he made phone calls and in-person visits, asking on the sly about a young American woman seeking to leave the country.
Forty-eight hours since he had lost her. After interviewing a dozen vendors in Central London, he moved to the East End and the boroughs of Hackney, Tower Hamlets, and Newham. While gentrification had given rise to boutique markets and hip cafés, it had also provided a bounty of easy marks, and the local criminals were still entrenched.
Omer dressed down for the hunt: ripped jeans and a black hoodie, a wool cap pulled low. His next destination was a small-time gangster who ran his operation out of a hair-and-nail salon in a pedestrian shopping mall. Puck, the transplant from Brixton who owned the place, specialized in pimping and human trafficking, of which passports were a natural accessory.
After exiting Dalston Kingsland station with a swarm of people, Omer made his way quickly to the mall. Though all the shops were shuttered, the street-side entrance was still open, and he walked through the empty shopping center until he reached the salon. No one else was in sight. It took a prolonged bout of buzzer pressing before a very large man covered in jewelry and tattoos opened and closed a door in the rear of the salon, walked through the darkened interior, looked Omer up and down, and cracked the glass door.
“You got a death wish, ace?”
“Is Puck inside?” Omer asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“I have a business proposition.”
“Come by tomorrow. Salon’s closed.”
“Not that kind of business.”
“You got stuffin’ in your ears? I said tomorrow.”
As the man moved to close the door, Omer stepped forward and, quick as a heron’s strike, jabbed the stiffened fingers of his right hand into the hollow space below the man’s Adam’s apple. The man gagged and clutched his throat. Omer kicked the door open and whipped the man’s right arm around his back, shoving it up until he was standing on his toes in pain. Omer jerked a pistol out of the man’s pants, set it on a table, and pushed him forward while maintaining the shoulder lock. Unable to talk through his damaged throat or think through the pain in his arm, the man could only serve as a human shield as Omer walked into the back room and surveyed the situation, his free hand on the gun tucked into his jeans.
A man who fit the description of Puck was snorting a line of coke off the desk to Omer’s left. A topless blond woman was curled in his lap. Puck jerked to his feet, dumping the undernourished woman to the floor. “What the fook!”
As Puck reached for a desk drawer, Omer struck his captive on the temple with the butt of his gun, letting him slump unconscious to the floor.
Omer pointed the gun at the salon owner.
“Okay, man, okay,” Puck said, slowly raising his arms. “I don’t keep cash on-site.” He looked down at the coke. “Take a bump and go, and I’ll forget this ever happened. You know who I am?”
The blond woman had scuttled to the corner and stayed there, shivering in her panties and pink socks. A sad sight but not a safety concern.
“Puck?” Omer asked.
The salon owner forced a broad, confident smile as he adjusted a gold watch poking out from the sleeve of his tracksuit. “The one and only.”
“Come over here.”
“Let’s talk this—”
Omer leveled the gun at his head. “Now.”
After sniffing and wiping his nose, Puck eased out from behind the desk. “What’s your angle, cuz? The Lightey boys send you?”
“I need a simple piece of information. Have you processed a passport in the last two days for a young American woman?”
“Passport? I dunno what you’re talking about.”
With his free hand, Omer extracted a ballpoint pen from his pocket. He pressed the top, releasing a tiny blade as sharp as an X-Acto knife. “Tell me what I need, and this goes better for you. Do you understand?”
Palms out, Puck started walking slowly toward him. “Yo, man, we don’t need to go there. Just relax.”
Omer cocked the pistol. “Do you understand?”
“Sure, I understand,” Puck said meekly, lowering his head in submission just before a four-inch fixed blade slipped out of his sleeve and sprang into his hand. He ducked his head and made a diagonal lunge, off-line from the gun, forward and to the right, trying to slip his blade into Omer’s side before he could react.
Puck moved as fast as a professional athlete, strong and sure with the blade, but Omer read his intentions as clearly as if he had announced them from a podium. As Puck lunged, Omer calmly stepped to the side and sliced the underside of the wrist holding the knife, causing Puck to drop the blade as blood spewed from the vein.
Without pause, Omer pivoted, raised his leg, and kicked out the back of Puck’s legs, dropping him on his back on the linoleum floor. Omer leaned down to place a knee on the other man’s chest, pinning him down as he placed the tip of the penknife on the underside of Puck’s chin.
Omer turned to the young woman in the corner. “You should leave now.” When she failed to move, her lowered eyes glancing at Puck as if terrified to disobey him, Omer firmed his voice. “Go. Now. Out of the city. He won’t follow you, I promise. You never saw my face.”
Shivering as if it were twenty below, the woman grabbed her clothes and fled out the back door. She could identify him, but someone like her would never go to the authorities, or have any credibility if she did. Letting her go was a minor risk, but Omer was a professional, not a monster.
Moments later, another door slammed in the distance, and Omer increased the pressure of the knife under Puck’s chin. “What happens next depends on you.”
Puck grew very still except for his gaze, which roved from side to side until it rested on Omer’s missing pinky. A bead of sweat trickled down the top of the salon owner’s muscular torso. “Okay,” he whispered.
Omer lowered the blade a fraction, and Puck started speaking very fast. After Omer got the information he was seeking, he said, “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Do it.”
“You said it depends on me�
��I told you everything!”
“And so I will kill you quickly.”
“I’ll fooking look right at you.”
“So be it.” With a twist of his wrist, Omer turned the penknife horizontal and slid it deep across Puck’s jugular. As the salon owner bled out, Omer did the same to the bodyguard before locking the doors and strolling back through the shopping mall. He did not like to take human life without good cause, but if he could trace the target’s route through these men so easily, then so could the others.
On the cab ride back to Central London, Omer mulled over the situation. Obtaining the false name on the target’s passport was a huge step, but he still had work to do. He again tried to put himself in Andie’s shoes. He imagined she would want to escape the city as soon as possible, and London City was the closest airport by a long shot. Flight manifests were closely guarded by the airlines, hard even for law enforcement to obtain. The organization had ways to access them, but Omer did not—at least not on short notice.
But he saw another way. He possessed a local contact unrelated to the Society: an officer named Ian Bartelow who worked with London’s Counter Terrorism Command. Omer had collaborated with Ian on numerous occasions when Omer still worked for the Mossad. They had prevented more than one attack together, and had become friends over the years.
As far as Ian needed to know, Omer still worked for a special Israeli deep-cover unit. Ian might not grab the flight manifest for him, but he had access to CCTV and might be willing to look up some footage. Omer didn’t need to steal state secrets; he just needed to get his hands on a simple piece of information. He would let Ian believe he was helping track down a recently converted terrorist who might return to London with a bomb in her suitcase.
Now that he knew the target’s false name, Omer just needed to search for a tall and athletic American woman with short hair and intense green eyes, likely wearing a hijab, who had probably arrived at London City Airport shortly after midnight two days prior.