Instead, he had met Harry's girlfriend for the first time, he had become the best man at their wedding. And then, he had lived to see Harry die.
12:16:53
The white soapy suds rinsed down Smith's body and clung to his bare feet before slipping away. He took his time showering. The old man will be waiting for me, but he can wait a few minutes longer.
Meeting here, in this manner, was not unusual for the wily old man. It afforded his security team an easily defended, easily controlled environment, and the shower and spa made it virtually impossible for electronic surveillance. The old man was clever.
Smith padded to the far end of the shower stall, his lithe movements silent throughout the tiled space. Still naked, he reached the entryway to the exclusive spa room. Two armed men met him at the door. One man stood four feet away, his hand resting easily on the grip of the Beretta holstered under his jacket. The other guard stepped forward and offered Smith a towel.
They didn't bother to frisk him. Once he'd wrapped the towel around his waist, they stepped aside.
The air was thick with chlorine-scented steam that felt so heavy, it was noticeably harder to breath. The suffocating humidity and the bubbling and gurgling of the spa seemed to dominate all other senses.
A waft of fresh air peeled a mushroom cloud of visibility through the haze as he closed the door behind him. To his right, the old man's silhouette appeared from under the rising mist of the hot spa. The dim water lights cast a hundred shadows, and hid a thousand more. Smith looked around the room curiously as he carefully navigated his way to the spa. There could have been other security men concealed in the hidden corners of the room, but knowing the old man's penchant for trusting no one, and the nature of this meeting, he doubted it.
Smith dropped the towel and stepped into the hot tub. The water was hotter than he expected. Another of the old man's mind games, he was sure. He settled into bubbly, frothy lava, showing no noticeable discomfort. Without a greeting, the old man wasted no time in getting to the crux of the meeting.
"What can you tell me?" he asked.
"The girl poking around into 'Kismet' was Shirin Reyes, as we suspected. Zelig is also now aware of that. Zelig assigned agents to apprehend her, but she escaped. In the latest attempt, she managed to abduct the team leader, Trent Barratt, although I suspect they are working together now. We have lost their trail. Zelig has issued warrants and alerted all other agencies, trying to find them."
"And your assessment?"
"I believe they will continue to investigate. By now, they must realize Zelig is after them. Barratt is a hothead, and Reyes is dangerous. It would be reasonable to believe that at some point they will go after Zelig."
"And what of Civic and his files?"
"Shirin Reyes seduced him, copied a portion of, or all of his files. It is impossible to be certain at this time. Zelig does not know about the secret files. He had me strip the apartment and question Civic, but as you instructed, he remains unaware of them."
"Good. Very good," the old man muttered.
"My instructions? When do I find them?"
"Do nothing," the old man said quickly. More slowly, he continued, "I want you to keep them in play. Having Zelig's attention focused on them is good for us."
Smith did not ask for clarification or explanation. If the old man wanted him to know, he would be told. He suspected something else was going on, that the old man had a larger plan in motion, and that soon, he would be invited to play a more instrumental part.
The two men sat without speaking for a minute. The old man seemed lost in thought. Suddenly, almost catching Smith off guard, he asked, "Does Zelig trust you?"
"Only with the tasks he assigns me."
"To be expected. Zelig is up to something. We don't know what it is yet, but given the secrecy surrounding his activities lately, it must be something substantial." The old man paused again, moved in closer to Smith and continued, "Without compromising yourself or your cover, find out what he's up to."
"Yes, sir. Bill Civic, and the files?"
"Get rid of them."
chapter 3
"THERE IS MORE TO A RAGING BULL THAN ITS HORNS."
the book of seekay
12:23:17
For Shirin, public transport had its advantages. It gave her freedom to travel, to leave a low traceable footprint, and provided many avenues for detecting and evading would-be pursuers.
The large man sitting beside her on the crowded bus shifted his enormous weight, sending flakes of dead skin and body odor wafting toward her. Public transport also had its drawbacks.
Shirin got off the bus at the next stop and joined the queue of people waiting to enter the third bus on her journey.
Watching the people standing drone-like in and around the waiting bay, she wondered if any of them really knew what it felt like to be hunted, to be the hunter, to truly understand fear, or to be the perpetrator of it.
How wonderful such ignorance must be; to be blissfully unaware of the forces working behind the scenes, to impose the will of the few onto the lives of the many.
Entering the air-conditioned bus, she chose an empty row of seats at the rear, near the aisle, and instinctively watched as each passenger boarded and disembarked.
She was alone.
Several stops later, she took a taxi five blocks east, then another bus, then walked two blocks to a large unit complex overlooking parkland.
At the entrance, a security camera and buzzer glared at her over a numerical keypad. She punched in the numbers for unit 86 and heard the intercom ringing before the familiar voice sleepily answered.
"It's me," she said into the intercom.
"Come on up," he said, his voice deep and croaky.
The security door clicked loudly; she pushed it open and made her way up the stairs. She wasn't sure why she came here. She could have called from a secure location. Instead, she had come.
Ben Mills was a good man. He worked as a casual nurse when and wherever he could get the shifts. He had no idea who she really was, what she had done, and definitely not what she was capable of.
As far as he knew, her name was Katie and she was an employment agent for the über successful. It explained her demanding clients, her unplanned absences, hushed phone calls, and constant secrecy. The less he knew of her real life, the better.
For the moment, she needed time to think, time to slow down, time to let her mind absorb what had happened, and time to plan her next step.
When she was with Ben, her mind seemed to de-clutter, the big picture seemed clearer. And when she was with him, the sadness in her heart didn't hurt quite so much. Maybe that was why she kept coming back.
12:51:22
Ben met her at the door. His light brown hair was mussed, and he was still rubbing away the signs of a restless sleep. He looked at her. She looked beautiful, as always. "Hey, Katie, everything okay? I didn't know we were catching up today…"
"I'm good," Shirin replied. "On my way to the city and thought I'd pop in." She walked past him and watched him lock the door behind them. "Did I wake you?"
"Just a little… Damn night shifts are killing me!"
"How about I brew some strong coffee, and you jump into the shower? It'll be ready when you get out." Shirin walked with ease into his kitchen and got to work setting up the percolator.
There was a time Ben when might have been put off by her breezing in and out of his life without any notice, or the way she seemed to know where all his things were, and when he'd be home… He smiled, thinking about it; he actually liked it. And he found himself missing her when she was not around.
He'd wanted many times to talk more about their relationship, to somehow define it, but he got the sense she wasn't ready. And so he didn't push it.
He watched her now, measuring the coffee grounds and depositing them into the filter tray. He smiled again. He really liked the way her brows furrowed slightly and her eyes grew electric when she focused on something.
She was cute, and sexy, and never boring. And then there were times when her guard was down, and he could sense a deep sadness in her, like part of her was broken or missing.
He couldn't figure her out, and a big part of him really wanted to. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to be the one she opened up to, the one she shared her joys and her sorrows with. He wanted to be the one she would fall in love with. And while it seemed too far off into the distance to wait for her, he knew he would.
He walked over to her as she packed away the ground coffee beans, gave her a quick hug, kissed her cheek."Give me a minute, and join me in the shower if you like. You left a change of clothes last time you were here. I cleaned them and put them in the closet."
He didn't wait for her reply, didn't want to put any pressure on her, but hoped very much that she would accept his offer. Without looking back, he headed to the shower.
12:57:31
Working through the photographs, Barratt fidgeted in the chair. The energy rising in his body made it difficult to sit still. In several of the surveillance photos, one face jumped out at him. A face he recognized.
William Dornan. He was never the target of the photograph, but he was captured in six of them so far. The most compelling discovery was that his image appeared with or near four different targets in different locations on different days. He was the common thread.
Excited, Barratt moved through the remaining photos faster, knowing what face he was looking for. Hoping his suspicions would continue to be justified. He reached the end of the pile and found Dornan's image in two more photos. He looked older than Barratt remembered, and thinner, too.
Barratt had met Dornan in Venice, Italy. Like Barratt at the time, Dornan was involved with private security work. But while Barratt specialized in eliminating threats, Dornan was involved in protecting and evacuating them. They were, in effect, each other's opposites.
They would never have normally met "outside mission," but as it turned out, they were both in Venice in the process of being recruited by Agent Zelig. On reflection, Barratt often thought of their meeting as being orchestrated by Zelig. To what end, he had no idea.
In the business of life and death, however, knowing the competition was vital. And so, when they had seen each other across the piazza, they had recognized each other instantly.
It was the first and last time Barratt had seen him in person. He heard stories of some of his successes and saw him in surveillance footage a number of times, but what he had been doing the last few years was relatively unknown to Barratt.
Barratt put down the photos He had to think of a way to find him.
It didn't make sense to him. These men Shirin hunted were directly responsible for or somehow involved in Harry's death. What was an Agency bodyguard doing with them?
Guessing and double-guessing only fueled his frustration. He had to find Dornan. Then he would get some answers.
12:59:03
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled Ben's apartment with a warm and relaxing ambiance that somehow seemed to smooth out the rough, wild edges of Shirin's psyche. She took in a deep breath through her nose and closed her eyes.
The smells, the sounds, the peace aroused in her a feeling of calm, a feeling of comfort. She wasn't sure she liked it.
In the distance, she could hear the shower running and Ben singing something resembling a Stevie Wonder song. She couldn't help but smile. Ben was not like other men she had spent time with.
He was kind and patient and had a deep, disarming confidence that was usually the hallmark of a much older and wiser man. And then, sometimes, at the most unexpected times, he was like a little boy, blindly loyal and excited by the simplest things.
Shirin felt she knew him inside and out. But what she felt for him remained unexplored.
They had met on a bus during an unusually wet autumn. He had been on his way home from a night shift; she had been leaving a crime scene. That had been over one and a half years ago.
Shirin's burner phone vibrated in her pocket, snapping her to attention. It could only be Barratt. Checking the phone, she saw his text message. He found a lead.
She had to get back.
Shirin picked a towel from Ben's collection in the linen closet and walked into the bathroom. He looked at her hopefully through the shower screen for a moment before understanding the look on her face.
Turning off the water, dripping and naked, he stepped out of the shower and stood before her…close to her. The steam and moisture seemed to reach out and lick at her skin. Her look roamed wantonly up and down his body.
He was slightly taller than she was, well toned and athletic. Years of rock climbing had built his body into a defined and powerful amalgamation of sinewy muscle.
Shirin caught herself and snapped her mind free of the sudden desire to lose herself in the moment. Lifting the towel, she gestured for him to take it.
There was a time to fight and there was a time to forget; there was a time to feel pain and a time to deliver it. Shaking off the warmth and comfort Ben offered her, now was the time for her to get back to work. Time for her to deliver pain to those who killed her husband, and to those who were now hunting her. Time for her to be the brutal and relentless killer her reputation spoke of.
Ben watched as the softness seemed to clear from her eyes, replaced instantly by a hard and detached focus he tried desperately to understand. While he clearly looked disappointed, he did well hiding it.
"That's okay," he said, taking the towel. Almost casually, he asked, "Do you want to talk about what's really going on?"
His honesty often caught her off guard. It was a character trait she felt ill equipped to manage at times. It fought against the very nature of her training, her life, and her survival. Yet she found herself liking, even relaxing in his genuine aura.
"I'm in trouble, Ben," she said truthfully. Her comment hung in the air for a stalled heartbeat, then she quickly added, "Financial trouble."
Ben stopped drying himself off and watched her carefully as she continued. "I remember you telling me about your sister's financial troubles, with her divorce…and was hoping you could put me in touch with that forensic accountant she used?"
"Is that it?" he asked, noticeably relieved as he took a deep breath and expelled it before continuing, "I thought it was something scary."
He leaned forward and kissed the corner of her mouth. Then, wrapping the damp towel around his waist, he walked to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. Peering over his mug, he said, "You didn't have to come all this way just to ask me that. You could have called."
"I know," she said.
13:09:51
Walking briskly away from Ben's apartment complex, Shirin disconnected the call on her cell phone and picked up her pace to a fast jog.
Ben had called his sister, Shirin had gotten the number of the accountant, she had thanked Ben, agreed to dinner on the weekend―if she was still alive―and left.
She speed dialed Barratt's burner phone.
He answered within two rings.
"What have you got?" she asked without breaking stride.
"I recognized one of the men in the photos. He used to work for the Agency, in protection. What he's doing now, or how he's involved, is anyone's guess. I reached out to an old friend who may be able to set up a meet with him. Just waiting for him to call me back."
Shirin rounded the next corner, crossed the road, and hailed a cab with her free hand. While she waited, she continued, "Just got off the phone with the forensic accountant. On my way to meet him now. I'll text you his details. Go to my computer. Do you remember the day Harry asked me to marry him? The song he played on his phone?"
"Yes."
"That's the password. First letter of each word in lower case, the rest in uppercase, no spaces. Access my databases and check out the accountant. I'll be at the meet in twenty minutes. If you find anything, get me what you can by then."
Getting into the back seat o
f the cab, preparing herself for the meeting ahead, Shirin placed her backpack beside her, felt the weight of the gun hidden inside it, and wondered with a detached curiosity if she would need to use it.
13:17:04
Minister Jordan clung to the doorframe of the toilet stall. She felt dizzy, disorientated. As though plucked from the earth and thrown into a rotating chasm of reversing gravity.
She had tried desperately for the past two hours to get a grip on her life, so quickly spiraling out of control. The calls to her husband went unanswered, and while she grasped at the thinnest of hopes that the photos of her husband in the arms of another man were somehow fake, the reality of his betrayal squeezed its tentacles around her heart tighter and tighter.
She had no tears left, yet still she cried. There had been no warning signs she could see, no troubles in their relationship that she could recognize. How this could happen, why this would happen, dumbfounded her.
Once Zelig left her, she regained some composure and examined each photo over and over, looking for some indication of being doctored or altered. But reluctantly, she steeled herself for the truth that there were too many photos showing the same details for them all to be fake.
Another round of nausea fought for control of her balance; she stumbled into the empty toilet stall and dropped heavily onto the lidded bowl.
Bent over her legs, she sobbed loudly. Slowly the realization of Zelig's motives became clearer in her mind. The repercussions of his veiled threat and subtle blackmail fell before her like dominos.
If those photos were to ever find the light of day, her husband's life and, by extension, her life would cease to exist in any way palatable to her. She could see in her mind the scandal unfolding: her husband of thirty-four years being arrested for statutory rape, the inevitable media storm casting permanent shadows over her judgment and credibility, perhaps alluding to prior knowledge. Knowing Zelig as she did, he had probably already fabricated evidence implicating her awareness, and possibly even her participation. The fortress that was her professional achievement would come tumbling down in a matter of weeks, if not days.
Against the Clock Page 6