The First Order

by Jeff Abbott

  He shut the door and the room stayed dark; Shaw hadn’t put on a light. He stayed a good fifteen feet away. The front door opened up onto a living area, with a dining room next to it, and a kitchen beyond.

  “You wanted to talk? Let’s talk.”

  “Let’s go in the kitchen.” Shaw gestured Judge toward the hallway. Judge walked toward him.

  Two other men jumped him, coming from the left, from the dining room entryway. Let’s dance, he thought. It was nearly a relief to know this was a shakedown. But both coming at him at once, through a narrow passage, was a bad tactic because one was, for the barest of moments, trapped behind the other.

  The first man hit him high, trying to knock him to the ground, the second reaching for his arm, to seize him before he could draw a weapon, ordering him to stand down.

  The polonium-210 was in Judge’s jacket pocket, and if the bottle broke—and was breathed in or swallowed—it would kill him and them. Even a tiny amount, breathed in, would eventually kill in days or weeks. They’d commit their own murders, beating him into submission. He hated the idea of dying stupidly. And these idiots, out of greed, keeping him from twenty million.

  A rage, a fear he hadn’t felt since he’d faced Anton with the knife in the village of ghosts, clawed at his brain. The men gathered around him, screaming, wagering, the Russians laughing at him. Fight, aid boy! Sure that he would be dead in less than a minute. Their expressions had changed when he’d stabbed the Russian and then grabbed the gun. Show us how you can fight! OK. He’d emptied the gun into the Russian and then the wall. Walked past the silent men and given Sergei the Makarov, with a glare of defiance.

  The red eye in his mind opened, bright and staring in a way it hadn’t since those bastards in Burundi had stolen Sam from him.

  He slammed his head into one man’s nose. The man staggered back, his grip loosening, and Judge wrenched his own hand free. He clawed his fingers into the second man’s face, aiming and gouging at his eyes. The second man screamed and writhed and fell back, bleeding. No mercy, Judge thought. He couldn’t afford it. They would all be dead if they broke or opened the vial, and if he lost they’d search his pockets. Who knew where they’d take the poison, or if they’d leave it on his body for an innocent cop or crime-scene tech to deal with. They’d been dead men the minute they decided to strike at him while he carried the polonium. People had to live and die by their choices. He had.

  He drew his Beretta, silencer capped, from a holster underneath his jacket. He’d gone to his cache before coming to the house and had retrieved both weapon and cash. He fired once into the knee of the man he’d gouged. The man screamed and fell, one hand gripping his ruined kneecap, the other his blinded eyes. The man with the broken nose slammed into him, tackling him to the floor. Judge landed heavily, felt something break in his pocket, and thought, That’s it, we’re done. Done. Killed by a loser, not even someone I could respect. He tried not to breathe in, in a hopeless gesture of survival.

  The rage brightened the red eye. He managed to pinch the man’s carotid artery and the man howled and then gasped. Then he went unconscious, and Judge could hear the feet of someone running on the hardwood floor. Shaw, who had hung back like a coward, fleeing now that the attack had gone wrong.

  Judge saw him in the shadows, and he fired once as the geek reached the front door. He hit a backpack that Shaw wore over one shoulder; Shaw staggered and collapsed to one knee, still scrabbling at the door. Judge ran toward him. That little bastard—he’d feed him what was left of the polonium, make him lick the broken glass. Then they’d die here together, by the bullets, and he’d leave a note on the door, warning of the dangers. Maybe the authorities would burn the house to the ground.

  For a moment he thought of his parents, and what they would think if they knew he had died this way and not in the mountains, and then the red eye opened wider in his head. He pulled Shaw back from the door before he could fumble it open. Outside he heard the Cuban music, the fireworks, the scream of laughing children. Shaw twisted the other way, stumbling down the hallway toward the bedroom, and even in the dim light Judge could get a read on him and he fired. He caught the man in the shoulder and Shaw collapsed, sobbing, scared.

  Judge stood over Shaw and braced himself. Hand into pocket. He found the vial.

  It was whole. Unbroken. But in his same pocket he found a gel pen, snapped, the black liquid oozing from the cracks. He stared, then smiled, and then laughed for ten seconds, and then his calm face settled back on, the red eye closed, and he grabbed Shaw between the shoulders and dragged him, blood and all, back to where the other two men lay.

  “Who are these guys?” he asked.

  “Friends of mine. I owe them some money…I told them you could double what I owe them, so they came along…I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “What, loan sharks?” The pettiness of it made him shake his head.

  “Yes. Albanians. I played the races a lot this year at Flagler, at Gulfstream Park…I needed money.” His voice shook. “I can’t believe you shot me…”

  Weaknesses were so…weak. “So they can’t tell me anything I need to know.”

  “They just want money from you…Look, I’m sorry, just get me to a doctor…”

  Judge shot the two thugs in the head. The hiss of the silencer reduced Shaw to sobbing incoherence. Judge searched the small backpack Shaw had dropped and found a laptop in it. His bullet had missed it. “Have you activated my Robert Clayton passport in the consular database?”

  “No…that was how we’d make you pay.”

  “Do it. Now.” He opened the laptop, pushed it to Shaw. “Now.”

  Shaw managed to type out commands, mouse around the screen, run a program. The computer activity seemed to calm him. “There. It’s updated. It’s all good. You are Robert Thomas Clayton, according to the US passport office. We’re cool. We’re cool.”

  “Yes, we’re cool.”

  “So…how am I going to explain this gunshot wound, man? I need to get to a—”

  Judge shot him. Once, in the temple.

  He stood there for a few seconds and the red eye closed. He checked the polonium vial again to reassure himself he was still alive. Then he put the bodies in the garage. He cleaned the floor. He would have to get rid of them tomorrow. Robert Clayton owned a nice fishing boat at a nearby marina. He changed clothes, put on a tropical print shirt he found in the closet that Shaw had stocked last year, and then he went out to the neighborhood party to enjoy the noise and to practice being Robert Clayton for a while.

  26

  Manhattan

  MILA CLUTCHED THE Audi key loaded with the data that could lead to Danny Capra, and thought, Maybe this is good enough. Give it to Charity and tell her to track down Danny Capra. I get my husband back and I don’t have to betray Sam.

  She could change the deal. She could free herself from being Charity’s puppet.

  Don’t kid yourself, she thought. This is still a betrayal. You’d have to vanish. No goodbye for Sam. Just leave, walk out of his life, and know that you were the one who kept him from finding his brother.

  She’d slid into a taxi after the handoff and told the driver to take her to the British consulate in Manhattan. She opened her phone and called Charity. “I want to speak to my husband.” She glanced back through the windshield.

  “What have you found?” Charity demanded. Did the woman ever sleep? If Charity had a life, it was on hold until this was over. “Your earlier tip on the Russian trafficker means nothing to us.”

  “There is a woman who works with our target,” she said. “I have her data files. I can upload them to you, but I won’t unless you let me speak with Jimmy.” She opened her backpack and pulled out a Chromebook. She plugged the key into the port.

  “Upload what you’ve found, and we’ll talk then.”

  “Or…I could destroy the data.”

  “Aunt and Uncle will be on the first plane out of Sydney and back to Moldova.”

  Enough. �
�Fly them in first class. I have what you want and I’ll use it how I see best. Perhaps I’ll send it to the Guardian; they love a good exposé of the failings of governmental agencies. Or I could be good and just bring it to the British consulate.”

  “Don’t you dare take that tone with me. You’d do well to remember you work for me.”

  “You’d better start thinking of this as a partnership,” Mila said. “Because if you can burn me, I can burn you and the whole of British intelligence. Did your people find the hidden cameras in the Oxford house?”

  “What?” Charity’s breath was sharp.

  “Based on a motion trigger, they upload images to a remote server. I have your photos, Charity, and that of your team.” That was a lie, but let Charity spend her time tearing apart the Oxford house to prove Mila wrong.

  Charity hadn’t expected Mila’s temper. “Fine. Please. Bring it to the consulate.”

  “I want to speak to Jimmy. This time without you listening. If I think for one moment you’re eavesdropping I will e-mail this data, with a complete confession of my activities with the Round Table and your picture, to the Guardian, the BBC, and to the New York Times. Are we clear?”

  “Hold on.” She heard the click of Charity’s heels, hurrying along tile. Whispered instructions to open a door—Jimmy must be under guard. Jimmy roused. “Yes?” His voice was creased with sleep.

  “How nice for you that you can sleep,” Mila said. “Listen to me. Is Charity listening?”

  “She just handed me her mobile and walked out of the room. I don’t think she can hear us.” His voice sounded small.

  She steadied her breathing. “I hold your future in my hands, darling, so I want answers. Do you understand, you lying piece of garbage?”

  “Yes.”

  She had to be careful in what she said in case someone was listening. “Your meeting in Copenhagen. How long have you known that man is alive?”

  “A few years. He worked with someone I had dealings with in Russia. I recognized him when you showed me the picture Sam found in the prison’s ruins.”

  “And you said nothing.”

  “I said nothing.”

  “What is he now?”

  “A hired killer. Trained by one of the best. And he will kill you if you get close to him. He will never let you capture him.”

  Nausea churned her guts. “They are forcing me to chase him. Because of you. Tell Charity the truth and I won’t have to go near this man.”

  “Yes you will. No matter what I say or do. To help him.” His loathing for Sam seemed like a physical force.

  “No, I’ll keep us both away from him.”

  “I tell Charity all I know, and I have nothing left. I just need to talk to someone above her. Talk to the prime minister. So run, darling. There’s money hidden, you know the places…”

  That was it, then. He would do nothing to help her or Sam, or anyone else. “And my aunt and uncle, what about them?”

  “They’ll be all right in Moldova.”

  They wouldn’t. She fought down the fury churning in her chest. “Did you lie about helping our…mutual friend?”

  A moment’s hesitation. “Yes. I would rather burn in hell than help him.”

  Cold anger surged in her chest. “You warned the person in Copenhagen about our mutual friend knowing he was still alive. The person in Copenhagen paid you to lie and mislead our mutual friend.”

  “Yes. Paid well. But I would have done it for free.”

  There, then. “You are the cruelest person I know.”

  “I suppose I am.” His voice sounded dead. “I thought it for the best for the two of us. It gave me a way to get him out of our lives.”

  She could have asked another question about Danny Capra but instead she asked: “Did you ever love me?”

  For the first time his voice broke with emotion. “Yes, love, yes. When there was a million-dollar bounty on your head, and hired killers hunting you…I saved you. I protected you. You don’t know what I risked to save you then.”

  “Because I was useful to you.”

  “No. Because I loved you. I love you.”

  “Really? Do you love yourself more?”

  He didn’t answer, but after five long seconds, she heard Jimmy knock at a door and say, “I’m done. Here’s your mobile back.”

  “Mila?” Charity.

  “Tell my…husband I am doing this, but not for him. He cannot guilt me into a decision. I am making my own choice. For my family’s sake. And for the sake of what I once felt for him. Tell him.”

  She heard Charity relay the message, precisely word for word. “He’s not saying anything,” Charity said. “Mila…”

  “The data has to be decoded,” Mila said. “Will it be enough to satisfy our deal?”

  “No!” Charity snapped. “Not until I have a client of his in hand. That satisfies the deal.”

  “I have to go.” She hung up as Charity started to yell in protest. She looked up at the cabbie, who had ignored her. The British consulate was on Third Avenue, off 52nd Street. Northeast of the bar. She moved the data off the key and onto her Chromebook. She stared at the screen. She could e-mail it to Charity; she’d been given an address. To save a husband who couldn’t be a husband to her again.

  Instead she closed the laptop and put it back in her backpack, told the driver, “New destination, please,” and gave the driver the address of The Last Minute.

  27

  Manhattan

  I BROKE IN,” Jack Ming said the next morning. “Took twelve hours, but I got inside the data.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said.

  “It wasn’t so bad. I cooked a meal for Ricki while it ran. She has both cravings and morning sickness, so I’m trying to make her comfortable.”

  “Did we hit a gold mine?”

  “No, Sam, I’m sorry. Most of the files are encrypted and I can’t break those, not yet. But I did find some unencrypted files. Bank statements and money transfer records. All for Avril Claybourne’s art business. They all look legit at first glance, but I’ll check over them all. And a couple of others, under DBA names. Doing Business As.” In case Sam wasn’t quite awake yet. “Most of it is for video equipment, insurance, gallery costs. But one of the DBA accounts pays the rent on an apartment in Brooklyn that, according to a report she wrote to her tax accountant, she makes available for visiting artists.”

  “Where?”

  Jack Ming gave him the address. Sam didn’t write it down.

  Mila puttered in the kitchen. He’d insisted on giving her the bedroom and he’d slept on the couch. His damaged back ached. But he could sense her watching, listening. She’d been in a strange mood when she returned to the bar last night. Edgy, anxious. It was unlike her.

  “Something else. There was a draft in the e-mail file. It wasn’t encoded. She must have started a reply and put it aside and forgot about it. She has several draft e-mails like that; all the rest are to her daughter who’s in a boarding school in Montreal. But this one was written in Russian.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Well, I don’t read Russian but I copied it into a translation program. It reads, ‘FIREBIRD: JUDGE ACCEPTS ASSIGNMENT FOR THE OFFERED twenty M. HE WILL BEGIN ONCE YOU TRANSFER INITIAL FUNDS. HE IS AWARE OF YOUR RULES OF CONTACT and SAYS IT WILL HAPPEN ON AMERICAN SOIL.’”

  “What job?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty M might mean twenty million normally but it can’t; no one pays a fee that big for anything. Judge, I assume, is that Philip Judge name you asked me to check on. Firebird sounds like a code name. So they might both be code names.”

  “This Judge person agreed to do a paid job of some sort for a Russian?”

  “That would be one reading.”

  “What have you found on Philip Judge?”

  “Very little. There are several dozen men with that name in the US, Canada, Australia, UK, South Africa. That’s lots of various databases to crack and information to compile and patterns to emerge. I do
n’t even know what I’m looking for, Sam.”

  “Is there a Philip Judge who travels to Russia frequently? Or spent time there in the past?”

  “I can try to narrow the search. But if this is a false name, he could easily have more than one.”

  “Did she send other e-mails to this Firebird’s address?”

  “A couple. One says, ‘I’ll ask,’ one says ‘Agreed.’ Nothing more. I couldn’t find a record of what e-mails she received. She could have been answering questions posed to her in ways other than e-mail, so there wasn’t a record of the conversation.”

  “Where did the e-mails she sent to Firebird go?”

  “The IP address of the e-mail pointed me to a particular Internet service provider. A Russian one I’ve never heard of before. It’s called Sekret, registered in Moscow.”

  “Sekret is the Russian word for secret.”

  “Well, that fits; they don’t have a public website, they don’t promote themselves, no online review of their service, and never profiled in the tech press. The first five hackers I contacted had never heard of them. I made some phone calls to friends who hack into Russian systems more than I do. One in Estonia told me Sekret is a satellite Internet service provider. So even though the e-mails landed on a land-based server, they got sucked up by a satellite and deleted from the server.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Those e-mails could have been pulled anywhere…onto a plane, a boat…”

  “So this is a dead end?”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Hey, this is me. I am the man.”

  “The man.”

  “I found one brief mention of Sekret, five years ago, when the Russian oligarchs were diversifying into technology start-ups in Russia. It specializes in maritime ISP services. It has a very small circle of clients. All Russian, all with superyachts. The company is owned by a front, owned by another front. I guarantee you there’s a wealthy Russian behind Sekret, and he’s providing Internet services for his own boat and all his buddies’ boats. Probably not wanting to trust anyone else with their digital security.”