The Hunter

by WOOD TOM

  He went to speak, but a couple, arm in arm, walked close by. He led Sykes farther away until they were out of earshot.

  ‘They must have worked out some way to track us down; that’s why they took Seif’s computer. Think, why would they do that?’

  ‘Seif’s just an accountant. He handled the transactions to the accounts Tesseract used. He doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘There must be something,’ Ferguson prompted.

  It took him a few seconds before Sykes muttered, ‘Ah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re trying to follow the money.’

  ‘Explain,’ Ferguson demanded.

  ‘That’s the only trail there is,’ Sykes explained. He was talking quickly. ‘From one account to the next. Seif’ll have records of the transactions made. They could find out where the money came from.’

  ‘And where did the money come from?’

  ‘Olympus.’

  The already-deep lines in Ferguson’s forehead deepened. ‘I’m assuming you don’t mean the home of Zeus.’

  ‘Olympus Trading,’ Sykes corrected. ‘It’s one of the front companies we use.’

  ‘And what is it?’

  ‘It’s an import-export outfit in Cyprus. It’s just a skeleton, a couple of employees, a building, some warehouse space. The money was washed through its books on the way to Seif.’

  Ferguson absorbed the information for a few seconds. ‘What can they find out from it? Worst-case scenario.’

  ‘Worst-case scenario is they find nothing, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I know.’ Sykes almost sounded sure. ‘There’s nothing there that can lead back to us. Just account after account. Olympus must have a hundred clients and customers. It would be impossible to get anything from its books.’

  ‘Are you positive of this?’

  He nodded. ‘I set up Olympus myself. The paper trail will take them to the moon and back before it leads to us.’

  ‘Good. Then we have nothing to worry about.’

  Sykes looked far from convinced. ‘Unless they’ve worked out some way to do it that we haven’t thought of.’

  Ferguson offered no further reassurance. He began to walk away when Sykes called after him. Ferguson turned around. ‘What is it?’

  Sykes caught up with him. ‘Olympus is a dead end, but they don’t know it is, do they?’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  Ferguson had said the same thing to Sykes earlier, and Ferguson noted Sykes’s smug tone. He liked having the knowledge, the power.

  ‘No,’ Ferguson said. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘My point,’ Sykes explained with more than a little cockiness, ‘is that if they went to Seif, they’ll go there, to Olympus.’

  Ferguson nodded, understanding, impressed. ‘Very good, Mr Sykes. Very good indeed.’

  CHAPTER 58

  London, United Kingdom

  Thursday

  04:02 CET

  Reed stood next to his hotel-room window, peering into the city through the crack between wall and curtain. In the sliver of glass he could see the reflection of bare skin, limbs splayed on the sheets. The girl had her face toward the door, away from him, the golden waves of her hair spread across the pillow. The diffused light smoothed away what little imperfections she carried. Except to roll over, she hadn’t moved since he had climbed out of bed. He could see in the window the rise and fall of her chest, intermittent, not regular. Awake.

  He took a sip from his drink as he watched her. In silence they had played this game for some time, of her pretending to sleep and his pretending not to watch. Reed slowly flexed the muscles of his arms from shoulder to wrist.

  When she finally broke the silence, her voice was quiet. ‘Why are you watching me?’

  Reed took another sip from his drink. ‘Why do you allow me to watch?’

  She turned her head to look at him from over one slender shoulder. ‘Do you want to do me again?’

  And she had displayed such elegance on arrival. Reed pivoted and leaned against the wall next to the window. It was cool against his naked back.

  ‘I shall respectfully decline.’

  She laughed. ‘I just love the way you guys talk.’

  Reed found it quite derisory that his acute Englishness impressed her. She claimed to be twenty-one, but was certainly younger. An Australian. He kept his contempt to himself and acknowledged her remark with a small nod. After finishing his London assignment Reed had remained in the city while he waited for the next update. The girl helped pass the time.

  She reached for the remote and turned on the television.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  Reed shook his head once. ‘Be my guest.’

  She flicked through the channels with barely half a second’s pause on each. Her eyes were transfixed by the flashing images and constantly changing sound. He watched in quiet bewilderment of her simple pleasure.

  There was a flash of blue in the dim light that immediately grabbed his attention. Reed walked to the source and took the smartphone from where he had left it on the sideboard. He opened the email. He read the message carefully, then a second time. He would go through the attached files as soon as he had left. He started picking up his clothes from the floor.

  ‘I have to leave,’ he said.

  She pushed her small breasts together with her arms and pouted. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  To his surprise the girl looked genuinely disappointed. She sat up to better watch him dress. ‘Why?’

  ‘Work.’

  ‘But it’s late. Do you have to?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  She sighed. ‘You never told me what you do.’

  Reed’s answer was honest.

  ‘I solve problems.’

  CHAPTER 59

  Rotov, Russia

  Thursday

  17:50 MSK

  In the good old days all it took to get an operation moving was the will of a high-ranking officer. While the Soviet empire stood strong, the KGB moved fast and decisively, answering only to the very top. Things moved much slower these days, Aniskovach thought bitterly, and the power of the SVR was but a shadow of that which the KGB enjoyed. In twenty-first-century Russia, as in the SVR’s Western counterparts, layer on layer of bureaucracy strangled every command.

  The tall SVR colonel rubbed his gloved hands together while he waited for the plane to be loaded. Grim-faced soldiers took aboard rucksacks full of supplies: diving gear, weapons, salvage equipment, and explosives. The plane was an Ilyushin Il-76, a venerable workhorse of the Soviet and now Russian air force. This particular plane was owned by the SVR and used exclusively by the organization. The original military insignias were still visible through the thin layer of paint that covered them. The hammer and sickle still endured, albeit faintly.

  In his youth, Aniskovach had witnessed first-hand the last breath of Communism pushed from the lungs of his beloved nation. That system may not have worked as intended, but at least it had given his country its own ideology and a fiercely strong national identity. These days Russia was but capitalism’s poor adopted child struggling to take its first unassisted step. If Russia was a tree, it had already bathed in summer’s warmth and now was embraced by winter’s chill. Spring’s regrowth was a far off dream. Aniskovach hoped he lived long enough to see the restoration of Russia’s rightful place at the head of the world.

  He stood silently observing. There was nothing to say. The soldiers did not need his instructions. They were members of the Spetsnaz, the Russian army’s special forces, but they were all, like Aniskovach, dressed in civilian clothes. Each member of the seven-man team had been selected because of his exemplary record in both diving and demolitions. Each one was a highly trained and superbly disciplined warrior, adept at planning and logistics as well as fighting. After Aniskovach had briefed the team on the mission’s objectives, they had sele
cted their own equipment and supplies.

  The SVR had no control of the Spetsnaz, which was a regiment of the Russian army, but at times the elite soldiers were loaned out to the SVR on a per-mission basis. Any such operations were usually kept off the soldiers’ records. The GRU, the army’s own intelligence service and a fierce rival of the SVR, would often be aware of these activities, but the GRU had no knowledge of this particular mission, thanks to Prudnikov’s influence.

  Bypassing the usual channels was slowing the whole operation down considerably. Aniskovach, if it had been purely up to him, would have left for Tanzania at least twenty-four hours ago, but Prudnikov was playing it safe. He had been burned once recently and was not willing to feel the fire so soon a second time, even if Aniskovach was confident the mission would be a complete success. Securing both the services of the Spetsnaz without the knowledge of the GRU and a plane to fly the equipment had taken three whole days. It would be another day before the plane was able to fly.

  The wind blowing from the east stung Aniskovach’s face, especially his wounded cheek. The base had little protection from elements. The single strip of runway and three hangars that constituted the airport were the skeletal remains of a Soviet air force base, long abandoned by the military and now used privately. Tonight the only customers were the SVR.

  It didn’t take long before the plane was loaded. The equipment, though too much for individuals to carry, did not require a plane with a cargo capacity of forty tons to transport. Without using such a plane, however, it wouldn’t be possible to get the equipment over several international borders and to its destination.

  The plane was supposedly set to embark on a humanitarian mission, flying to Tanzania to deliver medical supplies for charities working in Rwanda to the north-west. The fact that, aside from the equipment required by Aniskovach’s team, the plane’s cargo consisted of empty crates would not matter. The appropriate officials in the Tanzanian government would be offered cash incentives for going along with the charade.

  Aniskovach and his team would travel commercially to Tanzania in two separate groups before joining up at their destination. Eight Russians travelling together would attract undue attention, especially when only three spoke languages other than their own. The first team would pick up the equipment from the plane and drive north from Tanzania’s capital, Dar es Salaam, to Tanga. Once they had rejoined as a team they would collect the equipment that would be waiting for them and hire a suitable boat. They would then take the boat and locate the Lev.

  The SVR colonel had no plans to recover all the missiles, impressive as that would be; just the guidance systems would do to provide proof of Ozols’s traitorous deception. The rest would be destroyed along with the frigate to ensure no other parties gained Russian technology. Aniskovach could then reveal the entire plot to Moscow and his role in preventing it. The stain caused by the St Petersburg blunder would be washed clean away.

  With a gloved finger Aniskovach absently stroked his damaged face. The pain was still intense at times, but he made sure no one witnessed him taking his pills or those moments where the pain got the better of his will. It was bad enough to be disfigured without appearing weak as well.

  A stocky Spetsnaz corporal approached him.

  ‘The equipment has been loaded and secured, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  The corporal stepped back and rejoined his colleagues.

  Though it was unnecessary for the operation’s success that he accompany the team, Aniskovach would nevertheless take direct command. He had absolute faith in the abilities of the Spetsnaz, but it would look better to the powers that be if he was there personally.

  The plane would arrive in Tanzania in the early hours of Saturday and the supplies should reach Tanga by midday. It wouldn’t take long to locate the sunken frigate or to complete the recovery and blow up the Lev.

  Facial movements hurt him severely, so Aniskovach didn’t look anywhere near as pleased as he felt. Within a few short days he knew his honour would be restored.

  CHAPTER 60

  Nicosia, Cyprus

  Thursday

  15:49 CET

  After the chill of London and Amsterdam, the warmth of Cyprus was a welcome change. Even in November the temperature hovered in the seventies. The flight from Amsterdam to Larnaca International Airport had been pleasant enough and had taken just over four hours. Rebecca had arrived only a little fatigued.

  She was amazed she didn’t feel worse. The last ten days had been the most stressful of her life, and they weren’t getting easier. She had teamed up with a ruthless contract killer in an attempt to eliminate the people trying to kill her, people who just so happened to be not only her employers but also a rogue element inside the CIA. Six months ago it would have been unreal, ridiculous even, but it was all too real. She had never felt so anxious, so scared.

  Tesseract, or whatever the hell his name really was, was almost unreadable. If he had any concerns about what they were doing he didn’t let it show. He was completely self-confident, and his utter calm helped control her nerves. If she could keep doing her part, she was sure he could do his. But even if they did pull this off, what was she going to do then? Rebecca had spent the last seven years working as an intelligence analyst for the CIA before she had been pulled out of service for this nightmare of an operation. In the remote chance that she didn’t get prosecuted for her role in a highly illegal op, she would never be given her old job back. No one would trust her again. She wouldn’t blame them either.

  She tried not to think about it too much. There were more immediate concerns to overcome before she considered her career. Like staying alive.

  They had travelled separately. He’d told her before they’d left Amsterdam there was a chance their enemies would be looking for both of them, assuming they were together, so it was safer to fly on their own. She wasn’t sure she believed him; after all, they’d travelled to London together and then to Amsterdam together and had stayed in the same hotels both times. She assumed he wanted to be on his own but didn’t say anything. The one thing Rebecca could read in him was that she made him uncomfortable. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

  The hotel where they were staying was located in the southern Greek half of the city. So was their destination. The sun-faded sign that announced Olympus Trading in both Greek and English was mounted on an innocuous warehouse, whitewashed, though looking anything but. Grime caked the windows, the paint on the shutters flaked.

  He adjusted his sunglasses. ‘Very classy.’

  They stood in a side street in a poor neighbourhood in the south-east of the city. The district was out of the way of the main tourist areas, full of warehouses and small shops; market stalls seemed to be everywhere.

  Only a few white clouds floated through the deep blue sky above. She could tell her companion didn’t like the heat. She imagined that he did most of his sleeping in the day; seeing the world under the cover of darkness had given him pale skin that was already starting to burn, and from the way he breathed she could tell he had a low tolerance for high temperatures. He’d covered his face, neck, and exposed arms in sunscreen but, even still, he wasn’t comfortable out of the shade.

  Conversely, Rebecca relished it. Her skin was brown already, and she had put the sunscreen straight down when he had handed her the bottle. She had some flesh on display, bare legs protruding from her skirt, naked arms and stomach, but on his request she’d wrapped a shawl around her to cover the cleavage on display from the bikini top. It would draw too much attention, he’d told her. She’d given him a look in return that he quickly shied away from. She grinned briefly.

  In this part of the city there were mostly locals, market stalls selling fruit or fish. Farther down the street a drunk sat propped against a wall sipping from a bottle of rum while a tourist examined peaches at a trader’s stall. A skinny kid pushed a wheelbarrow full of old newspaper past an old man with a thick beard who grilled prawns on a rusty
barbecue.

  A wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses provided her with a basic disguise, one that would work against a cursory glance but nothing more. She’d cut her hair shorter and bleached it too, on his instructions. Being a bottle blonde definitely didn’t suit her complexion, but even Rebecca didn’t recognize herself in the mirror any more.

  ‘You think it’s deserted?’ he asked and took a bite from his vanilla ice cream. He’d asked for a double-sized one from the vendor.

  Rebecca stood next to him. She had a guidebook in her hand and tilted her head forward as if reading it.

  ‘Olympus is more than just a paper trail, it’s a working front, so there are people in there. Probably only a handful of employees by the looks of it. I doubt any will know who they really work for.’

  Rebecca moved her free index finger down the page as if she were searching for information.

  ‘That’s a nice touch, by the way,’ he said.

  She kept her eyes on the page. ‘I’m a fast learner.’

  He had to be quick to prevent half his ice cream from collapsing. ‘Do you really think we’ll find anything there?’

  ‘Don’t talk with food in your mouth.’ She turned over a page in the book. ‘We don’t know until we look.’

  He walked away down the street a few steps, held his hand out as if pointing. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back tonight after I’ve picked up some things.’

  Their hotel was only a half-hour walk away. They left the way they had come, negotiating the maze of side streets at a leisurely pace. Rebecca took his hand in hers as they walked and felt the tension in his touch, but she didn’t let go, and together they looked like any other couple enjoying some winter sun.