by WOOD TOM
It seemed a very long time since Sykes had come back from Tanzania with his hat in his hands. A simple operation had turned into a huge mess, even Ferguson had to admit that, but it was over now. So he wouldn’t get rich, not yet anyway. There was still enough time for one last scheme before he retired. He had managed to prevent his country from getting their fat undeserving hands on Oniks missiles at the very least. It wasn’t much, but it was some small revenge for the way he had been ignored and unappreciated. Ferguson would let things settle down before he considered his next move.
Sykes, lucky SOB that he was, had somehow managed to avoid being murdered by Reed but thankfully had no idea he had ever been a target. Reed had dropped off the grid, and the only explanation for his disappearance was that he had been killed, incredible as that may be. Ferguson had no way of finding out more about events in Tanzania without raising suspicions.
Ferguson knew that he was in the clear, though. Alvarez was no longer hunting for clues, and Procter and Chambers had more pressing issues to deal with. So long as Ferguson kept his head down, he was safe.
Sykes still needed to be removed. The metrosexual wimp just didn’t have the wits or the stomach for this kind of work, and he was now nothing more than a walking liability. He was the final link between the failed operation and Ferguson and couldn’t be allowed to stay alive. Ferguson would have to find someone else to do the job now that Reed was dead. He would even do it himself if he had to. He would probably enjoy it.
The veteran CIA officer turned the page of his paper and took a sip from the whisky, savouring the taste in his mouth before swallowing. He put the glass back down and frowned, noticing that he was chilly. Blasted open window.
He tried to ignore it, but by the time he’d turned the next page he acted. Ferguson threw back the duvet and marched across his spacious bedroom and into the adjoining annex. Huffing in annoyance, he slammed the window shut, trying to remember when he had opened it in the first place. He prayed to the god he had never believed in that his mind wasn’t going.
Back in bed, he finished off the Scotch and dropped his newspaper on the floor. He settled himself into his usual sleeping position and flicked off the lamp. He searched with his cheek for a smooth area of the pillow. Ferguson sighed, contented.
Cool metal pushed against his temple an instant later.
He gasped.
A man spoke to him from the darkness. It was the last voice he ever heard.
‘It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I could not have written this book without the help of many people. First and foremost I would like to thank my brother Michael for his relentless enthusiasm, consistently excellent advice, and keen-eyed editing. The Hunter would have been a far lesser tale without his input.
Thank you to my editor Daniel Mallory and all the people at Little, Brown for doing such a wonderful job. They are: Hannah Clark, Andy Coles, Frances Doyle, Sean Garrehy, Hannah Hargrave, Liz Hatherell, Thalia Proctor, Sara Talbot, Tom Webster, and Mel Winder.
I am indebted to my friends and family for their innumerable helpful comments and suggestions, in particular, to the lovely Emmalene Knowles and classy Mag Leahy for astute observations and unexpected praise. Chris Wright, Adam Bradley, Richard Graham, and Dave Thomas all deserve recognition for heroically suffering through my woeful first attempt and for being more kind than critical. Thanks also to Paul Mathews for ensuring I avoided the ultimate villain faux pas, Simon Akrigg for helping me get past a very difficult first page and Caroline Calvert Hurst for her excellent translating.
Finally, I would like to thank my agent, Philip Patterson, for his belief, counsel, and insight.
