First Casualty (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 4)

by Andy Maslen

  Keeping very still on his bar stool, Gabriel identified the pistol: a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. Chambered for .40 calibre rounds, it would take his head off at this range, even with the matt-black cylindrical suppressor screwed into the end of the barrel. Clearly, the woman had a strong sense of personal style – the gun was chrome plated, with ivory panels just visible each side of the grip.

  He glanced behind him at the door through which the barman had left.

  “Don’t bother, darling,” she said, strutting over to him. “Who do you think let me know you were here? People like Fang Jian think they are the only ones who can command loyalty.” She winked at him. “They’re not.”

  “You seem to have lost your accent,” Gabriel said, noticing that the silver clasp holding her string tie closed was a cast of a hollow-point round, post-impact: an ugly flower with sharp, jagged petals.

  “Why, I do declare, so I have,” she said, returning to her southern belle persona, just for a second. Then she was all business again, using her own voice, an accent Gabriel classified as southern England with an upper-class filter. Cut glass, but playful, like his champagne flute with the addition of a tiny plastic mermaid. “I’ve got some bad news for you, Gabriel Wolfe.”

  “How do you know my name? And who the fuck are you?” Gabriel said. “Really?”

  The woman looked at him, smiling enough to expose the tips of her teeth between those amazing, bruised-looking lips.

  “Me, darling? I’m Sasha Beck.”

  “And you normally show up in bars after hours and shoot the door staff?”

  “Not at all. But they were in the way. Normally I only shoot people when I’m paid to. Which is why I know your name, to answer your first question. It’s part of my business to know the names of everyone I’ve been hired to kill.”

  Gabriel had faced people holding guns on him before. The fact she’d been hired rather than recruited, sub-contracted or kidnapped didn’t really matter to him. He just knew he had to keep her talking long enough to figure out a way past her. “You blew up the law office in Harare didn’t you?”

  She nodded. “A little bit of housekeeping.”

  “And, what, you’re a hitwoman?”

  “A what?” She threw her head back, exposing a slender white throat, and laughed. “We’re not in some kind of Raymond Chandler novel, you know. I prefer the term ‘assassin’. It has greater historical resonance.”

  “OK, so you’re an assassin. What are you doing in Hong Kong?”

  “I could ask you the same question. It’s a free country, more or less.”

  “I’m researching my family history.”

  She arched her thin, black eyebrows.

  “Really?” she drawled. “You don’t look the type. Genealogists are more the beige cardigan and horn-rimmed spectacles type.”

  “Now who’s inhabiting a novel?”

  She licked the tip of her index finger and painted a mark in the air.

  Tell me, Gabriel,” she said, closing one eye and tracing a triangle over his face with the muzzle of her pistol, “as you’re so interested in research, would you like to have a look at some documents I acquired in Harare? It was just before our first meeting.”

  The dossier! At last.

  He steadied his breathing before answering. “Yes, please.”

  “I thought you might. Here.”

  She held out the document case. For a second, Gabriel considered trying to disarm her, then changed his mind. Something told him she’d be expecting a move and would drill a bullet into his skull if he so much as looked at the gun. He reached towards her and took the case.

  “Smart boy,” she said with a smile. “Have a read. But don’t spend too long. It took me bloody hours to get through it all.”

  Gabriel pulled the rubber band off the folder and opened it. Inside was an inch-thick sheaf of documents. The papers were of differing sizes, colours and weights, some with letter headings, some without, some even with Zimbabwean Government stamps across the top, or adorned with shiny, red, wax seals plastered down over pink ribbons.

  The top sheet of paper was a list of contents. The title read:

  Evidence of Barbara Sutherland’s involvement in corrupt arms/diamond/land deals.

  Underneath were a series of numbered items:

  1 Trips to Democratic Republic of Congo by B Sutherland.

  2 Copies of forged Kimberley Process Certificates from Rambeka Diamond Field.

  3 Financial statements from Sutherland’s a/c at Hoffner & Albrecht, Zurich.

  4 Invoices for munitions, targeting software, weapons systems, Gordian Security, Inc.

  5 Emails between B Sutherland and Robert Hamilton, Gordian CEO.

  6 Video of B Sutherland at Hotel Panafrica, Kinshasa, meeting R Hamilton and Emmanuel Chinandia, Minister of Defence.

  7 Minutes of cabinet defence and security committee meetings.

  8 Testimony of Jonathan Makalele AKA ‘General Rambo’, leader of gang known as The Rock and Roll Boys (regard as dubious).

  9 Statements from B Sutherland’s account at World Diamond Exchange Ltd under alias “Gemma Northfield”.

  10 Contracts for land purchases in Zambia, Kenya, Mozambique: co-signatories, B Sutherland, R Hamilton, W Chinandia.

  Gabriel turned the page. The list continued, eventually reaching 29 on the third sheet of paper. He turned over and began reading the first document.

  While he read, flipping backwards and forwards through the pile, noting documents he’d seen on Melody’s computer and rubbing the back of his neck occasionally, Sasha poured herself a glass of the champagne and wandered round the bar, never letting her aim deviate from the centre of his head.

  *

  Thirty minutes later, sitting back on the stool facing Gabriel, she spoke again.

  “Well?”

  He jerked his head up.

  “These aren’t forgeries. Not all of them. They can’t be. She’s dirty.”

  “I’m afraid so, darling. Your Prime Minister has been a very naughty girl. She’s wasted in politics, though. I could introduce her to some people who would make this sort of thing look like pin money.” Sasha reached across the table and slapped the folder shut with the flat of her hand. “I can’t let you keep it, I’m afraid. Much though I imagine you would like to.”

  She put her fingers to her lips and whistled, a shrill, pure note, rising and falling, that could have brought a taxi to her side from the other side of the city. Instead, a squat, heavily tattooed Chinese man entered the bar on silent feet. She handed the folder of documents to him and whispered something Gabriel couldn’t catch. The man nodded and then ran from the bar.

  “Do you like stories, Gabriel?” she asked.

  He nodded, still stunned from the realisation that his suspicions about Barbara Sutherland were correct. “I love them.”

  “Then pour yourself another drink, and one for me, and I’ll tell you how I became an assassin. It’s the last story you’ll hear. In this world, at least. But it’s a good one. I promise. Oh, and please don’t try anything clever with the bottle. I have extremely fast reactions.”

  53

  Gabriel Wolfe is Dead

  GABRIEL turned round slowly and reached for the bottle. Then with his back still turned, even though he could almost feel the pressure of her finger on the trigger, he poured two generous glasses of the champagne. He handed one to Sasha and leaned back against the bar.

  “I’m all yours,” he said.

  As Sasha began her story, Gabriel closed his eyes. It would make him seem less of a threat. He started a breathing exercise that would lower his heart rate and prepare him for action.

  While she talked, he listened. Not to the details, just to the sound of her voice. Its rhythms, cadences, tone and speed. All perfectly normal. As her story came to an end, with her training at the hands of a Serbian killer, he opened his eyes again.

  “. . . and I’ve been an assassin ever since,” she finished.

  “
If you don’t mind my asking, how many contracts have you worked since then?”

  She looked straight at Gabriel, her lips curving into a smile. “You sure you want to know?”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “Sixty. But numbers one through thirty were all in the first three years. I’ve slowed down a bit. I get to be more . . .” she paused, looking upwards, “. . . selective.”

  “So that’s a little more than five kills a year. On average, I mean. What do you do the rest of the time?”

  “I read. Classics, mostly. And I like art. I travel around. There are some amazing galleries. The Uffizi, the Prado, Chicago Art Institute, the Guggenheim. Don’t worry, darling. I fill my time.”

  “And now you’ve come to kill me.”

  “And now I’ve come to kill you.”

  “You know I have killed people myself.”

  She nodded. “I did my research. It doesn’t change things. Doesn’t make you special. Not even unique. One guy? He was a mass-murderer, a bona fide serial killer. Ukrainian. Slaughtered and ate fifty-four people, from Kiev to Murmansk. A Russian Mafia boss hired me after the guy made steak tartare out of his sister-in-law.”

  As they talked and drank the champagne, Sasha’s left hand didn’t waver by so much as a millimetre. The suppressor was now pointing directly at Gabriel’s chest. She’d already chambered a round. All it needed was a seven-pound pressure on the trigger and the .40 calibre round in the chamber would explode out of the muzzle and punch a fist-sized cavity through his torso.

  “But who hired you to kill me, Sasha?” he asked now, looking intently into her eyes.

  “I’d love to tell you, Gabriel, you’d find it so hard to deal with, but I’m afraid my perfession . . .” she shook her head, “. . . my professional ethics forbid such a . . . disclosion. No. That’s not right.”

  A frown crossed her face, smooth, high forehead crinkling as various possibilities raced through her rapidly failing mind.

  Gabriel had known better than to try hypnosis. Sasha Beck wasn’t the sort of woman who’d blithely fall into a trance so he could kill her. At the first sniff of a change to his speech pattern or breathing she’d plug him where he stood. However, he’d had an alternative.

  Just as he was leaving the club, Fang had pulled a small zip-lock bag from his jacket pocket and shown Gabriel the contents.

  What are they?” Gabriel asked, looking at a dozen or so pale-blue, circular pills, just a few millimetres across, each one imprinted with a ‘P’.

  “It’s a new drug in Hong Kong. For date rape. Like Rohypnol only much stronger. Ketamine-based. They call it Panda. We confiscated them from a customer.”

  “You care about date rape?”

  “I care about my image. Date rape bad for business.” He smiled. “It much harder to launder money through my club when police always sniffing around.”

  “I don’t need date rape drugs, Mr Fang.”

  Fang laughed.

  “No. You handsome fellow. I bet you have all girls you want. But you also get into trouble from time to time, you already told me that. Maybe these will get you out one time.”

  Using Yinshen fangshi, Gabriel had dropped one of the pale-blue pills into Sasha’s glass of champagne while she’d sauntered around the casino. Now, he had to be ready to move. As she felt her grip on reality slide she’d almost certainly shoot.

  He watched her closely.

  “Are you OK?” he asked, tensing his muscles, ready to move.

  “Oh, you naughty man,” she said. Her eyes looked black – her pupils had blown up all the way to the edges of her irises.

  No doubt she meant to pull the trigger but her synapses were gluey with the drug. Gabriel reached her before she could react.

  He darted out his right hand and clamped it around the slide of the pistol. The pressure stopped it moving forward and releasing the hammer as she squeezed the trigger. For good measure he jammed his thumb down in front of the hammer, preventing the firing pin striking the rear of the cartridge in the chamber.

  With his left hand he punched her hard on the tip of her long, straight nose. The blow snapped her head back, and as she fell backwards he twisted the gun out of her grip and sideswiped her across the left temple. The combination of the punch, the pistol-whipping and the industrial-strength anaesthetic coursing through her bloodstream put her down. Gabriel caught her as she slumped and, with his hands under her armpits, lowered her to the ground.

  First he checked her for other weapons. Inside the jacket he found a shoulder holster, empty. The Shield’s home. He patted her down, checking the back of her waistband. On tour in Northern Ireland, he’d never gone anywhere socially without a Walther PPK tucked into the back of his jeans – “nightclub guns” they used to call them. Sasha obviously didn’t feel the need. From her waist, he moved to her ankles, pulling up the hems of her tailored dress trousers over the snakeskin ankle boots. Aha! A pro would never leave themselves without a spare.

  Strapped to her right ankle in a slimline leather holster was a small semi-automatic pistol. Gabriel unsnapped the catch securing the pistol and withdrew it. The stampings on the slide confirmed what he had already concluded from the striking grey and black design and the compact size: it was another Smith & Wesson, a 2213, chambered for .22 rim-fire cartridges. More of a gun for plinking at piles of beer cans out on a farm than serious professional work, but what it lacked in stopping power it made up for in concealability. And in the hands of a killer like Sasha Beck, more than capable of taking her man – or woman – down.

  A trickle of saliva had emerged from the corner of her mouth and was tracking across her cheek. Gabriel fished the display handkerchief from the pocket of his suit jacket and dabbed the spit away. Then he undid his tie, rolled her onto her front and lashed her right wrist to her left ankle. He used his tactical knife to cut the flex from a table lamp and used it to cross-lash her left wrist to her right ankle. Only amateurs lash wrists together. Anyone with any training, whether Special Forces, counterintelligence or a more unorthodox source such as Sasha’s, would be free in seconds.

  Once his would-be assassin was secure, he turned back to the bar and poured himself another glass of the Pol Roger. Then he settled himself into a chair and waited.

  She was out for ninety minutes. A small mewing sound escaped her lips, as if she were a child having the beginnings of a bad dream. Gabriel stood. He walked over to where he’d hog-tied her and knelt by her head, watching her eyelids intently. Now, they flickered, rising and falling in spasmodic contractions, as if they weighed too much for the small muscles behind them to lift them clear of her eyeballs. This was the moment Gabriel had been waiting for.

  Groggy from the Panda and the blows to her head, she would be susceptible to the ancient hypnotic techniques taught to Gabriel by Master Zhao. He began speaking, a metronomic monologue that conveyed virtually no meaning beyond a simple instruction to relax and think of nothing. Behind the syntax and the semantics, riding on his words like a hidden code, he instructed her brain to allow him unrestricted access while remaining conscious itself.

  He stroked his fingers across her brow then tapped her, twice, sharply, an inch above the point where the upper edges of her eyebrows would intersect if they continued their arched progress towards the bridge of her nose.

  “Sasha. Can you hear me? I want you to say my name.”

  Her voice was a breathy whisper. “Gabriel Wolfe.”

  “Good. Do you remember why you came here?”

  “To kill you.”

  “So tell me, Sasha. Who hired you to kill me?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Yes you can tell me. I want you to tell me who hired you. Who is your client?”

  Sasha’s forehead contracted, and her eyebrows drew together. Her bruised red lips compressed and her eyelids wrinkled. Then her face relaxed and she spoke.

  “Robert Hamilton.”

  “Who is Robert Hamilton?”

  “He’s
CEO of Gordian Security.”

  “Where did you meet when he gave you the contract?”

  “Didn’t meet. Phone.”

  “How are you normally paid?”

  “Wire transfer.”

  “OK, good. Thank you. Now, listen to me and repeat what I say. The contract on Gabriel Wolfe is completed.”

  Her drowsy lips moved. “The contract on Gabriel Wolfe is completed.”

  “Gabriel Wolfe is dead.”

  “Gabriel Wolfe is dead.”

  “Good. You can stop repeating now.” Gabriel was seized with inspiration. “Tell me the unlock code for your phone.”

  “Six, seven, one, nine, one.”

  “I am leaving. You will sleep. Count down in threes from seven hundred and ninety seven.”

  Drawing a shivery breath, Sasha began counting backwards. She reached seven hundred and eighty two before her voice tailed off and her breathing settled into a still, quiet rhythm as she slept. Gabriel bent to her chest and extracted her phone from her inside jacket pocket.

  “You dropped your phone in Victoria Harbour,” he whispered.

  On the walk back to Xi’s house, Gabriel called Fang.

  “Mr Fang, it’s Gabriel Wolfe. After you left there was a visitor to the Golden Dragon. She killed your door staff and I think you should replace your barman too – he’s not to be trusted.”

  “Who is she? Where is she?”

  “Her name is Sasha Beck. She’s an assassin. She was sent to kill me. I left her at the Golden Dragon. She’s not going anywhere. Could you keep her out of circulation for a couple of weeks for me?”