I say nothing. Because I haven’t agreed to a deal yet and this man is apparently slow to understand that. Or just stubborn. Probably more the latter.
“I apologize, Mr. Faust,” Connors says, doing damage control. “Mr. Masters tends to speak without thinking; you have to understand we’re usually working on the other side of the fence, not with the…criminals, so to speak. I admit, even for me it’s a little difficult to be sitting at this table, having a seemingly civil conversation with a hitman and…” He pauses and glances grimly at Gustavsson; a lump moves down the center of his throat. “…And a man like him.”
I smile faintly and fold my hands together on the top of the table too. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not entirely true, Mr. Connors; I’m not the first ‘hitman’ you have done business with, nor is Gustavsson the first…specialist you’ve been in the same room with without chains on his wrists and ankles.”
“No, you’re not the first,” says Connors, “and you won’t be the last, but it’s still not a common occurrence, so please bear with us.”
“Mr. Gustavsson,” a man named Kenneth Ware cuts in, “I’m just curious about why you do the things you do?” His thick, dark eyebrows stiffen inquisitively in his forehead. “How does one get into the interrogation business?”
Gustavsson chokes on a small laugh—even I almost laughed at that one.
“Did you really just ask me,” Fredrik begins, “you, a man involved in covert government operations, how one gets into the interrogation business?” He shakes his head with surprise and disbelief. “That’s humorous to me, Mr. Ware. Truly it is.”
Kenneth Ware smiles to combat the red in his face. “Well what I mean, Mr. Gustavsson, is why you are…the way you are. There’s a pretty big difference between what you do and what I do.” At least he’s not trying to be argumentative like Dan Barrett who must have been born with that ever-present scowl.
Fredrik sighs and crosses his legs, afterward interlocking his fingers and resting his hands over his midsection. “Why don’t you tell me?” he says with a mock smile. “Is there not enough about me in those files of yours already?”
“Actually no,” Kenneth Ware answers. “I’ve just taken a special interest in you is all, and would like to know more. About your background anyway; I already know what you do, I’m just fascinated by why you do it.”
“Mr. Ware is a fan,” Connors says, suppressing a grin.
“I seem to have quite a few of those.” Fredrik purses his lips. “It’s kind of disturbing, actually.”
“I have to agree,” I say with the shrug of my shoulders.
“Me too,” Dorian Flynn speaks up; his eyes veer when he notices me looking at him.
“Can we get on with this?” Barrett snaps; he chews on the inside of his mouth. “Your files’ll be here momentarily—”
The tiny door to the meeting room opens and in walks a man with a file folder, much thinner than I expected, the folder, not the man.
“Ah, there they are now,” Barrett says.
The man gives the folder to Barrett and Barrett slides it across the table toward me.
“Where’s the rest of it?” I ask, looking down into a stack of about sixty freshly printed sheets of paper. I begin sifting through them, scanning the text in search of keywords—I’ll read it all more thoroughly later.
“That’s all of it,” Dan Barrett insists.
I look up with only my eyes; my hand in pause holding a sheet of paper over the stack.
“He’s telling the truth,” Barry Connors says with a nod. “Mr. Flynn claimed it was difficult for him to get access to any files.” He points at the folder. “Everything we have on your Order is there.” He’s lying, but I’ll let it slide for now.
“But you said you’ve been following me for eight years.”
“Yes,” Connors says, “we have a small file on you from when you worked under Vonnegut, but nothing as extensive as what’s there”—he points at the folder again—“just some of your hits; information on who you worked closely with: your brother Niklas Fleischer, your Safe House contacts, and of course”—he glances at Fredrik—“Mr. Gustavsson.”
I drop the sheet on top of the others.
“I thought the CIA did more…outside work, if you will?” I say. “Why follow me here? I thought chasing killers around the U.S. was more in the interest of the FBI?”
“Yes, but you worked for Vonnegut, and Vonnegut is by every account an outside threat to the United States. You were his highest ranking assassin—we can’t find him, so we go where you go.”
“And besides,” Kenneth Ware says, “we’re not technically CIA—we’re an entirely different division.”
“And what division would that be exactly?” I inquire.
“The Special Special Activities Division,” says Ware, mysteriously.
Interesting. Something as underground as we are, that I’ve never heard of. I know what SAD is, but according to Mr. Ware and his clandestine emphasis on the extra ‘special’, I’m guessing SSAD does not stand for Social Security Advocates for the Disabled.
“We were surprised,” Barrett speaks up, “when Mr. Flynn just happened to end up under your command after you took over the Black Market operation he was planted in—felt like we hit the jackpot when Flynn found out who you were, Mr. Faust.”
I am sure it did.
I continue to scan the papers as they talk. Flynn sits uncomfortably next to me.
“You were a ghost,” Connors says. “Even with some files on you when you were in The Order, we could never find you.”
“How did you get any information on me at all then?” I ask, looking up so I can see their eyes when they answer.
Connors and Barrett look at one another. Then they glance at Kenneth Ware.
“Let me rephrase the question,” I say. “Who was your mole in Vonnegut’s Order?” He or she couldn’t have been very good since they’re still searching for Vonnegut.
“We don’t have an agreement yet, Mr. Faust,” Barrett says, smirking. “We’re not at liberty to give you that information. Not even with an agreement.”
I look to Connors, the most accommodating of the six.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Faust,” Connors says with regret, “but we can’t reveal that operative’s identity. I’m sure you can understand. And he or she is still in The Order, so you have nothing to worry about anymore.”
I look at Mark Masters. “And do you have anything to say about this?” I ask him. “You’ve been awfully quiet; though not as quiet as those two.” I nod toward the two men who haven’t said a word other than their names since they sat down: Ryan Miller is the balding one; David Darros is the one with the German accent.
“I agree with them,” Mark Masters says, eyeing me intensely. “I don’t care who you are, or what you want as part of the deal—we’re not giving up the identity of our mole.”
Without a word, I look back down into the files and then I begin to read to myself. Everything. And as I’m filing it all away in my memory, I also file away my own profiles of the men who wish to partner with me:
Dan Barrett – He’s playing the ‘bad cop’; intimidation is his tool; he wants to make me feel like I should agree to work with them, that if I don’t they’ll bring me down, all without resorting to outright threats. But Dan Barrett, just like almost every other man on his side of the table, desperately wants my cooperation and is not likely to ‘turn me in’ if I refuse their offer; he needs me and would just send in another mole to replace Flynn to watch me. He believes I am the key to bringing down one of the most wanted men in the world; me being behind bars, or on death row would do nothing to help him.
Barry Connors – He’s playing the ‘good cop’; pretending to bond with me so that I feel like I can trust him. But I trust him no more or less than I do the others sitting next to him. He wants what Dan Barrett wants, and he is willing to do whatever he has to in order to get it.
Kenneth Ware – He’s one of the most transparent me
n in the room; his fascination with Gustavsson easily gives him away. I guarantee he has a Ph.D. in Psychology and probably has a favorite serial killer. Ware is the least of my concerns—he’s got blood in his eyes, and though he might not be a killer himself, blood is an addictive and seductive color to people like Ware and Gustavsson, and he is not likely to turn away from it.
Mark Masters – He’s the other transparent one, only he does give me reason for concern. Masters is a just man dedicated to his job, wants nothing more than to put every kind of criminal away for life and get them off the streets. But he’s a high stakes player, dealing with worldwide criminals; he might have been a cop or even an FBI agent at some point in his life, but it wasn’t enough; might have pushed pencils for the CIA for years working his way up to this position. He wants justice—perhaps a family member was murdered and everyone needs to atone—and I believe he’s willing to tolerate me long enough to bring Vonnegut down, but after that, I have no doubt he will come after me and everyone in my Order. But men like Masters are often too blinded by revenge, too impatient for their own good, and they tend to get themselves killed in the line of duty. I hope that is what happens so I don’t have to be the one to kill him later—he probably is a good man, and while I don’t particularly care to kill good people, I will if I have to.
Ryan Miller and David Darros, not having said anything to give me as much insight on them, still fit into a profile. Miller is new to all of this; he lacks confidence, doesn’t look as in control as the other men; swallows a lot; can’t sit still and constantly touches his suit as if it will distract him from his own discomfort provoked by a lack of experience; he can’t look me in the eye, and the one time he did, he actually smiled as though he were new to the class and hoped to make a friend. David Darros, on the other hand, is looking me in the eyes right now and he doesn’t want any friends; he’s calm and collected, is very confident in his suit, knows his way around and has far too much experience to be uncomfortable. In ways, Darros is a lot like me. I just wonder how much.
In all, I will agree to work with them, but what they will not know is that as far as Vonnegut is concerned, I’ll only be working with them to help myself. I will be the one to bring Vonnegut down, and the information they have on him could help me do that. I will take over The Order after I’ve eliminated Vonnegut; and by being on the inside, working behind the scenes with organizations that have dedicated many of their years in service to finding Vonnegut, I’ll already know who all I have to kill later, picking them off one by one and pulling their claws from The Order that I will one day control.
I place both hands on the table and announce, “I will agree to your deal: I will help you bring down Vonnegut, and in exchange, your organization will turn a blind eye to my operations and terminate your surveillance indefinitely. No member of my Order is to be approached by any member of yours without first going through me. And if at any time I find that you have not upheld your end of our agreement, I will have no choice but to terminate our relationship immediately and deal with you…in my own way.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Faust?” Barrett speaks up, narrowing his eyes.
“Yes. It is, Mr. Barrett. And I am not in the habit of making threats I am unable to carry out.” I straighten my suit jacket and then fold my hands loosely on the table.
Barrett smirks. “We have you, Mr. Faust,” he cautions. “Both of you, two men who may not be on a wanted list yet, but keep in mind that’s only because we’ve kept you off them.” He leans toward the table, eyeing me as if he has something over me. “We could take you right now—we could kill you right now.”
“Please Mr. Barrett”—I open a hand, palm up, and casually gesture toward his jacket pocket—“why don’t you give your son—the one in Maine—a call, before you say anything more.”
His skin pales, and the smirk vanishes from his mouth. He glances at Connors nervously, then back in my direction. Masters breathes in heavily; his jaw grinds behind his stubbled cheeks. Miller, the novice, looks a bit scared; Darros, the expert, continues to watch me the same way I’ve been watching him. Connors’ eyes shut softly and he shakes his head like a man wishing his mouthy counterpart would drop the threats already. Kenneth Ware looks impressed.
Barrett’s son answers the phone.
“Are you all right, Danny?”
“Why don’t you put him on speakerphone?” I suggest.
Hesitantly, Barrett sets his phone on the table and runs his finger over the screen.
“I’m fine, Dad,” comes his son’s voice, “he hasn’t hurt me.”
The two of them go on about the man sitting in Daniel Barrett’s living room, my man from the First Division: how he was sitting there like that, in the dark, when Daniel came home from work hours ago; how my man told Daniel that he would not hurt him and that all he wanted Daniel to do was wait for this phone call.
And then Connors calls his wife in New York and they go through the same conversation about the woman sitting with her in her kitchen. “She even let me cook dinner,” comes the wife’s voice through the speakerphone. “Not that I’m hungry after coming home to find a strange woman in our house with a gun on her hip, but I was so scared I wanted to…do what I normally do, I guess; make me feel like you’re coming home. Are you coming home, Barry?” Her voice is shaky. Connors looks to me for the answer.
“Yes, I’m coming home, Abbs,” he tells her; the hope that she is still alive when he gets there is written all over his face. “I’ll be late for that dinner, but I’ll be there.”
Barrett looks right at Dorian Flynn.
“Hey,” Flynn says, putting up his hands in his defense, “I only gave him the information you authorized me to give: your names and titles and where we’d be meeting.”
That’s more than what you can say you gave to them on us.
“You’re threatening my family?” Barrett’s hands become fists on the table, and he starts to get up, but Connors stops him.
“Mr. Faust is threatening us,” Connors says, “the same way you’re threatening him, so calm down, and sit down; no one’s going to get hurt.” He looks at me across from him with more of that hope in his features. “What did you expect, Dan, that he’d just waltz into this meeting without being thoroughly prepared? You do remember why we set up this meeting to begin with, right? Victor Faust knows what he’s doing, and”—he looks right at me—“I’m not ashamed to admit that he’s better at it than we are.” He turns back to an angry Barrett. “But that’s why he’s here, Dan, so let’s get this partnership underway, toss the distrust and the threats aside and let’s start over. Smoothly. All right?”
Connors looks to me.
“He is right, Mr. Barrett,” I say. “No one will hurt your family.”
The card I played is my way of letting them all know that if they ever betray me, or even manage to kill me, that there will be the gravest of consequences. I may not have information on Kenneth Ware, Mark Masters, Ryan Miller or David Darros yet, but I will after this meeting is over, now that I know who they are and I’ve seen their faces.
Barrett very slowly slides back into his chair. Once he has calmed himself he looks to me and nods. “OK,” he says. “A fresh start; I’d very much like that.”
Victor
The nine of us talk for an hour about what each of us knows on Vonnegut—I and Gustavsson only give them the information we agreed on before coming here, as I am sure they did the same. We discuss at length what each of us proposes we do first to go about catching Vonnegut, but in the end we all come to the agreement that it will take time, a lot of resources, possibly several undercover missions to gain more information, and that nothing will happen overnight. Before we can take a man down, we have to know who he is exactly, what he looks like—Connors’ and Barrett’s team do not even know where to begin. I pretend to have an inkling, that I have a little more on Vonnegut’s true identity than they have, just to keep them baited. But what I really have is someone who I believe has
actually seen my former employer in the flesh—Izabel is the key, and no one turns that key but me. Fortunately Dorian Flynn knows nothing of what Nora told me in the room that day about Izabel. Five other people in my Order do know, however, but I trust them to keep it to themselves. For the most part.
“In the meantime,” Connors speaks up, “we have another job we hope you’re interested in assisting us with.”
Kenneth Ware, Gustavsson’s fan, smiles suddenly as if he is delighted to finally be getting to this point.
“Is that so?” I say to Connors, admittedly curious.
Connors nods and then looks to Ware, giving him the floor. Ware’s close-lipped smile stretches as he eagerly opens his laptop on the table, bends over in his chair and sifts through his leather satchel on the floor, and then produces a file folder much thicker than the one they had on me, at least two inches thick, stuffed with what appears to be a stack of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sized photographs; a few of them slide off the top and halfway out of the folder when he sets it on the table. He shuffles them back into a neat stack, but not before I glimpse the blood and dead flesh; bodies in haphazard positions, strapped to furniture—photographs of crime scenes, no doubt.
“I take a special interest in serial killers, Mr. Faust,” says Ware—(and there it is: his not-so-hidden obsession with blood and those who crave it enough to kill for it on a regular basis). He opens the file folder. He’s still smiling, and I find it quite entertaining how he looks at Gustavsson more than me as he explains. “I’ve been tracking one for ten years and I’m very interested in your insight.” He looks only at me now and adds carefully, “Though, if possible of course”—he glances at Fredrik—“I would like it if Mr. Gustavsson could work with me on this case personally.”
“We do not do cases, Mr. Ware,” I point out. “We work jobs, missions. And we work alone. Vonnegut is different because we all want the same thing and need each other’s resources to get it, but as far as anyone else, you give us the information you have on a target, pay us to carry out the hit and we will do just that. It is about money, Mr. Ware, not justice, or the fundamental need to take out bad guys.”
The Black Wolf Page 18
