When They Come for You

by James W. Hall

  Adrian had never been formally introduced to the man, and though he’d combed the corporation’s worldwide directory, he’d never found Mullen’s name anywhere in the vast chain of command. The man seemed to float on the periphery of Larissa Bixel’s inner circle like her ethereal bodyguard or perhaps her gigolo.

  Unlike Larissa Bixel, Mullen had no problem with eye contact, a sly smile on his lips as his dark, appraising eyes locked to Adrian’s. His chin and right cheek were scuffed, and the edge of a compression bandage peeked out of the cuff of his right sleeve. Apparently, the boy had been tangling with someone at least his equal.

  Bixel continued to study the swollen veins in her biceps for a long, irritating moment, then looked up and briefly met Adrian’s gaze. It was only the second time their eyes had touched. The first had been a year earlier, when Bixel grilled him for two hours in this same gym. His final interview before being hired as security chief for Albion International.

  “Happy to be of service. What can I help you with?”

  Larissa allowed herself a dry chuckle. “Well, let’s see. Do you think I might consult you about the derivatives market? Or perhaps you have expertise in commodities trading, arbitrage, cocoa bean futures? Skills I’m not familiar with?”

  Adrian waited several seconds to let Bixel’s scorn wither in the silence. She cut a look up at Helmut Mullen. The humorless smile was still in place, cool disinterest in his eyes.

  “No, ma’am. My expertise is security.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear that. That is, after all, what we’re paying you for.”

  While Bixel concentrated on her opposite biceps, Adrian’s gaze drifted past her close-cropped bronze hair and Helmut Mullen’s shoulders, out the floor-to-ceiling window with its distant view across the slate rooftops of the international banks strung along Poststrasse, a vista that stretched all the way to the blue shimmer of Lake Zurich. It was a crisp March afternoon, so clear and fine that even Larissa Bixel’s condescension couldn’t sully it.

  Adrian wasn’t impressed by bullying bosses. He’d served alongside men and women who’d survived decades of back-alley combat and all-out war. No petty slights dished out by the VP of global affairs in a sterile Swiss office building could rival the tests of his previous life.

  “This man you referred to me, this Spider person, didn’t you realize he was incompetent?”

  “Harry Combs?”

  “Combs, Spider, whatever you call him. You vouched for him. You gave him your highest endorsement.”

  “I worked with Combs on several operations. He’s battle-tested, a pro. Highly skilled, methodical. Why do you ask? You’re not satisfied with his work?”

  While she cranked the weight, her empty gaze was directed a foot above Adrian’s head. Clearly, she’d reached her monthly quota for eye contact.

  “This pro, as you call him, this methodical, highly skilled man, yes, he completed his task, then afterward, when he should have left the area immediately, he stayed put and began to behave recklessly. And in so doing, he put Albion’s best interests at risk.”

  Adrian waited as Larissa set down the weights. Helmut handed her a hand towel, and she patted her glistening face, then tossed the towel away.

  “I can’t help you,” Adrian said. “I don’t know the details of the work he did, and I suspect it’s best it remains that way. As for your grave concerns, well, that’s between you and Spider.”

  “Spider is missing,” Helmut said.

  “What?”

  “Your friend,” Helmut said, “or whatever he was, your associate, he has disappeared.”

  “Why would Spider disappear?”

  “Because,” Bixel said, “Helmut is apparently a very poor marksman.”

  Mullen drew his chin in a few inches and squared his shoulders as if preparing for Adrian to take a swing.

  “You tried to kill Spider?”

  “He’s badly wounded, I believe.” Mullen looked off at a window. “In all likelihood, he’s no longer alive.”

  Adrian stared at Mullen. He wouldn’t have called Spider a friend, but they’d had each other’s backs in more than a few critical situations in the not-so-distant past.

  “You and Spider were both contractors for the Aegis Group.”

  Adrian managed a nod.

  “What exactly did you do for Aegis?” Bixel said. “Last year at your interview, you were tenaciously vague about the specifics of your work.”

  “I’ve told you what I could.”

  “But surely whatever allegiance you swore to your previous employer is no longer in effect.”

  “I collected intelligence and ran covert ops. That’s all I can say.”

  “Were you an assassin?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Spider admitted he had done contract work as an assassin, so I assume you did similar work, taking men off the battlefield. And thus you know sometimes blood must be shed for the greater good.”

  Adrian waited, trying to keep a deferential look on his face, not let them see how disgusted he was, how close to stripping off his ID badge and walking away from all this. But then he wasn’t sure if he still had that option. This wasn’t a job you quit capriciously. He’d been given too much access to the company’s inner workings and knew too many corporate secrets to be allowed to casually sever the connection. Meaning this seemingly cushy corporate job resembled the kind of work he’d thought he’d left behind.

  “Tell me,” said Bixel, “that you aren’t bored with simply bodyguarding Albion executives, carrying briefcases in and out of interchangeable banks and five-star hotels, sitting in risk management meetings, and overseeing software heads and techies?”

  “What exactly do you want?”

  She picked up the barbell again, thought better of it, and held it out for Adrian to dispose of. He took it from her, turned, and let the weights clang to the floor. Then he wiped her sweat on his trouser leg.

  She read the mutinous gesture, and all her haughtiness evaporated. She slitted her eyes and focused their dark venom on Adrian. “I want to send you into the field for some hands-on work. But I need to know you are capable of any action necessary.”

  “You want me track down Spider?”

  “That would be a start.”

  “Then remove him?”

  “I’d like to know you’re capable, if it came to that.”

  “Commit murder, is that what you’re asking?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Mullen can fix his own fuckup.”

  Mullen shifted, hands rising. About to try his luck with Adrian.

  “That’s enough,” said Bixel.

  Mullen glared at Adrian a moment longer, then drew a tight breath and took a half step to the side. Conceding the round.

  Bixel took a beseeching look at the far wall. “You remember the second man on the list you gave me, your other former associate from the Aegis Group?”

  “Jackson Sharp. Yes, I remember.”

  “Another of your highly recommended, battle-tested comrades.”

  “You wanted names. I never said Sharp was the greatest soldier.”

  “Here’s the issue: Some months ago in the Ivory Coast, a series of very poor decisions were made. Your friend, Mr. Sharp, was a participant in those events. That misadventure resulted in an unholy mess that Helmut and I have been trying to clean up ever since.

  “Then, a few months after those events took place, I received a demand from Sharp, threatening to expose these unfortunate actions. In his effort to blackmail Albion, he went so far as to contact an investigative journalist at a large American newspaper and encouraged him to dig into the matter to increase the pressure on Albion. Rather than give in to these demands, I engaged Spider to remove the threat.”

  “Instead,” Mullen said, “your buddy Spider made matters worse.”

  “So you tried to kill him. Now you want me to patch things up.”

  “Helmut removed Jackson Sharp as an immediate t
hreat, but in the process, Helmut’s identity was compromised. His face is known to certain parties. Therefore, I have summoned you to complete the mission. It was your former associates who have brought us to this situation, so it seems only reasonable for you to resolve it.”

  “Too many euphemisms for me,” Adrian said.

  “I’m being as explicit as I can be.”

  “That’s not how it works, Ms. Bixel. Not in my business. If I clean up a mess, I have to know exactly what the mess is.”

  “You know all you need to know.”

  “This African fuckup, it happened on Albion’s cacao plantation.”

  Bixel drew a slow breath. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “Cacao is Albion’s major holding in the Ivory Coast. What happened? Child slavery again? Afraid of more bad press?”

  “It’s a bit more complex than that.”

  “Is Mr. Albion aware of this misadventure?”

  “What Lester Albion knows doesn’t concern you.”

  “He doesn’t know,” Adrian said, “or the two of you would be gone.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that.”

  Larissa Bixel sighed and rose from the bench. Her shoulders and arms were flushed from her workout, a cloud of earthy musk overwhelming her toiletries. She craned forward a few inches and peered into Adrian’s eyes, moving so close he felt a sudden tidal pull in his chest, as if he’d been drawn inside her dark, magnetic field.

  He dropped his eyes from hers and briefly watched a ribbon of sweat unfurl from a hollow in Larissa’s throat and roll toward her shadowy cleavage. He averted his gaze from its downward track, turning his eyes to the far window.

  Bixel took note of his restraint, and her smile was bitter. Adrian had foiled her. She was used to men like Helmut, who could not rein in their appetites. She played on their proclivities, their automatic responses. All that was in her unpleasant smile as her eyes held his once more. “I have two jobs for you, Mr. Naff. First, find out if Spider is still alive. If he is, I want you to reach out to him. Bring him in safely if you can so we might talk to him. If he resists these efforts, you can finish the job Helmut began. Either way works for us.”

  “And the second?”

  “Her name is Harper McDaniel. She lives in Miami, Florida, and is the wife of the journalist I mentioned. We believe her late husband confided in her certain details of the African mishap.”

  Helmut said, “And the bitch saw my face.”

  “We believe,” Bixel said, “Ms. McDaniel poses a danger to Albion’s reputation and therefore to the health of our business. I want you to defuse that danger by removing her. Can you handle these two items?”

  “Kill a civilian? A woman?”

  Bixel’s nod was almost but not quite imperceptible.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I believe you should update your resume at once.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Adrian said.

  “I’ll have your answer now,” Bixel said. “Yes or no?”

  Adrian looked past her out the window at the Zurich skyline. With Bixel, a no would be final. He’d be packing his office this afternoon. While a yes would at least buy him time to find out what the hell was going on. So he gave her what she wanted, told her yes, he’d do it.

  “Excellent,” she said. “I knew we could count on you.”

  “A word of warning,” Helmut said, brushing his hand against his damaged cheek. “Don’t underestimate this McDaniel woman. She has skills. Fighting skills.”

  When Naff was gone, Larissa Bixel turned to Helmut.

  “Are you angry I’m involving Naff?”

  “He’s competent enough, I suppose.”

  “Do you know the real reason I’m doing that, using Naff in place of you? It’s not just because the McDaniel woman saw your face.”

  “I can guess the other reason,” Mullen said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s a reprimand,” Helmut Mullen said. “For my gross mishandling of the Ivory Coast affair. For not tying up the loose ends properly.”

  “You made a complete botch of that, yes. Leaving behind the video camera, that was an idiotic error. And you and Jackson Sharp, your actions at Soko, they were barbaric, far beyond what the situation required.”

  “I agree. We lost control.”

  “Well, be that as it may,” Larissa said, “there’s another, more critical reason I’ve put Naff on this.”

  Larissa motioned at the stack of white towels; Helmut Mullen handed her another one, and she patted the fresh sweat off her throat and upper breasts.

  “Naff is expendable,” she said. “You’re not.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ll shadow him as you did Spider. Mr. Naff troubles me. Despite his assurances, I find his allegiance questionable. In short, if and when he completes his missions, I want him gone. Am I clear? Can you take care of this?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “It will be my pleasure.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Early March, Zurich, Switzerland, Paradeplatz

  “Can I tell Mr. Albion what this is about?”

  Adrian told her no, it was a security matter, boss’s ears only.

  The young woman produced an icy smile and rose from her desk and entered Lester Albion’s office. A minute later, she opened the teak door and stood beside it and motioned for him to enter.

  Lester Albion sat behind his desk, studying a color-coded pamphlet that lay open before him. All Adrian could make out on the pages were columns of six- and seven-digit numbers. Beside the prospectus, or whatever the hell it was, sat a glass jar filled with foil-wrapped candies.

  Behind Lester, a wide plate-glass window showed the same view as the gym five floors below, only this vista was superior by a hundred feet, a spectacular view of the lake and, beyond it, the mountains. The Albion building wasn’t a skyscraper, but it was as close to one as Zurich permitted.

  In a nearby chair, Bonnie, Lester Albion’s seven-year-old daughter, was perched with an electronic tablet in her lap.

  “I’m out of school today,” she said. “I had a stomachache, but I’m better now. Daddy, it’s your friend, Mr. Naff.”

  Lester removed his reading glasses and set them aside.

  “Daddy doesn’t have many friends,” she said. “You might be his only one. He likes you because you’re a tough guy. You remind him of Ben Westfield, the movie star. He’s Daddy’s favorite actor because of how tough he is. Daddy’s not tough. He’s a soft man. A pushover. Aren’t you, Daddy?”

  “According to your mother.”

  Lester was small boned, a couple of inches over five feet, balding, with a receding chin and deep-blue eyes that smoldered with an intensity at odds with his diminutive stature. He was wearing his usual costume, a khaki short-sleeve shirt with epaulets and faded blue jeans, more fitting for an African safari than the presidential suite where he spent his days. A silly aping of Hemingway.

  “Tell me, Adrian, you’re not going to cancel our shooting date. I do so want to try out the new Glock.”

  “No, we’re still on. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Daddy’s mother, she’s my granny, she wouldn’t allow Daddy to have toy guns when he was little. She was domineering. Now she doesn’t talk, just sits in a chair all day. She had a stroke. So Daddy can do whatever he wants. Guns or anything.”

  “Bonnie,” Albion said. “Mr. Naff isn’t interested in our private lives.”

  “All Swiss men of fighting age are issued rifles or pistols,” Bonnie said. “But Granny kept that gun away from Daddy too. She doesn’t like guns because her husband killed himself with one. That’s called suicide.”

  Lester sighed and gave Adrian a rueful smile.

  Shortly after Adrian was hired, Lester had appeared in his office to question him about his experience with handguns. He’d read Adrian’s file and was hopeful Adrian might become his mentor. Now, six months later, after a dozen sessions at a local indoor range, the two of them had
formed a bond that was almost but not quite a friendship.

  Adrian stepped to the near wall that was decorated with promotional posters of Albion’s more successful food products. Chips and soft drinks, crackers, cookies, ice creams, cereals, toaster pastries, breads, frozen fruits and vegetables, olive oils, and a variety of butters. A large portion of the wall was dedicated to Albion’s candies and chocolate bars, which came in dozens of shapes. On the adjacent wall, hanging by itself, was a framed photo of the Hollywood star Ben Westfield. The guy was wearing a cowboy hat and two six-guns, and he was about to bite into one of Albion’s candy bars. An ad campaign from at least forty years back.

  “Can I speak freely, sir?” Adrian nodded at Bonnie.

  Lester buzzed his secretary and asked Bonnie to step into the waiting room for a moment.

  “Man talk,” Bonnie said. “I get it.”

  When she was gone, Albion said, “Sorry. She doesn’t have a filter.”

  “She’s charming.”

  “I wish I could find a nanny who agrees with you. So what brings you by, Adrian?”

  “I heard something troubling about the Ivory Coast holdings.”

  Albion sat back in his chair, his face tight. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me there’s a problem out there.”

  “I don’t know, sir. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to know if you’d heard anything, or if I should investigate the issue further.”

  “What exactly did you hear?”

  “Nothing specific, but apparently there was an incident at the Royale Plantation.”

  “Christ. Not child slaves again. Tell me it’s not that. Not now, for god’s sake, at this delicate juncture.”