Another pause, then, in a sober voice, “I’ll need to check this out.”
The connection broke, and she sat beside the window and watched the pure blue Zurich sky, birds wheeling past. Watched the trams coming and going, the streets teeming with people, her mind free, the heaviness lifting.
In twenty minutes, her phone rang.
“What exactly you have in mind?”
“Sit in on a meeting.”
“Sounds boring.”
“You might be able to capture a heinous criminal.”
“Do that every day.”
“Ever heard of Ben Westfield, the actor?”
“Sure. Badass dude, maybe a little long in the tooth these days, but somehow he still manages to kick the young punks’ asses.”
“Westfield’s running the meeting.”
“Friend of yours?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s his stance on autographs?”
“I could arrange it.”
“My friend’s a big fan. Myself, I’m more into Bruce Willis. Wiseass suits me better.”
“I’d rather not have to explain who you are to the people I’m working with. Including my brother. How about if we say you’re Ben Westfield’s personal assistant?”
“Now you’re talking.”
“And one more thing—well, actually make that two.”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’ll e-mail you a short video. Stars a man with blond hair and horn-rim glasses. If you could identify him, dig up any background, it could be helpful. He might have been the point man on the massacre.”
“And?”
“Another gentleman named Adrian Naff. Current head of security for Albion International. Before that he worked as a contractor for an outfit called Aegis Defense Service. Anything you can dig up.”
“Ben Westfield in the flesh, you’re not playing me?”
“In the flesh.”
“Okay then. Look for me late tomorrow.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No one ever does.”
She needed to refresh her memory, get the details straight before Westfield arrived, so Harper spent the afternoon on her laptop reviewing the three videos, taking notes on hotel stationery, working up a timeline, a cast of characters. Trying to visualize the connective tissue between events.
First she watched the group of child slaves on Royale Plantation. Scrawny nine-year-old Yacou chopped cacao pods for a while, then rose from the circle of boys and headed into the bush. He drew the fronds aside and pointed at “Rachel” and the other man, and called out to the security team. The two beefy black men in uniforms flanked by a white man in a blue button-down shirt, striped tie, and black-framed glasses burst into their hiding spot. Ross had described the white man as an accounting professor, but when Harper went hand to hand with the same man at the Edgewater Apartments, knocking his Ruger away, accounting hadn’t come to mind. There was a second white man behind Ruger Guy, but his face was never on camera. Just a quick flash.
Then she watched again the short hostage film with Spider, Naff, and Jackson Sharp crammed together on a bench. It was grainy, probably shot with a cheap mobile phone. She reran the hostage video several times, concentrating on each of the three prisoners in turn. Only one of these men was still alive. Only one still mattered. Adrian Naff.
But she noticed things about each of the men that escaped her before. The pissed-off squint in Spider’s eyes, a man enraged by his predicament and on the verge of a violent eruption. And Jackson Sharp, his shoulders hunched, cowering. More defeated than she’d previously noticed. Of the three, he was plainly the weakest, with sneaky eyes, a coward searching for an easy out, ready to confess whatever confidential information he could use to bargain for his release. Willing to betray his employer, his country, even his comrades in an instant.
Adrian Naff was strikingly different from the others. His eyes were oddly calm, locked on the unblinking camera. In the passport photos of Naff, and during her brief encounter with him, she hadn’t seen this detached, unflinching expression. Undaunted by his captivity, his gaze sent a direct challenge to his captors. But it was more than simple bravery. She saw a man who’d long ago made peace with his own mortality. A man perfectly at ease with this ugly situation, which made him, in Harper’s view, far more lethal than his two companions.
Sal cleared his throat. Standing just behind her shoulder.
“I took another look at the video in the jungle, the woman with her throat slit.”
“Yeah?”
“I froze it on one frame to get a better look at the second white man who was with Ruger Guy and the African guards.”
“What is it, Sal?”
“He had a tattoo on his neck, a crucifix.”
She was silent for a moment, letting her pulse recover.
“You’re sure?”
“I can show you the frame, you don’t believe me.”
“Jackson Sharp. The guy that conned Ross. He was there when it all happened. He was part of it.”
Sal nodded.
Harper looked off at the street window again. “Which explains how Sharp got hold of the video he was peddling to Ross. He picked it up that day. Used it later for his blackmail scheme.”
“Seems that way.”
“Good work, Sal. Very good work.”
“You watch the other video?” he said, his eyes shying away. “One shot inside your house?”
She closed the laptop and swiveled around. Sal was wearing jeans and a black V-necked sweater, his white chest hair curling out of the V.
“I watched enough.”
“How much?”
“All I could manage.”
“Not the whole way through?”
“No.”
“I wondered.”
“Why do you ask?”
“You see the part where Spider comes into the house, gun drawn?”
“That’s where I stopped, yes. What’re you getting at?”
“I thought maybe it was like that.”
“Damn it, Sal, say what’s on your mind.”
“Nick told me what went down in the hotel in Old Town. What you did to Spider, god only knows what he had in mind. So taking him out, you can chalk that up to self-defense. ’Cause see, it wasn’t Spider shot Ross and Leo. I mean, yeah, he was there, but he didn’t pull the trigger.”
Inside her chest she felt the flimsy structure of rationalizations she’d assembled begin to fall apart.
“Are you serious?”
“Sorry,” he said. “But I had to tell you.”
“Who was it then? Who killed them?”
“I know it’s rough,” he said. “But you need to look, see for yourself.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Watch it. When you’re done, if you need to talk, I’ll be out in the front room.”
It took her several minutes to build up the nerve. Then she ran the video again, fast-forwarded through the days she’d already seen, came to Spider’s entrance. Stopped. She felt her heart struggling, breath hard and shallow.
She steeled herself and tapped the arrow and the video came alive.
With his pistol pointed at Ross, Spider said, “Like you to meet an associate of mine.”
He stepped aside and swept his arm upward as if shooing a balloon into the air.
Entering the room was a man in black trousers, black turtleneck, dark Windbreaker, and a white ghost mask. Leo gurgled with glee. A masked man had come calling. What fun.
The camera, fixed high on the wall in the far corner, recorded a panoramic view of the room. The masked man took a leisurely look at his surroundings, then drew a silver pistol from inside his jacket. A long suppressor was fastened to its barrel.
Ross said, “Hey, wait a second, will you? Tell me what you want. We can work this out.”
Spider raised his hands and shrugged. Sorry, pal, too late to negotiate.
Without warning, the mas
ked man raised the pistol, aimed, and fired. Ross stumbled backward. His arms were wrapped tight around Leo, trying in vain to shield him.
Ross kept his footing, wobbling, clutching Leo. The shooter stepped forward, closing in on Ross until his pistol was no more than a foot from his face. The second shot struck Ross squarely in the forehead and sent him sprawling onto the green couch.
The masked man kept the pistol raised as if debating a third shot. Spider stepped to his side, whispered into his ear, and raised a cautious hand to coax the shooter’s hand down.
Spider said, “Okay, you happy now? You tied up the loose ends. You earned your merit badge. Now get the fuck out of here while I finish up.”
The masked man took another slow look around the living room, as though basking in the moment, turned, and left.
Harper stopped the video, swallowed an impossible breath. Her eyes fogged over.
It wasn’t Spider. She’d strangled the wrong man. The killer was someone else, a man who appeared unpracticed in the art of murder, a novice.
The spy cam distorted the perspective slightly, but Harper was pretty sure the shooter was several inches shorter than Spider. He had narrow shoulders, a sunken chest, a puny physique.
But his eyes behind the mask, oh, those eyes were bright.
That much was absolutely clear. His bright, burning eyes.
THIRTY-THREE
Mid-March, Seestrasse, Zurich, Switzerland
At the Berlang Indoor Gun Range, six miles south of Paradeplatz and the Albion building, Adrian Naff was shooting his .357 Smith & Wesson. A reliable, uncomplicated weapon that suited his temperament. With the paper target hanging forty feet away, he’d grouped six rounds in a tight cluster, mostly inside the bull’s-eye. Not bad for an old-timer whose eyes weren’t as sharp as they’d once been.
In the next booth, Lester Albion was trying out his new Glock 43 9mm. His target was positioned only half the distance of Adrian’s, but his six perforations were scattered around the periphery of the outer circle. Not a target to take home and frame.
While Adrian was reloading, Albion peeked around the edge of the booth and stripped off his tactical ear protectors. Adrian did the same. No other shooters on the range today. All quiet.
“How’s it feel?”
Albion grinned. “I love it. For one thing, the size is perfect, it’s very concealable, and I like the oversize magazine catch. Easy to pop out. And the built-in beavertail design lets me grip it high and tight.”
“Not too tight,” Naff said. “Like I said, keep your hand a little loose, find that sweet spot between firm and soft.”
“Right, right.”
Lester Albion pressed the button on the automatic pulley, and his target came fluttering back. He unclipped it and held it out for Naff to admire. In the dozen times they’d come to this range on Seestrasse, Naff had managed to navigate the tricky pathways of Albion’s ego. But it wasn’t always easy to come up with praise to balance out his critiques.
“Well, I admit, the grouping could be tighter,” Albion said.
“True,” Naff said. “It should be half that diameter. And see how most of the cluster is high and to the right. Means you’re still pulling up when you squeeze. Flinching just a hair.”
“But overall it’s good, no? Better than with the Ruger.”
“Miles ahead of that,” Adrian said.
This was hard duty for Adrian. He wasn’t a natural bullshitter. With the young men he’d schooled in the marines, there had been no pep talks at the firing range. With those guys, marksmanship wasn’t a hobby. It was life and death.
“Have another go?” Albion said.
Adrian was still reloading when Albion ran his target out to fifty feet and began to fire. Just as Adrian raised the .357, someone tapped on his back.
Wearing a set of white ear protectors, Larissa Bixel gestured curtly for him to follow.
Out in the lobby coffee bar, she led him to a corner booth and waved off an approaching waitress. She set the earmuffs on the table and leaned forward. The veins in her temple crisscrossing her pale skin were at full bulge. She gritted her teeth and sighed in resignation, as if preparing to berate a perpetual fuckup.
Adrian said, “You’re looking lovely today.”
She registered the remark for several seconds, then the air went out of her, and she sat back in the booth and looked past him at a far wall. Eyes flitting to the left, then the right. In such close quarters, she had to work overtime to avoid eye contact.
“This morning I spoke to one of our security guards about the incident on Friday night, and I was informed that you had a brief encounter with the McDaniel woman.”
“Your information is correct.”
“Afterward, you followed the woman outside.”
“Also correct.”
“And allowed her to depart.”
“Your point is?”
She planted both hands flat on the table and studied her manicure. “I ordered you to remove this woman.”
“What? Shoot her dead on the sidewalk outside the building? Is that how you would have handled it?”
“You made no attempt to follow her.”
“Following her wasn’t necessary. I know where Ms. McDaniel is staying. A very posh local hotel.”
“What hotel?”
Adrian smiled. “So you can send Helmut over with a bouquet of flowers?”
Her glance grazed his face, then flicked away.
“Do you think this is a laughing matter, Mr. Naff? Because I assure you it is quite the opposite. Ms. McDaniel is a threat to you and to me and the entire Albion family. Her incursion into the building and her thievery should make perfectly clear that the woman intends to do harm to our business.”
Naff glanced around the small café. A young couple was having coffee three booths away. Otherwise empty.
“Where’s Helmut? You give him the day off?”
Bixel ran a finger inside the rim of her red turtleneck sweater as if it had tightened against her throat.
“Your boy’s not very good at what he does, you know. I suppose he must have some skills, or you wouldn’t keep him around, but tailing a person isn’t one of them. Why was he shadowing me anyway? You worried I’m going to uncover your secrets and let Lester know what you’ve been up to?”
“If you know the woman’s whereabouts, why are you waiting?”
“You have the wrong impression about me, Ms. Bixel. I’m not a hired gun. If you want that kind of service, use Helmut.”
“I asked you a question. What’re you waiting for?”
“Okay, actually there’s someone in line ahead of you.”
“And who would that be?”
“Lester asked me to investigate the African matter, so I’ve been making phone calls, talking to some people out there. Learning fascinating details about recent events on the Royale Plantation and the surrounding region.”
“It would be a grave error to involve yourself in this situation, which is far beyond your abilities.”
“Story of my life.”
“You obviously misunderstood Mr. Albion’s wishes. Have you forgotten his instructions Friday night? He made it very clear to all of us that his foremost priority was to complete the Marburg transaction. He asked to hear no more about the African situation. How can it be more plain than that?”
Naff straightened his place mat, dusted it off. Enjoying this, fencing with her, watching Bixel’s growing irritation. “While I was poking around, I came across an incident in a village named Soko, a tiny place in Burkina Faso about a hundred miles from Albion’s cacao plantation. My source in the Ivory Coast tells me that some months ago this village was destroyed, villagers murdered. Upward of seventy-five people, that’s what my source said.
“And the kicker is there’s talk that what happened in Soko is related to cacao beans. Seems very strange, doesn’t it? I’m trying to figure out just what the connection is, how it relates to my old chum Spider and to Harper McDaniel.<
br />
“Oh, and by the way, did you know that Ms. McDaniel recently lost her husband and child? Victims of homicide. All indications are that it was a professional job. You happen to know anything about this? Like maybe it was the task you gave Spider?”
Her face had stiffened into a mask of speechless rage. Just as she was opening her mouth to unleash a withering response, Lester Albion arrived breathless at their booth.
“Look at this. My god, you won’t believe it.”
He held out his phone.
“The caller at the top, see the name. How amazing is that? Ben Westfield tracked me down and called me directly! He wants to meet, discuss his new movie. It’s about the chocolate industry, an action thriller, the kind of movie he does. He thinks I can help with his research.”
“Westfield?” Bixel asked.
“Hollywood tough guy,” Adrian said. “Been around forever.”
“He’s an actor, yes, but Westfield does it all: actor, writer, director. Plays the most marvelous villains. You’ll meet him day after tomorrow, Thursday at four. He wants to sit down with my inner circle. Cecil Marburg too. He asked for Marburg by name. Isn’t this amazing?”
“An actor,” Bixel said. “He wants a meeting? And you’re doing it?”
“Yes, yes, of course I am. I’m a huge fan. Have been all my life. And out of the blue he calls me up. He’s coming to Zurich just to meet us. The inner circle, as he said.”
Adrian was quiet, picturing that coffee-table book still lying on his office desk, The Last Bloom, photos by Deena Roberts and Harper McDaniel. Ben Westfield’s portraits on page one and two. Young version on the left, and on the facing page the older Westfield, handsome, rawboned, rugged, looking twice as tough as his younger self. There he was, a supernova among ordinary stars, prominently displayed at the opening of Harper’s book. And now he was coming all the way to Zurich to meet Lester Albion and his inner circle.
“Out of the blue,” Adrian said.
“Yes, yes,” Albion said. “Out of the blue. Can you believe it?”
THIRTY-FOUR
Mid-March, Zurich Airport, Switzerland
Harper was being stalked. She felt the whispery brush of eyes following close behind as she navigated the main concourse of Zurich Airport, a slow stroll toward the VIP arrival lounge where she was to meet Ben Westfield at noon.
When They Come for You Page 20
