The Hunter v-1

by Tom Wood

  ‘But none of them know the full details of what we’re doing or even who they’re working for. Only one is true agency anyway. And besides, we’ll need to use them again if we’re going to make this work, and they’re good, they’re trustworthy.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself. They’re about as trustworthy as you are.’ Sykes’s eyes narrowed. ‘Or I am for that matter. What if one of them puts the pieces together about what’s been going on here, what are we going to do then? Hope they don’t tell anyone?’ Sykes looked away. ‘Alvarez is already on the scent and looking as if he might actually be getting somewhere. Or maybe that fat idiot Procter will stop worrying about his promotion prospects long enough to make the appropriate leap of faith. Do you really think that this disaster will stay buried if anyone besides ourselves knows even some of the details?’

  ‘But two are Americans, for Christ’s sake.’

  Ferguson’s expression didn’t alter. ‘It’s unavoidable.’

  Sykes’s head rose slowly. ‘You haven’t just decided this, have you?’ You would have had them killed even if things had worked out perfectly.’

  Ferguson nodded. ‘Eventually yes, using Reed over an extended period of time, but this accelerates the urgency.’

  ‘And when did you plan on telling me?’

  ‘Don’t get all precious on me now, Mr Sykes,’ Ferguson said. ‘I told you at the very beginning if we were going to pull this off it had to be completely clean. No traces back to us. What did you think I meant?’ Sykes’s eyes dropped a fraction. ‘You’ve been in this business long enough to know what I was talking about. You may not have admitted it to yourself, but you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into, so don’t act so shocked now. There was always going to be a clean-up phase to this operation, and Reed was always going to be part of that. Experience has also taught me that you need a back-up in case the unexpected occurs, and I knew Reed could be that trump card. And, as events have transpired, it’s a good thing I had that foresight. Until now you didn’t need to know the details.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘I trust this isn’t a problem for you?’ He paused. ‘Is it?

  Sykes’s voice was quiet. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘That’s settled then. Reed will need all their details straight away, and I do mean all their details.’

  ‘I’ll make sure he gets them promptly.’

  ‘That’s my boy.’ All sympathetic smiles now, Sykes noted sourly, like a father explaining to his son the necessity of having the family dog put to sleep to avoid the veterinary bills. ‘It’s for the best.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sykes said, finding himself staring into space. He realized Ferguson was watching him closely and straightened up.

  ‘I do hope you have the stomach for this, Mr Sykes,’ Ferguson said.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Ferguson’s voice dropped a few decibels. ‘Because I would be very disappointed to find my trust in you to be misplaced.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that, sir.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘This Reed character,’ Sykes said to take the spotlight from himself, ‘just how good is he?’

  Ferguson raised an incredulous eyebrow.

  ‘He’s killed more people than Stalin.’

  CHAPTER 24

  Charles de Gaulle Airport, France

  Thursday

  07:3 °CET

  She saw him approaching, walking towards her in a perfectly straight line, relaxed, unfazed by the chaos of the airport around him. He was about five-ten, broad shouldered yet slim. Dark haired. He was wearing a fine black suit, jacket open, top button of his white shirt undone. No tie.

  There was something almost mechanical about his movements, each action measured, controlled. He already had his passport in hand, and she took it from him, opened it up. Borland, James Frederick. James. He looked like a James.

  He hadn’t shaved today, and the dark stubble disguised his otherwise strong jaw line. His skin badly needed some colour, and his hair wasn’t styled, just cut short and fashionless. He had great bone structure but clearly didn’t make the most of himself.

  ‘What is the purpose of your visit to France, Mr Borland?’

  The man’s reply was candid. ‘Business.’

  His British accent was cultured, refined, the voice of a true gentleman. He had the natural class of someone who didn’t have to try. With a bit of work she could make him into a real head turner.

  His eyes were blue, incredibly intense. He was especially handsome she decided, but it took a second look to realize. She compared the passport photo with the face before her and noted how in life he wore the same serious expression. She could tell he was a very deep person. If he blinked she didn’t see it.

  She remembered she had a job to do. ‘What kind of business are you in?’

  Again a one word answer.

  ‘Removals.’

  He wasn’t a big talker, but that didn’t matter. Nothing worse than a guy who never shut up.

  ‘Are you from London? I love London, it’s a fantastic city. I think you English are the nicest people in the world.’

  No reply. Not one for chit-chat then. He just waited with that unwavering blank look on his face. Maybe he was just shy. Yes, that must be it. She managed to sneak a glance at his left hand. No ring. No jewellery of any sort, in fact, and his watch looked like the kind of thing a diver would wear, not a businessman. What was with this guy? It was almost as if he was trying to play down his appearance. What was the point of being a looker if no one looked? If he hadn’t been walking directly towards her, she probably wouldn’t have noticed him.

  She smiled, touched her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, ran a finger along her neck, fluttered her eyelashes like mad — anything to give him the signal to chat her up. He wasn’t taking the bait. Yet. Maybe he liked to tease.

  She checked the information on her computer. The man flew a lot: Luxembourg, Egypt, Hong Kong. And they were just in the last month. She added well travelled to his list of qualities. She hit a few buttons on her keyboard and handed the passport back to him. He took it from her fingers so smoothly that she had to look down at her hand to make sure he actually had it.

  ‘Enjoy your stay in France.’

  She gave it one last try, tilted her head to the side, and looked at him all doe eyed with her best take-me-to-dinner-and-fuck-me look. He walked away without a word.

  Arrogant prick, she thought. He was probably queer.

  CHAPTER 25

  Budapest, Hungary

  Thursday

  17:46 CET

  The sky above the city was overcast. The rain soaked through Victor’s overcoat. He shivered as he walked down a narrow street lined with puddles. The road was cobbled, the sidewalks uneven flagstones. There were no streetlights, just the glow from overlooking windows providing illumination. No one walked nearby. His footsteps echoed.

  He hadn’t dared stay in Switzerland, where both the police and his hunters would be looking for him. Hungary seemed like a good idea. Victor hadn’t been to Budapest for a couple of years, so there had to be less chance of his being tracked here than some other cities. He didn’t believe a private operation could have followed him to Saint Maurice without his knowledge. It would take multiple teams of skilled shadows, precise coordination, access to CCTV footage, aerial and probably satellite surveillance.

  Only an intelligence agency would have those kinds of resources and man power. Even then, few organizations had the reach to make such a thing possible. The assassin who’d tried to kill him in Switzerland had been an American. The leader of the kill team in Paris had been American too. Victor didn’t believe in coincidences. It could only be the CIA.

  The walls of Victor’s world were crumbling down around him. He was on the execution list of the furthest-reaching covert service on the planet.

  He was as good as dead.

  His hotel was lost within the backstreets of Budapest’s re
d-light district. The room came with a bed with a sturdy metal frame and a whole drawer full of fliers for hookers, male as well as female. The hotel was the kind of place where he could lie low for as long as he needed while he collected his thoughts and decided on the next course of action.

  Victor left the alleyway and kept walking, staying to the side streets, avoiding people, watching for shadows. He walked for longer than he planned, thinking, analysing. He thought about Paris, thought about his chalet in flames. Two attempts on his life within a week. He felt unpopular.

  The sands of his life were running out with every passing second. Already the CIA would be scouring surveillance recordings, liaising with the Swiss authorities and foreign intelligence services — all the time narrowing down their search, closing in on him. He found an Internet cafe and took a terminal where he could watch the door. There were things he had to check if he was going to formulate a plan. And whatever plan he put into practice would require money. It was possible that if the CIA knew where he lived they had also frozen his bank accounts. There had been a time when a Swiss bank would never have revealed information about its clients, but the world had changed that day in September 2001. Now anything was possible.

  He was relieved to find his money still in place at the primary bank he used. He would have to withdraw all the money as a precaution and booked an appointment at the bank. Victor had cash stored in various safety-deposit boxes around the Continent, but at the moment he was only concerned with his money in Switzerland. He realized he hadn’t eaten for a while and devoured three cheeseburgers at a nearby cafe. He finished off the milkshake on the street.

  Nothing made sense to him any more. Did the CIA want him because of Paris, or did they arrange it in the first place? Did they hire him or did they hire the guys who tried to kill him or both? Did they track him from France to Switzerland or did they already know where he lived? Any answers he could think of led to more questions. He was reduced to speculation, guesswork, and he hated it.

  He thought about the broker. This is not what you think, whoever they were had said. Maybe he should have listened. Perhaps the CIA had found out about his job and had tried to kill him afterwards; maybe Ozols was a CIA asset; maybe the flash drive belonged to the CIA; or maybe the CIA just wanted it for itself. Maybe the broker had been part of the set-up; maybe the broker was the CIA; or maybe the broker was on the same hit list as he. Too many maybes, not enough certainties.

  Victor hailed a taxi, deciding at the last second to walk instead. The taxi driver hurled abuse at him in Hungarian, the gist of which Victor understood to be a reference to his mother. He didn’t look back. Falling snow mixed with the rain. It felt good on his skin. He walked past a group of homeless men passing around a bottle of something potent, judging by the stink in the air. He felt eyes watching him.

  He put a hand to his chest for a moment. The pain was an annoyance but far from debilitating. There would be no longterm damage, but he now had a large bruise in the centre of his chest. When his current predicament was over, he planned to visit the company who had supplied him with the glass and creatively demonstrate to them just how bulletproof it really was.

  The broker must have known something, he was sure of that now, but he had been so convinced they’d set him up he didn’t contemplate anything else. Now he was running for his life, maybe because of that bullheadedness.

  He performed countersurveillance on autopilot, passing through side streets, doubling back, taking buses, changing. He’d decided to contact the broker long before he reached another Internet cafe, after trying unsuccessfully to come up with a course of action that didn’t go against his paranoia. If he had been right the first time and the broker did have a hand in what had happened in Paris, it wouldn’t matter, he would still be up against the same odds. But perhaps the broker knew something that could help him. He still had the flash drive. It could be the bargaining chip he needed.

  He logged on to the game’s message board. The broker wasn’t logged in, but there was a personal message in his profile’s in-box. From the broker, dated Monday. He opened it. A response to their last communication, a rant about honouring the arrangement, about ‘trust’ of all things. Victor deleted it. He composed his own message:

  Tell me what really happened in Paris and I may deliver the package.

  He thought it short and sweet. All he had to do now was wait.

  CHAPTER 26

  Paris, France

  Thursday

  22:22 CET

  Kennard walked through the deserted street with his hands deep inside his coat pockets. Clouds of moisture billowed around his head with each step. He had a lot to do, like checking his operational email, but this was the most important task. He reached the public toilet and had a cursory look around. Protocol dictated that he should check the area out first, but it was too cold for that by-the-manual shit.

  His shoes echoed on the concrete steps as he descended beneath the ground. The stink of piss was perhaps less overpowering in Paris than it might have been in LA, but repugnant is repugnant, whatever the strength. He slipped a coin into the slot and pushed his way through the creaking gate.

  Only one of the three ceiling lights was working. A single bare bulb providing the grim illumination, casting deep shadows from the fixtures. The air was even colder than it was outside. The American saw his breath misting in the gloom. The walls were stained, the urinals cracked, taps rusted, floor wet.

  What a shithole. No wonder the French were such a miserable people when they had to put up with public restrooms like this. At first glance the place was empty, and Kennard checked his watch. He was exactly right on the button. He rubbed his palms together, hoping the asset wasn’t going to be much longer.

  He became aware there was someone in one of the stalls a second before a toilet flushed. A moment later the door opened and a figure emerged. He moved to the sink, casting Kennard a brief sideways glance.

  The man was dressed in a dark suit and overcoat. There was a squeak as the man turned a faucet and began washing his hands. He did so slowly, in a methodical manner, seemingly unbothered by the cold. The reflection of the man’s blue eyes stared at Kennard in the mirror above the sink. This had to be him.

  ‘Blake?’ Kennard asked.

  ‘I’m Dawson,’ the man who was neither Dawson nor Blake answered.

  His British accent confused Kennard, and for a moment he hesitated. But the accent didn’t matter. The code had been completed. Kennard moved to the sinks and reached a hand into his coat. The other man turned violently toward him, so fast that it made Kennard freeze in place.

  ‘It’s not wise to make such moves,’ the man stated flatly.

  Kennard believed him. Slowly finishing the action, he drew a small but thick manila envelope from his inside pocket.

  ‘For you,’ he said.

  The man eyed it for a few seconds, turned, and used the back of his wrist to hit the hand dryer. Kennard stood, envelope in hand, feeling like a chump, waiting for the Brit to finish. After the dryer had completed its cycle the man turned back and took the envelope from Kennard’s fingers.

  ‘You’re supposed to open it now,’ Kennard explained.

  The man tore open the envelope and reached inside. He drew out a sleek smartphone, turned it once over in his hands, and went to slip it into his inside jacket pocket.

  ‘You need to access the files now,’ Kennard said. ‘I was told you’d have the password.’

  The British guy looked at Kennard for a moment then turned on the smartphone and opened the files. Kennard watched his eyes absorb the information, the man’s face illuminated by the glow of the screen. The smartphone contained several files that Kennard had received from his employer. He had no idea what the files contained; the phone was password protected. It was no doubt the operation plans so someone could assess who was to blame for the screw-up. The fact that Kennard’s contact was British meant that it had probably been a joint black-bag op with MI6. And on
e with potentially severe repercussions, hence all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. But he was only guessing, and in Kennard’s experience it didn’t pay to do too much thinking in his job.

  The Brit stared at the smartphone for a long time before finally looking up. He gestured to the American.

  ‘I think you should read this as well.’

  Kennard nodded as the phone was handed to him. Text filled the small screen. Kennard tried to read what the document said, but the light stung his eyes and made him squint. It had details: height, weight, hair colour, biographical information, what looked like a CIA record. It was someone’s dossier. There was a photo, slowly coming into focus. A face. His face. Two words above it. Two horrible words.

  John Kennard.

  Kennard was an experienced case officer, highly trained. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped the phone and immediately went for his gun. But the man was already coming forward, too fast to be believed, doing something with his hands, just a blur of movement Kennard didn’t understand. The man grabbed Kennard’s wrist as the gun came out of the holster.

  He tried to get the gun up, angling it so he could take a shot. The man was too strong, too close, Kennard couldn’t see where the gun was pointing. He fired anyway.

  The bang was excruciating, the flash made him blink. He’d missed. The bullet harmlessly shattered tiles around the sink. Kennard fired again. This time the bullet hit a urinal, smashing it into pieces that fell clattering to the floor.

  He grabbed desperately at the man’s arm with his free hand. Kennard was at least three inches taller and far heavier, but he was outmatched by his attacker’s leverage and balance. Then he realized — he didn’t know where the man’s other hand was.

  The breath caught in Kennard’s throat as the blade entered his abdomen, knife easily slicing through skin and muscle. Explosions of agony rushed through his body. His gun fell from fingers too weak to hold it. Kennard gasped as the blade was pulled free and driven back in again and again. And again. The knife plunged so deeply the tip scratched the back of his pelvis.