by Tom Wood
Kennard sank down, eyes wide, hands still grabbing uselessly at the man who was killing him. The knife was pulled free a final time, and Kennard slumped onto his knees. He clutched at the torn shreds of his stomach, fingers warm with blood and touching slick innards no longer inside him. Kennard didn’t scream. He couldn’t.
He felt fingers on his head, grabbing and pulling upwards. Then, on Kennard’s own hair, the man carefully wiped the blood from his knife.
When the weapon was clean, the man released him. The blade didn’t look like metal — matte black. Kennard watched the man fold the blade away and replace the knife in a wrist sheath hidden on his left forearm. The man moved back over to the washbasin and once again began to methodically wash his hands. Kennard watched helplessly, clutching at the slippery, ragged mess of his stinking guts. He felt so tired.
By the time the man had finished drying his hands, Kennard’s head hung limply forward. He heard the click of the man’s shoes on the tiled floor, saw the dull black leather as the man walked past him. Kennard heard the creak as the man pushed through the gate, and the slowly lessening sound of his ascending the stairs.
Kennard reached inside his coat for his cell phone but couldn’t find it. His wallet was gone too. He hadn’t even noticed. He saw it on the floor nearby, empty. To make his death look like a mugging, he realized. The smartphone had gone too.
Kennard didn’t move, didn’t try to crawl away. There was no point.
He knew he didn’t have a chance.
CHAPTER 27
Marseilles, France
Friday
05:03 CET
Rebecca Sumner adjusted her reading glasses and scrolled through the information displayed on her laptop’s screen. An American attached to the US Embassy had been stabbed to death in Paris last night, just a few hours ago. The police believed it to be a mugging since the dead man’s wallet and phone had been taken. Further in the text it stated that the man worked as a cultural attache at the embassy, which meant he might actually have been a cultural attache or, in typical agency style, it could have been a cover for his true position. His name was John Kennard. The name meant nothing to her.
Rebecca felt the beating of her heart begin to quicken. The timing of it seemed wrong, so close to Monday’s massacre. Her orders had been to stay put and await further instructions, and she had been doing just that. But then the unexpected communique had arrived in her in-box and her control hadn’t got back to her about it. And now this. It seemed like too much of a coincidence to be unrelated, or was she just being paranoid? She sat at her desk in the sparsely furnished apartment she had called home for the past few months. The glow of the monitor illuminated her face. She had no other lights on.
She didn’t know the name of her control, had never met him. Their only communications had been over secure satellite phone links and the Internet. She didn’t know who else was working on the operation or who had ordered it. She was on need to know, and apparently she didn’t need to know very much. What she did know, but which no one had told her, was that the op was off the books, way off the books.
It had been nearly five days since everything had gone so wrong, and Tuesday had been the last day her control had contacted her with the directive to hold her position and await new orders. So she had. For four days she had lived off whatever was in her cupboards, never venturing outside, always at her computer, always waiting. Twelve hours ago something had happened that changed everything. The killer had sent her a message. That hadn’t been in the script.
So she’d disobeyed orders and contacted her control by email within minutes of the killer’s message arriving. It always took a few hours for the control to get back to her, but, half a day later, there was still no reply. Her actions had been a clear breach of the strict protocol by which the operation had been run, but she felt the communication had warranted it. Surely it was a chance to get back on track. She had assumed that she’d received nothing further because those in charge were working out what she should reply back with. But then this John Kennard had been killed.
On the phone her control had spoken with a West Coast accent; she’d guessed he was an LA native. She stared at the screen for another minute, searching for information. John Kennard was from California, the report said.
Maybe the reason why her control hadn’t gotten back to her was because he’d been stabbed to death in Paris last night.
If this Kennard was really her control, then why had no one else contacted her after he’d been killed? It was over seven hours since his death. Plenty of time for her to get a phone call or email. It was late here but not in the States, and no one slept for long on something like this anyway. Her control would have superiors who must know about her role in the operation. But what if no one else knew the control was dead? The op couldn’t be salvaged if no one knew what was going on.
If they needed to speak, her control always phoned her, but he had given her a special number to call in case of dire emergencies, a cell phone number, and she considered this about as big an emergency as it could get. Rebecca picked up the phone.
Her wide eyes stared into the darkness when she heard the automated voice say the line was unavailable. She waited a minute and tried again. Unavailable. And again. Still unavailable. Lines like this didn’t become unavailable. Rebecca felt the unnerving compulsion to look over her shoulder at the apartment door.
She slammed the phone down hard, suddenly understanding what was going on. First what happened in Paris on Monday, then an American from the embassy killed last night, now the emergency line dead. The only explanation was terrifying, but she made a determined effort to remain calm. There must be something you’re missing, she told herself. She pored over all the reports, every scrap of intel she had access to. She needed to prove herself wrong or prove herself right — and quickly.
Interpol gave her the answer she was dreading. She read through a report that came out of Switzerland. A house had burned down north of Geneva, and a man found dead. Police were looking for the killer. Rebecca’s eyes focused on the address. She had seen that address before. She’d helped find it. They’d tried again, but no one had told her. She was out of the loop. Which could only mean one thing.
Rebecca grabbed the files from her desk, carried them into the kitchen, and threw them into the sink. She rummaged through her cupboards and found the bottle of super strength rum she’d been saving for a rainy day. Today it was pouring outside and in. She unwrapped the top, tugged off the stopper, and splashed some into the sink. She took the lighter for the stove off its hook, put the end into the sink, and stood well back.
She clicked the button and the rum ignited. Rebecca took a swig from the bottle and watched the files burn for a moment. It didn’t take her long to throw some clothes into a suitcase. She took practical items, nothing fancy. She had a wardrobe full of clothes she loved but it was no time to be sentimental. She had to get out as fast as possible.
There was a clean-up job under way; she was certain of it now. All the signs were there. The op had gone wrong and whoever was in charge had pulled the plug, and they were cutting off the loose ends. She knew this kind of thing happened in the old days, but she never would have believed it still occurred in this age. You’d better believe it, she told herself.
Why the need to start killing people? Just what the hell was really going on? She had the sinking feeling that the op wasn’t just off the books — it was out of the library entirely.
Her control was already dead. Only seven hours ago. They would be sending someone for her too; they might have sent them already. She looked at her watch. Each passing second brought her own demise hurtling closer.
Her heart was pounding as she zipped up her laptop and grabbed her personal effects. She left the comms equipment. She didn’t need it, and all the files were on the computer. In the kitchen the thick smoke made her cough as she turned on the faucets to put out the fire in the sink.
She left the apartment,
her throat choked with fear, and walked along the corridor expecting a man with a silenced pistol to appear at any moment. No, she reminded herself, they wouldn’t do it like that. She’d have an accident, maybe take an overdose. Maybe get mugged in a restroom.
She decided against the elevator and took the stairs. She hurried down them, her face slick with perspiration. On the ground floor she didn’t use the front door but found a fire exit at the back and pushed it open into an alleyway. The cold wind tossed her hair over her shoulders. Rain soaked her.
Rebecca could hear traffic nearby but could barely see. If she ran they might hear her, so she walked slowly and carefully to the end of the alley. Relief washed over her as she stepped out onto the street.
Maybe she was wrong, maybe her control had just been unfortunate, but she had spent her life analysing the odds, and the odds told her to get the hell away. She had a car but didn’t go to it. They would know about it. It was registered in her name. Maybe there was a bomb waiting underneath it or the brake cables were severed.
Rebecca walked down the street, the rain beating down on the top of her head. She felt safer to be near other people. They wouldn’t do anything in public. She hailed a cab, telling the driver to take her to the airport. She had a place she knew she could go, where no one would find her. On the way she thought about what had happened and what might happen, and a plan started to formulate in her mind. By the time she got out of the taxi she knew exactly what she was going to do. It was dangerous, crazy even.
But it might just keep her alive.
CHAPTER 28
Paris, France
Friday
08:12 CET
Alvarez pulled his bulky frame out from the hotel bed of nails and headed for the shower. After three efficient minutes of washing and scrubbing, he got out, dried himself, and dressed. He’d had only a handful of hours of sleep the night before, the same as every other night over the week, and he felt like pounded crap. He was running on fumes, and the fumes were running out. When he was younger he could do whatever the job required, whenever, but things had taken a downward trend somewhere along the road after taking Route 35. Route 40 was just around the corner.
Things weren’t going to get any easier, with the job or with his body. Time was the worst enemy there was. The way Alvarez saw it you were smart if you knew fighting it was a losing battle, but you were a coward if you didn’t fight anyway. Alvarez had allowed himself an extra half hour in bed in an effort to rejuvenate his brain and sinews. The big-ass yawn told him it hadn’t been enough. The direct hunt for Ozols’s killer may have gone cold but concentrating his efforts on finding out who hired the seven shooters to kill the assassin was generating leads.
Seven out of the seven dead shooters had been identified, and of those the American, Stevenson, was the focus point of Alvarez’s hunt. Noakes had found a series of photographs on Stevenson’s hard drive of some kind of meeting between Stevenson and an unidentified man, dated a couple weeks before the Paris massacre. A third individual had taken the shots secretly, mainly of the mystery man, an overweight guy in his fifties carrying a briefcase. There were pictures of him arriving at a cafe in Brussels and taking a seat at one of the tables outside where Stevenson waited; of the two conversing for a while, drinking coffee, and eating pastries; and of the fat guy standing to go, leaving the briefcase beneath the table.
The photographer had then followed him to his car and taken a few pictures of him driving away. For some reason the guy with the camera had failed to get a shot of the licence plate, but Noakes was doing his best trying to get it from reflected surfaces. So far without luck.
Stevenson’s bank records showed that he had deposited one hundred thousand euros in cash a day later. No one at the bank had questioned the deposit or notified the authorities about it. The bank manager had since been fired. Alvarez was determined to identify the guy with the briefcase and was working towards that goal with his typical composed efficiency.
Alvarez’s ability to remain calm in a crisis was one of his most highly prized traits. It took a lot for him to get emotional and even more for him to act on that emotion. In his time in the military he’d been on the receiving end of some hairy situations, and as an operative of the Central Intelligence Agency more than one gun had been pushed in his face. Only once had he genuinely feared for his life, and at that moment he found that fear focused him and made him deadly.
If anything it was easier for him to deal with danger than it was the more mundane varieties of stress. People not answering the damn phone pissed him off far more than staring down the barrel of a. 45.
Kennard had disappeared off the radar, his phone taunting Alvarez with his all-too-perfectly-well-rehearsed voice-mail message each time Alvarez hit speed dial. The previous evening Alvarez and Kennard had shared a drink in a shitty little Parisian apology of a bar. Alcohol was something Alvarez usually saved for special occasions, but Kennard had been wearing a face like he’d been sucking jalapenos for a couple of days, and Alvarez understood the importance of morale.
It felt good letting his hair down too. The week had been an ungodly bitch, and he was feeling the effects. A few beers had chilled him out, but Kennard had been a bundle of nervous energy. Something was definitely under the younger guy’s skin, but Kennard was keeping his lips well and truly locked. Woman trouble, Alvarez guessed. Some slutty piece of ass not returning his messages or some other bullshit. After draining the last of his beer, Alvarez had suggested finding a burger joint but Kennard shook his head.
‘I would,’ Kennard had said, ‘but I’ve got something I need to do.’
Alvarez’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘Something, or someone?’
‘I wish.’
Alvarez was firing up his laptop and onto his second cup of black coffee when his phone rang. Less than sixty seconds later he was heading out the door.
It was a short hop on the metro to the embassy, and he made his way to his office hoping that someone had made a terrible error. They hadn’t. The police report was waiting for him, including photos. Alvarez sat down, unhooked his office phone, switched off his cell, and carefully read through the information.
Kennard was dead. Murdered. Stabbed multiple times in the gut, ultimately dying from loss of blood. Signs of a struggle. His phone was taken and his wallet emptied. No witnesses. Paris’s finest had it down as a robbery. Poor schmuck.
Alvarez had lost people before, albeit rarely, only two in his whole career with the company. They were assets though, not true CIA. He accepted it as an inherent risk of the operational side of the business, but it wasn’t something he’d ever become used to. Alvarez leaned back in his chair and exhaled heavily.
He’d never particularly liked Kennard and wasn’t about to pretend to grieve for his passing, but he was genuinely sorry the guy had been murdered by some snail-eating piece of shit. Probably some homeless junkie so he could score some crack. It was no way for an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency to die. Far better to have been have been killed on duty than while going for a piss.
The way the cops had it and the way it looked in Alvarez’s head too was that the perp had surprised Kennard with a knife and demanded his things. Kennard had tried to draw his gun and had been stabbed repeatedly. Kennard was full of himself enough to have tried something stupid like that. He should have handed over the wallet and waited for the guy to go and then put three in his spinal column.
Alvarez thought for a moment. Kennard, though hardly a lethal weapon, was a fully trained operative. It was hard to see how some lowlife could’ve gotten the drop on him. Alvarez scratched the back of his thick neck. He sighed and shook his head. He was reading far too much into it. The guy had been killed. It happened, even to the best. And Kennard certainly wasn’t the best.
Alvarez was going to have a shitload of extra work to do now that Kennard was out of the picture. The guy gets himself killed when they’re up to the eyeballs on the hunt for a professional contract killer.
Perfect timing.
Alvarez put the file down and turned on his phone. He had three missed calls and a voice mail. He listened to the message. It was Noakes telling him about the photographs on Stevenson’s hard drive. He called him back.
‘What have you got?’
‘I’ve found something in a couple of the photos from Stevenson’s meeting.’
‘Such as?’
‘In the ones showing the mystery man leaving, we’ve got some shots of his car-’
‘But none of the licence plate, I know.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s right, but on two we get a look at a windshield sticker, once I’d enhanced the image. It’s from the rental-car company.’
‘Who are they?’
‘They’re based out of Brussels. We didn’t have a clear shot of the sticker, just the first half of the name and phone number, but that was enough to narrow down the list of suspects until I found out who it was. There aren’t that many rental-car companies in Brussels with similar names. I’ve emailed you the pertinent details.’
Alvarez hung up a minute later and opened up Noakes’s email expectantly. He pushed the police report to one side. It was a damn shame about Kennard, but he would deal with the bureaucracy of his death later on.
Right now he had more pressing matters.
CHAPTER 29
Debrecen, Hungary
Friday
20:12 CET
Victor had spent the morning in Zurich emptying his primary bank account before burying the money minus twenty thousand euros. The cash would be his only source of funds for some time. He couldn’t carry any more across borders without attracting suspicion and putting the rest in another bank was not an option.
