by Tom Wood
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her against him and into an awkward hug. Rebecca resisted for a moment before wrapping her own arms around him, her chin resting on his shoulder, any anger vanishing as she felt their bodies together, the protection of his embrace. He stank of smoke, but she didn’t care. It felt good.
She noticed she was holding him tighter than he was her and realized it was for show, for the people watching, to maintain the couple act.
Rebecca pulled away. She could see the surprise and awkwardness on his face. She sat down, embarrassed. He sat down opposite her, picked up her fork, and started eating her salad. Slowly, the bar’s noise levels began to rise back to normal.
‘What the hell was that?’ she asked quietly.
His tone was frustratingly casual, ‘What was what?’
Rebecca frowned. ‘Are you making a joke?’
‘I told you I don’t make jokes.’
She shook her head. ‘Look, you didn’t need to do anything. I was taking care of it.’
He looked up and paused chewing. He said nothing.
‘I was taking care of it,’ she said again.
‘I would say that’s a flatteringly positive assessment.’
She glared at him. ‘When I want your help, I’ll ask for it.’
‘When I deem it necessary to help,’ he began, ‘I’ll do so whether you ask for it or not.’
She noticed something in the way he said it, an unexpected protectiveness. He saw that she’d noticed it too and looked away. He continued attacking her salad so he didn’t have to look her in the eye. She took a drink of the vodka tonic.
‘Thanks for getting it without ice.’
He nodded without looking at her.
Rebecca watched him for a minute. ‘Did you get everything you needed?’
He nodded, said nothing.
‘So, what next?’ she asked.
He continued eating for a few moments before speaking. ‘I’ll break into Olympus and get the files.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
She nodded. ‘Then we’re one step closer to the bad guy.’
He gave her an expression she didn’t get. Rebecca looked at him quizzically. ‘What?’
He raised an eyebrow at her.
‘I am the bad guy.’
CHAPTER 62
Paris, France
Thursday
21:2 °CET
Just to make Alvarez’s day more frustrating it was raining. Hard. He didn’t carry an umbrella, never had, never would, and he walked quickly with his wide shoulders hunched up around his neck. Rain pelted the top of his head and ran down his face and neck and soaked his coat and shirt. He’d only been out of the cab for three minutes, but already he was wetter than a coed on spring break. The rain suited his mood though. The investigation was quickly running out of momentum. With Hoyt dead and the only solid lead gone with him, Alvarez was virtually stalled. Ozols’s killer and the location of the missiles were getting further and further away.
It took him another minute of getting drenched before he spotted the right cafe on a street that seemed to have dozens and hurried inside. The interior was small with a low ceiling and every table was taken. Alvarez swiped some of the rain from his hair and face and looked around the room. He saw Lefevre sitting on his own and reading a newspaper. The short, meticulously groomed French lieutenant looked exactly the same as when Alvarez had first encountered him a week and a half ago outside the killer’s hotel. His manner seemed different now though; then he had been all arrogance and superiority. Now he just looked like a regular guy. He hadn’t seen Alvarez enter and only looked up as Alvarez was pulling out a chair opposite him.
‘I’m glad you didn’t stand me up,’ Alvarez said as he took his seat. ‘Because after getting this wet I would have had to hunt you down.’
Lefevre closed his newspaper. ‘Drink?’
‘Yeah. Coffee, please.’
The Frenchman called over a waitress and ordered two coffees and a pain au chocolat for himself. Alvarez smiled. Cops were the same the world over. They all ate their national donuts. Alvarez took off his saturated coat and hung it over the back of his chair.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Lefevre nodded. ‘That’s right. Thank you for coming.’
‘No problem.’
‘I believe we can help each other.’
‘I tried to tell you that over a week ago.’
Lefevre shrugged. ‘And I should have listened. But I had a hotel full of dead bodies to deal with. Please accept my apology for any rudeness on my part.’
‘Accepted.’
‘I’ll keep this short.’
Alvarez wiped some more rain from his head. ‘Suits me.’
‘Andris Ozols,’ Lefevre began, ‘was a retired officer of the Russian and Soviet navies. Correct?’
Alvarez didn’t respond.
‘I’ll take your silence as a yes,’ the French lieutenant said with a half smile. ‘I know this is true, and I’m quite sure you do too. Anyway, we both know that he was murdered last week by a professional killer. A killer who was himself targeted only two hours later at his hotel, where he shot a large number of people. This asyet unnamed killer then returned to Paris a few days ago. He was recognized and followed but escaped arrest, and in the process killed several police officers. Before his escape he met with an American woman.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Alvarez asked.
Lefevre leaned back. ‘Because you can do more with it than I can.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘John Kennard,’ Lefevre said.
Hearing the name made Alvarez picture the guy in his head. Dead. Stabbed to death and lying on a shitty bathroom floor. ‘What about him?’
‘He worked with you, yes?’
‘Listen, I’m not here to answer your questions, okay?’
Lefevre nodded. ‘That’s up to you. I’m telling you what I know, and I’m asking for nothing in return. But I hope when I have finished you will be more forthcoming with me.’
The waitress returned with their order. Alvarez took a sip of coffee. ‘Go on.’
‘A day after Kennard was murdered, a homeless man, well known to my people, tried to use his credit card to buy alcohol. He was picked up by an officer and questioned. On his person, among other things, was a cellular phone that had belonged to your colleague. After extensive interrogation the man claimed to have retrieved the items from a trash can after seeing another man discard them. I believe him. He has no history of violence, and there was no knife on him nor any blood on his clothes, clothes he neither washes nor takes off.’
Lefevre continued, ‘The man who threw the phone and credit card away is described as wearing a suit and speaking with an English accent. As you might expect this did not sound like a typical Parisian mugger to me. There was clearly more to the murder than anyone first thought. As part of the investigation Kennard’s most recent calls were all checked. They were to friends, family members, colleagues, and so on — nothing suspicious except a single French number that called Kennard’s phone twice after he had been killed.’
Alvarez did his best not to react to what he was hearing.
‘That number corresponds to an apartment in Marseilles where we found sophisticated communications equipment. My equivalent in Marseilles found this residence abandoned. Female fingerprints were taken there that match those found in an apartment here in Paris. The same apartment where Ozols’s killer escaped with that American woman.’
Alvarez was stunned. He put his coffee down.
‘As you can see, there is some connection between your colleague, this American woman, and the man who murdered Andris Ozols. I don’t know what this connection is, and I’m taking a big risk in telling you all this information. For all I know you’re involved, too.’
‘I can assure you that is definitely not the case.’
Lefevre nodded as if he didn’t
need to be convinced. ‘I’m a police officer. It’s my job to bring criminals to justice. But I know how the intelligence business works. I know there are things I will never be told, things that I need to be told, and without all the evidence, how can I solve anything? ‘
Lefevre took a brown leather briefcase from the floor and removed a file.
‘What’s that?’ Alvarez asked, looking at the file.
‘For you,’ Lefevre explained, ‘everything we have so far. All the evidence.’
Alvarez picked up the file. He asked a simple question. ‘Why?’
‘As I said, because you can do more with it than I can. I would prefer one of us to succeed than us both to fail. Justice matters more to me than credit. People are dead. They deserve to be avenged. For this, I am deferring to you. All I ask in return,’ Lefevre said, ‘is that you tell me, off the record, when you are successful.’
It was a small price to pay. ‘I will,’ Alvarez said and meant it.
Lefevre gestured to the file. ‘Inside you’ll find the fingerprints of the American woman. I suggest you start by finding out who she really is.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
Lefevre smiled. ‘You don’t have to.’
CHAPTER 63
Nicosia, Cyprus
Thursday
23:49 CET
Rebecca sat on the end of the bed, flicking through the hotel’s satellite-television channels. It was a bizarre mix of both English and Greek language channels with local Cypriot TV. Tesseract was packing his backpack. Her curiosity had made her ask what the equipment was for and, to her surprise, he’d told her. First there was a portable high-capacity hard disk to clone the contents of computer hard drives. Next a transmitter, radio receiver, and sound recorder to bug a phone should he not find what they needed. Items she didn’t need explained were screwdrivers, pliers, a wrench, hexagon keys, pencils, and paper. Lock-picking tools, a glass cutter, and a suction cup were placed together in a separate small bag, which was then added to the backpack.
‘Do you think you’ll need all that?’ Rebecca asked.
He shook his head. ‘But better I take what I might not need than find myself without what I do need.’
When everything was securely packed away, he took a set of clothes with him into the bathroom and closed the door. It wasn’t closed all the way, and through the crack she could see his reflection as he changed. She glimpsed his bare arm, lean but with ridges of hard muscle. She continued watching to sneak a peek at the rest of his body but instead flinched at what she saw.
She caught a glance of his torso and the scars that marked his flesh. A huge circular bruise the size of a fist dominated the centre of his chest. She saw two scars that could have been bullet wounds and more that she guessed were caused by blades. There were others, but she didn’t look long enough to identify them. Rebecca turned her head away, shocked and horrified.
‘That pretty?’
She looked up and saw he was looking at her through the mirror. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she averted her eyes. Before she had worked up the courage to respond, he closed the door fully. She heard the bolt slide across.
He came out a few minutes later, and she watched him take the folding knife from the bedside table and slip it into his pocket. He’d bought it from town. Trying to find a gun would have attracted too much attention, he’d told her.
‘I expect you hate instant coffee as much as I do,’ Rebecca said. ‘So I made us both a tea.’
He took the mug from her and sipped. It must have been okay because he took a longer sip a second later.
‘I still think I should go with you,’ she said.
He didn’t look at her. ‘I work alone.’
‘That hardly matters. I-’
‘Besides,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘It’s safer for you if you stay here.’
She sighed. It was useless trying to argue with him. He was like a child. Stubborn and narrow minded, too used to doing things his own way to accept that someone else might be able to help.
‘Remember,’ he said, ‘don’t leave the room until morning. If I’m not back by sunrise, something has happened to me, and I’ll never be coming back. Get off the island straight away and disappear. Take a boat not a plane-’
‘I know, I know. We’ve been through this once already.’
‘And we’ll keep going through it until I’m convinced you understand everything.’
‘It would be nice if you could give me some credit.’
He looked at her for a moment. ‘This is what I do.’
Rebecca could see she was breaking through the wall he surrounded himself with, even if the only way to penetrate it was to make him lose patience. She wanted to chip away more at that wall, but instead she found herself saying something else.
‘And why do you do it?’
He looked at her blankly. ‘What?’
‘I said, why do you do what you do?’
Rebecca examined his face while he struggled with her question. She’d expected some kind of quick retort or dismissal or downright refusal to answer. Not this. He looked confused, pained even, and she instantly regretted asking him.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘You don’t have to say.’
‘It’s the only thing I’ve ever been any good at.’
She could see that it hadn’t been a justification or even an admission. It had been a confession. He turned his head away and grabbed the backpack from the bed. She watched him, finding herself starting to see the man instead of the killer.
‘How do you manage to sleep at night?’
‘First I close my eyes,’ he explained, deadpan. ‘The rest comes naturally.’
Her nostrils flared. ‘I thought you didn’t make jokes.’
‘I’m learning.’
She saw the trace of smugness in his face. He was pleased with himself, but she saw his responses for the avoidance they were. ‘Tell me your name.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve known you for almost a week,’ she said. ‘And I still don’t have an actual name to call you.’
Rebecca had wanted to ask him before but had never been brave enough to do so. Now, she found she didn’t need courage. She saw the vulnerability in him, the fear she had put into him by making him talk about himself.
She watched him fidgeting with the backpack, acting as if he was checking something. ‘You don’t need to call me anything.’
‘Just tell me.’
He stopped what he was pretending to do and looked up at her. ‘If you want to call me something, call me Jack.’
‘That’s not your real name.’
‘I go by whatever name is on the passport I’m using.’
She frowned. ‘So I should start calling you Jack?’
He slung the backpack over his shoulder. ‘At least until I change passports.’
Rebecca stood up and faced him from across the bed. ‘If you go by so many other names, what difference does it make if you tell me your real name?’
‘I am whoever my passport says I am,’ he explained. ‘I’m more convincing if I think of myself as that person.’
‘You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself more than you are me.’
‘A name in itself means nothing.’ He was speaking louder now, angry but trying to hide it. ‘No one knows my real name. That’s the way it’s going to stay.’
‘Then what does family call you?’
He didn’t respond. She could’ve guessed he wouldn’t.
‘What about your friends, then, do they know your real name, or do they all call you the same false name, or do different ones know you by different names?’
She used the remote to mute the TV while she waited for the answer. He adjusted a strap on the backpack and reslung it over his shoulder. He didn’t answer her question.
‘God,’ she said, understanding. ‘How can you live like that?’
‘It’s better
than dying,’ he answered simply. ‘Or having someone innocent die because of me.’ He headed for the door. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘I have to go.’
Even with less than state-of-the-art lock picks, getting through Olympus’s back door took seconds. Victor had seen no evidence of a security system, so there was no need to disable the building’s power. There were no street lamps nearby, and the roads were deserted. Victor slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He stood in the darkness by the door, listening. He remained motionless until he was sure there was no sound except his for own breathing.
He flicked on a slim flashlight and used its beam to examine the interior. He was in a warehouse space that was empty but for a few crates stacked together in one corner. He could see an armchair, TV, and table behind them — someone’s own little hideaway — but there was no one there. Making no noise, Victor moved to the far end, keeping close to a wall at all times. A narrow set of steps led up to offices above the warehouse. He took them slowly, one careful step at a time.
The office wasn’t locked. In the beam of the flashlight he could see a few desks and a couple of computers — workspace for two or three staff members. There was a tall filing cabinet against one wall and a small safe buried into the brickwork. A newspaper sat folded next to one of the monitors.
He went to the filing cabinet first, working his way through the drawers from bottom to top. There were invoices, purchase orders, delivery notes, licences, correspondence, memorandums. He looked for specific dates — his past contracts — any sizeable sum of money that was handled just before or just after those dates. He took anything that looked remotely useful.
He unscrewed the hard drives of the two desktop computers before turning his attention to the safe. If there was anything else to find, it would be in there. In his backpack he had a slim but powerful laptop, installed onto which was a special piece of software designed specifically for cracking electronic key codes. The software conducted a brute-force attack through a wireless connection, interfering with the lock at its programming port before running a continuous string of numbers until the combination was found. Victor had downloaded the software from the company’s Web site at considerable expense, but without an effective countermeasure it was worth its price. Though against the traditional dial-face combination lock that Victor faced it was completely useless.
