by Tom Wood
Reed stopped suddenly, allowing Victor to back off a few steps. The water was almost knee deep. His enemy was playing it safe, not willing to continue the relentless attack and drain his own energy. He knew what Victor knew, that defending was less strenuous. He was pacing himself, knowing the duel would not end quickly. As fatigue increased reactions slowed.
Victor risked taking his eyes off his enemy, quickly glanced around, looking for anything that might help him. On the bank, unseen in the trees, was the second Russian shot by the assassin. There would be a submachine gun next to him, but there was no way Victor could get to it. He couldn’t go backwards either. The far bank was too far away. He’d never make it. If it was dark he would have a chance of escaping if he could put some distance between them, but at this rate he would be dead long before then. Blood was slick on his arm and stomach. The pain in his back and leg was relentless. Think. Think.
Reed came forward again, thrusting and slashing at Victor’s waist, trying to get the knife under Victor’s arm after he’d failed to get above it. Victor blocked awkwardly, forced to twist his forearm so his palm was upward. He couldn’t risk using the underside, where arteries flowed just below the skin.
Victor pushed an attack aside, felt the hot sting as the knife bit deep into his forearm. The blade caught for a second among the folded layers of the shirt, and Victor used that advantage to throw himself forward, slamming his elbow at his opponent’s chest, hoping to crack ribs.
Reed sacrificed his balance, shifting all his weight to one leg to pull himself away in time. The elbow only glanced his ribcage. Victor blocked another blow with his protected forearm. Red stained the shirt.
The knife came again, in a blur, but Victor knocked the assassin’s hand up with his left forearm, accepting another cut as he tried to grab hold of the wrist with his right hand. Reed was faster and intercepted Victor’s arm, catching the wrist in his left hand. Victor propelled himself forward, going inside the assassin’s reach. Before Reed could counter, Victor drove his forehead into his enemy’s face.
Reed grunted, stumbled back, releasing Victor’s wrist. Reed’s eyes filled with water, blood flowed from the split on the bridge of his nose. He swung frantically with the knife, slashing the air in front of him, keeping Victor at bay.
Victor kept his distance from the lethal blade, welcoming the chance to get his breath back. Blood dripped from Reed’s chin. Victor took two heavy breaths, but he only needed one.
The assassin attacked, aiming high. Victor sidestepped, threw an elbow at the side of Reed’s head. Reed parried with his left arm. The knife came at the side of Victor’s face, in a slash, but Victor ducked down low to avoid it, springing back up, kicking with his right leg. Reed lurched backwards, dodging the attack, but was unable to keep his balance.
Victor knocked the knife to one side with his left hand and punched straight out with his right fist. His knuckles connected with the assassin’s jaw, but it was a glancing blow, sliding away, force redirected — his enemy too fast.
Reed recovered his footing and leaped at Victor from a low crouch. Victor caught the incoming arm in both hands, turned it away, but had to let go and pivot out of the way to avoid Reed’s counterpunch. Both men stepped back. The riverbed was hard and rocky underfoot.
Even Victor’s opponent was looking tired now, his mouth open, taking in large gulps of air with each inhale. It had become a battle of attrition, each man’s abilities evenly matched, neither capable of ending the fight quickly. With each attack and parry the stamina of both was wearing away, working to the point where fatigue would create the inevitable mistake. But Victor, bleeding from both arms, stomach, and ribs, knew that as things stood he would reach that stage sooner.
The pain was extreme. He could no longer keep it from his face even for a second. His arms felt heavy. The shirt was shredded, soaked with river water and blood — more of a hindrance than anything else. Victor released it and shook it off his arm. He thought about throwing it at his opponent, but it would be a pathetic gesture. He wasn’t about to humiliate himself.
His chest heaved; his mouth hung open. He blinked the sweat from his eyes. Reed lunged forward. Victor used his left bare forearm to block the blade, feeling it enter his skin. Reed felt it too, and his eyes glimmered. Victor threw him backwards, went to attack but stumbled, his face contorting in sudden agony. Both actions faked.
Reed lunged again, sensing the kill, lured into overeagerness. He neglected protocol, overextending his thrust. Victor sidestepped easily, pushed the blade away with his right forearm, and brought his left fist across and into Reed’s face.
There was a satisfying smack, the blow knocking Reed sideways. Reed’s arms sagged, stunned. Victor twisted, throwing another heavy punch, trying to capitalize on the change in initiative while he had the chance, but Reed was already dropping into a low crouch, and Victor realized he’d been fooled, his own tactic used against him.
Reed sprang up inside of Victor’s reach, the knife racing straight towards his neck.
Victor did the only thing he could and threw his left arm into its path.
He felt the knife point pierce the underside of his forearm, slicing through skin, muscle, and blood vessels, scraping between his ulna and radius bones.
The gladiator point came right out of the other side of his arm, the matte-black blade utterly red. Drops of his own blood splashed Victor’s face. He gasped, fought not to scream. His legs buckled.
He grabbed hold of his enemy’s wrist, tried to pull the knife free but his strength was gone. Reed pushed the knife from side to side, increasing the size of the wound, magnifying the agony. Blood poured from Victor’s arm. It took all his will to keep standing. He had nothing left. A cruel grin formed on Reed’s face.
That smile stung Victor more than the blade in his arm. It stabbed something deep inside him, reminding Victor he wasn’t dead yet. He had one last chance to save his life.
He tipped himself backwards, deliberately falling.
Reed grabbed hold of Victor with his free hand to stop him, to keep him upright and impaled, but he didn’t have the leverage. Letting Victor fall meant letting go of the knife, but falling too meant he would land on top of Victor, cushioning his own fall and trapping his prey underwater. It would make finishing him off all the more easy.
Reed fell too.
Before they hit the water, Victor brought his right leg up and managed to wedge his knee at the base of Reed’s breastbone.
Victor disappeared beneath the river, taking the pain of their combined weight, the water cushioning the fall but the rocky riverbed intensifying it. That force was directed straight through Victor’s knee and right into his Reed’s solar plexus.
Reed let out a cry as his diaphragm went into paralysis and the breath expelled from his lungs. In that instant his strength left him completely.
Immediately Victor pushed upwards with his left arm. It emerged from underneath the water, and he drove the point of the knife protruding from his forearm into the Reed’s exposed neck. The inch of blade disappeared entirely into the Englishman’s flesh.
Reed’s eyes went wide.
Victor, head still underwater, wrenched the blade from side to side, crying out against the agony in his own arm as he tore through his assailant’s neck. Reed gagged. For a moment there was resistance against the blade. The thick walls of the carotid artery.
Reed threw himself away, pressing his hands to his neck, but it was too late.
A torrent of blood erupted from the wound.
Victor’s watery sky turned red. Reed fell into the river, water splashing up around him.
Victor heaved himself up and sucked in precious air. He struggled to his feet, cradling his impaled arm. Reed was floating in the river before him, a crimson cloud rapidly expanding around him, both palms pressed over his throat, trying desperately to stem the spray of blood and do the impossible — stay alive.
Victor ignored him. The knife was buried to the hilt in hi
s arm, blood leaking out from the top and bottom, all around. Using only his right hand, Victor slid off his belt and wrapped it around his upper-left bicep as tightly as it could go. He forced the metal catch through the leather to create a new hole to fasten it.
It would be suicide to remove the knife, so he left it in place. The belt would help, but it was only a temporary respite. At the rate it was coming out, most, if not all, the major blood vessels in his arm had been severed. At his weight, and with just the belt to help him, Victor estimated he had less than half an hour before he bled to death. He would probably be unable to walk after fifteen minutes, twenty if he was lucky.
Reed was making a croaking sound, blood bubbling from his mouth. His face was white, blood vivid, almost black against his skin. He looked up at Victor without blinking. There was no fear in his eyes, no hatred, just a cool acceptance of his fate. Victor wondered what his own eyes would betray when his turn eventually came. He turned away from Reed for the last time and thought of Rebecca.
He waded through the water and up the bank, unsteady on his feet. He made his way through the trees, following the path the Jeep had carved until he saw the Russian’s pick-up parked along the road. He stumbled towards it. The keys were still in the ignition.
Victor’s eyes flicked between the analogue clock on the dash and the road ahead as he drove back to the city. Ideally he needed to get as far away as possible before going to a hospital, out of the country preferably. But there wasn’t time. He would bleed to death behind the wheel if he tried.
He drove with heavy eyelids, feeling colder and colder. He was yawning as he pulled up outside a Tanga hospital. He felt himself going as he stumbled into the emergency department. He was greeted by a brief scream.
A nurse’s hand gripped his right arm and pulled him down a corridor. He sagged to his knees as he struggled to keep up with her. She was shouting and asking him questions. He couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then he heard English and somehow Victor managed to make his mouth work and he shouted out his blood type as loud as he could. He would have fallen, but unseen hands pulled him on his feet. His vision was failing as he lay down on a bed. There were other people around him, more nurses, maybe doctors.
He heard wheels squeak.
CHAPTER 80
Dar Es Salam, Tanzania
Wednesday
12:03 EAT
Sykes did everything in his power to maintain a calm persona, but he knew that he was failing. He had barely slept for two days but was too on edge to feel any tiredness. Despite the fact that the building was perfectly air conditioned, Sykes was trying to ignore the dampness gathering under his armpits.
After the disaster at the hotel, Sykes had raced out of the country, crossing the northern border into Kenya. He’d rolled options around in his head while throwing antacids down his throat and vomiting periodically when they ran out. In the end he realized he didn’t have the balls for life as a fugitive or the know-how to last as one.
If he really tried, there was a slim chance he might be able sort things out enough to survive the inevitable fallout. But Reed had been at Sykes’s hotel. He was sure of it. The man who had shot Wiechman. And the only explanation for Reed being there was that Ferguson had sent the assassin to kill Sykes. It was enough to change Sykes’s priorities. Getting rich and his career came a clear second to staying alive.
He gave himself up at the embassy and had been in CIA custody since then. Ten minutes ago he’d been led from his room to an agency office in the basement of the embassy compound.
Sykes stood silently before Procter, who sat behind a desk in a chair obviously too small for him. Ten seconds past. Twenty. Procter saw he was struggling to start.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ he asked.
‘I would like to stand if it’s all the same to you, sir.’
‘They’re your legs.’
Sykes kept his hands clasped behind his back. He would do this with some dignity. In fact, he reminded himself, it was about the only thing he had left. Sykes spoke without pause for almost thirty minutes. He started with just the highlights: Ferguson’s coming to him with the plan; his agreeing; recruiting Kennard and Sumner; using Sumner to hire Tesseract and to identify him through dummy jobs; getting Hoyt to hire Stevenson; hiding the money trail through Seif and Olympus; using information supplied by Kennard to help Tesseract kill Ozols; having Stevenson’s team attempt to kill Tesseract; sending McClury after Tesseract when Stevenson failed; dispatching Reed to kill Kennard, Hoyt, Seif, Sumner, and Tesseract; thinking Reed had been successful in Cyprus; decrypting the flash drive and locating and recovering the missiles; and how it all went wrong.
When he had finished, Procter seemed far too calm considering what Sykes had just told him.
‘And,’ Procter began, ‘the purpose of his highly illegal course of action, one that resulted in a large number of deaths, was to sell the Oniks missiles to the highest bidder?’
‘Yes,’ Sykes admitted. ‘We did it for the money.’
‘Okay, good.’ Procter seemed pleased at his cooperation. ‘And you were involved in this operation from the start, were you not, Mr Sykes?’
Sykes knew he was going down hard. And he deserved it.
‘I was instrumental from the very beginning.’
‘I appreciate your honesty. I can certainly understand how difficult this is for you.’
What was going on? Did he just hear some sympathy? Procter was obviously softening him up for the killer blow.
‘Now,’ Procter continued, ‘it may surprise you to learn that I already knew much of what you’ve just told me.’
Something exploded inside Sykes’s stomach. ‘How?’
‘How doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you’ve come in voluntarily. If I’d been forced to bring you in unwillingly, this conversation would have been decidedly more unpleasant. Tell me more about what happened on Monday.’
Sykes’s throat was dry. He explained about Dalweg and Wiechman and the recovery of the missiles from the sunken frigate and their return to the hotel, the conversation with Ferguson. ‘That’s when everything went bad.’ He explained things as he remembered them.
Procter took everything in silently and made the occasional nod. When Sykes was finished, Procter asked, ‘Why was Tesseract in the country, at the hotel?’
Sykes shook his head. ‘The only thing I can think of is that he was coming after me.’
‘But how did he even know about you?’
‘Somehow Sumner got wind that she was a target and avoided Reed. She then teamed up with Tesseract to come after me and Ferguson. I guess she worked out who we were. I don’t know how.’
Procter was silent for a moment then started asking questions. Lots of questions. Sykes answered. All the gory details. He left out the fact that he’d seen Reed in Tanga, since it wouldn’t do any good if Procter knew that the reason why Sykes was confessing was that Ferguson wanted him dead. If that information came out later, so be it, but for now, Sykes wanted to feel like he wasn’t quite as low as Ferguson on the traitorous-scum ladder.
‘You have filled in a great many blanks to this sordid and despicable affair,’ Procter said, ‘and for that I am greatly appreciative. However, you have knowingly engaged in criminal activities that constitute the highest penalties allowed by law.’
‘I understand that, sir. And I accept the consequences.’
It felt good to be honourable, if only for a few minutes.
‘But,’ Procter continued, ‘it could be seen that you are guilty of nothing more than obeying orders. Ferguson was the instigator in this ridiculous mess, and you the victim of his lunacy.’ Sykes wasn’t sure how to respond, so he didn’t. ‘I can see that you had no wish to conduct this operation, but you were put in an impossible situation. Ferguson was your superior, a hero of this organization. You had no choice but to do as you were told, and I can appreciate that.
‘From day one we teach you to obey your superiors, to f
ollow orders that you may not understand because you are not always in possession of the full facts. And you have to obey them, to the letter, even if you don’t agree with them. Because if you do not, you could destroy something of vast importance.’
If Sykes wasn’t mistaken a flicker of light appeared at the end of the very dark tunnel.
Procter continued: ‘The loyalty you have demonstrated to your superior is to be commended. But now you must choose where your true loyalty lies. To the agency or to your mentor?’
There wasn’t even a second’s deliberation, but Sykes mentally counted to ten to make it seem as if the choice had not been an easy one. He felt the pause perfectly demonstrated the internal conflict that was supposedly within him.
‘My loyalty is to this agency, sir.’
Procter nodded solemnly. ‘I’m very glad you said that. Very glad indeed. Because I need your help.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Most of what you have told me cannot be substantiated, can it?’
Sykes thought carefully for a moment. ‘No, sir.’
‘And therein lies the rub.’
‘I’m still not sure I understand.’
‘It’s your word against Ferguson’s.’
Sykes nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And his word is worth more than your own.’
The thought of Ferguson’s getting away clean made his blood boil, but his words came out pathetic instead of angry. ‘That’s not fair- ’
‘Fair or not, that is the situation. So we must be smart, mustn’t we?’
Sykes was confused. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ferguson won’t be aware of what’s happening, and neither will he find out what you’ve told me. So what I want you to do is this. I want you to carry on as normal, and do what Ferguson tells you to do. Just record it.’ Procter stood and placed the flats of his palms on the desk. ‘I need proof, enough proof to string Ferguson up by the throat so tightly even he cannot wriggle free. We need the case against Ferguson to be so overwhelming and the charges so severe that it’s impossible to keep it quiet. People need to know what’s happened.’
