The Killer

by Tom Wood

  Footsteps.

  Boots, trainers. Multiple feet on the asphalt behind him, making no effort to conceal their noise. Not professionals.

  Reed knew what he was going to see before he turned around. A gang of adolescent toughs and degenerate twentysomethings approached him. They were a mix of races, almost all with heads shaved, clothes a mix of baggy sportswear and knock-off designer labels, cheap jewelry abundant and gaudy.

  They spread out, and he allowed himself to be surrounded so the braver ones would naturally face him. Cowards at his back did not bother him. Some struck bizarre poses, and if Reed didn’t know better he would assume they had spinal deformities. He counted twelve, six or seven of which he could tell by their physiques were capable of handling themselves and by their demeanors were more than willing to. The others didn’t carry the same capabilities or confidence.

  “You’re passing through my kingdom,” one said in French, the largest and most brashly dressed. “So you have to pay the tax.”

  Reed held his gaze. “Trust me when I say that you do not want to do this.”

  The large youth stared at Reed with something approaching disbelief, obviously unused to facing anything but dread. The complete absence of fear in Reed’s unblinking eyes caused his expression to falter. He looked at the others. Reed knew the kid had come too far to back down now.

  He drew a gun from his jacket and held it loosely in his hand. A nickel plated Beretta. It looked like it was polished regularly, but Reed doubted the working parts would be cleaned with the same diligence. The guy raised the gun to Reed’s face, a poor grip, holding it horizontally to complete his perception of cool.

  “Wallet, phone, watch,” the leader demanded.

  Two of the others showed their own weapons. One held his revolver loosely by his side, the other lifted his shirt and rested his fingers on the automatic tucked into his waistband. Reed said nothing, merely stared unblinking at the person before him, the kid who knew he was out of his depth.

  “Fucking hand them over.”

  Reed’s expression remained blank. “Why?”

  “Say what?”

  In that moment when confusion combined with anxiety, Reed grabbed the outstretched arm before him, wrapping his left hand around the wrist and pulling the kid forward sharply, directing the gun away and to the side. He took hold of the kid’s lower triceps with his free hand and twisted the wrist in his grip, locking the arm. He wrenched it downward, hard—against the joint—snapping the arm at the elbow and into an inverted V.

  The gun clattered on the asphalt and the awful wail momentarily stunned the others. Reed released the wrist and the kid collapsed. Among the screams he managed to find his voice.

  “FUCKING KILL HIM.”

  Reed sprang forward toward the other drawn gun, knocked the weapon aside as it was raised to fire, using his forward impetus to multiply the force of the elbow he sent into his enemy’s face. His head snapped backward, blood splashing from his mouth, and the kid went down heavy, out cold, jaw broken.

  The other youth armed with a gun backed off, palms showing, eyes wide, head shaking. Reed ignored him, heard the click of a switchblade opening, turned, sidestepped as his attacker lunged and overextended himself into empty air, stumbling, completely off balance, arms flailing.

  The next came from behind, his feet scraping on the ground. Reed whipped round, threw the edge of his hand into the guy’s throat. He fell down convulsing.

  Two more came forward at the same time, one wielding a hunting knife with a four-inch drop-point blade, the other a crowbar. The crowbar swung at him first, from the left, aiming for his head. Reed caught it and the attacker’s hand together, redirected it downward, using the kid’s momentum against him to twist the bar from his fingers and into Reed’s own.

  He smashed an elbow into the youth’s side, knocking him backward, as the youth gasped, ribs cracked. Reed followed through with the crowbar, backhanding it into the side of his attacker’s skull. Blood splashed on faces in the crowd.

  The hunting knife passed within inches of Reed’s face, a wild swing, clumsy. Reed dodged backward, waited for the next attack, used his forearm as a shield to turn the blade aside and the crowbar to sweep his attacker’s feet out from under him and drove it down into the kid’s face, exploding his nose across his cheeks.

  The small youth with the switchblade recovered and yelled as he attacked again, a frenzied stab. Reed dodged, invited another thrust, and brought the crowbar down hard onto the youth’s exposed arm, shattering bones. He screamed and dropped the knife, wrist and hand hanging limply from midforearm. Reed reversed his grip on the crowbar, swung it upward, cracking the youth under the jaw, the force lifting him off his feet and dropping him back to the ground in a silent heap.

  It was all over in less than seven seconds. Six lay on the wet ground, some completely still, others moaning and writhing. They would all live, but not as they used to. The others stood paralyzed in a mix of awe and terror. Reed looked at them for a moment. He knew he could pick up the Beretta and execute every one of them within a matter of seconds, but they were just idiot kids, and twelve gunshots would bring police officers. Half a beaten-up gang was attention enough without creating corpses. Besides, as things stood, even the ones he had not crippled would take the time to rethink their lives, and Reed felt almost proud of that public service.

  He twirled the crowbar around his hand before handing it to a reluctant recipient. The youth took it, grimacing, feeling the wet blood and skin of his gang mates matted to the metal. Reed straightened down his jacket and eyed those who were lucky enough to still be vertical.

  “Move.”

  They parted reverently to let him pass.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, U.S.A.

  Saturday

  10:49 EST

  Chambers was acting like a big shot on the Hill, and so Procter chaired the briefing. Both Sykes and his old bastard mentor Ferguson were looking like they’d had long weeks—Sykes especially, though he’d found the time to visit a tanning booth since the last meeting, judging by the renewed shade of his face.

  Alvarez was on the speakerphone going through what he’d found out about Stevenson and his mystery employer. “Stevenson made some blunders when it came to covering his tracks,” Alvarez was saying. “He didn’t do a very good job of deleting sensitive information from his computer, and we managed to extract certain e-mails from his hard disk. These e-mails are communications between him and his client, who was never referred to by name. This is the person who gave Stevenson the suitcase full of cash he deposited at his bank.

  “In the e-mails they were arranging a meeting to hand over the money. The location of this meeting and the time and date were in code, but we’ve discovered Stevenson met his client in Brussels just under three weeks ago.”

  The lines in Ferguson’s forehead deepened. “You cracked the code?”

  “No, we didn’t need to,” Alvarez replied. “Stevenson did the hard work for us. Elsewhere on his hard drive we found photographs of the meeting that showed Stevenson and another man, his client, outside a café in central Brussels.”

  Procter leaned forward. “What kind of photographs?”

  “Surveillance photos. Seems Stevenson was an untrusting kind of guy and had someone else along with him without his client’s knowledge. Probably one of the other seven dead guys, but we don’t know for sure. The photographs show the name of the café and are dated and timed. I would guess Stevenson had the photos taken as some kind of insurance policy in case anything went wrong.”

  “Do we know anything about the man he was there to meet?” Procter asked.

  “We had several clear shots of him arriving and leaving so we put him through facial recognition but didn’t get lucky. We did get some luck after enhancing other photos. We established the name of the rental-car company Stevenson’s employer used. I contacted the company and only one car of that particular make, model, and
color was out when the meeting took place.”

  “So who is he?” Procter asked.

  “Sebastian Hoyt,” Alvarez said through the table’s speakerphone, “is a Dutch businessman and CEO of a small financial-consultancy firm located in Milan. I checked flights in and out of Brussels that day, and Hoyt arrived and returned the same day.”

  “Great work,” Procter said. “What do we know about this Hoyt?”

  “Not that much,” Alvarez answered. “But it’s early days. He’s a private businessman, that much is obvious. I’ve already spoken briefly to our people in Italy and asked them to start digging.”

  “I’ll liaise with the Italians too,” Procter added. “I want to know everything there is to know about this individual, and I want to know fast.”

  “He used to be one our assets, back in the eighties,” Ferguson said matter-of-factly.

  Procter and Sykes looked at him.

  “You’re sure?” Procter asked.

  “I should hope so,” Ferguson replied. “He used to be one of my assets.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Ferguson nodded. “He’s a trained lawyer from a wealthy family, but he deals with some very unpleasant people. He was doing business with a corrupt Soviet army officer when I knew him. He supplied me information on the Red Army from this general—training techniques, armaments, that kind of thing. In return I let him get away with the arms brokering he was doing for the officer. Mainly shipping AKs and RPGs to Africa.”

  “So what’s he been up to since?” Procter asked.

  Ferguson shrugged. “I don’t know. After the Wall came down we didn’t have much use for him, not that I could’ve continued paying him with what was left of my budgets. I expect he’ll still be doing what he’s best at, trading in illicit commodities, arms, people, information. If he has his own firm, he’s come a long way; and if he’s still operating, then he’s either gone legitimate or has been clever enough not to get caught or tread on anyone’s toes.”

  “Until now,” Procter added coldly. “Do we have a file on this clown?”

  Ferguson nodded.

  “What about your own personal files?”

  “I’ll get them out for you.”

  “And Alvarez,” Procter said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I heard about John Kennard. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  “I didn’t meet him, but I’m told he was a good man. What happened to him?”

  “Wrong place at the wrong time. He was just unlucky.”

  Ferguson and Sykes sat perfectly still.

  In the corridor outside the briefing room, Sykes waited for Ferguson to come out. Sykes’s pulse was racing, and he was finding it difficult not to look like he was crapping himself. Ferguson had stayed behind to have a word with Procter. Sykes needed to consult with him immediately. Alvarez was only a step away from Hoyt. Things were going from bad to shit at warp ten.

  It was about five minutes before Ferguson finally appeared a moment after the big guy, but to Sykes it could’ve been five hours. He’d wiped perspiration from his face at least three times.

  When Procter was out of earshot Sykes moved closer to Ferguson.

  “Before you say anything,” Ferguson began, “take a breath and compose yourself.”

  Sykes took a breath, but even if he took a hundred more he didn’t think he would miraculously calm down. “We’re fucked,” he said.

  “Is that your professional opinion?”

  Sykes had never seen Ferguson truly rattled, and he didn’t look rattled now. “How can you remain calm at a time like this?”

  “Because, unlike you, this isn’t my first extracurricular activity,” Ferguson said. “And I also have a pair of these.” He put a hand to his testicles.

  “What the fuck happened in there?” Sykes whispered. “Since when do you have a relationship with Hoyt?”

  “Since always.”

  “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?”

  “There was no need.”

  “Bullshit. What happened to all that crap about making sure we weren’t connected with anyone else involved in this op?”

  “We didn’t have a choice but to use Hoyt. We needed hitters who weren’t on CIA files, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not acquainted with too many of those. Hoyt, however, is connected in such circles. He was necessary to the success of our objectives. The fact that he was a previous asset of mine had no relevance to that.”

  “Except that Alvarez is now onto him. And therefore onto us.”

  “We couldn’t have known Hoyt would have delivered the money to Stevenson personally. I would have thought he’d have been more careful than that.”

  Sykes stared at Ferguson. “Greed tends to make people forget to be careful.”

  Ferguson ignored Sykes’s tone. “And we couldn’t have known that Stevenson would be so paranoid as to have their meeting photographed. It’s what in this business us grown-ups call bad luck.”

  “Chance favors the prepared mind,” Sykes said with another hint of sarcasm.

  “Indeed,” Ferguson said, and Sykes was unsure whether he didn’t notice the tone or was just ignoring it. “Which is why we have Reed. Have him get the next possible flight to Milan and deal with Hoyt.”

  “He’s probably going after Rebecca Sumner again.”

  “Hoyt is far more urgent.”

  “But what about Alvarez?”

  “He won’t move on Hoyt until he knows everything about him there is to know. There will be plenty of time for Reed to work his magic.”

  “Okay, but why the hell did you have to tell them all that shit about Hoyt in there anyway? Surely you could have waited instead of putting them one step closer to unraveling this thing.”

  “Listen to me carefully and learn. I told them about Hoyt because by tomorrow or the next day they would have found out he’d been an asset of mine regardless. The kind of asset one doesn’t forget in a hurry. How would it have looked if I had neglected to mention that? Mildly suspicious doesn’t quite cover it.”

  “What if the girl doesn’t hang around? Reed missed her once in Marseilles already.”

  “I’m well aware of that. After Reed has taken care of Hoyt he can deal with Sumner. You have another potential strike point?” Sykes nodded. “So don’t worry about it. Even if she doesn’t stay put, she’s not a field operative, she won’t stay alive for long.”

  “I hope not.”

  Sykes leaned against the wall and sighed heavily. He scratched the back of his neck.

  “Pressure getting to you, Mr. Sykes?” Ferguson asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Sykes replied. “I didn’t count on all of this bullshit.”

  “Welcome to the CIA,” Ferguson said bitterly.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  St. Petersburg, Russia

  Saturday

  16:23 MSK

  It was minus fourteen degrees Fahrenheit when Victor landed, and the short wait for a taxi outside the airport was an excruciating one. He asked the driver to take him to the best hotel the driver knew and to turn the heater up. The driver mumbled it was hot enough, but Victor held out twenty dollars for him to see in the rearview and he flicked the switch up to maximum.

  Some years had passed since Victor had last been to Russia. Though Russia and its neighbors were a huge marketplace for professional killings, Victor preferred not to travel to the region if he could help it. He had fulfilled several contracts in the region in his early years and had a reputation in that part of the world. Once that infamy had served him well, now it was a permanent crosshairs.

  The taxi took him deeper into the city. He saw St. Petersburg as a city of contrasts. The new modern skyscrapers of capitalism stood alongside the decrepit structures of the Soviet era and between them, somewhat out of place, stood the grand buildings of historic Russia that had survived the war. The weather was no different. At the height of summer it could be as hot as in Madrid, but in the dead of win
ter it was difficult to find a colder place on the planet.

  The hotel was expensive compared with the St. Petersburg norm, which made it quite reasonable to Victor. He booked a room for a week but only intended to stay for a few days at the most. He always found it best if hotel employees knew as little about his plans as possible. Another taxi took him east, where he gave the driver directions to a bar lost in one of the city’s industrial districts. The name of the bar had changed since he’d last visited, but he hoped its patronage remained the same.

  He ordered a vodka and sat at the end of the long bar sipping it quietly. When he had finished he waved the bartender over for a second drink. Victor spoke to him in fluent Russian with a hint of a Ukrainian accent.

  “I’m looking for Aleksandr Norimov.”

  He asked as though he was just curious, as if it didn’t matter what the answer was, but the young man behind the bar visibly tensed up. “I used to know him,” Victor added, pretending he didn’t notice the bartender’s reaction.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “He still owns this bar, doesn’t he?”

  The barkeep shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He gave Victor his drink and moved to the other end of the bar. He took out a rag and started wiping it down, his eyes occasionally twitching in Victor’s direction. Two minutes later the barkeeper walked over to the payphone and inserted some coins. Victor couldn’t hear what he was saying, and he couldn’t see his lips to read them. The call took no more than forty-five seconds, and the bartender then went back to cleaning the bar. This time he didn’t look Victor’s way once.

  Good. He didn’t expect he’d have long to wait.

  By the time Victor had finished savoring his third vodka two men entered the bar. Both were well over six feet and had the build of serious weightlifters. They had typically Russian pale skin, cheeks ruddy from the cold. Victor noticed their long overcoats did more than just protect them from St. Petersburg’s freezing weather.