by Andrew Watts
Hugo’s father ran to the man but was cut down, blood pouring from his wounds. Hugo tried firing his hunting rifle from the hip but missed. The drunk ran out of the home, and Hugo tended to his father’s wounds. But they were too deep. His father was dead within minutes. Hugo called the police and an ambulance. They took his mother to a hospital and apprehended the town drunk.
Hugo’s mother was a mess, crying hysterically at the loss of Hugo’s father. The local prosecutor wanted to interview Hugo and see if he would testify in court. But Hugo had no intention of letting the courts decide the fate of his father’s killer. It was a small town. And Hugo knew the cops. His killer would be transferred to a larger prison the next day, so Hugo had to act fast. When the jailer went to the bathroom, he left the jail cell master key set on his desk. Hugo took his hunting bow and seven arrows with him.
From a range of less than ten feet, he unloaded the arrows into his father’s murderer. Shafts of death plunging into his flesh. The screams of pain lasted only a moment as the arrows entered his lungs and made it too hard for the man to make a sound.
It looked incredibly painful.
It was immensely satisfying.
That night, Hugo took out several thousand dollars from various ATMs—his life savings—bought a ticket from Quebec City to France, and disappeared.
A few weeks later, he would join the French Foreign Legion under an alias, and his real training would begin. Hugo spent ten years in the Legion, traveling to various parts of the globe. He became an expert soldier, deploying to Afghanistan and several nations in Africa.
It was in Africa that he’d been approached by his first private employer. Half a month pay for two hours of work, he was told.
Hugo shot a man who hours earlier he did not know. Even when he was killed, Hugo didn’t know his name, only a face and an address. He placed two bullets into his chest as he entered his home. Then one bullet in his head, before he walked away.
The employer appreciated the quick, reliable work, and Hugo found that he would rather become a contract killer than stand any more guard duty for a nation he wasn’t particularly loyal to, on a continent he didn’t care for. But it was Africa where he stayed, for a time. Working for another two years, refining his technique and gaining experience, before being picked up by the European placement agencies. That was where the real money was. Russian, Turkish, and Italian organized crime seemed to have a never-ending desire to kill each other off. And they were willing to pay top dollar to do so.
Eventually, the Pakistanis found him, and Hugo became exclusive.
Most assassinations in first-world countries required creating as much separation from the crime scene as possible. But killing someone this close to Washington, D.C., had been a unique challenge. The security cameras and sophisticated tracking technology put in place to track terrorists meant that any movement Hugo made would be a potential red flag to American government eyes. The Ron Dicks assignment had taken twelve hours to plan, and six hours to execute. Other than that, Hugo stayed put in D.C., remaining in the same rental unit he’d secured a week earlier. Enjoying the sights. Going to bars and restaurants.
It was in this small flat near Dupont Circle that he’d received the most recent message from Syed, his Pakistani contact. The main job. The reason that the ISI had sent their most prolific international assassin to the States.
Hugo had gone to the dead drop site and picked up his message within three hours. At the dead drop, he obtained another of their special thumb drives. After returning to the flat, he connected the thumb drive to his computer and entered the passphrase, which then brought up a series of screens. A sort of timed quiz, one in which he had to answer each question quickly and correctly or else the information would self-delete, which it would do anyway after thirty minutes.
When he was finished, he read over the file. It was a mission brief. The Pakistanis were playing a dangerous game by being this bold. But that wasn’t his decision to make. The fee was very good, and that was what mattered.
Hugo deleted the files and then checked his watch. He would sleep here tonight, then fly out in the morning.
To Wisconsin.
Ian Williams’s convoy pulled up to the Gulfstream, his security men eying their surroundings as he walked up the ladder to the jet and got in.
His assistant handed him a phone.
“It’s him.”
Williams nodded. They used the best antitrace software and encryption programs. The hardware was purchased in China and flown over by Williams’s men. He didn’t trust American companies. Williams had heard too many rumors of NSA agents embedding their own little surprises into US-sold devices.
But even with all that sophisticated technology, Williams never spoke to Syed directly over the phone. Too high a risk of the world’s intelligence agencies listening in.
For calls to his ISI handler—business associate might be a better description of their current relationship nowadays—Williams used a system of trusted voice-relay personnel. Handwriting messages, holding them up to be read aloud over the phone. Even using this procedure, phone calls were rare forms of communication for the two as the climax of their ambitious plan drew near.
A woman’s voice—Pakistani with a British accent, Williams thought—said, “We are worried that recent events may bring unwanted attention.”
Williams scribbled something on a pad of paper, which would be placed in a burn bag as soon as they were finished. When he finished writing, his assistant read it aloud into the phone. It was a dreadfully tedious way to communicate. But it kept the conversation secure and anonymous.
“It was regrettable but necessary.”
“The meeting is imminent. Will we be ready? How many more names do you have on the list?”
“That work will be finalized on location. We are sending our best people to complete the task.”
“We have received word that some of the participants don’t want to go. They are nervous about travel to America.”
“Please assure them that we’ve chosen this venue carefully. The meeting location keeps everyone safe and ensures peace during the negotiation process. Use the secure entry points and procedures as directed. Arrival inspections won’t be a problem. There will be ten thousand flights in and out of this airport in a few days’ time. Passenger manifests can be manipulated. Security will be lax. And tell them that if they are too scared to show up for this meeting, then they will be cut out of our new agreement.”
“What about the politician?”
“It is being handled.”
“Very well. Good luck.”
Williams signaled for his assistant to end the call. As the jet took off and headed north, a moment of panic seized him. What if Syed was right? Had the killings near Washington been too brazen? Had it tipped their hand? That Max Fend character had shown up right in his backyard. What information had Rojas given them? It couldn’t have been much. He didn’t know much. What if the Americans did know more than they were letting on?
No. That was impossible. The mole had given them accurate operational details as recently as the past few days, and the assassinations ensured that there would be no further link to him or the ISI. Williams licked his lips, thinking of what lay ahead. Only a few more days of risk.
After Oshkosh, things would be easier.
Chapter 17
After the call with Wilkes, Max, Renee and Trent agreed they would travel to Cincinnati to start the search for Jennifer Upton at her place of work. It would have been evening if they had flown straight to Ohio, and Renee wanted a night to do research before they arrived. So they made a pit stop in Memphis for what Max considered the most crucial elements of their success: fuel, ribs, and pulled pork sandwiches. “I’m afraid I must insist on the barbecue,” Max had said. They had remained overnight in Memphis and had flown the final leg in the morning.
Max landed them at Lunken Airport, just to the east of the Ohio River, outside of Cincinnati.
“
Is it always this busy?” Trent asked as Max taxied them to the ramp.
The flight line was filled with small aircraft. Mostly Cessnas and Pipers, some of which had smiling owners standing next to the planes, talking with each other as they waited. A lone fuel truck was slowly making its way through the aircraft.
“I doubt it. They must all be on their way up to Oshkosh. The fly-in starts in earnest today.”
Max waited for fuel while Trent and Renee went inside. Trent’s mission was to secure them a rental vehicle. Renee was in the conference room on her computer, hunting for possible hints as to where Jennifer Upton might be. All they knew with certainty was where she lived and that she worked at a political nonprofit in Cincinnati.
“Nice Cirrus!” said a man standing beside the plane in the parking spot next to Max. He had sandy blond hair and wore wraparound sunglasses and a sweat-stained polo shirt. He stood beside two teenage boys who had trouble maintaining eye contact.
“Thanks,” replied Max. “You guys headed up to Oshkosh?”
“Just like everybody else here. It’s our fifth pilgrimage. Name’s Jake King. These are my sons, James and Jack.”
Max waved politely to the family with oddly similar names, keeping his smile to himself. “Nice to meet you.”
“That Cirrus have a parachute in it?”
“I sure hope so. I hear they come in handy.”
The man laughed. “Are you flying up for the air show today?”
“To Oshkosh? I’d sure love to go, but we don’t have any plans to right now.”
One of the sons—Max wasn’t sure which was James and which was Jack—said, “We spent the last three months planning for the flight in. If you don’t already know, I don’t think—”
His father whispered, “You don’t need to tell him that, James. I’m sure he knows all the planning required.” Mr. King then looked up at Max. “Well, if you find yourself there, come see our gyrocopter. It’s being shipped up by truck today. We’ll be flying it on the ultralight field every day starting tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s pretty neat.”
One of the boys said, “Yeah, but the best part is the remote-control function me and my dad built in.”
The father looked proud. “Well, it’s not that special. With the advancements in drone technology, it was a relatively simple upgrade.”
“Yeah, my experience hasn’t been the best with remotely controlled aircraft.”
The man squinted. “Say, you kind of look familiar. Have we met?”
Renee was waving at Max from the FBO building, trying to get his attention. Max noticed that the two King boys saw her and gave each other looks of approval.
“Looks like I’ve got to run.”
As he was leaving, he heard Mr. King say, “I swear I recognize him…”
Max stopped at the fuel truck and told the man operating it, “Hey, the blue-and-white Cirrus is mine. Please top her off.” The fuel man nodded, and Max headed towards Renee.
“We’ve got a vehicle,” she said. “Trent’s waiting in the parking lot.”
“Great. I want to run by her home and office. Maybe we can talk to someone who knows how to find her.”
They drove through the heart of the city, passing the Reds and Bengals stadiums and the Procter & Gamble headquarters building. Renee had Trent take the Liberty Street exit off I-71 towards a neighborhood known as Over the Rhine.
“Well, this is charming,” said Renee, inspecting the homes.
“That’s one way to put it.” To Max it just looked like an old inner-city neighborhood. Spray-painted graffiti art on brick exteriors. Some blocks filled with boarded-up windows. A large billboard for domestic beer. Telephone wires and power lines overhanging the street. Older-model cars in need of body work.
“Okay, well, not everything looks great, but look at these buildings up here.”
Max saw what she was looking at. Some of the shops and residences had been refurbished. As they drove, he saw cleaner and more modern-looking exteriors. Their new paint jobs provided splashes of color among the old brick.
At last they came upon the central square. A clock tower stood in one corner. Large potted plants and bright red metal picnic tables were spaced out over a wide concrete sidewalk. While much of the shopping was outdoors—there was a busy farmers market on one side—there was also a great hall with several dozen shops, delis, and bakeries inside, forming the center of the plaza. The building was crowned with a turquoise-lettered sign reading FINDLAY MARKET.
“There’s the office,” said Max. “Drop me off here. I’ll text you if I need longer than fifteen minutes.”
Renee and Trent parked in a lot a block away from Jennifer Upton’s workplace. They sat in the rental, engine running, air conditioning humming, Trent behind the wheel, Renee’s laptop open as she continued to research Upton.
Max was going fishing, trying to glean information from coworkers on where she might be. Jennifer Upton worked for a 501c nonprofit firm based in Ohio. Max went into the office, falsely claiming to have a meeting set up with Upton. He would dangle a new and high-profile client: Charles Fend, Max’s well-known billionaire father, who was known to contribute his funds to causes that would help his business. With any luck, the members of the firm would eat out of his hand, and while they were trying to make a new client happy, Max would be asking seemingly innocuous questions about Upton.
“Here he comes.”
Max was walking back towards their vehicle. Fifteen minutes, just like he’d said.
Renee rolled down her window. “Anything?”
“I might have some info for you, but no obvious location.” Max handed Renee a sheet of paper with keywords written down. Upton’s cat’s name. Past employers and clients. Things Max had noticed on her office desk.
“I might be able to use some of this for potential usernames or passwords.”
Trent said, “You guys mind if we get lunch?”
“Sounds good.”
Trent and Renee got out of the vehicle, and the three of them began walking towards the marketplace.
“Crowded,” said Max.
Trent hummed agreement.
Findlay Market was packed. Throngs of people—families pushing strollers, grandmas shopping at the flea market, yuppies wearing athleisure wear while sipping mimosas over brunch. There were a lot of nice-looking restaurants, bars, and even freshly renovated office space.
Max elbowed Renee. “Okay, maybe you are right. This place looks pretty cool.”
Renee smiled up at him, pulling him close to her in a loving gesture as they walked. He could tell she was still tense by the way she was looking around.
“How are you holding up?”
She said, “I’m alright. It’s just a lot to process, all of this. The shooting in Mexico, and in Texas…”
“I know. I’m sorry. We’ll be okay.” He felt her arm squeeze his waist. They walked past a little row of vendor shops that were situated along the sidewalk. The corner tent had big freezers and a long line of smiling customers. A variety of delicious gelato flavors were written on a chalkboard sign standing next to the tent.
The market square was lined with colorful two- and three-story attached mixed-use units—homes, businesses, restaurants, and stores. Max didn’t like the number of opaque windows looking down on their meeting spot. Or the hundreds of casuals walking every which way around the marketplace. He told himself to relax. They weren’t in danger here. At least, he didn’t think they were.
“I’ll grab a table here and wait.”
Renee came back a few moments later and plopped down in the seat across from him. She liked to order for him without asking what he wanted, and Max didn’t mind. Renee took two paper-wrapped submarine sandwiches out of a bag, smiling as Max examined his lunch.
“What did you get?”
“Banh mi. Vietnamese sandwiches. Have you ever had one?”
Max opened the paper wrapping. A French baguette, pork, little slices of jalape
ños, cilantro by the look of it, thin slices of cucumbers and carrots, and some type of pink spread.
He took a large, brave bite, chewing and salivating as the combination of tastes hit his mouth. “My God.”
“I know, right?”
“This is so good. Why the hell haven’t I tried this before?”
“There’s a Vietnamese place in Charlottesville that I go to all the time. They make great ones. But this isn’t bad at all…”
Trent came back with a Styrofoam plate of Greek food. Lamb, spiced potatoes, onions, tomatoes, pita, and cucumber sauce.
Renee was eating with one hand and tapping on her open laptop’s trackpad with the other. Her eyes widened, and she held up a hand. “Got it!”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m done. I’ve found her.”
“Found who?”
She looked triumphant. “Your missing woman, mon cheri. Well, sort of. That is to say, I know where she will be.”
“How?”
“I just went on one of the overlay networks where you can buy people’s usernames and passwords. You probably know this as the ‘dark web.’ Spooky name. I found an old email account that Miss Upton barely uses. It’s not linked to her home or work IP addresses or her devices. She must have some software that she runs to avoid detection. And it’s not under her name anymore. It’s an alias. But this account is hers. I purchased her account data from one of the dark web sites. Max, you owe me twenty bucks for that purchase, by the way. We can work something out later.” She winked. “Since no one ever changes their passwords—except for me, of course—I tried the same username and password on all of her other accounts. I also tried a few variations with the information you gave me. The winner was her current pet name, mixed with the numbers and symbols from one of her old passwords. I got a match, read through some of Miss Upton’s emails, and found that she recently reserved a hotel.”
“Nice work.”
Trent, chewing a big bite of gyro, said, “Remind me to change my password.”
