A Lone Wolf

by J. C. Fields

  Gerlis knew who to contact. He sent an encrypted message to the individual and would receive an answer within a week.

  Just before he closed his laptop for the night, another encrypted email arrived. The sender used the correct encryption protocols, but was unknown to him. He opened the message. Are you interested in acquiring Picasso, Pigeon with Small Peas, oil on canvas, 65 x 54 centimeters, 1911?

  Greed overcame caution as he smiled. The rumors were apparently true—the painting existed and apparently available. He replied to the email: Yes.

  A response did not arrive for ten minutes. How soon can you be in Toulouse, France?

  Blinking several times, Gerlis stared at the message on the screen. When his surprise ebbed, he consulted Google Maps and found the town to be a little over 800 kilometers from his location. He typed his response—Will need to physically examine, otherwise, no interest.

  Five minutes later: Agreed. When?

  Day after tomorrow, must have location prior to travel.

  His reply came back fifteen seconds later. Details will be provided tomorrow. Be prepared to send funds via electronic transfer IF negotiations are successful.

  With a smile, Gerlis closed the email program and shut the laptop down for the night.

  Toulouse, France

  Thursday

  Gerlis walked up to the reception desk at the Crowne Plaza in Toulouse. An email on Wednesday had instructed him to check into the hotel around five p.m. A room would be reserved for him and dinner arrangements, in the hotel’s dining room, would be secured. Instructions for Friday would be in the room.

  When the art dealer approached the check-in desk, a young female greeted him.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur.”

  “Good evening.” Gerlis spoke in accented English. “My name is Diego Luis. I believe there is a reservation for me.”

  The pretty clerk smiled and nodded. She typed his name into the computer and read the screen. Responding to him in excellent English, she said, “Ahh… Monsieur Luis, we are so glad you have arrived. Your room is ready. Plus, please tell me when you wish to dine and I will make the reservation for you now.”

  Gerlis returned the smile. “Can I dine in my room?”

  “Of course. Just contact room service and let them know what you want and the wine you prefer.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Would you like help with your luggage?”

  He shook his head. “No, thank you.” He accepted the key and headed toward the elevator pulling his small suitcase behind him. The fewer individuals he encountered, the better.

  When he arrived in the room, he found a fruit basket and an envelope on the small desk. He withdrew the contents of the envelope and read, Looking forward to our meeting on Friday. A map to guide you is enclosed.

  His original apprehension about the arrangements started to subside. The accommodations were first class and, so far, he did not see any red flags. He settled in for a pleasant evening.

  Michael Wolfe watched as Asa Gerlis checked into the hotel, having followed him from the parking garage. He now knew the make and model of the car the ex-Mossad agent drove and where he would be for the next twelve or more hours.

  Ten minutes later, Wolfe rode the elevator to the fourth floor and walked by Gerlis’ door. A Do Not Disturb sign hung on the doorknob. He walked back to the elevator and rode it to the first floor. After exiting the hotel, he returned to Gerlis’ SEAT Leon hatchback. Once he checked to make sure no one was watching, he placed a GPS tracker unit within the driver’s side rear wheel well. With his task completed, he walked to the opposite side of the parking garage and slipped into the passenger seat of their rented BMW.

  He turned to Nadia who sat in the driver’s seat. “He’s all tucked in for the night.”

  She half smiled, started the engine and took a deep breath. “Why do I think tomorrow will not be as easy?”

  “Because it won’t. Always plan for Murphy’s Law.”

  She frowned and looked at him. “Murphy’s Law? What is this Murphy’s Law?”

  “If anything can go wrong, it will.”

  She did not move for several moments. “I have never heard this, but it is true.”

  “Yup, it is.” He gave her a sly smile. “That’s why we have this planned like we do.”

  She nodded and drove out of the parking garage.

  Nadia and Wolfe arrived at the meeting site after sunset. Michael would stay there while Nadia returned to follow Gerlis the next morning. The location, chosen for its isolation, was owned by a bank, currently vacant and for sale. Nadia had found it with a Google search of properties looking for buyers. Located in the rural countryside of southern France, the farmhouse provided an out-of-the-way spot for the events of the next day, whatever they might be.

  The night passed slowly for Wolfe. During his career as a sniper, he could block out the passing of time by slowing his heart rate, controlling his breathing, visualizing the shot and waiting for the right moment. This was different. There was nothing to do except pace and worry about Nadia.

  The preparations for Gerlis’ visit took a little prep work. Earlier in the day a cheap print of the Picasso painting was purchased at an art gallery in Toulouse. The imitation painting was the correct size and after being placed in a simple black frame, resembled the original. But it would only fool someone from a distance. The print now sat on an easel facing the front door in the otherwise empty farmhouse living room.

  Gerlis’ instructions were to enter the house, examine the painting and if satisfied, send a text message to a number. Instructions would be given on where to transfer the money. There was one warning—if Gerlis tried to leave the farmhouse with the painting before transferring the funds, he would never find his way back to Madrid alive.

  Wolfe stood at the front window of the house watching the sun rise as night turned to dawn and eventually morning. He expected Gerlis to realize the picture was fake from halfway across the room. With this expectation as his guide, he prepared for that moment.

  He parked the SEAT Leon beside the small farmhouse per his instructions. Gerlis stared at the front of the old structure. It looked abandoned with a front yard of weeds and uncut grass. Uncertainty crept back into the back of his mind. He retrieved a Sig Saur P225 from under the driver’s seat, checked the chamber and then charged the weapon. He placed another magazine in his front pant pocket.

  Holding the pistol in his right hand, he exited the car and slowly walked toward one of two front windows of the house. There were no drapes or curtains, allowing a clear view of the inside. What he saw allowed him to relax. In the shadows of the room against the back wall resided the Picasso, Pigeon with Small Peas, oil on canvas, 65 x 54 centimeters, 1911 sitting on an easel. He almost put the gun behind his back in his belt, but caution kept it in his hand.

  The unlocked front door opened easily allowing him to step into the dimly lit front room. The interior smelled of dust and neglect. With only the light of two windows, details of the painting could not be distinguished from across the room. He squinted and waited a few moments before approaching the picture. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he frowned.

  Rushing toward the painting, he felt the surface. It was smooth, lacking brushstrokes and texture. Engaged, Gerlis raised the Sig Sauer and fired point blank into the picture. He turned and walked rapidly toward the front door.

  Wolfe made his appearance as Gerlis presented his back to the kitchen.

  “Not what you expected, was it, Asa?”

  The seething ex-Mossad agent whirled around and fired the gun in the direction of the voice.

  Wolfe, anticipating the move, ducked back behind the wall. Gerlis ran out of the house toward the car and turned. Aiming the gun at the front door, he waited for whoever was in the house to emerge.

  From inside the house, he heard. “You’re not going anywhere, Gerlis. Look at your car.”

  Gerlis glanced at the front and rear driver side. Both tires had
long knife gashes in the side wall. The car was going nowhere.

  “Put the gun down.”

  Gerlis pointed the Sig Saur at the front door and yelled, “Who are you?”

  “A man who’s been dead for two years.”

  “Wolfe?”

  “Very perceptive.”

  “Where’s Nadia?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Throw the gun down and put your hands on the car roof.”

  Gerlis laughed hysterically. “No way.” He fired the Sig Sauer at the front door and through the front window. He pulled the trigger until the slide slammed back and froze. His left hand reached into his front pocket and extracted the extra magazine. After pressing a button next to the trigger guard, the empty magazine fell to the ground. He rammed the full one into the gun and started firing again. When the slide slammed back for the second time, he stood quietly next to the car, breathing hard.

  Wolfe appeared in the front doorway. “These old farmhouses are well built, Gerlis.”

  With a wild animal scream, he threw the gun at Wolfe and charged. Before he got three steps, a bullet slammed into his front chest, spinning him around. He collapsed face-up, staring at the sky. As blood oozed from his wound, he blinked several times and his breathing became even more labored.

  Wolfe walked over to him. He smiled as he looked down.

  Gerlis glared at the ex-sniper and saw Wolfe without a weapon. “Who?”

  “We decided Nadia should return the favor after you tried to have her killed in Barcelona.”

  Gerlis shook his head. “Not—my—idea.”

  Chuckling, Wolfe knelt down. “Nice try. Was it, Reid?”

  Gerlis stared at Michael, his eyes starting to glaze. He coughed as blood gurgled from his mouth. With great difficulty, he said, “No—it—wa…”

  The next sound from the dying man was more of a gurgle than a word, but Wolfe recognized it. The chest of the ex-Mossad agent deflated one last time and remained still. His sightless eyes locked on Wolfe.

  Nadia appeared next to Wolfe, a Remington 700 fitted with a scope in her hands. She stared at the now-dead Asa Gerlis. “Is it over?”

  “Unfortunately—no.”

  Chapter 44

  Grand Cayman Island

  Three Weeks Later

  W olfe sat at the table where he had met Geoffrey Canfield what seemed like an eon ago. The conversations he heard were low and murmured using a generous dose of the Queen’s English. He sipped from a glass of beer, his eyes glued to the front door.

  At exactly, 4:00 p.m. Canfield entered the bar and waved as his mates raised their drinks to him. He strode purposefully to the bar, leaned over and spoke to the bartender. When the man handed him the gin and tonic, his head nodded toward the ex-MI6 operative’s regular table. While taking a sip, Canfield turned to see what the bartender indicated.

  Wolfe raised his glass but did not smile.

  Canfield hesitated, took a large gulp of his drink and walked slowly toward the table. “You’re sitting in my chair, mate.”

  “Tough shit. Sit down.”

  Hesitating, Canfield looked toward the door, shrugged and sat. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “Most of it.” He raised a laptop from the chair beside him and placed it on the table. “Nadia is becoming quite adept with computers. This one used to belong to Asa Gerlis.”

  Canfield stared at Wolfe, then the laptop. With a quick gulp he emptied his glass. “Where is the lovely lass?”

  “Having a chat with your lady doctor friend. By the way, was she the woman who sent Nadia to Barcelona?”

  He nodded and took a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, Canfield said, “Hopefully, a pleasant chat.”

  Wolfe’s mouth twitched. “For now. Who did she work for?”

  “MI6. She was always on call for us.” Canfield caught the bartender’s eye and raised his empty glass. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

  “Depends.”

  The older man tilted his head. “Depends on what?”

  “How truthful you are.”

  “Ahh…” He remained silent until a fresh drink was placed in front of him. “Yes, there is that.” Holding the drink in both hands, he studied the tiny bubbles as they rose to the top. “I was the one who introduced William Little to Reid and Gerlis.”

  “When was this?” Michael took a sip of beer without looking away from Canfield.

  “Operation Desert Shield. Everything I told you before is true, except one small detail.”

  Wolfe did not respond.

  After another long pull on his drink, the older man looked up at Michael. “I’m the one who put the idea of appropriating antiquities into their heads. Reid and Gerlis were the planners, General Little merely acted as the muscle.” He drained his glass again and set it back on the table. “Actually, in all fairness, General Little was a lazy sod.”

  “What do you mean?”

  With a sly smile, Canfield looked at Wolfe. “I found him to be dead from the neck up.”

  “Go on.”

  “The six officers who helped William Little were really the brains. Especially Major Nathan Tucker.”

  Wolfe glared hard at his ex-controller.

  “Without Tucker, the general would have been worthless.”

  “Who hired the assassins that eliminated them?”

  Canfield watched as another gin and tonic appeared in front of him while the waitress breezed by. He did not respond to the question.

  “You?”

  The ex-MI6 operative nodded. “All of them, except for the man who got Tucker.” He looked up at Wolfe. “I understand it was as difficult a shot as the one in Madagascar.”

  Wolfe did not respond.

  Canfield continued, “Tucker was actually the brains of our little conspiracy. He also helped the general escape to Madagascar.”

  “Why?”

  “The sorry sot had too big of a mouth. It would only have been a matter of time before he said something to the wrong individual.” Canfield looked over the top of his drink at Wolfe as he took a sip of his new drink. “You know anything about who shot Tucker?”

  Michael focused on Canfield’s eyes, but said nothing.

  “Now who’s not being truthful?”

  “This isn’t about me, Geoffrey. This is your confession.”

  “Oh, yeah. Forgot.”

  “Who was the man I killed in Turkey?”

  “Oh, him. He tried to sell us a Warhol forgery. We had to set an example, you know, to keep the others honest.”

  “Right. What about the job I refused in Russia?”

  The ex-MI6 operative shrugged. “That one was Reid’s idea. He never explained.”

  “Who made the arrangements in Barcelona?’

  Canfield stared at his drink for a long time before he answered. “Me.”

  “Why?”

  The older man took another deep breath and let it out slowly while staring at a rotating ceiling fan. “Not proud of it.”

  “Geoffrey?”

  “Gerlis asked me to do it.”

  “Again, why?”

  After a long silence, he said. “The original idea was for you to be the only target. Gerlis was jealous. He wanted Nadia for himself.”

  “He was married.”

  A smile touched Canfield’s lips. “He wanted her as his mistress. His ego was such, he thought if you were out of the way, she would fall into his arms.”

  No response came from Wolfe.

  “Anyway, he tried numerous times—she rebuffed all of his advances. Finally, he realized it wasn’t going to happen so he decided both of you needed to go. That’s when he contacted me.”

  “Why did you agree?”

  Canfield let out a hard sigh and closed his eyes. “Because you scare me.”

  “Keep that in mind, Geoffrey.”

  With both hands gripping his drink, the older man nodded.

  �
�I’m curious about the video showing Gerlis’ supposed death by an ISIS jihadist. Who made it?”

  Canfield grinned. “I was proud of that one.”

  “Who made it, Geoffrey?”

  “A very talented young lad I found in London. I told him it was an audition for a job.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes, he’s working as a CGI technician for an independent film studio in London.”

  “Is the kid aware of what he was actually doing?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get it distributed?”

  “I have no idea. Gerlis handled that part of it.”

  Wolfe pushed his chair back and stood.

  Looking up at Wolfe, the old man frowned. “What are you going to do?”

  The ex-sniper hesitated, “I’m thinking.”

  Canfield drained his drink.

  “Geoffrey, here’s the deal. You will never know when you will experience your last breath. It could be in an hour, or it could be years from now when you’re dying of old age. I’ve never acknowledged I made the shot in Madagascar on Little, but I did.” Wolfe placed his palms on the table and leaned closer. “It was an easy shot. Sixteen hundred meters with a soft breeze out of the east. Simple. One second, the General is alive, the next, he isn’t. I can promise you the same fate. However, General Little didn’t know I was there. You, on the other hand, will never know if I am or I’m not.

  “Never try what you did in Barcelona again. Even if you relocate, I’ll find you. Keep in mind, it took me over fifteen years to locate William Little and you saw what happened to him. I don’t think your lady friend would like to see your head explode in front of her, would she?”

  Canfield shook his head.

  Still leaning over the table, Wolfe said in a low whisper. “Welcome to your new nightmare, Geoffrey.”

  With those words, Wolfe walked out of the bar. Canfield closed his eyes and felt a warm sensation spread in his crotch.

  Washington, DC

  Jerry appeared at the office door of the National Security Advisor’s. Joseph looked up. “Yes.”