by Tom Wood
‘I think we’re operating with a different playbook here.’
‘Tell me about it. While I’m trying to do the right thing, you’re employing a professional killer wanted on four continents.’
Leyland smiled, polite, and opened the driver’s door. ‘Good night.’
‘Wait,’ Alvarez said, reaching out a hand to catch the door. ‘I have no problem with you, personally. I know you’re just doing your job in the best way you can.’
Leyland stared at Alvarez’s hand and he released it. He backed off a step.
‘We’re on different sides here,’ she said. ‘But we don’t have to be enemies.’
He nodded. ‘I agree.’
‘So, let’s just stay out of each other’s way. Okay?’
He nodded again. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. It wasn’t necessary. It was just something I…’ He didn’t finish. Instead he said, ‘Good night.’
Something in his voice made her curious. It wasn’t necessary. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure. Shoot.’
‘You seem pretty confident you can catch Tesseract.’
He shrugged, like admitting to confidence was something embarrassing.
She continued: ‘This is a man who has been on the run for years; a man whose name no one knows; he’s a mystery, a ghost; the only trail that leads anywhere near him is the line of corpses of those who have tried. He’s avoided CIA, Russian intelligence, half the police forces of Europe, and he even slipped through the net on US soil. Yet somehow, despite all of this, you’re going to be the one who catches him.’
‘Yes,’ Alvarez said.
Leyland didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. She said, ‘If you don’t mind, and this is purely to satisfy my own curiosity, please tell me what makes you believe you are going to do what no one else has managed? What makes you so special?’
‘Remember that rogue agent you had, the one selling secrets a while back? Well, he sold me a file on the killer. A real bargain at twice the price. It’s been a big help, but even without that I was the one on his trail once upon a time. Put the two together and I’ve found out something about him that no one else knows.’
Alvarez stood and backed away a step. He removed his car keys from a pocket and thumbed the remote unlock. He made Leyland wait.
Leyland waited, but she cracked first. ‘Well, what is it? What do you know?’
She couldn’t see Alvarez’s eyes because he had turned to get into his rental car, but she sensed a glimmer in them as he said, ‘I know who he really is.’
FORTY-THREE
The call came right on schedule. Niven listened to the short confirmation of his orders and passed them on to the crew he had assembled. They were all veteran criminals. One had even been a police officer. Niven had been one too, way back. He had worked in narcotics, busting dealers and going after gangs. Good times, until he had been forced out of the police when Internal Affairs had come sniffing around on account of one too many infractions. The list of felonies while in uniform they were after him for was extensive and included fraud, extortion and excessive force, but what they didn’t know was he had done far worse. They didn’t know he had been a career criminal with a badge, who had hijacked, beaten, stolen and murdered. He had tried to fight the mounting pressure, but Niven could only intimidate, coerce and kill so much, so he had quit before IA found anything that would put him in a cage. He had put plenty of lowlifes inside, some legit and some he had set up, but either way he knew he wouldn’t last long in prison. The Consensus liked people like him. People who appeared clean on paper, but were dirty to the core; men and women who had broken the law and were more than willing to break it again if it meant sizeable donations to offshore accounts or a briefcase of cash left on their back seat.
There were no women for this job, though. It had been deemed inappropriate. The five men had been selected as individuals. They were from all corners of the British Isles, all used before by Niven’s shadowy boss, but they hadn’t operated together until now and they wouldn’t afterwards. No one used their real name. It kept exposure to a minimum. Loyalty was non-existent as a result, but loyalty didn’t matter when those in question were expendable. They were not like Niven. They were foot soldiers. Just thugs. Useful for messy jobs like this, but not for anything more. If necessary, they were disposable.
Niven’s orders were simple: make it look like a home invasion. Common enough to imitate, if not as common in Scotland as they were back home. Home invasions almost always ended the same way, and this one would go by the established pattern. It would be bloody. It would be brutal. Niven had been chosen because he had proven himself without compunction. The crew were the same. They had done awful things before the Consensus had started hiring them to do even worse. They were hired because they were animals.
The fate of Ben and Suzanne Mayes was set in stone, but that end might not come for a while. So far, Raven – who Niven had been briefed on – was going along with the plan, so Ben and Suzanne were to be held hostage, not killed outright. From what Niven knew about Raven, he hadn’t been sure she would be manipulated with just threats. He had figured there was a good chance it would all be over pretty fast, and he’d be rushing in and butchering the Mayes right at the get-go. Now, there was a good chance Niven and his crew would be there for a couple of days, if that’s what it took. Some had hoped it would last. Some were sadists.
Their vehicle was a Ford Explorer. It was stolen. An old vehicle that was as disposable as the men inside. They made sure to stop longer than they needed at a stop sign they knew was overlooked by the CCTV camera of a convenience store at the lonely intersection. The camera’s angle was such that it wouldn’t see the occupants, but the licence plate would be visible. They wanted the local police to find the footage and match the vehicle to one that belonged to a local heroin addict, a man who had been in prison for aggravated robbery, who associated with degenerates and thugs with records. Jewellery from the Mayes’ house would be stashed at the house where the junkie lived. DNA would be planted. The case would solve itself. Justice would be done for the Mayes, and the community could sleep easier knowing their brutal murder had been avenged.
That’s why Niven was so essential to his boss, to the wider organisation. He knew how to handle these kind of jobs in such a way that they didn’t look like these kind of jobs at all. He had been doing them his whole life, in one way or another. Without a badge, he started off working for mobsters and dealers, running protection for small-time crooks to keep other small-time crooks from ripping them off. He used what he had learned as a cop to maximise his criminal activities, both in who to target and how to avoid getting caught.
He had built up a reputation as being uncompromising and brutal by the time he started receiving anonymous phone calls from unlisted numbers. He hadn’t known who hired him, apart from the fact that it was always the same voice on the end of the line. One of those slimy DC types from the way he spoke. Niven was fascinated by the secret world he had been brought into. They always paid on time and well over the going rate, but Niven wanted more. He wanted in.
‘I can do more for you than just odd jobs,’ he implored. ‘I can be a real asset.’
‘Keep doing the work I send and doors will open,’ the voice told him.
You don’t want me to take your job, he thought. One day I will. One day I’ll be kicking back with a cold one while someone else throws away another ruined shirt.
He had gone from being someone called upon only to hurt to an all-round go-to guy. He had found Suzanne and Ben, after all. He had been trusted with sensitive intelligence, trusted to make use of it. He was earning his way inside, a little at a time.
And he had an edge the guy on the phone didn’t know about.
Niven was sly. He was an ex-cop. He had friends and he had leverage and he put both to use. All electronic communication was traceable with enough time, enough effort and enough resources. Niven knew who was calling him. He
wasn’t supposed to. He reckoned it would get him killed if they found out, but it was his way in when the time was right, and until then it was his bargaining chip if they ever turned on him.
It had been a cold day and the evening had taken that cold and doubled it. The five guys were shivering because Niven wouldn’t let them put on the heater. He could sweat in a snowstorm. When they were only a few miles out, they stopped the vehicle and disembarked. In the trunk were six sets of black synthetic trousers, black T-shirts and sweaters, gloves, shoes and beanie hats. They stripped to their underwear, shivering hard, and Niven ignored their complaints while he checked them for personal effects or anything else they shouldn’t have on their person. Then he bagged up their day clothes, handing out the right set of black clothes to each man. Niven’s own outfit was a little tight because he had been less honest when supplying his waist size to their employer. No problem. It wasn’t as if he was going to be getting physical. That was what the others were paid for. He was paid to run the job. He was looking forward to it. To promotion. To being the guy on the other end of the phone. He didn’t want them thinking he was fat and lazy. He wanted them to think of him as a good investment.
The Mayes’ farmhouse was isolated. Grazing pastures surrounded it. There was only a single-lane dirt track that led from the highway to the home, weather-beaten stone and tile, classic Scottish, rugged and decent. The perfect location for indecency of the worst kind, thought Niven as he directed the driver to kill the lights and drive slow.
It was three in the morning. No lights glowed at the farm.
They parked the Explorer half a mile from the front door. Niven handed out guns, one to each man – pistols that were stolen and, like the clothes, supplied for him. Hard to come by in the UK, but Niven’s employers always delivered. He didn’t think they would need the firepower, but always better to be over-armed than under.
When everyone was loaded, Niven led them forward.
There was a dog, they had been briefed. No way to get to the house without alerting it, but by the time the dog – a thirteen-year-old German shepherd – heard them, they were at the porch. It barked, as expected.
Niven shot it with his pistol as they hurried into the hallway, the busted front door hanging from a single hinge behind them.
Ben Mayes had woken fast and armed himself and put a shotgun blast down the stairway – a warning shot, panicked and scared.
‘There are six of us, Mr Mayes,’ Niven called, out of sight and safe from the shotgun. ‘Think of yourself. Think of your wife. Don’t do anything stupid.’
Mayes called down from the landing, ‘What do you want?’
‘We’re here to rob you, Ben. We want your TV, we want your wife’s jewellery. This can all be over in ten minutes. You don’t have a choice. Take a moment to think this through. You’re a farmer. We’re criminals. You’re outnumbered. This is what we do.’
Mayes took the moment and threw his double-barrelled shotgun down the stairs.
‘A wise choice.’
Niven gestured and his men raced up the stairs, overpowering Mayes and going to the bedroom to fetch his wife, Suzanne. Niven ordered the others to check the ground floor to make sure there were no surprises, and spent the waiting period nudging the dead dog with his shoe.
‘She’s not here,’ one of the crew called from upstairs.
Niven frowned and trudged up the stairs, out of breath when he reached the landing. He entered the master bedroom. Two of the crew held Mayes, who was on his knees. The bedroom was big and had all the expected furniture, but there was no place for a woman to hide.
‘Where is Suzanne, Mr Mayes?’
Ben Mayes swallowed. His eyes were wide. ‘She’s… she’s at her sister’s house.’
Niven said, ‘Why is she there, not here?’
‘She stays there two or three times a week. Sometimes more. They’re close.’
Niven frowned again and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his sweater. It was an oversight on his part. He should have been more thorough, but there was only so much one man could do.
He saw the other men were looking at him for answers. They knew only what he had told them. They assumed he knew what he was doing.
He didn’t want to look ignorant in front of them, so he said, ‘Then we’re going to wait for her to come back.’
Mayes’s expression changed. ‘Why?’
‘My reasons are my own.’
Only Niven knew why they were staging a home invasion. That was privileged information, not to be shared with the grunts. Only Niven knew the significance of Ben Mayes and the identity of his stepsister.
Mayes said, ‘Take all the jewellery. I have cash too. I also have —’
Niven put a finger to his lips. ‘Stay quiet, Mr Mayes. There’s plenty of time for that. First, I need to make a call to find out if your sister is still playing ball.’
‘Wait, what? My sister?’
Niven nodded. ‘Yes, I’m afraid all of this is Constance’s fault.’
FORTY-FOUR
Prague was still busy approaching midnight. Raven hadn’t slept on the plane from Rome. She hadn’t slept for more than twenty-four hours. The old man had given her plenty of time to get to the city and plenty of time to get to the phone, but not if anything went wrong. Not if there was a problem. A delayed flight, bad traffic, could mean missing the call. It was always on her mind. Impossible to forget. Impossible to ignore.
She had been to Prague many times before. The last time, just over a year ago, had been her first encounter with the assassin who was now her… ally? She couldn’t be sure what they were. She loved the city, but there was no time to see the sights. No desire to look in any direction except forward.
The plane landed on time. There were no holdups in taxiing or at passport control. Her alias was good. Her funds may have been limited, but she never skimped on documentation. She could make do without all the fancy tech, she could improvise weapons, but she could not operate with second-rate forgeries. The world was changing too fast and technology becoming too sophisticated to risk anything but the best.
She took a calming breath. Her mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. She was coolly professional when she operated, but the long career doing black ops for the Agency had not been conducted while her brother was under threat. That changed everything. She knew she would make mistakes. She knew that, because she was distracted by worrying about Ben, she couldn’t operate at her best. She could only hope her nameless partner was at his best.
Like the plane, the metro was running on time. A drunk guy tried to chat to her. It took every ounce of willpower she could muster not to break all the bones in his body. Instead, she made polite small talk in return. The kind every woman had to perfect, to master, just to get through the day with a minimum of harassment. The guy was determined, and not without charm, but he realised eventually this was a battle he couldn’t win. He didn’t say goodbye when he alighted.
She was making good time. She took a cab to the river. She made sure the driver knew that she was in a hurry and she’d be happy to tip well if he spared the scenic route. He was offended by the implication. She figured she had spent too much time in cities where taxi drivers were just thieves in cars.
The taxi dropped her off and she had to continue on foot down a pedestrianised street, and then to a narrow promenade. Here she could see the dark waters of the Vltava and hear the gentle lapping of waves on a man-made beach. A soothing sound at any other time in any other place.
She saw a bank of payphones and approached with caution. She told herself that this was all pointless and unnecessary if the old man wanted to kill her. The team at Totti’s villa didn’t need tranquillisers for that. The old man had sent her here to keep her away from Ben. That mattered only if the threat was real, and the only reason to threaten her was to force her to do something she wouldn’t otherwise. All superfluous if her death was the priority. Even so, she couldn’t stop herself looking for threats.
>
There were plenty of people out having a good time, but not so many as to deter an assassin or interrupt a carefully selected line of sight. The payphones were exposed. The strong breeze from the river offered a modicum of protection, but a good marksman would have no trouble hitting her from any number of potential sniper nests.
She checked her watch. A few minutes to spare, so she hung back. She didn’t want to spend any time she didn’t have to waiting at the phone itself. That would mark her out. That would only play into any potential surprise she hadn’t been able to anticipate. With one minute to go, she walked towards the phones.
There were six in total. They did a lot more than just make calls. They were mini internet terminals. Tourists could check maps and see local attractions and a host of other things to justify the existence of the payphones in an age when almost everyone had a phone on their person.
Six phones-cum-terminals and none were being used. She was only interested in one of them. There’ll be a bank of payphones. One will ring. The one on the east edge.
It was the one furthest from her, and she saw as she neared that someone else was approaching from the opposite direction.
A man. He looked in his thirties, normal build, casual clothes. He could be a regular no one or an exceptional assassin. As the distance closed and she had a better look at him she saw he had a cell phone in his left hand and his attention was on the payphones, not her. A dead battery then, or poor signal. When they were only a few metres apart she saw he was going for the closest phone to him, the one on the east edge.
He was nearer to it than Raven.
She quickened her pace to a jog, then a run, not caring about losing any guise of normalcy because maintaining that illusion was a secondary consideration.
The man noticed her, because a woman walking towards him was suddenly running towards him, but he didn’t realise what she was doing because she ran past five other phones so it would only seem natural for her to run past the sixth one too. Instead, she came to an abrupt stop before it, a second before he did.
