The Final Hour (Victor The Assassin 7)

by Tom Wood

  He had to make an abrupt stop too, so he didn’t collide with her.

  He was not happy.

  ‘Sorry,’ Raven said.

  He looked at her, brow furrowed at the narrowly avoided collision over a payphone she wasn’t using. She just stood before it, blocking its use.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, angling for the terminal.

  ‘I need this one,’ Raven said.

  ‘You’re not using it.’

  ‘I will be in a moment.’

  Her responses did nothing to reduce his annoyance. ‘What’s special about this one?’

  ‘I’m awaiting a call.’

  He sighed. ‘Then why didn’t you say so?’

  He stepped around her and headed along the line of phones until he reached the one on the west side, the one furthest away, and she wondered herself why she hadn’t explained at the first opportunity. She tried to relax, to act casual again, to be —

  The phone rang.

  She snatched it from the perch and said, ‘Hello.’

  The voice that replied was the old man’s. She would recognise it anywhere. It had a deep, but nasal tone. Weak, but superior.

  He said, ‘How was your journey, Miss Stone?’

  ‘Relaxing,’ she answered. ‘Best flight ever. Who cares? I want to know that Ben is safe.’

  ‘Miss Stone, if you want your brother to live then you will do any- and everything I ask of you.’

  ‘That’s what I am doing. You told me to answer this phone and you’ll tell me where to go, so tell me. Let’s not waste time chatting when I can be moving.’

  She thought of what her nameless partner had said. They needed time to put things in motion. They had to keep her out of the way while they captured Ben and Suzanne.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said. ‘Here’s where you’re going next…’

  FORTY-FIVE

  Ben Mayes was handling his captivity well, or as well as could be expected. He was meek and subservient but his terror was in check. He kept his cool. He wasn’t begging or crying. He wasn’t trying to establish rapport with his captors. He wasn’t even showing any signs of – what do they call it? – Stockholm syndrome. In fact, he was the perfect prisoner, or was he a hostage? The guy watching him in the master bedroom wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what was going on beyond the basic details. The boss had explained that this was going to look like a home invasion. It was going to be messy. It was going to be the type of crime that made the news, that they made documentaries about. The guy watching Mayes had done things – bad things – but he wasn’t thrilled about hacking up some poor dickhead and his wife.

  Still, the job was worth a whole chunk of change. The cash would go a long way to paying off his bookie. The guy guarding Mayes was called Gaffney, and he liked to bet on horses, and when he won, he liked to spend his winnings on coke and underage prostitutes. Trouble was, he didn’t win too often and his bookie didn’t much like to hear his excuses. The bookie was bad news. It was almost as though he wanted his clients to lose so he could hurt them. Gaffney had cleared some previous debts by helping show others that it was in their best interests to pay what they owed, and pay fast.

  Gaffney liked all of his fingers and toes and wanted to keep them.

  He used to be a cop, but he hadn’t lasted long. He spent a whole eighteen months in the Met before he was fired for lifting drugs out of evidence. He wasn’t prosecuted because the drugs were part of a big case against a big trafficker and the barrister would have thrown a shit-fit had he found out because the defence brief would have torn the case apart. Chain of custody was sacred for a reason.

  Turned out Gaffney wasn’t cut out for being a cop. All he wanted was some respect, some power. Turned out that could be achieved a whole lot easier out of uniform. Fewer rules that way. Fewer laws. More fun.

  He didn’t know the guys he was working with, but this wasn’t the first time he had received a call from an unlisted number with instructions to meet someone he had never met before and carry out a job like this. It was all a little strenuous on his nerves – the fear of walking into a sting operation was constant – but he always needed the money. He figured he was working for the mob. Not the classic mafia, but the real organisations that ran the criminal underworld. Russians, or whatever. The city firms that no one had heard of because it was their business not to make noise. Hence people like him. Hence the anonymous crew.

  Watching Mayes was boring. The man had no fire in him. Gaffney almost wanted him to try something. Then Gaffney would have an excuse to vent some of that nervous energy. But he wasn’t going to provoke. The boss was explicit. Mayes wasn’t to be hurt, he wasn’t to be marked – until the time was right. Gaffney didn’t understand why, but he knew to do as he was told.

  He stroked his nose, thinking about a big bag of blow, and scratched his crotch, thinking about something else.

  Niven waited downstairs, making the most of Ben Mayes’ reclining armchair. It was one of those automated chairs, and was just about the greatest thing Niven had sat his ass on. Period. He was waiting for a callback. Waiting to be connected to someone in the know. He had reported the absence of Suzanne Mayes.

  ‘I’ll get right back to you,’ the voice had said and hung up.

  There was a guy upstairs watching Mayes, who had been secured with cable ties and left sitting on the bed. No need to go to town with him. It was supposed to look like a home invasion by heroin addicts, not a hostage situation orchestrated by professionals. Niven had seen the aftermath of the former enough times. The invaders didn’t use handcuffs. They kept things basic. Simple.

  The other members of Niven’s crew were ransacking the house for anything of value, to add to the narrative. They were turning the place upside down, making a lot of noise and a lot of mess in the process. Things like TVs and computers were ferried out to the Explorer, which had been brought closer to the house. The Mayes household wasn’t overflowing with value items, so Niven had his guys take whatever they found that could be sold on. He left it to their own discretion. A bunch of junkies wouldn’t be too thorough or discerning.

  He had no one on guard, no one doing laps or checking the perimeter because they were in the middle of nowhere. There were no neighbours. No one was going to pass by. And if they did, better they see lights on in the middle of the night than a stranger patrolling the property.

  That was why Niven went outside himself when he thought he heard something.

  He eased open the busted front door and stepped on to the porch that ran around the house. The night air was icy. He heard the rustling of nature in the breeze and nothing further. Could have imagined it, or could have been some critter.

  Nothing to worry about.

  One of the other crew members came into the master bedroom. Gaffney had plenty of warning because the stairs couldn’t have creaked any louder. It was the same with the floorboards. The farmhouse was in fine shape otherwise – clean windows, pristine paint, no missing roof tiles. The floors were polished and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Kind of place Gaffney might retire to, once he’d found a wife who knew her place. Women like that were a rare breed. He’d been married twice so far and wasn’t going to go through it again for anyone less than perfect.

  ‘Hey,’ the guy who came in said, ‘found beers in the fridge. Here.’

  He handed a cold can to Gaffney, who said, ‘We allowed these?’

  ‘Who cares? Boss stepped outside. I won’t say a word if you don’t.’

  Gaffney grinned at their illicit behaviour and said, ‘Cheers.’

  He waited until he was alone and used his teeth to open the can so he could keep his weapon in hand.

  Niven circled the house just to be sure, because something was bothering him. Something didn’t seem right. It wasn’t just the noise – imagined or real – or the absence of the wife. It was something else. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. He was nervous, which wasn’t like him.

  He wasn’t a tall guy
, but he was tough, he was strong. He was out of shape, but that didn’t matter. Nine times out of ten, a fight was over with the first punch. Even as a cop he hadn’t been one to chase after a fleeing perp. He didn’t like to exert himself. He didn’t like to sweat any more than he did anyway, standing still. He’d been in his share of danger. He’d had his share of muzzles pointed at his face. So why the nerves?

  Maybe it was the waiting that was the problem. He didn’t have much patience. That was why he had become a criminal, he supposed. He was never satisfied. He always wanted more. It seemed like too much work to actually work for anything. Easier to take it. Simpler to steal. Quicker to hurt. He found he liked to hurt people.

  He re-entered the house.

  One of the guys supposed to be tossing the place was descending the stairs.

  Niven said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, chief. Just checking.’

  ‘Do what I told you to do,’ Niven said. ‘That’s all you need to do. Leave everything else to me, okay?’

  The guy nodded and Niven dropped himself back into the recliner, waiting for the next call.

  FORTY-SIX

  Helsinki was the second, and final, destination. A two-hour flight from Prague touched down in Finland at nearly five a.m. Again, Raven had a payphone to reach. This time it was at a metro station in the city centre and quick analysis at the airport showed public transport the fastest route to the city. A metro line ran from the airport straight to downtown. It was a regular system too, even in the middle of the night. She sat among Finns going home from night shifts and those heading to the office for early starts. No one tried to chat her up. No one tried to make conversation. Her fatigue and fear let her blend in with the tired and the stressed. She was in disguise without trying.

  She wasn’t familiar with the city or the country and had to ask directions, but there were no issues with language. She knew from past experience that Scandinavians spoke excellent English. She knew Finland wasn’t classed as a Scandinavian country technically, but most people considered it to be, geographically, at least. She was on time to answer the phone without interruptions.

  The old man said, ‘You’ll be glad to know there are no more planes. No more phones to answer. Ben is safely in our custody and cooperating.’

  ‘He had better be safe. What am I doing here? Who’s my target?’

  ‘All in good time. For now, I want you to liaise with an associate of mine.’

  ‘You told me I was here to kill someone. Now you’re telling me I’m here to meet someone instead?’

  ‘For the time being, that means syncing up with a man who will provide you with further details. Your contact is a fellow professional assassin who will be your partner for this job. He has the operational details. He will provide you with support, surveillance, and backup.’

  ‘You mean he’s here to kill me if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘Let’s not allow paranoia to interfere with the task at hand.’

  Raven said, ‘I want proof of life before I do the job. I want to speak to Ben on the phone. I want to ask him a question that only he will know the answer to. I want to hear him say it himself. That’s my condition, my only condition, but it’s non-negotiable.’

  ‘That’s acceptable to me.’

  ‘Good, because you don’t have a choice.’

  ‘I believe it’s the other way around.’

  ‘Nuh-uh. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for this, to get me here to do your dirty work, so it’s important to you. It’s vital. I don’t want you to hurt my brother, but you want me to kill your target just as bad.’

  ‘Don’t delude yourself into doing – or not doing – something you’ll regret.’

  ‘I’m telling you the same thing.’

  The old man said, ‘I’ll keep my side of the bargain if you keep yours.’

  ‘Well,’ Raven said back, ‘we’re each about to find out if the other is telling the truth.’

  The old man gave her an address: ‘This will be the location of your safe house. Sync up with your partner there and I will arrange for you to speak to Ben. Good enough?’

  ‘If he’s been hurt…’

  ‘Get to the safe house, Miss Stone. You don’t have time for any more threats.’

  The address turned out to be an old apartment building on a quiet, leafy street. The building was grand and imposing, but had fallen into disrepair and was being renovated. It was six stories tall and surrounded by scaffolding. A rubble chute descended from the top level of scaffolding down the back of the building. The apartments were unoccupied while the building was gutted and refurbished. The front door was unlocked and Raven made her way up the stairs to the penthouse, where the babysitter was waiting.

  He was a man, but not a native. He didn’t say where he was from but Raven had a good ear for accents so could tell he was Estonian. He had a wide face, with dense, prominent cheekbones and a jutting chin. He wasn’t old, but the lines in his face were deep. His eyebrows were constantly pinched together. His eyes always squinted.

  His neck was thick and his hands large and calloused. He had the straight back of a military man, and the patience to go with it. In a reasoned tone he told her to wait and not cause any trouble. He said there would be a call, and until then, there was nothing to be done.

  He wore boots, loose khaki trousers and a T-shirt. His sidearm was worn at all times in a shoulder holster, safety off, ready to be drawn at speed; fired without hesitation. He looked like an operator who enjoyed his work. He looked like he couldn’t wait to shoot her. He had a knife too, sheathed to his belt.

  This wasn’t someone sent in to do a subtle job. This wasn’t someone who shadowed a target for days or weeks, hiding in plain sight, picking the perfect time and the perfect method to minimise exposure. This was a guy who would happily open fire in a restaurant with an assault rifle. This was a guy who would shoot down a passenger plane to kill a single target.

  The penthouse was large, but rundown. There were few items of furniture, and anything of value was covered in a dust sheet while the renovations were being carried out.

  Raven watched as the babysitter sat cross-legged on the floor, with an oil-stained cloth laid out before him. On top of it were weapons, which he stripped one at a time, methodically cleaning and oiling and reassembling. He was smooth and fast in his hand movements, graceful in the small, intricate actions required. He knew his guns. She made a mental log of this, of his familiarity with weapons, of his dexterity and precision, but most of all she made a mental log that he could strip these weapons, clean and oil and reassemble them, and all without looking, because he never took his gaze from her the entire time.

  She imagined the sorts of jobs he had done. Loud, messy, but effective. She couldn’t picture him waiting patiently behind a rifle. She couldn’t imagine him analysing wind speed and adjusting for the Coriolis effect. But she could see him fearless in a firefight, unflinching in hand-to-hand combat. Relentless. Deadly.

  No way to reason with him, no chance of convincing him to deviate from his mission, no way of distracting or bluffing. An automaton.

  He said, voice low and monotone, ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘I’m getting to know you.’

  ‘Don’t bother. We’re not here that long.’

  ‘Long enough,’ Raven said.

  The babysitter’s phone rang. She stared at the glowing screen. He picked it up and answered it, never taking his gaze from Raven.

  Niven’s phone rang too. The guys downstairs with him all heard the phone ringing and were all looking at Niven for orders. Niven took his time answering it. He pulled out the phone slowly, pretending he couldn’t feel their expectation, pretending he wasn’t a lackey to a voice on the end of the phone, pretending he was really in charge, really somebody.

  He heaved himself out of the recliner to take the call. ‘Yeah?’

  The voice said, ‘Put Ben on the line.’

  ‘On
e minute.’

  He made his way up the stairs, fast but not hurried, to the master bedroom and entered to find things as they should be: Ben Mayes sitting on the bed, Gaffney watching him nearby, but not too near. Niven approached Mayes and held out the phone.

  Niven said, ‘The phone’s on speaker. I’m here with Ben. Ben, your sister wants to speak with you.’

  A woman’s voice spoke. It was distorted a little, but clear. ‘Ben? Are you there? Are you okay?’

  Mayes said, ‘Constance, is that you? What’s going on? What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t have time to explain, but I will. I’m sorry. This is my fault. Just stay calm. Do what they say. Don’t cause any trouble and this will be okay. I promise. Ben, I need to know you’re okay. If you are, tell me the colour of the old swing we used to have out back. The one you broke. Remember?’

  Niven watched Mayes closely.

  Mayes said, ‘Blue. It was blue.’

  There was a huge sigh of relief that came through the speakerphone.

  A disconnect sound followed it, and the voice told Niven, ‘Take it off speaker.’

  Niven did as he was told and listened to his orders. He said, ‘Okay,’ and hung up. He slipped his phone away and turned his attention to Mayes. ‘You see, Ben, everything is going to be fine. Your sister is going to do what she’s been asked to do, and when that’s done we’ll be on our way. You just need to keep calm for a day or maybe two, okay? Can you do that, Ben?’

  Mayes nodded.

  ‘Good boy,’ Niven said, and left the room.

  The Estonian lit a cigarette and peered at her through the smoke. The cigarettes were strong. A French brand Raven recognised. She had smoked herself, before the poisoning, before her recovery. Coming back to life and struggling to move again had killed any nicotine addiction. Now the thought of inhaling tobacco smoke again made her feel… not ill, but foolish. Such a waste of time and health. She preferred dodging bullets to emphysema.