by Tom Wood
London had many small areas of greenery that were tucked away near busy areas, but quiet and undiscovered by the tourists. This one was busy because it was lunchtime and office workers were keen to make the most of their hour on a rain-free day, but he saw her fast in the same way she saw him fast. Both of them could be anonymous, but not from one another. Not any longer. They had spent too much time together. They knew each other too well to hide in the way they could from others.
Victor and Raven neared with a certain amount of caution, because that’s how they always operated, but the crowd provided cover, it provided safety. Neither of them would choose to make a kill surrounded by so many witnesses. Which was why it had been agreed upon. A sniper would have an impossible shot to make.
There was no glint in her eyes, no glib comment, no innuendo. She had the same expression he had. All business. No emotion.
She said, ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ but there was no warmth in her thanks. She was being polite, but nothing more.
It had been a fortnight since Helsinki and she had healed well, but despite the time and make-up he could still see the remnants of bruises and cuts to her face, reminders of the injuries he had inflicted. One eye was still a little black. There was still a hint of swelling.
‘You’re walking stiffly,’ she observed.
He had many minor injuries of his own from the fall down the rubble chute. His ribs ached with every breath, and his palms were still sore. ‘I overdid it at the gym.’
She said, ‘I hear on the grapevine people think you’re dead.’
He nodded. ‘For the moment, at least. Your Estonian babysitter made for a useful substitute. Whether this lasts or not is out of my hands, but it’s bought me some time. You’re the only one who knows for sure that I’m still alive.’
‘So the original plan worked after all.’
He nodded again.
‘Then we tried to kill each other for no reason.’
‘Your gunshot brought them to us. Had you not tried to kill me, it wouldn’t have worked itself out like that.’
‘Is that a thank you?’
‘I’m not going after Alvarez,’ Victor said by way of an answer. ‘There’s no longer any need. Whatever he knows about me is irrelevant, so long as he believes I’m a corpse.’
‘Then we really did fight over nothing.’
Victor said, ‘You lied to me, didn’t you? The old man never mentioned me or Phoenix. You made that up so I would help your brother. I should have realised at the time that it was all too convenient, but deception is one of your many talents.’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Of all the things I regret, using you to help Ben is never going to be one of them. Don’t even think about —’
He was offended enough to interrupt her. ‘Not my style, Constance.’
He saw that she was regretful for the implication, but she said nothing.
‘Why am I here?’
Raven said, ‘At first, because I wanted to put things right between you and I. I wanted to call another truce, but a permanent one this time. Go back to how things were.’
‘I thought you might offer me some dessert wine.’
‘Funny,’ she said, mirthless.
He waited.
She continued in her own time: ‘But I’ve changed my mind. You’ve always told me that you’re a mercenary, a killer. So now I’m going to treat you as one. I don’t want a friend like that.’
‘We were never friends. We had only an alliance of interests and a certain attraction.’
‘Now,’ she said with a smirk, ‘now is the moment you choose to admit it. Not that it matters. I don’t want an ally like you. We’re on completely different sides.’
‘The only side I’m on is my own.’
She nodded. ‘That’s what I finally understand. If that side of yours happens to align with me, then it all works out. But as Helsinki showed, the gloves are off as soon as we want different things.’
‘You didn’t need to meet me just to tell me what I already know.’
‘I realise that. I didn’t. I wanted to meet you now, like this, one last time.’
‘One last time,’ he repeated.
‘Because if we ever meet again it’s going to be as enemies.’
Victor remained silent.
Raven said, ‘I hope that never happens. I hope I don’t see you again. But if I do, then I want it to be through the scope of a high-powered rifle.’
He didn’t reply because he didn’t have the same need to voice his thoughts she had. She waited a moment before realising that he would say nothing further. She responded to this with an exhale, a bitter smile, because she understood now:
‘I never meant anything to you.’
He didn’t answer. He backed away and let the crowd swallow him.
Raven stood in the centre of the square, surrounded by people, but alone.
SIXTY-ONE
People always felt the need to say I hate funerals. Alvarez didn’t get that. Everyone hated funerals. It was universal. He was sure even undertakers weren’t big fans. He was sure if he looked into it there would be a disproportionate number of incidences of depression and substance abuse among undertakers compared to other professions. This funeral was a standard Jewish affair. Alvarez had been to a few of those over the years. He had reached the age when funerals were becoming as common as weddings.
The immediate family weren’t especially religious, but some of the extended relations were and had been respectfully catered for. Alvarez listened to the rabbi, not understanding when he spoke Hebrew, but the solemnity of his tone was understandable.
There were plenty of tears, as was to be expected, but there was no wife and no children and the parents were old enough to show restraint. They were so old they had to be helped to sit, to stand, and for every step between.
Alvarez went alone. He had no invite, so he stayed at the back and kept out of people’s way, but he was dressed for it and no one looked at him with any suspicion, no one demanded to know who he was or what he was doing there. He knew how to keep a low profile.
It was a beautiful day: blue skies and sunshine, only a hint of white cloud. It only ever seemed to go one of two ways with funerals – perfect weather or terrible. There was no middle ground. Maybe that meant something. Maybe that meant there was more than just life and death. Alvarez didn’t know. He didn’t spend too much time considering spirituality and his place in the universe because deep down he didn’t really want those answers. He was too scared to ask the questions in the first place.
The family hadn’t wanted the cause of death to be made public, so people had been told Sykes had died of a heart attack, which was technically true, but when Alvarez heard the news the first thing he did was pick up the phone and find out from the pathologist herself exactly what had happened. Sykes had committed suicide. He had ingested enough cocaine to kill a bear, let alone a human. Swallowed, not snorted.
‘No question at all it was suicide. Even someone who didn’t use drugs regularly would know taking so much in one go was only going to end one way.’
‘Alcohol in his system?’
‘Not a drop.’
‘Thank you for your time.’
Cocaine and drug paraphernalia had been found in his townhouse, the investigating officer assured him. Alvarez asked around. None of Sykes’ colleagues knew of any drug use. Most knew he liked to drink and tried to hide it.
The day before the funeral, Alvarez’s phone rang. It was the Director of National Intelligence himself.
‘I hear you’re hassling people about a friend’s suicide.’
‘He wasn’t my friend, sir.’
The director said, ‘I don’t want to think you’re neglecting your duties with personal enquiries.’
‘Understood.’
Alvarez had heard a lot about his duties after the Helsinki debacle. He would be in trouble if word got out he had attended the funeral. Standing a
t the back, he was first to leave when the service was over and headed back to his car. He had parked it well out of the way. Someone else had had the same idea because a man dressed in black stood smoking on the kerb. He was alone and lost in his own moment until he saw Alvarez approach.
‘How was it?’ he asked. ‘I couldn’t bear to go inside. I hate funerals.’
Alvarez nodded his understanding and said, ‘It was a moving service.’
‘We enter this life not knowing we exist. We leave it wondering what that existence meant.’
Alvarez said nothing to that.
The man dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out under the toe of his shoe. At his age, he should know better than to smoke. ‘Did you know him well?’
Alvarez considered how to answer. ‘I thought I did.’
‘Isn’t it always that way?’ the old man said with a sad, almost innocent, smile. ‘We never really know anyone.’
SIXTY-TWO
She went by the name Phoenix. It was her handle. It meant nothing. It was just a name. It was just a word she liked that had imagery and symbolism associated with it, all of which had no relevance to her but helped throw her enemies off her scent anyway. Who was she? From what ashes did she rise? They inferred history. They misread subtext. They created a mental picture that was inaccurate. That helped her. That gave her advantages.
She needed those advantages because she was a wanted woman. She was a criminal. Her job was freelance human resourcing. She was a recruiter, a broker. Maybe the biggest. Maybe the best. In a past life she had been a lawyer and an entrepreneur and many other things, but above all she had been a networker. She knew how to make associations and keep acquaintances, and how to put the right people together when neither knew the other existed, let alone that they might be helpful to their respective goals. She had worked for diplomats and politicians, private security firms and warlords. She had put arms dealers in touch with insurgents and supplied names and coordinates to independent intelligence outfits who in turn had passed those on to CIA officers who had authorised targeted assassinations of those same insurgents. Those contacts in the private security world were always looking for work, and some didn’t care whether the targets were terrorists or civilians. She helped those transactions. She made the deals. Then she was organising the deals. Then her contacts were bringing contracts to her table for her to fulfil. She had a mental rolodex full of professional killers and those that needed their services.
Her success rate was phenomenal, but not perfect. Not all such contracts were successful. Some were open. One in particular had been in motion for a whole year, without success. This was far from common. It was almost unique. Three attempts had been made and all three had failed. She wasn’t used to failure, even with a target this problematic.
She didn’t know his name because no one did. If it was out there, she would know it. That she didn’t was both a source of frustration and fascination. She knew so little about him it seemed impossible he could in fact be a real person. Everyone had a past. No identity could be hidden in its entirety. At least, that’s what she had believed.
He had angered powerful people, and so the contract had come to her, because if anyone could fulfil it, it was Phoenix. She had sources everywhere. She put out the word for information on the target, on the assassin without a name. She offered good money for hard intel.
That request came to the attention of a man who worked for British intelligence, SIS; commonly referred to as MI6. Phoenix knew all about that man. At the time he was a spy and he was corrupt. He had a wife and daughter and a Chinese mistress. He had been a career intelligence officer who had succumbed to his base urges. Those urges had begun at lust and ended with greed.
He had a file on the assassin because that assassin had recently been hired by SIS. Threadbare, as files went, but it had enough details to make it valuable, because those details were verified. They were real. She learned more about this killer, and found herself with more than a professional interest in him, because, like her, he had managed to make himself invisible. A kindred spirit, almost. She wanted to find out more about him as much as she wanted to profit from his death.
The file supplemented what she had been given by her client and with it there was enough to pass on to contractors. One went missing in London. The second was found shot to death in Belgrade. She took no chances with the third attempt in Germany, using a traitorous subordinate as bait and a whole team, but still no joy. At least in terms of success, but she found she was enjoying this duel; the feints, the parries, the counterattacks. Her work could be so boring. Contracts came in; she distributed them to the most suitable contractor on her books; she passed on confirmation when it came in… A few clicks of a mouse, typically, albeit clicks worth hundreds of thousands of dollars at a time.
She had not been paid for this contract because she was paid only for success, and her potential reward for success was diminishing with each failure. Her world was a secret one, but it was small. Contractors lost meant fewer contracts could be fulfilled, and word got around. Be careful working for Phoenix, some were starting to say.
So, this particular job had to be put to one side. The nameless killer had won a reprieve. Only for now, because Phoenix knew that all it required was the simple passage of time, so that memories became foggy and new contractors emerged who would pay less attention to the failures of their predecessors than did contemporaries. Wait, she told herself. Time the next thrust just right.
She sipped champagne and soaked in her luxury Villeroy & Boch freestanding bath and lamented the unfortunate turn of events that meant this killer would remain a mystery to her a while longer. She could wait. The delay would only increase the satisfaction when it eventually came. And it would come, she thought, as one hand slipped beneath the bubbles.
In a fluffy towelling robe, and with the company of a second glass of champagne, she pondered taking her new Bentley Continental out for a quick spin along the coast as she padded to the drawing room of her chateau, where she found the nameless killer was sitting at her grand piano.
Phoenix didn’t panic, because in some way she had felt this was not only inevitable, but expected. She kept her composure because she always did. As a girl she had been fast to understand the importance of appearances, of remaining dignified. She had rarely cried, even then. Children were already ugly enough.
His fingers hovered over the keys, as if poised to play, but hesitant. He would have heard her approach, but he made no immediate reaction. He didn’t look at her. Instead his gaze stayed on the piano, and in his frozen silence he seemed regretful.
She set the glass of champagne down on a sideboard. She was no longer thirsty.
The killer said, ‘I thought you’d be a man.’
‘Men always do.’
He turned on the stool to face her. ‘You’re younger than I expected.’
‘Ditto,’ she said. ‘And you’re also a lot better looking in person than the pictures of you would suggest. You do look so very ordinary on a still taken from CCTV.’
‘I’ll take both as compliments.’
‘Please do. How did you find me?’
‘That would be telling.’
She smiled at him because she was somewhere between terrified and exhilarated. They had been playing this game, this duel, for a long time now. She was absorbed in its unexpected climax.
‘Then allow me to guess,’ Phoenix said. ‘Wilders told you about his safe, his little stockpile. You got to it before me and you copied the information and had your friends at MI6 or CIA pick it to pieces. He didn’t know how to put those pieces together himself, but he never had access to supercomputers, hackers, and assets all over the globe. They would have followed the money, of course.’
The killer nodded. ‘It’s the hardest thing to hide.’
‘Indeed. If one wants to be paid for one’s services, then the money has to flow in the right direction. Oh, well. I’ve had a good run. Had to end sometime. But I
must admit I’m a little surprised you didn’t take me unawares in my sleep, or cut the brakes of my car. Or do you intend to make me suffer first?’
He shook his head. ‘I try not to hurt anyone any more than necessary.’
‘Try?’
‘It’s a grey area,’ he admitted.
‘Then I suppose you’re here because you want to know where the contract came from. But you must understand I have no name to hand over. The client is as anonymous as I am – was.’
‘I do understand that, and I don’t need you to tell me who my enemies are.’
Her intrigue was growing with every passing second. ‘You don’t strike me as the type of man who would come here just for a pre-execution gloat. That’s a bit classless, no?’
The killer stood. ‘I’m not going to kill you.’
She couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘Well, now you have me in quite the head spin. Why ever not?’
‘You’re just doing your job. Same as me.’
Phoenix said, ‘You mean, if you kill me there’ll just be someone else who’ll step into my shoes.’
‘I don’t take these things personally,’ the killer explained. ‘It’s all just business, whether I’m aiming the gun or staring down the barrel of one. And you’re right, the next broker might be similarly difficult to track down. I’ve put a lot of effort into finding you. I don’t want to go through it all again if it can be avoided.’
‘So you want to call a truce?’
‘Truces never last,’ he said with something in his voice she couldn’t decipher. ‘I’d prefer to start a war between us.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘But a cold war,’ he added.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Mutually assured destruction.’
