The Lynx Assassin (The Society Book 2)

by Karen Guyler

  Eva guessed that from the photo of her the company chose to display. She was smiling widely, her grey hair held off her face by a green headband, picked up by the blocks of green eyeshadow she wore. Patricia Dryant, a framed card in front of the enormous display proclaimed, sadly missed.

  No victim overlap that S had found between Patricia Dryant, a Balancia employee, and the other two victims of Rubin’s bullets in Copenhagen, two primary school teachers, had led Eva there. Why Rubin would shoot her with the Lynx Assassin she hadn’t figured out yet, but she hoped something would shake loose by being there in person.

  “How long did Patricia work here?” She asked.

  “Forever, I think she was here from the start.”

  “She worked in accounts?” Eva clarified.

  The receptionist nodded.

  “Is Carl Rubin here at the moment?” Eva tried to not tense at the question, or rather against the answer.

  “He was, he left at around three.”

  “Is he here often?”

  “Sometimes, other times he doesn’t come for a month or two. It depends on the project he’s overseeing I guess.”

  “What position does he hold?”

  “He’s our Emeritus Chairman.”

  That was an odd title, he was clearly still working there.

  “I couldn’t find his name on the website.” Eva said.

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “And I’m right in understanding that Balancia invents and produces clocks?” Eva played devil’s advocate.

  “Time pieces,” the receptionist emphasised, reiterating the website’s insistence that their clocks were far above that mundane label. “And all associated components of anything needed to monitor and measure a specific and accurate scale.”

  “That sounds impressive.” Eva acknowledged. “Who can take me to see Patricia’s desk?”

  Jurgen was the security guard tasked with looking after her and, after a cursory scan through the few things the Danish police had left behind, Eva asked him to show her around the building.

  “It helps to get a sense of proportion,” she bluffed.

  “You know who killed Patricia?” He asked as he took her to the executive suite.

  “We’re making progress. Had she upset anyone here?”

  He shrugged. “I’m just security.”

  “No one’s just anything.” Eva said. “Can I take a look at Carl Rubin’s office?” Because that’s apparently who Patricia had upset. She’d get Iago to look into that.

  “He doesn’t have one, he spends most of his time here in the labs.”

  Eva ignored the hitch within her. Just a lab, no one in this one would be trying to kill her because the man it belonged to wasn’t there. “Can I see those then please?”

  She stared through the safety glass in the door to the first one. Only a lab it might be, but it had a weight of memories behind it that still hurt. Charles had spent most of their marriage in his. Was what was going on beyond this door worse than what he’d done?

  “I can’t let you in there.” Jurgen said.

  “You do realise this is a murder enquiry?”

  “Of course and I would, if I could, but only the technicians and Mr Rubin have access.”

  “What if there’s an emergency? If a lone worker needs help?”

  “No one works alone.”

  She walked down the corridor. Five labs, three of them with airlocks on the interior side. She recognised the static free floor and the symbols on the lone working labels on the door, even though she couldn’t read the Danish words underneath them. Protective clothing hung up on racks. What in time piece manufacture was hazardous?

  Large rectangles of equipment, still wrapped in its shipping packaging on pallets took most of the floor space in the third and fourth labs. Too opaque to see through and identify anything in the shipment, it was enough she understood that Rubin was refurbishing or changing direction. But to what?

  29

  It was Carl Rubin’s one concession to something that didn’t have the planet’s recovery at the heart of it, the fulfilling of his childhood dream. But the super yacht he could see out of the helicopter’s window was beyond anything he could ever have dreamt of. He smiled at it, as though it were sentient. Lit up beneath him it was such a beautiful thing, so sleek and streamlined, so refined. He could have had homes all over the world if he’d chosen to, but the Overwatch satisfied that itch with a smaller carbon footprint. The good he did—more than most countries were prepared to manage—outweighed the small indulgence of using his private jet and a helicopter now and then.

  He’d had the yacht set up as environmentally friendly as he could make it. Solar panels on as many surfaces as they would fit helped ease the nudge of hypocrisy away, the helicopter he was sitting in wasn’t his. His green gauge was within the limits he’d set.

  “Mr Rubin.” His assistant on board, long hair blowing in the breeze, looking as immaculate as he preferred, even though it was technically still more night than day. She shivered, greeted him as he stepped off the helicopter deck, nodded at Finch. “Welcome aboard, it’s good to have you back.” She handed him a tablet, which displayed all the active systems to which she had access.

  “It’s good to be back, Marai.”

  He scrolled down the menu she’d opened. “How’s the water reclamation doing?”

  “The facilities manager reports that the yield is higher than we expected, no issues with the unit. In fact, our bathing water has come entirely from the sea this whole month.”

  “Excellent, I want to see him in an hour.” After he’d sampled the shower himself. Then he’d know whether it was time to move up to procuring cooking and then drinking water in the same way. The patent on the unit would be one of his richest sources of income, ploughed back into scaling up so that he could use it in his company buildings, sell it on.

  “Has Mrs Rubin come aboard?”

  “No, sir. Not yet.”

  The shower was good, his swim even better. The infinity pool had been worth every penny. He could almost imagine he was swimming in the ocean as he swam away from the back of the yacht, looking outwards. Not right then without a dry suit, the sea around the yacht was probably some 25° colder in the daytime at this time of year. The warm water, the privacy of being at the end of the marina, enhanced by him taking the two closest berths as well, the meditative rhythm of counting his overarm strokes, the repetitive tap at either end as he turned, worked its magic. He began to relax.

  It was a shame it had been a cloudy night, watching the sunrise was always special, even in winter. This morning, just a lightening through the cloud cover but, it amazed him, as ever, how the earth tried to rejuvenate every morning.

  Two messages on his desk in his study when he’d dressed, along with a hot toddy. He lifted the ceramic lid off the glass mug and inhaled the scent of fresh lemon. The hint of whisky was just right when he had business to attend to.

  He called Agnetha, but she didn’t pick up. It was early, but she was probably still mad that she’d had to fly commercial.

  Tarik Shah being unhappy, underlined, had to be called next.

  “Tarik, it’s the Lynx Assassin.” Rubin paused, let the shiver of exhilaration wash over him. Doing nature’s work, it was a badge of honour. “I understand you’re not happy.”

  “Not happy? I have lost good men today.”

  “And that has to do with me, how?”

  “I sent men to your home to collect what is mine.”

  Rubin’s hand tightened around the phone.

  “You went to my house?” The question was quiet, low, a human snarl.

  “You owe me my merchandise.” Tarik’s statement was loud, hot-headed.

  “When did my delivery instructions ever tell you to go to my house?” Rubin held his question tightly to cold business. First Janssen and now Tarik. The cabin was supposed to be untraceable, something in the line of shell companies that purported to own it must have
broken. Maybe that was how Goran had stumbled on the payments being filtered through Balancia, why he’d been talking to Patricia Dryant about it.

  He called up the live feed watching his lynxes, turning the camera’s field of view from one side to the other, a full pan. He’d never suspected he needed to record it but he’d apparently been wrong there.

  A man lay by the remains of the first outbuilding, now collapsed in on itself. He’d been eviscerated and bled out, judging by the surrounding snow. How had the lynxes got out?

  Rubin swung the camera around, same thing on the house, the stone walls carved and gouged, the wood looked as though a novice lumberman had used it for axe practice. Debris from the explosion had been travelling at some force to do that. He needed to reconfigure the boobytraps, clearly his new explosive was more destructive than he’d appreciated. A slow smile, a confirming nod. It was a better product than he’d thought.

  The other outbuildings appeared untouched, their access panels unbroken. Tarik hadn’t got what Rubin had left there. His grip relaxed around the sat phone.

  “Your men triggered my failsafe, is that what you’re calling to tell me?” He took a sip of his drink. The curse of dealing with these people who shot first and asked questions later was that they never listened to instructions. He’d thought Tarik’s time at Oxford had changed that in him, a lesson to him to never assume.

  “Failsafe?” Tarik spoke English better than Rubin, but his vocabulary left a bit to be desired.

  “My instructions have always been clear. I actively dissuade people from going to my home. That’s why any drop-off or pick-up of merchandise is done at carefully selected locations to avoid just this situation. I don’t keep my weaponry unprotected. Your men set off one of the traps protecting my equipment. I can’t be responsible if you don’t keep the rules. They’re in place to protect both of us.”

  Rubin sipped the hot toddy again, let Tarik rant. Too much of a hot-head. If he wasn’t such a good customer, Rubin would have kicked him free a long time ago.

  At the point where most of Tarik’s shouting had reverted to Urdu, Rubin stepped in.

  “I can’t understand you if you don’t speak English. Remind me again where you’re from.”

  Rubin’s admission he didn’t pay attention to his customers prompted another volley of Urdu.

  “Tarik,” Rubin cut over him, “is this helping? Where are you from?”

  “Pakistan, you should—”

  Rubin had no time for his childish tantrums. “How about I upgrade your shipment?”

  “What do you mean, upgrade?”

  “I have something very special, just out of prototype, you can be the first to use it. And I know exactly the way for you to get what do they call it, the most bang for your buck?”

  Tarik was cagey, not quite done with his anger yet. “Tell me more.”

  “Something on a bigger scale?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “An explosion no one can trace to you? Bullets are all very well but they’re too piecemeal. Explosions get the job done faster. This new product produces little collateral damage which will be better for your cause.”

  “I might accept that, yes.” Tarik’s switch around was extraordinary, as Rubin had expected, especially when he realised the potential.

  “There are conditions,” Rubin warned, “if you are to receive these weapons free. They are proprietary, not to be reverse engineered, sold to competitors. For this reason, one of my men will stay with them until they’re used. He will direct you and observe because the data will be valuable for refining it. This will be the first time this weapon will be deployed on live targets.”

  Rubin’s gaze strafed the wall on his right, in big letters in the midst of the framed certificates of seaworthiness, his yacht master qualifications, the sporadic splattering of photographs, hung a canvas on which beautiful calligraphy proclaimed his guiding principle, ‘There is no planet B’.

  “Yes, I accept. Your usual caveats apply?”

  To only use his weapons on centres of population, to only destroy man-made structures, the new target almost ticked both boxes.

  “My man will advise you. I will, of course, cover the funeral costs for the men you lost today and for those you might lose in this test.”

  “Always a pleasure to do business with you.” Rubin could hear Tarik smiling. He disconnected the call, sent the instructions. That would be an extraordinary test.

  His desk clock, a marvel of precision engineering that Balancia could showcase, showed him it was 9:45. He needed to hurry. 11:15 where he tried next. Unsurprisingly, his call wasn’t answered. He typed that he wanted to speak into the chat they’d set up. She must have been waiting for his contact, because his phone rang almost immediately.

  “You have good news.” She never asked questions, assumed always her will was done. He liked that about her.

  “I thought you might like to know the next test is going ahead in a couple of hours. The news channels will broadcast it but I will send you footage.”

  “Very well.” She disconnected, a woman of few words.

  He just had time before leaving for some of the delicious soup the chef kept for him. He knew it would be cold in St Petersburg.

  30

  When the jet levelled out, Eva called Lily and got her voicemail. Anya’s mum picked up first ring.

  “Hey, Tricia, how’s Lily, is she behaving herself? She’s not picking up her phone.”

  Tricia laughed. Normally it was infectious, but Eva was too tight, tensed against Lily not calling her, not texting, not missing her. Which had to be the best thing, but she’d yet to persuade herself of that.

  “The girls are watching a movie. How you doing, nearly home?”

  “The plane was delayed, you can probably hear I’m still on it. We’ve been diverted. So now I have to wait for a connecting flight. I’m sorry, I might not be back until really late.”

  “It’s no problem, Lily can stay tonight if you’re too late back.”

  Eva breathed out a strangled breath. One less worry. “You’re a lifesaver, Tricia.”

  “We got this, girl, didn’t you tell me that?”

  “But I don’t want it to all be on you.”

  “You’re on your first trip, how’s it all on me? I’ve been doing this long enough and you’ve helped me out all that time, don’t you worry. Listen, go, don’t want to eat up all your allowance with that expensive plane wifi. We can talk when you get back. If I haven’t heard from you before it’s bedtime, Lily will stay here.”

  Eva prepared dinner for her and Luke. Whoever stocked the plane did an amazing job of catering to appetites. Luke looked at his, two sliced steak burgers on salad, at hers, salad, hummus and omelette.

  “You get mine,” she explained, “I’m vegetarian.”

  “I like travelling with you.” His grin turned to a grimace as he shifted in his seat.

  “Do you need more painkillers?”

  He nodded “In my go bag, blue box, the strong ones.”

  It didn’t take the painkillers long to send him to sleep. Eva sat with a coffee at the laptop, scrolling through the news. The snatch of a word stopped her. She clicked the entry and rewound the clip, zhuzhzhaniye. She had heard it right, buzzing in Russian. She replayed the entire news report.

  The camera showed a suitably serious reporter, a young brunette with an Eastern European accent. “Authorities are still unsure what caused the death of thirty-four cruise ship passengers. The group had disembarked from the ship Liberty Queen in St Petersburg for an organised tour this afternoon. It is believed several assailants fired at the group. Their guide and the cruise company employee checking them off the ship survived and are helping police with their enquiries. Police are appealing for eyewitnesses and anyone who has any information is urged to come forward. So far, no one has claimed responsibility for this attack.”

  The lights of the Liberty Queen behind her looked welcoming, unlike the harsh arc lights t
hat lit up the cordoned off quayside. Several white tents had been erected over the area and CSI techs in white and blue body suits were busy in and out of them.

  “Mikhail Stasov was on the quayside when the shootings occurred.” The reporter turned to an older man, with a weathered face, wearing a wool coat with the collar turned up, a knitted scarf and a shaggy fur hat. “Mr Stasov, can you tell us what you saw?”

  Eva listened to the man’s words, reading the English subtitles at the same time in case she misheard. “I saw the cruise ship people coming onto the quayside. They come every day to see the cathedral, the churches. The group was there.” He gestured at the area where a police officer guarded the integrity of the perimeter with a mean glower. “All so normal. Then the couple at this end of the queue, they dropped to the ground. I heard a buzzing of bees but there are no bees now, they are asleep for the winter. Then everybody fell.”

  She rewound the last few seconds and listened again. No doubt about it. She dialled into S, copying and sending the link to the news piece while she was put through.

  “Stamford.”

  Thank you, Gordon, for being such a workaholic.

  “It’s Eva, en route to London. Do we know where Carl Rubin is at the moment?”

  “Why?”

  “I sent you a link. It’s his weapon. I’m sure it’s one of the tests he was bragging about.”

  “Hold on.”

  Gordon’s screen went blank. Eva waited, she was right, she was as sure as she’d been that there was something to find at Rubin’s cabin. When he reappeared, his face moved over in its box to accommodate Sadie in a box in the Provisions department and Iago in an office Eva hadn’t seen yet.

  “The buzzing the witness heard.” Eva explained. “It has to be a drone, he didn’t notice anyone running away.”

  “They might have been long distance shots,” Gordon pointed out.

  “Is there any intel on the time of the shooting window? Was it really fast?”

  Sadie shrugged. “Not sure yet. The Russians will be trawling the cruise passengers for any footage they might have.”