‘Kyrkos has a mooring at the Laguna Marina on the Valetta Waterfront, near the cruise ship terminal. I’ll send you a map.’ He paused, and a moment later the phone chimed again, as new data arrived on the screen. ‘We need to be sure what his part in all this is. Was he collateral damage, or involved in the hit somehow?’
Marc accepted this with a nod and shot a look up at the Nova’s fifth-floor balconies. Scanning across, he counted to the sixth room and saw a thickset surfer-type leaning on the balcony, sipping at a bottle of beer. Behind the guy, the inside of the room was hidden behind net curtains. ‘Who’s the side of beef?’
‘What?’
‘The bloke on your balcony. Or did I miscount?’
‘No . . .’ Kara paused. ‘I met him on the plane. I figured he’d be good cover. And I needed a little distraction. You have a problem with that?’
That gave Marc pause, and he turned away, finding the red Maruti jeep he’d rented at the airport. ‘Just make sure it doesn’t become a complication.’
‘Sure, Mom. Whatever.’ She cut the call with a snort.
*
Dog’s nose wrinkled at the astringent scent of the cleaning fluid, as Fox moved around the living room of the cramped little villa, running a cloth soaked with the chemical over every surface that Cat or the men might have touched during their brief stay on the island. It was important to the operation to make sure that they left no traces of themselves behind for their enemies to find, should they be clever enough to trace the team back to this place.
Dog would have liked to burn the villa to the ground, to be thorough, but Fox argued that would draw too much attention. Even though the building was relatively isolated, away from Malta’s busy coastal areas, there were enough witnesses around that such action might backfire on them. He reluctantly accepted the older agent’s counsel, and while Fox worked, Dog busied himself packing up their equipment. Fox’s sniper rifle, the Chinese-made AMR-2 that had taken the life of the American in Mdina, had been left behind in the departure and was now in the hands of the local police force, but nothing about it could be linked to this house. Cat and Dog’s silenced weapons went into metal cases fitted with self-destruct charges that would obliterate everything within if opened by the unwary. The interiors of the cases were surrounded by special baffles that would mask the presence of the pistols inside from any cursory electronic scanning. The guns themselves were OTs-38s; five-shot revolvers originally developed by Russia’s FSB security service as implements of pure assassination. Clever design and specialised silent ammunition rendered the weapons virtually soundless when fired. They were the ideal tools for Dog and his comrades.
A low electronic tone sounded from the other room and Cat entered, carrying a silver digital tablet connected to a heavy black brick of military-grade communications gear. ‘She’s making contact,’ said the woman.
Dog indicated the low table in the middle of the room with a jut of his chin, and Cat placed the devices there. He sat in a chair and hunched forward so he could look into the tiny black circle of the tablet’s camera. Cat delicately tapped in a numerical code on the screen and an image unfolded.
Dog saw a darkened room of bare concrete walls and shadows that fell deep and black. He made out the shapes of grey pillars and folding tables laden with computer equipment, but there were no signs of life. After a moment, a woman in a rumpled brown leather jacket hove into view and sat down in front of the camera at the other end of the line. Data artefacts occasionally broke across the picture in fragments as encryption software worked to render their communication unreadable, and an oval of blocky, obfuscating pixels tracked with the woman’s face as she moved. He could make out the suggestion of ashen skin, outlined with shoulder-length hair in a red-brown shade that seemed very foreign to Dog.
‘Good work,’ she began. Her words came in a flat machine monotone rendered by a masking filter, but despite it an American accent was still detectable. Her compliment drew no reply from Dog and he waited for her to continue. ‘I would have liked it better if you could have done this with fewer witnesses present.’
Fox scowled, out of sight of the tablet’s video pick-up. ‘He was in danger of getting away,’ explained Dog. ‘I assessed the risk and we proceeded. That is what we were sent to do.’
‘Sure,’ the woman allowed. ‘I’m not second-guessing you here. I’m saying it could have been cleaner.’
‘I will take that on board,’ Dog replied, deliberately maintaining a blank mien. The mask-face focused on him through the screen and for a moment he felt like she was searching his expression for some indicator of his true feelings. Dog did nothing to betray the thoughts in the back of his mind, the distaste he felt at being ordered to follow the woman’s directives. He decided to proceed with his report. ‘We are in the process of extraction. Now the target has been successfully terminated, the unit will depart before nightfall. We have no indications that local law enforcement are aware of us. The mission was a success.’
She looked away for a moment, the image flickering as she stared into the empty darkness around her. ‘Lex . . . His resolve turned out to be weaker than I expected. It’s disappointing.’ She sighed.
Again, Dog said nothing. He, along with Fox and Cat, had little personal investment in the woman or her people, errant or not. They simply followed their orders, as good soldiers always did.
Some fraction of his disinterest must have slipped through his sullen expression, because the woman brushed a length of her hair away from her face, the blocks of colour shifting, and renewed her focus on him. Her tone hardened. ‘We’re proceeding to the next stage. The test in Taipei performed better than we expected. There won’t be any more distractions from now on. Let your people know we’re on track. But in the meantime, make sure you’re available to me for rapid deployment. Some clean-up will be required, I’m sure of it. This business with Lex has encouraged me to move up my timetable . . .’
‘As you wish. When you have a new target, we will be waiting.’ He reached toward the tablet to cut the feed, but she continued.
‘One final point. I don’t doubt your thoroughness, but what about the materials you recovered? Lex’s computer, his gear? Where is it?’
Dog gave Cat a look that brought her into range of the camera. ‘A secure package is already on its way to you,’ said Cat, hovering at his shoulder. ‘As requested.’
‘You didn’t find anything else in his hotel room?’ she pressed.
Cat shook her head. ‘He appeared to have only one copy on him.’
‘Good. That’s good. But we can’t assume that he didn’t make another. He had enough time. Did you set up the monitor like I asked?’
‘Yes,’ said Dog tersely, wanting to end the conversation. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘I will let you know.’ The woman reached off-camera and the tablet darkened.
The active lights on the communications brick winked out and Cat disconnected the device, unable to prevent a sneer from crossing her lips.
Predictably, it was Fox who gave voice to what they were all thinking. ‘She talks to us as if she thinks we are only fit to deal with her mistakes. Unable to do anything without being told to.’ He gave a grunt of displeasure and went back to work, finishing up his cleaning regimen.
‘Arrogance,’ agreed Cat. ‘That is what it is.’
‘It is not required that we like her,’ Dog broke in, before the conversation could proceed. ‘We have our orders to aid her. We will do as she says, but never forget she is not our commander.’ He laid his hand on one of the pistols in the case. ‘Her continued existence is only predicated on how useful she is.’
‘I distrust her,’ said Fox.
‘Of course you do,’ said Dog firmly. ‘She isn’t one of us. That makes her the enemy. But one that is, for the moment, of use.’
*
Nestor Kyrkos’s modest yacht was not hard to locate. It was standing at the end of a jetty with a line of blue-and-white war
ning tape acting as a cordon around the mooring cleats. Marc walked past it without making a big deal about scoping it out, catching sight of a large square sticker with a police badge on it adhered to the hull. The text on the sticker explained the boat had been impounded by the Maltese coastguard.
He considered and then discarded the idea of trying to sneak on board. It was broad daylight and there were too many other yachts clustered around, the risk that he would be seen by someone was too great. The police headquarters building Kara had mentioned was only a couple of streets away, so it was doubtful that he would have much opportunity to escape if the cops were called. Waiting until nightfall was an option, but still a risk.
The situation called for a different approach. Marc walked the length of the marina, blending in as best he could with the other boat owners until he found the dock supervisor’s office. He straightened his jacket and pulled up a false front of confidence, pushing open the door.
A swarthy, middle-aged man with the look of someone overworked and underpaid met him as he entered, moving to block his path. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Hey, how are you?’ Marc offered him a handshake, and he took it. ‘You’re in charge here, right?’ Marc looked down and found a nametag on the guy’s uniform shirt. ‘Stefan?’
‘Yes.’ The man gave him a wary look. ‘You’re not one of our guests . . .’
‘Nope.’ Marc quickly took in the office, seeing neat piles of paperwork beneath a high-detail pilot’s map of the bay around Valetta. There were a few personal touches – a pennant from the Naxxar Lions football club, some family photos and a peace lily in a pot – but largely the place was all business. Marc mentally sifted it all in an instant and found an approach he could use. He pointed at the Lions flag. ‘And you’re not a Valetta FC fan. That’s unusual.’
Stefan pulled a face. Clearly this was a sore point. ‘I come from up the coast in Naxxar. The other men here, they give me a hard time about it, you know?’
‘I can imagine.’ The question served as a perfect ice-breaker, and Marc followed it up with a smile. He’d wrong-footed the man and now he had to quickly take advantage of it. ‘Look, I wonder if you could help me out? I’m not a guest, you’re right. My name’s Marcus Dale and I work for the New York Times as local stringer.’
‘Oh.’ Stefan couldn’t stop himself from shooting a look out toward Kyrkos’s yacht.
‘A man was killed in Mdina yesterday. An American. I’m sure you heard about it on the news. My editor has me reporting on the story for the paper.’
‘It’s very sad,’ said Stefan, and he took a step toward Marc, clearly trying to get him to move back toward the door.
He stood his ground. ‘The man who died, he met with one of your guests. Mr Kyrkos, berthed at slip sixteen. And it turned out badly for him too, I’ve heard.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’ Stefan glanced down at the phone on his desk, and Marc could guess at the thought forming in his mind. Call the cops. Call security. Call someone to get rid of this reporter.
He pressed the point. ‘Look, mate, I don’t want to get you into trouble. I know how it is. You’ve have to respect the privacy of your guests.’
‘Talk to the police,’ Stefan insisted, with a flash of irritation. ‘They’ve already been here twice, throwing their weight around.’
Marc saw the opportunity and acted on it, turning Stefan’s annoyance into a moment of shared experience. ‘I know, same thing happened to me,’ he lied. ‘I got nothing from them, that’s why I’m here.’ He took a breath. ‘The bloke who was shot, his family . . .’ He made a point of looking at one of the framed photos of Stefan, which showed him hoisting a little girl on his shoulders. She had a sweet face, grinning from ear to ear. ‘They want to know what really happened to their son, yeah?’ Marc felt a distant sting of guilt as he built up the shape of the lie that was going to get him what he wanted.
When the man didn’t reply, he went for the last push and pointed at the photo. ‘That your daughter? She’s pretty.’ Off Stefan’s nod, Marc slipped a hundred Euro note between his fingers and rested his hand on the windowsill. ‘How old is she, eight or nine? Probably has a birthday coming up soon, I imagine.’
Stefan saw the note and understood. ‘Yes. I have to work hard for my family. Long hours, you know?’
‘I bet you don’t get well compensated for it, either.’ Marc lifted his hand, leaving the note where it was and gestured at the boats around them. ‘In my experience, rich folks don’t tend to tip much.’
He glanced away and when he looked back the money had gone. ‘Mr Kyrkos wasn’t a friendly sort,’ Stefan offered. ‘But he has . . . He had a lot of influence.’
Marc met the other man’s gaze. ‘I bet there are stories about how he came by it.’
Stefan studied the picture. ‘I also have a son. He’s eleven. We’re going to get him a BMX bike for Christmas.’
Marc showed him a friendly smile and another couple of banknotes. ‘Why wait till then?’
FOUR
Marc found a café near the Lido Fortina that offered free Wi-Fi and approached a table at the back, deep beneath the shades keeping the hard sunshine off the customers. The waiter gave him an odd look, as the tables fronting the bay were usually the most requested, and Marc pulled at the bill of his baseball cap, muttering about having skin that tanned poorly. He took a seat with his back to the wall and ordered an ice-cold Kinnie. The local brand of bitter orange soft drink was an acquired taste, but the sharp flavour gave him focus as he logged on to the café’s network.
The Rubicon-issue spyPhone snapped open along its longest axis, part of the casing sliding down to reveal a tiny pad of configurable touch-keys. As a matter of course, Marc activated a security layer to protect him from any dubious malware that might be lurking on the public Wi-Fi net and searched for a video that the marina supervisor had told him about.
He found it on a ‘live leaks’ site where raw, uncensored footage captured by cell phones and digital cameras across the globe could be anonymously uploaded. Grisly Malta Murder Caught on Camera read the banner at the top the video window, with a block of ghoulish text providing trigger warnings for anyone who might be thinking about watching it. The film was a twenty-second loop of juddering images from someone’s hand-held, starting with a panning shot of two grinning teenage girls in one of Mdina’s terrace restaurants. The footage veered as the camera operator turned to take in the view from the battlements of the old city, and captured Lex Wetherby as he scrambled up the slope toward the sheer drop below. He had a micro-chute canister strapped to his back, and Marc guessed what he had been attempting to do when he was shot. Someone saw Wetherby moving and called out in alarm. People thought the hacker had been trying to commit suicide.
Then the guy made a panicked dash for the edge, as if he had caught sight of his killer. Marc paused and rolled back the footage, trying to see what the dead man had seen, but the angle was wrong. He let the rest of the video play out to the end.
Wetherby popped the chute and leapt off, causing a ripple of shock through the onlookers. One of the cameraman’s friends started to speak as the hacker was momentarily propelled up by a gust of wind, but then a bloody spurt of crimson erupted from Lex’s chest and everyone started screaming. The camera’s eye fell to show only a blur of flagstones as the owner panicked and fled. Describing the video as ‘grisly’ had been an understatement.
Whoever had taken the footage wasn’t the person who uploaded it. The version he watched had a Ukrainian web address attached to it, doubtless where some enterprising net dweller had copied the original from a cloud server and served it up to garner page-clicks for the ad revenue. It had already been viewed over two million times, and the uploader had added a little stinger by cutting in slow-motion replays and grainy blow-ups of the moment the kill-shot hit.
Marc checked the few seconds before Wetherby had been struck by the bullet, listening to the background noise on the video
through his earpiece. He couldn’t pick out any sounds of a weapon discharging.
He sat back and nursed his drink, fitting in this evidence with what else Stefan had told him. Once the man had started talking, he had made it clear how little regard anyone working at the Laguna Marina had for Nestor Kyrkos. Stefan described the Greek as a braggart, with a mile-wide mean streak and a reputation for slapping around his women. No one at the marina had been surprised to hear that Kyrkos had been killed, Stefan said. He had ties to criminal gangs here in Malta, along with connections to the Sicilian mafia and racketeers back home in his native Athens. It started to make sense when the marina supervisor made an offhand comment: Kyrkos was the sort of man you called when you wanted to get away, no questions asked.
Wetherby had met Kyrkos in Mdina to broker an exit plan. But to where, and why?
Marc stared into the middle distance. Without more information, there was nothing to lay the hacker’s killing at the Combine’s door. Had he worked for them? The gaps in his timeline made it clear that he had been working for someone off the grid. Was there something he knew, something he had stolen? The possibilities went around and around, going nowhere.
Marc typed in a new command string on the little keyboard, tapping at it with his index fingers. An agile Tor router program built into the phone activated a virtual private network link, which he could use to contact Rubicon’s secure cloud servers. Marc composed and encrypted an email request to Delancort for any information the Special Conditions Division had on Nestor Kyrkos, hoping that a clue in the Greek’s background might provide a new approach. As an addendum, he attached the URL for the video and suggested that Rubicon’s imaging lab in Palo Alto soak it for any clues. But when he sent the message, it returned an undeliverable warning tag.
‘What the hell?’ The words had barely left his mouth before the phone rang. Kara Wei’s identity icon blinked at him on the screen and he tapped it. ‘Yeah?’
Ghost: Page 6
