by Pro Se Press
***
The bank business went as smoothly as the trip to Fenwick’s and the pharmacy had. The bank manager had the money ready, three thousand little portraits of Benjamin Franklin, neatly stacked in bundles and bound in paper wrappers. Monroe signed for the cash, had help from the bank manager placing it into the briefcase he had brought with him, assured the manager that he did not want a guard to see him to his car, drove the Lexus back to his apartment, and carried the case undisturbed up to his floor. When night fell and the apartment was dark and safe from any cameras Simon Scythe might have installed during his break-in, Monroe took the briefcase into the bathroom and leaned it against the wall to wait there until it was time to prepare the case’s contents for delivery.
***
The expected call came precisely when promised: forty-eight hours after the last contact between Monroe and Scythe.
“I know you have it,” Simon Scythe said.
“Yes,” Monroe told him.
“I want it tonight.”
“Name your time and place.”
“I saw you get a drink last night, Richard.”
“I’m not surprised to know you were in the area.”
“Since you seem to like Fenwick’s, Richard, let’s do it that way. That old tavern can be our special place.”
“Whatever you want,” Monroe said. The condescending tone in Scythe’s voice was making him itch. “Let’s close this deal and get it over with.”
“You’re in a terrible hurry to die, aren’t you, Monroe?”
“Damn it! When and precisely where are we doing this?”
“There is an alley that runs behind Fenwick’s,” Scythe said. “In the alley is a dumpster. You will bring the money there tonight at nine, Richard. You will make certain that no one sees you enter the alley; I’m sure the skills you acquired in your old profession will help you with that. You will deposit the case behind the dumpster, out of sight but within easy reach for it to be dug out. You will then leave the vicinity immediately and return to your home. I will not come for you tonight, but you have my oath that once I have received payment you will not have to endure your misery for very much longer. Are we both on the same page, Richard?”
“We are, Simon, and thank you.”
Click.
Monroe went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, taking out everything he would need for the next phase and placing all the items atop the closed toilet. He slipped a pair of latex gloves over his hands and a small surgical mask over his mouth and nose. He took a small plastic cup and sat it on the edge of the sink. Then he looked to the collection of bottles and cans he had brought home from the pharmacy the night before, thinking over the ideal order of ingredients.
Into the plastic cup he sprayed a half inch of canned athlete’s foot remedy to begin with the liquid base of the solution he was preparing. He then opened several bottles of pills and ground their contents into a fine powder by wrapping the handful of pills in a towel and stepping on them. This powder was added to the liquid and stirred. More spray went into the cup next, followed by more pills made into dust. Monroe’s method was simple enough: millions of people all over the world use all sorts of over-the-counter pharmaceuticals every day. Many of those people use more than one such product on a daily basis. But it is very, very improbable that any particular individual will accidentally combine just the right six or seven or eight medications in precisely the right way to create a mixture that can cause illness by contact with the bare skin or by ingestion of a small amount. Monroe, however, knew just how to create such a concoction. In the business of stealing secrets and occasionally dealing out death, it is possible for a situation to arise wherein the most common, ordinary, mundane items must be used as weapons. This includes using golf clubs as bludgeons or letter openers as daggers, but the same idea can easily be attached to poisons. Monroe recalled his chemical training from years earlier and put it to good use. The solution was soon completed and he used a spare toothbrush to carefully spread it on the edges of the stacks of bound hundred-dollar bills where it would dry into an odorless, colorless coating that, when disturbed by the inevitable thumb-shuffling of the bills by their pleased new possessor, would waft up into the air for inhalation or, failing that, would make a tiny meal when the finger that had done the shuffling absent-mindedly came into contact with the lips or the tongue.
The effect, Monroe knew, would be sickening, though not lethal. He had no intention of killing Simon Scythe outright, at least not yet. He wanted to have words with him first. And he wanted those words to be exchanged face to face.
***
Except for Monroe having to wait in the shadows for nearly ten minutes while two Fenwick’s employees stood in the alley behind the bar smoking, the drop went easily. Monroe entered the alley from the shoe store side, scurried over to the dumpster when the coast was clear, and placed the briefcase in the predetermined spot, sliding it just far enough behind the large metal trash container to keep it out of the incidental sight of anyone who happened to wander into the alley. He got out of there fast once the drop had been made, certain that Simon Scythe was watching from somewhere, although he saw no concrete signs of surveillance.
Monroe went straight home. He went into the bathroom, the one safe place, and turned the tub’s faucet on to create a background buzz for further concealment of sound. He called Mr. Nine.
“How goes it?” the old soldier turned senior spy asked.
“Smooth progress so far,” Monroe said. “I’ve…”
“No need for details yet,” Mr. Nine said. “But you must need something. What is it?”
“The flow of information,” Monroe said. “Can you tap police and ambulance chatter and hospital info?”
“Piece of cake; not even a whole piece: just a few crumbs. It’s that easy,” Mr. Nine said. “What exactly am I listening for?”
“If it happens,” Monroe explained, “and I’m ninety percent sure it will happen as I’ve planned, an adult male, probably Caucasian, probably somewhere over thirty, will either call an ambulance or get to a hospital under his own power. He’ll complain of symptoms that will include some, and maybe all, of the following: severe headache, dizziness, abdominal pains, vomiting, diarrhea, gas, numbness in the face and extremities, chest pain, and maybe even a nosebleed.”
“Is there a certain time frame?” Mr. Nine asked.
“Soon, I hope,” Monroe answered. “I can’t imagine he won’t try to count the money. I expect it to happen not later than four or five hours from now even if he waits for the symptoms to be almost unbearable before he calls for help.”
“I assume we’re talking about Simon Scythe.” Mr. Nine said. “What did you do to him?”
Monroe laughed, cold and hard. “I found him, called him, hired him, paid him, and served him a special cocktail of my own recipe. Once he takes a sip, he’ll be a fish in my barrel.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Nine said. “I’ll hang up now and go plug in so I can keep an ear out for your sick little friend.”
Click.
***
It took five hours. Mr. Nine called back at two-thirty in the morning.
“Did I wake you, Monroe?”
“What do you think?”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Has he shown up on the radar?”
“I think we may have a winner. A white male, forty-five, was admitted to Massachusetts General Hospital right there in beautiful Boston just about an hour ago. The patient seems to have complained of a nice assortment of the symptoms you listed for me earlier. He’s been put in a room, a private one, not in intensive care since he’s listed in serious but not critical condition. They’ll certainly hold him for at least a day, maybe more. They don’t think he’s in any danger of dying, but I don’t think they’ve figured out what happened to him other than guessing at exposure to some nasty substance.”
“Excellent,” Monroe said. “Do we have a name?”
“W
e certainly do,” Mr. Nine said. “The patient’s name—the one he’s using today at least—is Franklin Carney. He’s an attorney, or at least that’s his cover story, and if it is a cover, it’s a good one. As soon as I got the name, I checked up on him and found records of a successful practice based in St. Paul, Minnesota. He’s apparently running two careers simultaneously, one as a lawyer and one as the suicide-hitman you’ve been chasing. So you’ve got him in your web, Monroe. Will you be paying him a visit?”
“Of course,” Monroe said, “and I’ll finish the job while I’m there.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Nine said. “Send me a confirmation text when it’s done.”
Click.
***
Monroe eliminated the itchy scruff he had accumulated while playing the suicidal widower. After the shave, he took a long hot shower. He dressed in a shirt and tie and grabbed the credentials he had used in New Haven, drove to Massachusetts General to be admitted to the building as Richard Madison, licensed physical therapist.
Getting in was easy. It was very early morning and the receptionist seemed bored, half-asleep, and happy to see an unfamiliar face. It was far past visiting hours and even staff was at a low. Monroe presented his forged credentials and was readily accepted as what he claimed to be. He went straight through the reception area, cruised by two coffee-drinking security guards who paid him no mind, which was good since he was armed, and found an unoccupied computer.
The patient, Franklin Carney, was in Room 667, still listed in serious condition, and monitored but not under constant observation as his condition was not thought to be life-threatening. Monroe now had all the information he needed. He took the elevator up and walked slowly down the almost deserted hall of the sixth floor after nodding and flashing a smile at the obese nurse who seemed quite absorbed in her crossword puzzle.
Monroe entered the room and found it dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, the ceiling lights turned off to let the patient rest. Monroe stood in front of the bed and looked at the occupant. Franklin Carney was a little weasel of a man, slight in build, going bald but not there yet, and pointy-nosed. A pair of glasses sat on the small table beside the bed. Wires from monitors ran onto the edge of the bed with their ends taped to Carney’s arms and chest to keep careful watch on his heartbeat and breathing. Monroe nudged the end of the bed slightly with his knee, just enough to jiggle the mattress and cause enough vibration to wake the sleeper.
Carney groaned, opened his eyes, groaned again, reached for his glasses, put them on somewhat crookedly, and squinted at the standing visitor.
“Richard.”
“Hello, Simon,” Monroe said. “Or Franklin or whoever you want to be today. How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” Carney said. “I thought I was dying, you son of a bitch. What did you do to me?”
“My own recipe,” Monroe said with a grim smile.
“Who the hell do you work for?” Carney asked. “True CIA would never mention CIA and the FBI’s too scared of the CIA to pose as them. I know you were CIA once, but you’re not anymore and I walked right into your trap because I knew the regular agencies would never reveal so much. Who pulls your strings now?”
“No strings attached anymore,” Monroe said. “All I get is a nudge in the right direction and then I’m on my own. I’m the kid who gets to color outside the lines.”
“Then you’re here to kill me,” Carney said. It was not a question. He knew.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Monroe lied.
“Yes you have,” Carney said, “but maybe I can change your mind.”
Monroe laughed. “And how would you do that?”
“You lied to me on the phone, Richard. You told me you never found out who killed your wife. But I knew who Baltasar al-Hamsi was and I notice he’s dropped out of sight recently and I think I’ve put two and two together and come out with the fact that he took the Paris job and you killed him for it. Since you’re going to kill me anyway, can I ask if I’m right?”
Monroe nodded. “Exactly how much do you know about Paris? You’re holding something back, Simon! If you know something I may be interested in, I’d suggest you share it now and I might rethink the rest of this meeting.”
“Will you let me live?”
“I’ll break your fingers so you won’t ever pull a trigger again, but you can go practice law all you want…if you give me something of value, real value.”
“I know who hired the Syrian to shoot your wife.”
“How the hell would you know that?”
“He tried to hire me first.”
“You only do suicide cases.”
“And that’s precisely what I told him, so he got al-Hamsi instead. It’s a shame too; I’ve never been to Paris, but rules are rules.”
Monroe took his gun out, let Carney see it. “I want a name now.”
Carney acquiesced, not that he had another option.
“Garrett Khan.”
Monroe knew the name, knew enough about the man to whom the name belonged to realize the plausibility of Carney’s claim. Monroe nodded once and shot Carney in the forehead. Blood struck the wall and stained the pillow. The sound of the shot was immediately followed by the monitors beeping flat-line.
Monroe holstered the Glock, spun, grabbed the small bag of the patient’s personal effects that sat on the table next to where the glasses had rested, and fled the room. The obese nurse would never catch him, the security men would be sluggish and tired at this point in their shifts, and hospital layouts were not hard to predict if one had any idea of the standards. With stark efficiency, Monroe flew down the hall, through a door, down several flights of stairs, out of a little-used rear exit and disappeared into the Boston night, soon reaching the Lexus that sat waiting for him a few blocks away. He would have to trust Mr. Nine to use his influence to see that the Boston police found little of use in the surveillance tapes.
He sent the promised text signaling the completion of his mission. Once that was done, and as he continued to drive, Monroe reached over and dumped the bag of Carney’s belongings. The wallet contained ID in the Carney name and Monroe tossed that out the window after taking out the several hundred dollars cash. The next item was what he really wanted: a room card for the local Hilton, access to the room lately occupied by the visiting suicide-hitman.
Headed for the Hilton, Monroe ran through his mental file on Garrett Khan.
Chapter 8: Friends in Low Places
The facts as Richard Monroe knew them: Garrett Khan was young for an international crime lord, only in his thirties, yet every major law-enforcement or intelligence agency in the world had a fat file on his activities. At least those acts and properties that had not been sufficiently hidden from the sight of even the sharpest eyes.
An English-born man of Mongolian ancestry, Garrett Khan, which was probably not his real name, claimed to be a descendent of Genghis Khan although he had never publicly presented any real evidence to back his genealogical boast. A busy criminal, Khan had his dirty fingers in every imaginable pie the underworld had to offer: drugs, prostitution, theft and the various black markets for stolen merchandise, the sale of information, some ties to political assassinations in several nations were suspected but unproven, and there were plenty of other things too on the list of his nefarious accomplishments. He employed, at the best guesses of those who followed his games, well over a thousand people, most of them under the table and off the record. He rarely got his own hands bloody, preferring to let others do the nastiest jobs for him. He had offices and rings of underlings in over a dozen countries worldwide and his ill-begotten fortune was estimated to be worth as much as several billion dollars.
As for Monroe’s connection to the Garrett Khan Empire, that was clear. Three years earlier, a large joint operation had taken place, a triple knockout punch, simultaneously set in motion in three nations, and shut down Khan’s operations in three major cities. The FBI had hit hard in New York City, MI6 had done the work in Londo
n, and Richard Monroe in liaison with the French had delivered a potent punch to the Paris face of Khan’s crime machine. While that had been a bad day for Garrett Khan, he had operations in enough other places around the globe for that effort to have put only a small dent in his works.
Monroe had not particularly suspected Khan’s involvement in Genevieve’s murder, but was not at all surprised to hear the helpless Franklin Carney utter that name. He would discuss this new information with Mr. Nine as soon as the opportunity presented itself, but he had other business to attend to first. Something that belonged to him was in need of retrieval.
***
Monroe reached the Hilton without incident, made his way uninterrupted to the room that had been occupied by Franklin Carney, and put on gloves and a mask as he entered. The briefcase was easy enough to find. Carney had apparently fallen so ill so fast that he had neglected to hide it. Monroe opened it, peaked inside just long enough to see that most, if not all, of his money was present, and slammed it shut again. He would take it home and thoroughly wash that cash.
He took one more item with him: Carney’s laptop computer. There might be a wealth of information about the activities of Simon Scythe on that hard drive, Monroe knew. He would see that it made its way into the hands of Mr. Nine.
Driving back to his apartment after the Hilton, Monroe had to smile. Things were going wonderfully so far. He had fired the first bullet of his new occupation and it had been perfectly placed in its target. The first mission had gone off without a hitch, his finances were intact, and he had been thrown a most unexpected bone by fate. Now he just had to decide what to do with the information, and he hoped Mr. Nine would let him do what he was already mostly certain he wanted to do.
