by Tom Wood
She finished up her evening workout, showered and changed into her work suit. She would change again when she was back home, this time into some loungewear or maybe straight into her PJs – it was rare she wore anything but smart business attire, running clothes or PJs. She didn’t get the chance to go out much and was never comfortable in civilian attire. Muir liked her outfits to match her mood and she was almost never in the mood to wear jeans and a strappy top.
She headed to the parking lot where her cobalt-blue Acura sat reverse parked. She thumbed the bleeper only when she was a few feet away and climbed in, dropping her gym bag on to the passenger seat.
Something felt wrong when she started the engine, but she only realised what when she engaged her seat belt and checked her rear-view mirror, seeing —
The dark silhouette of a man in the back seat.
Despite her long years with the CIA, despite her training, she hesitated, but only for a second.
Her hand snapped towards the gym bag, towards her nickel-plated SIG Sauer.
She had it out of the bag, cocked and ready before a further second had passed. She swivelled, aiming the gun, and —
Recognised the man.
‘Hello, Janet.’
‘Christ, you asshole. I almost killed you.’
‘No you didn’t. The SIG’s empty.’
She hesitated, then realised it weighed less than it should. She thumbed the catch and withdrew the magazine. It was indeed empty.
‘How did you…?’
‘That’s not important.’
Muir creased her brow and placed the empty SIG back in her gym bag. ‘I think we’re going to have to disagree on that.’
She knew him only as Tesseract, a code name designated to him because no one knew his real name. She had met the man a handful of times before and each and every time she had been frightened, although she liked to think she had hidden the fact. He had almost killed her on their first meeting. It had been the only time in her career with the CIA that she had believed she was going to die. That fear had never gone away.
‘But what is important is how you answer my question,’ the man whose real name she didn’t know said. ‘Was it you?’
‘Are you talking about Prague?’
He nodded.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Whatever you’re talking about had nothing to do with me.’
She saw him studying her. She knew if he didn’t believe her then she would not live much longer.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I believe you.’
Muir couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief, but she was still annoyed. ‘That’s because I’m telling the truth.’
‘Which is why I believe you.’
‘I thought you knew me well enough by now to know that I’m not looking to set you up.’
‘I don’t delude myself into thinking I can ever really know anyone.’
‘How depressing for you. And I really mean that,’ Muir said.
‘I can see that you do. Can you see that I don’t care?’
She ignored the rhetorical question. ‘Could we not have done this via email or even the phone like normal civilised human beings?’
‘I’m far from civilised, Janice. I thought you would know me well enough by now to know that.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what happened.’
Tesseract did. He summarised the events from his perspective, knowing Muir would have seen reports. She listened without interrupting as he described his confrontation with the assassin.
After he had finished, she said, ‘Is this personal? Is this about you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I have more than my fair share of enemies. You know that. I live each day expecting it to be my last. I know there are people out there hunting me. Right now, they’re trying to track me down, and sooner or later they always do. I don’t know who will find me next or when or how they’ll do it, but it’s inevitable.’
‘So that’s a yes then?’
He shook his head. ‘Prague doesn’t feel like one of those times.’
‘It doesn’t feel like one?’
For a few seconds she was worried her surprised tone came across as sarcastic, but he didn’t react.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t feel like it.’
‘I didn’t take you for the kind of guy who went with instincts over logic.’
‘Instinct is unconscious logic that’s hardwired deep in the mind.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Then explain this feeling to me.’
‘I’m a difficult man to find. If someone wants me dead their best bet is to come after me when they know where I am. That’s usually soon after I’ve earned their wrath. They wait, I’m gone.’
‘So you’re saying you haven’t pissed anyone off recently?’
He didn’t comment on the swearing. Muir hoped he appreciated she was toning down her profanity level for his benefit.
‘I’ve been a good boy, yes.’
‘And it’s inconceivable no one from your past has tracked you down?’
‘That’s not what I said. It’s unlikely, which is why I’m here. And enemies of mine tend to work in groups or send teams. A lone shooter is rare.’
‘You didn’t really believe it was going to be me, did you?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, toneless.
‘Then why come here?’
‘To make certain. And to find out who supplied the target.’
She hesitated. ‘That’s classified.’
‘I expected more from you, Janice.’
‘Come on, you know I can’t talk about that kind of thing. We’ve been through this before. You know how the agency works.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t. But I’m not agency, you just use me to do the jobs that are too dirty for even the CIA to go near.’
‘That’s not exactly how we see it.’
‘I don’t care what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night. What I do care about is not being sold out so you can protect some bureaucrat from a possible senate hearing a decade down the line.’
‘I protect you too,’ Muir said.
‘Not right now you’re not.’
‘I’m not sure what to say to that.’
‘Then this is where we part ways.’
She took a breath. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’
‘I think you’ve shown what you deem necessary so as not to be misjudged.’
Muir said, ‘Now you’re being immature.’
‘I beg to differ. I told you before: I’m not an employee. I’ve told you before of my intolerance for withholding information.’
‘Related to the job,’ she was quick to add. ‘You know everything I do. I’ve always been full and honest with you about anything operational.’
They sat in silence for a few seconds.
‘Someone wants me dead, almost certainly because of my last job. Therefore I need to know who assigned Al-Waleed bin Saud as a target.’
Muir said, ‘That’s not relevant.’
‘What is relevant though is that I know your nine-month-old Jack Russell is diabetic and she’ll do anything for a belly rub.’
Any fear Muir felt melted away, leaving anger behind. She didn’t try to hide it. ‘I won’t ask how you know that.’
‘Good,’ Tesseract said. ‘Because I won’t tell you.’
‘But I will ask why you felt the need to know?’
‘Insurance. Don’t pretend you don’t have any, Janice. Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what to say to me to save your life if I had a gun to your head right now. You’re far too smart not to have prepared for the moment when I turn. You think it’s inevitable, don’t you? I’m a hired killer. No morality. No loyalty. You’ll never trust me, and that’s the way it should be. Like I said, you’re too smart not to have insurance. You’re also smart enough to know that pretending otherwise is a waste of both our time.’
‘Is that why you told me about Daisy? You’re threatening me?’
‘I’m being honest. I’m reminding you before I walk away that no matter how bad it gets some day from now, no matter how much pressure you’re under, do not hang me out to dry. I’m reminding you that no matter what you fear in this world, you need to fear me more.’
Her voice was low: ‘You don’t need to remind me. I know exactly what you are.’
‘No, you don’t. Pray you don’t ever find out.’
He worked the door release and climbed out of the car.
THIRTEEN
Victor had crossed fifteen metres of asphalt before he heard Muir’s voice behind him, shouting:
‘Hey.’
He stopped, turned. He watched her jog over to him. Graceful, efficient movements. Hurried, but not rushed. She wore a brown leather jacket over her work clothes. He recognised the jacket from the last time he had seen her. It flared at the waist, giving her the illusion of shape. She was narrow in width and depth.
‘You waited longer than I thought you would,’ Victor said.
‘Yeah, well, it’s hard to call after someone when you don’t know their name, right?’
She had the flat accent of a Midwesterner. Maybe she had come from somewhere with a regional accent, but many years in the homogeny of the heartlands had smoothed out any local intonations.
He didn’t answer.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I should be as honest with you as you are with me, but I’m in a difficult position here.’
She edged closer. The last time he had seen her she had been thin and unhealthy. Now, she was still thin, but she looked better. Her skin and hair spoke of plenty of rest and enough of the right kinds of food. The small amount of extra fat in her face smoothed out some of the lines and made her seem younger than she had then. She didn’t wear a lot of make-up, at least during the day, but she knew how to make it work for her. She looked uncomfortable in civilian attire. She would work long hours in a business suit. Time out of it would mean loungewear or pyjamas or workout gear. She wouldn’t own a lot of dresses. He didn’t imagine many heels in her closet.
‘You chased after me just to say that?’
‘No, I’m telling you that although I can’t – won’t – pass on personal information about the client, I will pass on your concerns.’
‘Not good enough,’ Victor said, and began to turn.
She reached out to stop him, but stopped herself an inch before her fingers came in contact with his arm. He looked at the fingers, picturing grabbing the index and forefinger in one hand and the ring finger and little finger in the other hand, and using the strong muscles of his upper back to rip the hand in two pieces, right down to the wrist bone.
‘Sorry,’ she said, snapping the hand away as though she had read his mind.
She was scared of him, he knew. Which was the way it should be. He didn’t seek to frighten, but if he ever met Muir and he saw no fear in her eyes he would know he had walked straight into an ambush.
‘But will you let me speak for a second?’ she said. ‘I’ll pass on your concerns and I’ll have him contact you. Maybe directly you can work this thing out.’
‘No,’ Victor said. ‘I’ll meet him, face to face, in one week’s time. On O’Connell Bridge in Dublin, Saturday, twelve noon.’
She regarded him, close and searching. ‘Why do you want to meet him in person?’
‘Same reason I met you in person.’
The breeze blew her hair across her face. She pushed it back behind her ears. ‘So you could tell if I’m lying?’
‘That and, if you were, so I could kill you.’
She inhaled and swallowed. ‘I can’t allow you to kill the client.’
‘That’s for me to decide.’
‘I’ll have to tell him you said that.’
‘Do so. If he has nothing to hide, there’s nothing for him to be worried about.’
‘Okay,’ Muir said. ‘I understand, but I guarantee he’ll feel the same way. Why Dublin?’
‘I like Guinness.’
She looked at him like she didn’t know if he was joking or not. Which was the point.
Victor said, ‘Please stress to the client the importance of punctuality.’
‘Right. And I suppose I should tell him to come alone?’
‘He can bring as many guys with him as he likes. Tell him it won’t make any difference.’
FOURTEEN
Victor had never been in Ireland on a cloudless day, but the sky above the city was as blue as he had ever seen it. The temperature was pleasant enough. Sunglasses and T-shirts were plentiful, even if shorts were not. He was on the south bank of the River Liffey, enjoying the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. As capital cities went, Dublin was as clean as any he had visited. On a roof five storeys up, the air smelled as fresh as countryside.
He liked Ireland. He liked that of all the countries of Europe, Ireland was one of the handful he had never worked within as a professional. That made it as safe to operate in now as anywhere could be for him.
Victor had a great view of the O’Connell Bridge and the streets that fed into it. The bridge was greater in width than the river it spanned. It had six lanes for traffic, separated by a central reservation on which stood wooden and metal boxes of flowering plants. Ornate lamp posts were spaced along at regular intervals. Connecting Dublin’s main thoroughfares, the bridge was often busy with traffic, but not today. It had been closed to vehicles.
Thanks to Victor’s view, he could see every one of the team. He counted eleven threats in all. They had spread themselves out – four were positioned on the south side of the river to watch each of the four roads that fed on to the bridge; three were doing the same job on the north side of the river; the other four were spaced out along the bridge itself with two on the west side and two on the east.
The client had yet to arrive.
Either the client had listened to what Muir had to say and deduced that Victor was going to kill him – which was a distinct possibility – or he had decided Victor was the kind of problem he didn’t need in his life. At that moment, it was hard to know which of the two explanations formed the justification for the presence of an eleven-strong team.
They were watchers right now, but he could tell they were more than mere pavement artists. They were all men, which he hadn’t expected. Multi-sex teams made far better shadows. It was easier to hide in plain sight as part of a couple than as an individual.
Over half were not Caucasian and those that were had tans from time spent in sunny climes. These facts led Victor to believe they weren’t locals but ex-US military, which had a disproportionate percentage of minority representation – which suggested that the client was as well. The client knew who he was dealing with. He wouldn’t trust his life to outsiders. Military men tended to put more faith in their own kind than intelligence operatives. Likewise, spies trusted other spies more than they did grunts or jarheads. The watchers were easy to spot because they arrived early to settle into their spots and they didn’t leave them again. They did their best to act inconspicuous, but there were only so many ways one could hang around doing nothing. They would have vehicles nearby, but there were few places to park in the vicinity, and none provided a good view of the bridge. So they had to be on foot, and in the open. They couldn’t hide. It would be a waste of manpower to have still more. If the client had brought an eleven-strong team to protect him, he wouldn’t have left men behind that could be better employed in his defence.
Victor had half-expected to find a watcher on the roof where he now crouched, but the client or whoever was in charge of his security had decided it was better to have the whole protective detail on the ground, where they could be employed in a range of tasks. Positioned on a roof might be useful for seeing Victor coming, but no good for doing anything about it.
Unless he planned to kill the client with a rifle. It was interesting that they hadn’t accounted for that. Or had they?
The lack of watchers on rooftops implied they
hadn’t been able to get rifles into Ireland for snipers, which could reveal a lot about the client and his influence or lack thereof, but it was as likely they didn’t want gunplay on the streets of Dublin, whatever Victor’s intentions or their own. If he were to die, they would smuggle him into the back of a moving van and take him somewhere remote and quiet. No need to upset the locals.
Victor’s plan was working so far. It was ten minutes to midday and he had spotted the entire team and assessed their capabilities. They were good. They had positioned themselves well and done as good a job as could be expected at remaining unseen.
Professionals, but not the best.
Which again suggested ex-military. They had spent their lives training for battle, not for urban surveillance. If it came to violence, they would be more dangerous as a result, but it shouldn’t come to that if everything worked out as Victor had planned.
He wore khaki trousers and a denim jacket over a black T-shirt emblazoned with a faded motif of a band he didn’t recognise. A camouflage baseball cap covered his hair. All had been purchased from charity shops and dirtied in puddles. Non-prescription glasses completed the look.
The disguise was basic, and wouldn’t fool anyone who knew his face and was looking out for him, but it would be enough here.
With five minutes to go before midday, the client arrived.
FIFTEEN
He walked on to the bridge from the south side of the river. Victor didn’t spot him straight away, but he saw the muted reactions from the watchers. They didn’t look at him, but they couldn’t help tense with readiness. Professionals, but not the best.
Upon seeing this, Victor identified the client within a minute. A military man, straight of back and gait, tough and wary. He wore civilian attire: jeans and a black bomber jacket. He was tall and strong, with coal-black skin and a shaved head. He had his back to Victor while he walked along the middle of the bridge, so it was hard to estimate his age until he stopped in the exact centre.
