by Tom Wood
He turned around on the spot three hundred and sixty degrees, examining all the lone men standing nearby or passing. When he realised Victor wasn’t there, he backed up and leaned against the stonework. He touched his chin to his collarbone and said something into a lapel mike. Victor was at the wrong angle to read his lips, but he didn’t need to.
He was younger than Victor had expected: from this range, he looked to be no older than forty. There were no signs of grey in the stubble on his face or head. This was a man who had not absorbed all the excesses of civilian life. If Victor had expected him to have grown soft giving orders from behind a desk, he was wrong.
Two minutes to twelve. Victor didn’t move. He figured the client would wait five minutes, but from the agreed time. He wouldn’t fly across the Atlantic to leave again without giving Victor a chance to show. But he wouldn’t hang around longer. Victor had instructed Muir to inform the client to be punctual. If Victor was late, it would communicate that he wasn’t going to show, and that would smell of a set-up. The longer the client stood exposed on the bridge, the easier a target he made of himself.
So Victor had seven minutes. There was no need to rush. In fact, Victor needed to wait until the last minute.
The client stood with all the patience that could be expected of a man waiting to meet a professional assassin. He was anxious. If he hadn’t been, Victor would have expected a trap. He was prepared for one regardless.
At one minute past twelve he headed for the roof door because it would take him three minutes to get down to the ground floor and on to the street outside. It would take a further minute to reach the client.
When his watch showed the time to be three minutes and forty-nine seconds past midday, Victor was walking through the main entrance and on to the street outside.
He was going to walk straight along the street and on to the bridge where the client waited and the watchers weren’t going to see him.
The client had been standing next to one of the ornate lamp posts, on its north side, making a headshot difficult from where Victor had been waiting. Deliberate positioning, no doubt. The man was also wearing that large bomber jacket. The temperature did not warrant it, so Victor pictured an armoured vest beneath; lots of layers of Kevlar reinforced by ceramic plates to protect the heart and lungs, both at the front and back.
Even with the body armour and the lamp post impeding his line of sight, Victor could still have made a kill shot, had he wanted. The client knew enough about him to know Victor was capable of such a shot.
But he didn’t intend to kill the client, at least not until after he had spoken to him.
Besides, this guy wasn’t the client. But they wanted Victor to think that.
It had almost worked too. Everything about the team and their positions and the ‘client’ had been right, except the black guy in the bomber jacket had made a single mistake. He had ignored the other watchers while he had walked along the bridge, but as he had taken up position next to the lamp post he had glanced at one of them.
It was a reflex action, hard to control. He hadn’t glanced at the others. He had glanced at one in particular because one in particular had significance.
The real client.
He was on the bridge too. He had been one of the first to arrive, which had been a smart deception. He had exposed himself early and by doing so had caused Victor to all but ignore him. Until now.
Outside the building Victor was even harder to see than when he had been crouched, high up on the rooftop – because he stepped into a huge crowd of people.
Right on schedule, a march was heading towards O’Connell Bridge. The crowd of protestors numbered several hundred, which was a good chunk less than estimates on the organisation’s social media page had suggested. It didn’t matter.
He would have been invisible in a crowd half the size.
They were a mix of ages, more women than men, holding home-made placards and printed banners denoting their cause: opposition to austerity measures and cuts to frontline services. They were loud and raucous, but good-spirited, moved by passion and social responsibility, not anger.
Victor slipped amongst them, joining their chants and whistles.
He sidestepped until he was next to an old guy with a beard to his waist. ‘I’ll give you fifty euros if I can carry your placard for five minutes.’
The old guy said, ‘You can carry it for free, lad,’ and passed it to Victor. ‘My arms are killing me.’
As they approached the bridge, he saw the watchers panicking. They hadn’t expected a crowd of protestors. They hadn’t checked for such things. They should have found out why the bridge was closed to vehicles. They should have thought harder why Victor had chosen this location on this day at this time. Professionals, but not the best.
They would waste precious seconds discussing and arguing and going through options. Their attempt at deception would work against them now. By the time they had decided whether to close in on the real client or withdraw with him, it would be too late.
The crowd reached the bridge and Victor spotted the client still present, staring at the crowd. Not searching for Victor, but trying to decide what, if anything, it meant. That he didn’t withdraw was significant. It meant he was determined if nothing else.
The watchers did their best to find Victor in the crowd, now realising that he must be among them, but even having studied and memorised every one of his features, he was as good as impossible to spot in the dense mass of protestors.
Pedestrians and tourists moved out to the bridge walls to avoid the march. The watchers were now scattered and ineffective. They could no longer keep track of each other and their boss, let alone scout for Victor. He handed the placard back to the old guy with the beard.
‘Thank you, sir.’
With dozens of people now on the bridge between the client and Victor, it was impossible to keep the man in sight at all times, but the client was doing the sensible thing and remaining stationary, waiting for the crowd to pass.
As Victor neared the client, he changed his trajectory to walk behind the man with the beard and placard, ensuring the client wouldn’t see Victor’s face as he covered the last few metres.
A moment after the man with the beard and placard passed the client, Victor took the client’s arm and said, ‘Come with me.’
Before the client could react, Victor pushed two knuckles of his free hand against the small of the man’s back. Knuckles were more convincing than using fingertips as a fake gun – bigger, more solid – and the client didn’t resist.
He took off his camouflage baseball cap and placed it on the client’s head, pulling the brim down low to help conceal his face. Victor then ripped away the lapel mike and veered back into the centre of the crowd, taking the client with him.
Victor kept his gaze forward. He wanted to know where the watchers were and what they were doing, but any head movement created the risk of drawing their attention.
They maintained pace with the rest of the protestors until they had left the bridge on the north side. He headed right on to the pavement that flanked the road running alongside the river.
He guided the client across the road and between parked cars and around pedestrians.
‘Where are you taking me?’ the client asked.
‘You’ll know when we get there. Stop talking if you value your spine.’
After a few seconds, an alleyway opened up between the commercial buildings.
‘Turn here,’ Victor said.
The client obeyed.
When they were out of line of sight of the adjoining street, Victor pushed the client against a wall and patted him down, finding a wallet and phone but no gun. The man stood still while Victor checked him and took the phone.
‘There’s no need for any of this,’ the client said. ‘That’s my personal cell.’
Victor didn’t respond. He crushed the phone beneath a heel. ‘This way.’
He led the client along the alleyw
ay for another ten metres, until he came to the faded back door of a commercial property with a ‘TO LET’ sign.
The door was unlocked because Victor had picked it earlier. He opened the door and pushed the client into the room beyond.
SIXTEEN
The property had been an internet café, until it was driven out of business by smartphones and wireless technology. There were no terminals, but the cheap desks and chairs remained. The air was dusty and stale. There was no active electricity supply, so no lights, but enough sunlight found its way through the whitewashed windows for Victor to see the client and for him to be seen in return.
‘Can I take off this ridiculous hat now?’
The client’s voice was a deep growl. His accent suggested the East Coast, maybe a native of Virginia or Maryland.
Victor nodded.
The client removed it from his head and placed it down on a desk.
Up close Victor saw scars on the client’s neck. They were old and faded but still distinct against the rest of the tanned skin. They were burns marks, protruding out from the collar of his polo shirt. He had grey eyes and the weathered skin was marked with deep crow’s feet and ice-pick scars from acne or pox decades before. He looked tough and capable; a former military man who, though long out, had not allowed himself to weaken. His posture was straight and rigid. He didn’t fidget. His hands stayed by his hips, in loose fists. There was no wedding band and no pale ring of skin where one had been removed prior to this meeting. His clothes were good quality garments, but there were no designer labels signalling significant disposable income. The Ray-Bans were the most expensive item on his person. His watch was for telling the time on a battlefield, not a display of wealth. He wore the experience of combat on his face and triumph in the set of his shoulders.
The client spent a moment examining the room. He seemed content enough to give Victor his back to do so. He then nodded to himself before facing Victor. He looked to Victor’s hands.
‘You don’t have a gun.’ He seemed more curious than surprised. ‘Do you?’
Victor said, ‘Do you think I need one?’
‘Never thought I’d fall for the old fingers-in-the-back trick. Guess I must have lost a step in my advancing years.’ The client paused. ‘I told Muir that twelve men would be more than enough to handle you.’
‘Then why did you bring only eleven?’
A sigh. ‘One got sick on the way over. Some stomach bug. Shitting and throwing up every which way. No plan’s perfect though, right? You must know that better than anyone. But, I have to say, I can’t see he would have made the difference, can you?’
‘Not really.’
The client appeared to consider this, then nodded. ‘Okay. I think we both know you’ve proved your point. It was a real nice demonstration out there. My guys dropped the ball with the march, sure. But you played it perfectly. I understand the message: you can get to me no matter what. But, as I said outside, there’s no need for any of this. We’re not enemies. We’re on the same side here.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Victor said. ‘I’m the only one who’s on my side.’
The client cocked a sardonic smile and shrugged. ‘Whatever. Muir informed me what happened in Prague. You fucked up. That was supposed to be nice and quiet and clean. That’s why I hired you. I heard you were good at this kind of thing. Muir told me you were the best.’
‘Muir should also have told you to watch your language when you’re with me.’
‘Oh, she did. She told me all about you and your little quirks. But what I’m doing is ignoring her advice. Do you honestly think I give a shit about your delicate sensibilities? I’ll talk however I want. You don’t like it, you know where the door is.’ He gestured. ‘But you’re not going to walk out of here because you don’t like my use of language, are you, son?’
‘I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here.’
He shook his head. ‘Save the thinly veiled threats. I didn’t have to fly three thousand miles. I didn’t have to meet you. Until today, you had no idea who I was and I could have kept it that way. But I didn’t. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here as a courtesy to you and to Muir as well. Some thanks would be nice, don’t you agree?’
‘I’m overwhelmed with gratitude,’ Victor said.
The client smirked. ‘Fine. Why don’t we get down to business? I’m sure you’re as keen to get out of here as I am. I’m sure both our time is too precious to waste with this merry-go-round. Why exactly did you bring me here?’
‘To ask you one question,’ Victor said. ‘Did you send her?’
‘No,’ the client said, strong and resolute. ‘I did not send her.’
Victor watched his eyes, which remained forward and unblinking. Victor believed him.
‘So it’s about you,’ the client said. ‘Your past catching up with you. And quite a past you have, don’t you?’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’
‘Whatever. We’re done. I won’t be using you again. You’ve got too much baggage to be an effective operator. As was proved in Prague.’ He gestured to the door on the other side of Victor. ‘Excuse me.’
He didn’t move. ‘When my past catches up with me, I know about it.’
‘I don’t know what that means and I don’t care. As I said: we’re through. And I’m gone. This is a waste of my time.’
The client stepped within arm’s reach, expecting Victor to move. He remained where he was.
Victor said, ‘If she was there for me, why didn’t she try again?’ The client waited. ‘If it was my past catching up with me, why did she let me go?’
‘Muir said you escaped.’
‘Barely,’ Victor said. ‘But if she tracked me to Prague, why hadn’t she tracked me down beforehand? Why hasn’t she since?’
‘How would I know?’
‘I don’t know either.’
‘You’re not making any sense. And I’m getting bored.’
‘This won’t take much longer,’ Victor said. ‘If I were her primary objective then she could have moved on me at some other point. If she was sent by someone I’ve angered before now, then why did she wait until that exact moment to strike?’
‘Go on,’ the client said.
‘Maybe I’m not her primary objective. Maybe I was only a target because of who I was after.’
‘You’re saying she was there to protect the prince.’
‘I’m saying that makes more sense.
‘Okay,’ the client said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘She’s five feet nine inches tall, right-handed, one hundred and fourteen pounds, early thirties, dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes, Middle Eastern, probably Persian heritage but with the calcium-rich bones of a Westerner. My guess is she is American. Maybe her family emigrated during the Iranian revolution. My guess is she’s one of yours. She can work the field as well as I can. She knew my approach and I only knew she was on to me a second before I would have been killed. Who is she?’
The client exhaled and shook his head. ‘I… I can’t be sure on that description alone.’
‘Maybe you can’t be sure, but you have a good idea. We don’t have to guess though. Here —’ Victor took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. ‘Take a look at her face.’
The client took the paper from Victor’s hand and held it under a shaft of light for a better look. His expression changed straight away but he went on studying the drawing Victor had sketched of his attacker for a long time. When his gaze returned to Victor, he looked sad.
‘Shit,’ the client said. ‘She is one of mine.’
SEVENTEEN
‘I mean,’ the client was quick to clarify, ‘she used to be one of my people.’
‘Who are you?’ Victor asked.
The client handed the image back. ‘My name’s Jim Halleck.’
He held out his hand. It was strong and worn and coarse. Victor looked at the hand suspended between them and kept his own near his hips.
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Halleck let his hand fall back to his thigh. ‘No reason why we can’t be friendly.’
‘There’s every reason.’
‘Whatever. Muir said you keep your name to yourself. She refers to you as Tesseract.’
‘It’s a code name I can’t seem to shake.’
‘Better than no name. Guess I’ll do the same as Muir and call you Mr Tesseract.’
‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’
Halleck shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re not exactly leaving me a lot of choice, are you?’
‘What are you, CIA?’
‘Not exactly. I’m as much CIA as you are. Affiliated, but not officially. I run my own task force. A small, elite crew. We’re independent, but connected with all the usual suspects. We work with the Pentagon, DIA, CIA, NSA, Homeland Security, FBI, and foreign intelligence services as well as with the CIA.’
‘The Activity?’
Halleck shrugged a hand, dismissive. ‘That’s an out-of-date label. The Activity doesn’t exist any longer. At least, not how it used to be. Now, it’s branched and split off into many different unacknowledged black-ops units. Some of the originals are still around, somewhere.’
‘And you control one of these offshoots?’ Victor asked.
Halleck nodded and scratched the back of his neck.
Victor said, ‘Tell me about her.’
Halleck said, ‘She went rogue three years ago during an op in Yemen. At the time we thought she had simply gone AWOL. It happens. People cut and run from the intelligence community like they do from the army. Not often, but there you go. Then she turned up, twelve months after she vanished, as a freelance shooter. We’ve tried tracking her, of course. But obviously she knows a lot about how we work and how to stay off the radar. Recently, she’s been hitting targets close to home: CIA assets and agents in the Middle East and Europe. She goes by the handle Raven.’
