The old man continued, "He essentially got rid of two birds with one stone, the Minister of Foreign Affairs and the Convener of Appropriations and Expenditure Committee! Do you know what that means?"
She didn't respond, but he could see the understanding in her expression.
"It means Zelig would be able to replace his budgetary line manager with someone more lenient and amenable to his instructions, and, he would be able to replace Minister Jordan with someone who would fortify his growing influence in domestic and international affairs, all while delivering vindictive reprisals on those who had opposed him."
"Sounds like Zelig. It would explain why he had Harry killed, and why he's so invested in getting to me. He's protecting himself." She spoke more to herself than to the old man.
"Exactly. It means he could do whatever he wants! He would control the intelligence budget, and he would control international policy for the entire country! He would become untouchable!"
"If what you're suggesting is true, and Minister Jordan is innocent, she'll be dead by morning."
The old man blinked. His eyes closed for a fraction longer than he wanted. He knew she was right.
"And Senator Biella," he said somberly.
Shirin looked at the clock on the wall. Her expression was cold, detached. "Nothing you've said changes anything. It's hindsight and conjecture. No proof. Nothing I can use." Shirin stood and made a show of stretching her arms, twisting, and turning, loosening her muscles. Priming them, ready for action."Twenty seconds," she said simply, raising an eyebrow.
Behind his superior exterior, the old man flinched slightly. It was a small nuance of movement, but she saw it.
20:02:39
Shirin didn't know this man, but she knew his type. He was slick and polished, but underneath the fancy clothes and careful words, he was like so many other men who had tried to manipulate her. So secure behind an above average intellect and hidden behind a cloak of wealth and power, they were so easily humbled when faced with their own mortality.
This old man was smug and confident. He believed he had baited her into his web. Maybe he had. But in the moment when she would snap his neck, his mind would register the fear, the disbelief, the sudden and unfailing understanding that death didn't care about stature. It didn't care about money or power.
Shirin lunged at the old man like a panther pouncing on its prey. Agile, fast, overwhelming. She was atop him before he knew what was happening.
He tried to fight her off, but a swift knee to the sternum and he complied helplessly with her advance. She gripped his chin firmly in her left hand, cupped the back of his head in her right hand, and tensed, ready to pull violently in opposing directions, snapping his neck and causing death almost instantly.
"Three seconds," she said convincingly. She adjusted her purchase on top of his body and the chair for better balance.
"Wait! Wait! I know where Zelig will be!" he gasped. "I know where he will be!"
Shirin looked down into his eyes. She saw it then: truth. She saw in his eyes the fear of dying, the anger that someone could so easily extinguish his life, and most importantly, the disgust that he had crumbled so quickly under such a primitive threat. He must have hated himself at that moment, and she liked it.
"I believe you," Shirin told him. "Where will he be?"
"He's taking a private jet to Silverdale. He has a large estate there."
Shirin slowly released the pressure of her grip on his chin and head but did not step off him.
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Because," the old man spluttered, "I am supposed to be on that plane with him."
20:03:41
Barratt stirred awake with a dull throbbing pain from his side. He'd drifted awake and back to sleep several times already. The fuzzy feeling in his head and the taste in his mouth told him he still bore the lingering effects of anesthetic gases mixed with powerful analgesics.
Each time he tried to open his eyes, his vision spun, but slowly he became more lucid. His head didn't feel like it was swimming in jelly.
Without thinking, his hands reached around his side, where the pain was strongest, and felt the padded dressings bound into place over the wound.
"Hello, Mr. Jones," the voice was soft and sweet, "you're just waking up from your operation. You're in the recovery ward."
Barratt turned his head toward the voice and forced himself to open his eyes.
"You're just waking up in Recovery," the soft voice repeated. "Can you hear me? Can you understand me?"
Barratt nodded his head slightly.
"Do you have any pain?"
Barratt nodded his head again and gently drifted off to sleep.
20:04:29
Smith exited the brothel feeling only slightly appeased of the frustrations building up within him. He was loyal to the old man, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about all the decisions he made. Keeping Barratt and Shirin Reyes alive was dangerous. Not killing Zelig, also dangerous. And on all fronts, his opinions and plans of action seemed to be stymied by the old man's reluctance to kill these people.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Zelig. The only good thing about Zelig, he thought as he brought the phone to his ear, was that they shared the same propensity for action, and an affection for swift, permanent resolutions.
"Yes?" he answered the phone.
"I understand the woman and Barratt escaped," Zelig said spitefully.
Smith didn't respond. There was no point. He couldn't tell Zelig that he had let them go, and he didn't want to admit to a failure he wasn't responsible for. Instead, he waited for Zelig to continue.
"Were you injured?"
"I'm operational," Smith said neutrally.
"That's a surprise. And a disappointment."
Again, Smith didn't respond; instead, he pictured driving a knife deep into Zelig's neck and watching him squirm as he twisted it and turned it, deeper and deeper.
"This would be the first time you have ever failed me, Smith." Zelig persisted in getting his point across.
"The man you sent to watch my back didn't," Smith said coolly into the phone. "Unless you want to piss me off even more, I suggest you get to the point or sever our relationship here and now. But I will not put up with your shit right now!" Smith's outburst was against character. He put it down to unhappiness with his working environment. He put it down to wanting to kill Zelig, wanting to kill Barratt, wanting to kill Shirin Reyes, and wanting to rebel against the constricting control of the spymaster old man but being unable to break the bonds that joined them.
Zelig was quiet for a moment. Assessing his next course of action carefully before reacting, no doubt.
"The woman―her daughter is in Italy, in Venice, for the next four days." Zelig's voice was short, clipped. "Get on the next plane. Find her. Take her. Hurt her. Make it very public and very messy. I want it on the news. I want them to know."
Smith's eyes narrowed listening to Zelig's words. A deep, dark smile grew across his face. "I'll be on the next plane."
"Good. Don't fail me again," Zelig said backhandedly as he hung up the line.
Smith didn't notice; he was already fantasizing about the things he would do.
20:05:38
Shirin had pumped the old man for as much information as possible before stepping off him completely. She knew the airport, the departure time, destination, and time it was expected to arrive at its destination. She also knew the rough location of the estate they were traveling to. She knew enough to mobilize an effective plan.
"You've been very helpful," she said personably. Then she leaned back in, her face hard with a cold menace. "But if you lied to me about any of these details, or if anything happens to Barratt while I'm gone, I'll find you, and I'll kill you. Understand?"
"Perfectly," the old man responded.
It had been a tense encounter. One the old man would learn from. He had miscalculated her impulsive behavior and explosive personality. For a
moment, he had feared for his life, yet he had gotten exactly what he had hoped out of the meeting. It stood as testament to his prowess in the face of danger.
As Shirin Reyes walked out of the isolated hospital room, the old man breathed a sigh of relief, rubbed his hands together, and chuckled at his success.
Shirin Reyes was dangerous, there was no doubt. But dangerous in the way a dog with rabies was dangerous. He led her to Zelig, pointed her in the right direction, and now he let her loose. She would kill Zelig, there was no doubt. Like a rabid dog, she would tear him to pieces. And then he would put her down.
Slowly, the old man pushed himself up from the chair. He reached into his briefcase, removed a satellite phone, activated the scrambler, and dialed Smith's burner phone.
"Yes?" Smith answered coolly.
"Good evening," the old man said. It was their agreed code to signal the conversation was secure. "Target is on board."
Despite their conversation being scrambled, skipped across several international towers, and effectively untraceable, they both spoke in a nondescript shorthand. It was habit.
"Instructions?" Smith asked.
"As discussed. She will meet at the destination point. I suggest you get yourself invited on the flight. Be ready. When she takes out the trash, she is my gift to you."
"Understood," Smith said without inflection. "There has been another development. I have been asked to visit Venice, to meet with a friend's daughter…"
The old man paused for a moment, pretending to think. He had foreseen Zelig's intention to go after Robyn Mills' daughter. "Also a gift for you."
Smith's proclivity for violence disturbed him, but their bond was beyond moral differences. He understood Smith's need to express himself through such obscenities to remain functional, and so he permitted it in controlled, titrated doses.
"Thank you," Smith said, and disconnected the call.
The old man lingered a moment longer. He would like to be there when Barratt was brought in from the recovery ward, but he had a flight to catch. He packed away the satellite phone, collected his briefcase, and walked out.
At the door, he nodded to the detective in the hall. "You know what to do," he said with a wry smile.
Whistling a tune, he left the ward and headed out of the large hospital toward the waiting limousine.
20:07:52
"Mr. Jones," the soft voice of the nurse said, "your wife is here to see you."
Barratt stirred awake, the fog lifting slightly from his head. His vision still blurred, but he managed to keep his eyes open longer than before.
"Mr. Jones," the nurse repeated, "your wife is here. Would you like me to let her in?"
Barratt nodded his head slowly. He didn't have a wife. Didn't comprehend completely what the nurse was saying. But her voice was so sweet, her touch as she checked his dressings so reassuring, he nodded to everything she said.
20:13:34
Minister Jordan sat alone in the holding cell. She wasn't handcuffed, but she was most definitely treated as though she were guilty. Her one phone call went unanswered. Even her long-time solicitor didn't want anything to do with her.
To the world, she was now a traitor. How had Zelig so skillfully and so deviously orchestrated things to be so completely damning against her, and how had she fallen straight into it?
Still, the question of whether the photos of her husband and his underage male lover were real or another deceit haunted her thoughts.
No matter what came next, Jordan knew without question, Zelig had totally destroyed her. There would be no coming back.
20:13:49
Robyn Mills paced the floor of Shirin's secret office. Ben had assured her she was safe there. But she didn't feel safe. Worst of all, she felt guilty.
She was hiding, doing nothing useful, and the man who had risked his life to save her was vulnerable and alone. Looking at Ben, she saw a similar struggle taking place.
Ben was a guy of action. He climbed steep cliffs, jumped out of planes, swam with sharks, traveled to dangerous countries on missionary deployments as a nurse. He was a man who prided himself on doing things, and yet he, too, was forced to stay in this small office and do nothing.
Their eyes met. Brother and sister, knowing each other's thoughts. They both nodded at the same time. They didn't smile, but their faces demonstrated a shared understanding and shared agreement. They couldn't stay here and do nothing a moment longer.
20:17:22
"Ben," Shirin whispered into her earpiece. She was walking down a long, empty corridor, away from the recovery ward.
"I'm here," he replied quickly, his voice slightly puffed.
"What are you doing?" Shirin asked. It sounded as though he had been running.
"Nothing. Just ran to answer the phone. What's happening?" he said, hoping she would believe his lie.
"I'm about to email you a few photos. They're Barratt's surgical notes. I need you to have a look. I understand enough to know he'll be okay. But I need to know how soon I can get him out of here, and what gear will we need to look after him."
"Sure. Um…how did you get them?"
"Pretended to be his wife."
"And the nurses believed you?"
Shirin ignored his last question. Instead, she said, "He was still groggy. I took a photo of his med chart, too. Take a look at his meds and tell me what else we need to get."
"Yeah, okay, but it's not like going to the supermarket."
"Leave that to me. I'm emailing it now. They're moving him to ICU from Recovery. Into a private room. There's a detective there. I'm assuming they're going to keep him there until the detective can talk to him about the situation around his assault."
"I don't understand… How do you know that?"
"Stab wounds like these are reportable to the police. If they knew who he really was, they would have him handcuffed and guarded, even in Recovery." Shirin sounded tense from having to explain herself. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her energy. "Have a look for me, please. And get back to me. I have to go."
"Where are you going?" Ben asked, still not understanding exactly what was going on.
"I have a plane to catch."
20:17:39
"Yes?" Director Zelig asked, annoyed. He was in the final moments of preparing the speech that would facilitate the end of the old regime and the glorious, timely ascension to power of his own regime. In years to come, when history reviewed the world of intelligence, this moment would mark the beginning of the Zelig Era.
"We have Barratt," Smith said simply into the phone.
Director Zelig paused, caught off guard by the good news.
"Excellent," he said. It seemed destiny was indeed on his side. Everything was working out as he had planned.
"I'm in the process of questioning him," Smith lied.
"Any news on Shirin Reyes?"
"Yes and no. Somehow she is aware of your flight plan tonight. I strongly suggest you cancel."
"I will not!" Zelig said passionately. That flight, the people joining him, and the meeting to follow immediately after were crucial to his final plan. "I cannot."
"Then…" Smith paused, as though thinking. "Then I suggest you get me on the flight with you."
"Very well," Zelig said after a pause. "I'll arrange for you to join the security team."
chapter 10
"motivation is a funny thing. it is different things to different people."
the book of seekay
21:17:06
Smith stepped off the gangway and paused on the tarmac. His inspection of the de Havilland DHC-8 twin engine turbo prop plane validated the preliminary team's initial assessment. The aircraft was secure.
Measuring only seventy-three feet and seating up to thirty passengers after modifications to its internal design, it was a simple plane with very few options for concealing weapons―or persons. Still, prior to take-off, it would be checked again.
Thus was the nature of its passengers for th
is trip. Director Zelig, by virtue of position and aspiration, was a high-value target. And for this flight, his guests added to the accumulated risk pool. High-ranking politicians, power brokers of government, and a few select personal advisors.
Smith didn't know the purpose of the flight or the intention of these individuals coming together. He didn't need to know, and that was fine by him. He knew Shirin Reyes would try to kill Zelig. And that he would kill her once Zelig was dead. That was enough for him.
Again, the secretive and manipulative stratagems of the old man opened to him like a blooming flower. Now he understood why he wanted Shirin Reyes unharmed. He wanted her to kill Zelig. A lone, disassociated, disillusioned, broken woman's misplaced revenge for the death of her husband. With a back-story like that, the press would eat it up, and the authorities wouldn't look any further.
The old man's plan was sound.
Smith walked around the fuselage and looked out over the harbor. Located on a peninsula, the small, private airport was surrounded by ocean on seventy per cent of its perimeter and a large cliff-edged mountain on its rear.
Its seclusion, security, and limited access made it famous among the elite of government and celebrity. It was impossible for prying eyes or powerful cameras to capture glimpses of passengers embarking or disembarking. Privacy was this airport's guarantee.
Smith walked the length of the plane, ducked under the blade of the 1491kW turboprop, and thoughtfully inspected its hull as he circled back to the front of the plane.
For now, he was satisfied. The old man seemed certain Shirin Reyes would make her move once the plane arrived at Silverdale. It made sense. Any approach at this location was doomed. The ocean side was continually monitored by satellite, cabled hydrophones, and roaming patrols. Even a six-foot dingy within a nautical mile would be secured and apprehended in fewer than four minutes.
From behind, there was only one road leading down the steep cliffs. That road was heavily monitored electronically, remotely, and with randomized roaming patrols. The sheer scope and steepness ruled out any approach on foot.
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