by James Phelan
The two guys may well be nothing more than two guys, he figured, for they were still there, standing and talking, looking around, not interested in punting, the races or the women.
DJs played tunes between the races, which were set twenty minutes apart.
He clocked the Stable Bend Terrace overlooking the entire track and headed for the third floor.
8:43 pm.
46
Walker had learned early on that when you needed to blend into a crowd, it was best to do so early. To settle in. Melt into the background. Make a few friends. The terrace was crowded, and he took a complimentary beer from a waiter and did a quick lap to choose his target. Walker knew that all he had to do was stand here, blend in, until 9:30. Sometime during those minutes, the person who had booked the head-case service would be in the vicinity and would access his chip.
Then he had to do little more than make it back to the airport without losing his head.
Piece of cake.
After listening to several back-and-forths among groups, Walker struck up conversation with a crowd of eight people standing on a terrace, eating and drinking and not paying any attention to the horses being loaded into the stalls for the next race.
Six men, two women. From late twenties to early fifties. All worked in finance.
“Felix Lassiter,” he said. “Reuters.”
Like most intelligence operatives, Walker had often used the cover of being a reporter and was comfortable using it. A second skin.
“What area?” a tall guy asked.
“Finance,” Walker replied. Why not have a little fun? “Financial crimes, specifically.”
“Working on anything big?” a smug guy with silver hair asked, leaning an elbow on a stand-up table and sipping champagne.
“You know, all in a day,” Walker said, draining his beer and catching the waiter as he passed. “Bruno Iksil is ongoing.”
“Hmph, those JP Morgan guys . . . what’d they call that Iksil guy? The White Whale? Voldemort?” the tall guy said. “You’ll be digging through files and in and out of courtrooms over that story for years.”
Walker shrugged. “I’ve got time.”
“What was wiped off the bank’s value after that story broke?” the woman closest to him asked. “Ten billion?”
“Closer to fifteen,” Walker replied.
“What’s your secret?” Silver Hair asked. “When investigating financial crimes?”
Walker recognized the guy from TV interviews—some kind of economic advisor to Germany’s finance minister.
“I follow the money.”
“You make it sound simple,” the woman replied.
“I’m patient.”
“It took more than that,” she replied. “If it was that simple, it would have come out sooner.”
“I’m persistent.”
“You’re clever.”
“Tenacious,” Walker said, sipping his drink.
“He’s modest,” the woman said.
Walker took her in in a glance. Sultry. Spanish maybe. Or Portuguese. Accented English from one of the top British finishing schools. From money. Around money. Obsessed with money.
“You are smart enough to figure out the clues and outsmart the villain,” Silver Hair said.
“Resourceful,” the woman added.
Walker said, “Are you trying to make me blush?”
The gathering laughed.
Walker took the time to take in the wider mass. He clocked the man across the room: six foot four, 250 pounds. Ex-military. Bodyguard to someone here. No telltale earpiece with wire snaking under his shirt. Then again, such gadgets were small these days, especially for the well heeled. And this was such a soiree.
“Tell me,” Silver asked, “where did you get your investigative experience?”
“I’ve worked in a lot of places,” Walker said, casually glancing around the room. “It’s added up to a variety of tough life experiences. From Baghdad to Kabul, Tripoli to Damascus.”
“Ah, so you’ve lived tough and documented it so we don’t have to,” the tall guy said, “and for that, I’m getting your next drink.”
They laughed.
“Is that true?” the woman asked. “You’ve lived tough?”
“I’m good at adapting,” Walker said. He spotted two security operators by the main doors, and another pair by the kitchen throughway that was being used by the waiting staff. Plain clothes, trying to blend in, doing a bad job of it.
“I must say,” Silver said, “I don’t always believe what I read. Nor what I see.”
“That’s a good philosophy,” Walker replied. He sipped his drink, his head turned away from the group, looking over his glass. He made another guy: similar look to the 250-pounder, only with less neck. Walker assessed the two of them as either German or Austrian. He had trained with guys like them; they were good, damned good, at the physical stuff. One guy like that watching him wasn’t such a big deal. Two of them? This was becoming an issue.
And they were watching him.
This was good: good that he knew they were there, and that he knew their type. It was also bad: bad that they clearly wanted to be seen. Their training and the fact that they were in a visible space meant that they would not kill him unless their lives were threatened, and they wanted him to know that. Perhaps they were fitter and stronger than Walker, but he doubted it; the past nine months spent with the constant fear of violence had been as good a motivator as any to keep sharp and in shape.
“I have a question,” a woman’s voice behind him said. “Have you ever worked for the US Government?”
Walker turned around.
Special Agent Fiona Somerville stood before him.
47
“For a bit,” Walker replied pleasantly while his mind began to run through his options. “I figured a little public service is good for the soul.”
“Treasury Department?” Somerville asked. She was wearing a similar suit to the one she had worn in Rome, this one dark gray with light-blue shirt. She held a glass of champagne, the graze on her forehead hidden under a side-parted fringe of blonde hair.
“State.”
“Ah, other people’s economies,” Silver Hair said.
Walker shrugged but kept his eyes on Somerville. “Not quite the same as you’re used to, I’m sure.”
“How’s that?” Smug asked down his nose.
Somerville gave him a look.
The guy remained silent.
“You were saying,” Somerville said to Walker, “that you are determined.”
“When I need to be.” He could not immediately locate her back-up on the terrace. Maybe they’re inside. Maybe they’re outside, scoping from afar.
“And what’s next for you?” Somerville asked. “Looking into more financial crime? Or have your interests broadened?”
“I’ll keep on doing what I do,” he replied. He had counted just three CCTV cameras in here, all trained at the entrances and exits. The bulk of the cameras would be outside and in the back-of-house areas. There was little need to watch people once they were in here—there was enough physical security personnel for that. He thought through his options.
“Well, Felix, lovely as it’s been to meet you,” the tall guy said, “don’t go embroiling the rest of us in your next breaking-news scandal.”
There was an awkward beat among the group. Walker’s welcome was over. Somerville’s had never started.
“Don’t ever leave a paper trail,” Walker said as a parting piece of advice, and left the group.
Somerville followed.
•
“Walker?” Bellamy asked over the phone on his G5 jet, headed north.
“Consider him out of the picture,” Heller replied, looking at a surveillance image of Walker from the racetrack.
“You’ve said that before.”
Heller paused, biting off a comeback, then said, “This time it’s gospel.”
Bellamy said, “Okay. What else?”
“Tying off loose ends.”
“Walker’s the only loose end I’m worried about. Everything else is in place.”
“You worry about our business. I’ll handle the operational details.”
Heller ended the call.
48
Walker knew trouble when he saw it, and Somerville had it in spades. He also knew that, given some of the visible threats in the room, getting out of here was going to be a bitch.
“So . . .” Somerville said.
“So.”
“You got any hobbies aside from running from federal agents?”
“Hobbies?”
“Yeah.”
Staying alive, Walker thought. Making lists. Counting down the clock. Take your pick.
“Fly fishing.”
“Really?”
“No.” Walker leaned with his back against the bar. “I used to like watching football on Sundays. Sitting with the family. Me wearing a jersey, Dad yelling at the Birds to do what they were trained to do. Ma making a roast and pretending she didn’t know how the game was played.”
“You wanna tell me about your family? I think that’d be an interesting story.”
“No, I’m talking about football. What, you don’t like football?”
“Sure. When America’s team is playing.”
“Cowboys? Damn.”
“What’s wrong with the Cowboys?”
“Everything. Dallas was my wife’s team, and she tried for years to make me think otherwise, but they’re just awful.”
“You want to talk to me about Eve?”
“No.”
They were silent for a beat and Walker felt her watching him. One of the big guys left with a group of race-goers, hanging outside the main doors. The bigger one remained thirty feet across the room, failing so admirably to blend in that he was making it clear he wanted to be seen watching. Waiting.
“You don’t like being here,” Somerville said. “Gatherings like this.”
“You’re a psychologist now?” Walker asked, looking at her. He tried to look away from her eyes but couldn’t.
“In another life,” Somerville said, then continued quickly, as though appraising, “You’re passionate, but not overly emotional. Often calm under fire, steadfast. Not one to break under pressure. Often intense about what you feel is right and wrong. A strong, silent type who detests gatherings such as this one. You feel a calling for something . . . you’re searching for justice in an unjust world. You are destined to remain unsatisfied.”
Walker smiled.
The other watchful guy had re-entered the room, near the southern emergency exit. Walker had a built-in compass, even indoors, even with his eyes closed and turned around a million times. These two were pros, no doubt. Either they knew why he was here, or they represented someone who wanted to talk to him about Felix. Intriguing. And a little annoying, though Walker seldom allowed himself to feel annoyed: it got in the way, like being flustered or stressed or worried. Push on, put your head down and smash through whatever’s in your way to get to your objective: he had been taught that long ago, and it had steered him well in life.
“How did I do?” Somerville asked.
Walker said, “Uncannily inaccurate.”
Somerville smiled.
“Are you here to arrest me again?” Walker asked.
“I didn’t arrest you last time.”
“Really?”
“Sorry if you had that idea.”
“You were just going to hand me over to the embassy.”
“I hadn’t planned to hand you over, but they would have taken charge, I’ve since learned.”
“Because of the safe house.”
“Yes, because of the safe house. The Agency doesn’t take kindly to losing three of its own.”
“They lost one a year ago in the desert. They didn’t seem so hell bent to get whoever did that.”
“Why don’t you tell me about that?”
Walker fell silent.
Somerville said, “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here tonight, waiting?”
“What makes you think I’m waiting?”
“You’d have left by now, either when you saw me or those big guys.”
“They with you?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for this.” Walker held up his wager. “Next race, horse seven.”
“I didn’t pick you as the gambling type.”
Walker looked around. “I didn’t kill those CIA boys at the safe house. I gave Durant’s face a little improvement, but that’s it.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I’ve seen the security footage. I talked to the landlord. And I’ve identified the guys who assaulted the place. It was a hit. They came for you.”
“So,” he said, “if I had made it back to the embassy in Rome yesterday?”
“The Station Chief would have taken over.”
“Bev Johnson; she’s good people,” Walker said, smiling as he finished his beer. “She’d have followed protocol, which would have seen me bagged and put aboard a plane and I would have woken up in some hellhole where the rules on torture are a little lax.”
“At least it would have been a nice plane. A Gulfstream maybe, on the government dime. You wouldn’t have had to worry about lining up at customs either.”
Walker knew, then, how Somerville had found him. It wasn’t due to an intercept of the throwaway cell phone, nor her brilliant investigative skills and catching up to his year’s worth of work in getting here.
“You spoke to Marty Bloom,” Walker said.
“Not me.”
“Who?”
“Another interested party. A friend.”
“I can’t believe Bloom ratted me out . . .”
“My friend is persuasive.”
“My friend Bloom is a vault. Or so I thought.”
“He’s a good guy; don’t let this change your opinion of him. It’s just that my friend managed to convince him that your life would be better preserved if you had some help.”
“Help?”
Somerville nodded.
“From who, you?”
“Maybe.”
“‘Because you’re a part of some Agency conspiracy to undermine our government’s interests in the war against terrorism?’”
“What?”
“That’s what you said to me, in the car, in Rome. Verbatim.”
Somerville smiled. “Good memory.”
“It comes in handy. But I need to know: what conspiracy?”
“You tell me.”
Walker scanned the place. No sign of either security guy. He looked back to Somerville. “Your two heavies have disappeared.”
Somerville’s face changed and she said, “I told you I came alone.”
Then, Somerville’s phone bleeped.
49
“Yeah?” Heller answered his secure office phone. He listened to the field report from Hong Kong, then said, “Good. Keep me posted. If you get to Walker first, make sure that when he’s taken in, the Chinese put him away in some mainland jail for the rest of his miserable days.”
•
Somerville’s body language changed as she stared at the screen of her phone. She then looked at Walker. “Bloom never did tell my friend why you were in Hong Kong,” she said, holding up her phone. “Is it because of her?”
Walker looked at the screen and saw a picture of a young local woman.
“I’ve never seen her before.” Walker scanned the terrace. The exits were still clear, but he knew there were at least two guys, likely more, nearby. The first two had been the visible threat, perhaps to corral him, make him flee the other way.
“You need to tell me what you’re doing here, and what you did at The Peninsula hotel before coming to the racetrack.”
Walker looked at Somerville, knowing there was more to it. “How about we get out of here first?”
Somerville scrolled through the message. “Fiv
e minutes ago the body of this local woman was found by police in your hotel room, along with a trafficable quantity of drugs and several firearms. There’s an APB out for you.”
“Why would the police search my room? They were tipped off?”
“Yes.”
“Convenient, don’t you think?”
“Did you—”
“No. Good plan by someone, though; they want me tied up here in Hong Kong.”
“The local police have already gone to the Canadian embassy with a copy of your passport and discovered you to be a fraud,” Somerville said, reading, then looking him in the eye. “It won’t take them long to get a facial-recognition hit and make you for who you really are.”
“I’m just a dead American, remember?”
“You’re not worried by all this?” she asked, watching him closely.
“Worrying doesn’t fix anything,” Walker said. “And if there’s something to be immediately concerned about, it’s the two big guys who were here until about a minute ago.”
“Do you have any idea what will happen to you when you’re arrested by Hong Kong PD?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Hong Kong’s a small world.”
“How long do I have?”
“Minutes. Security cameras here would be networked into the police system.”
Walker checked his watch: 9:24 pm. Six minutes to go. “I can’t leave just yet.”
“Why?”
“Call it stubbornness.”
Somerville saw the determination.
Walker had already worked out the distances in the room. Head chips had a wi-fi range of twenty meters, meaning anyone in here could be relaying the data to any point on the terrace. He also knew that he could go up or down in the complex, as long as he stayed within a three-dimensional twenty-meter bubble.
“Let’s go,” Walker said and headed for the stairs that would take them up toward the roof.
“Where?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“You don’t have an escape plan?”
“I planned on spending the night on a flight out of here, sleeping like a baby.” Walker held the exit door open for Somerville.
