by Greg Rucka
Hayes had been persuasive for the last seven days. He’d mostly used his hands to do it, and sometimes he’d used a blade. He’d done it twice more in Sydney, once in an alleyway at three in the morning, and once just after dark, in a parking lot. The reward for his efforts had been limited, but enough to persuade him that Cuba should be his next stop.
In Havana, he’d been impatient, and done it in the bank manager’s office, during business hours, and that was why the secretary had needed to be included, because the man wouldn’t stop screaming, and Hayes had to cut him a second time to fully get his attention. When the secretary came into the office to see what all the commotion was about, he’d had to keep her from leaving.
Needless to say, Hayes had left Havana in a hurry.
But he’d learned enough; he’d learned the name of a private bank in Geneva. The two gentlemen he dealt with there, however, were of a different breed, and he’d had to work at it to convince them that their commitment to their nation’s private banking laws was ill-advised, if not potentially fatal. It had taken him a long time, and when he’d finished, Hayes needed to dispose of his clothes and acquire new ones.
Then he caught the train to Zurich, to meet Gustav Weiss.
It was easy to get in to see Herr Weiss. All Hayes had to do was make an appointment.
They met in the man’s small office in an old, woodpaneled and heavily carpeted building. Weiss was standing when Hayes entered, and politely offered his hand when he introduced himself. They exchanged pleasantries and Weiss offered Hayes a seat, then took his own behind the desk.
“You were referred to me?” Gustav Weiss asked. His accent swung to the German, but his English was precise, and easy to understand.
Hayes nodded, wondering what he should say. He wasn’t good at this part, at the manipulating part. He didn’t think fast enough in circumstances like these, and he was too impatient, as well. The direct approach was more his style.
“Yeah,” Hayes said, after a moment. “Yeah, this guy I know, you did an account for him.”
“A private account, you mean?”
“Yeah, one of those.”
“And you wish me to establish one for you?” Weiss smiled, showing Hayes perfectly white teeth. “This can be easily done. Say, two thousand euros?”
“No, not that, not like that. What I mean is, I need to know how he contacted you.”
Weiss’s smile faltered, and the man looked puzzled. Hayes guessed him to be in his late forties, perhaps his early fifties, though if he was taking any of pharmaDyne’s line of “youthful vigor” products, he could easily be in his sixties or even older.
“I suspect he contacted me just as you are doing so now.”
Hayes shook his head quickly, his frustration growing. This isn’t going to work, he thought. Just use the knife and get to it.
“No, what I mean is, I can’t find him, and I need you to tell me where he is.”
“I cannot possibly give you that information. I would not even give that information to the police. I certainly will not give it to you.”
“His name is Thaddeus Rose. Just tell me where I can find him,” Hayes said, then added, as an afterthought, “Please.”
What little remained of Weiss’s smile vanished. The man stood abruptly from behind his desk. He thrust out his right hand, pointing his index finger over Hayes’s head, at the door out of the office.
“Leave,” Weiss said. “Immediately. I will not ask twice.”
So much for being polite, Hayes thought.
In one move, he brought the new knife he’d purchased in Geneva out from his pocket, flicking the blade open with his thumb, bringing it up in an ascending arc. The thin blade caught the light as it moved, glittering, and Weiss grunted, then uttered a sound of choked agony. Hayes got to his feet.
Weiss still stood exactly as he had, but now he was staring at his right hand, and the blood that was beginning to dribble onto his desk, making a puddle around his severed index finger. He moved his eyes dumbly to Hayes, opened his mouth to scream, and Hayes reached out and put his left hand around the man’s neck, and put the tip of the knife in his right beneath one of Weiss’ eyes.
“You scream and I’ll pop your eye out,” Hayes told him, suddenly feeling much more at ease with himself and the situation as a whole. “I’ll leave you alive, but I’ll blind you, you understand?”
Herr Weiss began to nod quickly, then felt the tip of the blade scratching his skin and stopped himself from continuing. He’d gone pale, begun to perspire.
“Sit down,” Hayes told him, releasing the man’s neck.
Weiss moved as ordered, and Hayes whipped the blade across the man’s front. Weiss whimpered, flinching, then opened his eyes to see that he’d been left untouched, but that his necktie had been cut in two. The tie was silk, a design in blue and black of swirling lines surrounding darker splotches of navy. Hayes pointed at the pieces of the tie with his knife.
“Use that on your stump,” Hayes said. “You’re making a mess.”
Weiss fumbled for the largest piece of his severed tie, taking it with one blood-slicked hand and pressing it over what remained of his index finger. He whimpered again, biting his lower lip.
Hayes used his left hand to take a slip of paper from his back pocket, unfolding it with his fingers. He dropped the paper on the desk, in the blood.
“Take it,” he told Weiss.
Weiss balked for a second, as if unable to decide which was the more dangerous action for him to undertake, releasing the bandage or following the order. Hayes tapped the side of his blade against the edge of the desk impatiently. Weiss took the paper.
“That’s the account number,” Hayes said. “I got it off two guys in Geneva, the guys who sent me to you. That’s Rose’s account number, I know that, and it’s his most recently used one, it’s not even three months old. So you’re going to go into your computer or wherever, and you’re going to give me all the information you have on him, on how you set it up for him, on all of it.”
“Yes,” Weiss said, his voice like thread. “Yes, I will do that.”
“Now would be good,” Hayes advised.
Weiss turned in his chair, reaching for the mouse beside his keyboard, smearing blood along the top of his fine oak desk. He made a couple of clicks, then carefully pecked out a long string of digits on the keyboard, trying to avoid using his index finger. A couple of times he missed, brushing the stump against the keys, and he sobbed with the pain.
Hayes had to fight the urge to laugh.
Then Weiss stopped suddenly, reading what had appeared on his monitor.
“What?” Hayes asked.
Weiss looked from the screen to Hayes, and there was still fear in his eyes, Hayes saw that for certain, but it was even more acute than before. The man’s eyes had gone wide, his mouth trembling.
All at once, Weiss lunged out of his chair, diving for the wall, and Hayes realized he was going for the power cord, trying to shut everything down at once. It took him by surprise, but the patch was still doing its job, and the edge it gave him was enough. He moved, flicking the knife with his wrist, and the blade buried itself in the side of Weiss’s neck, and the man gargled and faltered. Hayes was in front of him then, and he kicked him viciously once, in the face. Weiss flopped back, his head turning, driving the blade further through his throat. He twitched, then stopped moving.
Hayes reached down and freed his knife, wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s trousers. Then he took a look at the monitor, curious to see what it was that could have scared Gustav Weiss more than Hayes had. It took almost half a minute for Hayes to decipher the meaning of the words on the screen, mostly because he’d been expecting to see the name “Rose,” and it just wasn’t anywhere there to be found. But the account number he’d given Weiss, it had been Rose’s, he was certain. It didn’t make sense.
Then he saw the name “Portia de Carcareas” on the screen, and her mailing address, and the name of the corporation
she worked for, and it all fell into place. It didn’t just make sense; it made perfect sense.
Well, shit, Hayes thought. Father isn’t going to like this one bit.
FROM: CI—TECHNICAL—FARREL, REBECCA
TO : CARRINGTON, DANIEL
SUBJECT : TRAFFIC INTERCEPT, PROJECT: INITIAL VECTOR
DATED : 08 OCTOBER 2020
AT 14:21.08 HOURS LOCAL THIS DATE, ECHELON IV LISTENING POST 23, ZÜRICH CANTON, TRANSMITTED THE FOLLOWING INTERCEPT TO CI—MUNICH. THE TRANSMISSION WAS ENCODED AND BROADCAST ON THE SECURE DATADYNE EXECUTIVE BAND, 990.11 GHZ. RECORDING COMMENCED 14:21.10. DECRYPTION WAS ACCOMPLISHED USING WINDTALKER—9.0 DECRYPT SUITE, AND REQUIRED SEVEN HOURS, FIFTY—THREE MINUTES TO COMPLETE BEFORE BEGINNING TRANSCRIPTION.
• VOICE RECOGNITION IDENTIFIES RECEIVING PARTY AS MURRAY, FRIEDRICH WILLIAM, DOCTOR, CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER—PHARMADYNE.
• NEGATIVE MATCH RESULT FOR INITIATING PARTY.
• CALL WAS CONDUCTED IN ENGLISH, AND LASTED A TOTAL DURATION OF 00:01:08.
TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.
BEGIN TRANSCRIPT
MURRAY :—NEWS FOR ME?
UNIDENTIFIED PARTY: I—I WAS CLOSE, BUT SOMETHING′S HAPPENED, SOMETHING YOU′RE NOT GOING TO LIKE.
M: YOU PROMISED ME YOU WOULD HANDLE THIS, SON. I′M COUNTING ON YOU.
UP : AND I′M DOING EVERYTHING I CAN, BUT THIS … THERE′S A—A COMPLICATION. I FOUND THE ATTORNEY, WEISS, HE SET UP THE MOST RECENT ACCOUNT. BUT THERE′S NO DIRECT LINK, THAT′S THE PROBLEM.
M: BUT IT IS HIS ACCOUNT?
UP: I’M SURE IT IS, I′M SURE OF IT, FATHER! BUT THE THING IS, ROSE ISN’T THE ONE WHO OPENED IT. SOMEONE ELSE OPENED IT FOR HIM.
M: WHO?
UP : THAT′S THE THING, IT′S THIS WOMAN, I THINK IT’S A WOMAN, HER NAME IS PORTIA DE CARCAREAS.
M : THE NAME MEANS NOTHING TO ME.
UP: SHE WORKS FOR CORE—MANTIS, FATHER. WEISS’S INFORMATION, ON HIS COMPUTER, HER CONTACT INFORMATION IS THROUGH CORE-MANTIS OMNIGLOBAL. I THINK ROSE IS WORKING FOR CORE—MANTIS NOW, I THINK THEY′VE GOT HIM … FATHER? FATHER, ARE YOU STILL THERE?
M : YES, I′M STILL HERE.
UP : WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?
M: IS IT SANITIZED?
UP: HERE? YES, SIR, YES IT IS.
M : THEN COME HOME. I NEED YOU HERE.
UP : I’LL BE HOME BY MORNING, SIR.
CALL TERMINATES.
TRANSCRIPT ENDS_
EVALUATION :
BASED ON THIS INTERCEPT, THE FOLLOWING CHECKS WERE IMMEDIATELY INITIATED AS PER YOUR ORDERS PURSUANT TO THE EXECUTION OF OPERATION: INITIAL VECTOR:
1. WEISS″ MOST LIKELY GUSTAV WEISS, ATTORNEY.
LOCAL FIRE AND EMERGENCY PERSONNEL WERE DISPATCHED TO 882 MIN— ERVASTRASSE AT 14:33 HOURS, ZURICH LOCAL, TO COMBAT A FIRE THAT HAD ERUPTED AT THE LOCATION. INITIAL INVESTIGATION OF THE CAUSE OF THE BLAZE INDICATES THE PRESENCE OF AN ACCELERANT. ARSON IS SUSPECTED. WEISS′S BODY WAS RECOVERED AT THE SCENE. AUTOPSY IS PENDING.
2. “UNKNOWN PARTY″ INITIAL EVALUATION CONCLUDES THAT THE REPEATED USES OF THE TERMS FATHER″ AND “SON” DURING THE CALL MAY INDICATE A WORKNAME CODE IN PLACE, TO PREVENT THE IDENTITY OF THE COMMUNICATING PARTIES FROM BEING REVEALED. HOWEVER, THE ABSENCE OF SUBSEQUENT CODES TO REFER TO SUBJECT WEISS AND, MORE CRUCIALLY, SUBJECT ROSE, DISPROVE THIS THEORY. AN EXAMINATION OF DOCTOR MURRAY′S ENTRY UNDER WHO′S WHO 2019 FAILS TO INCLUDE ANY MENTION OF A MARRIAGE, OR CHILDREN, THOUGH HIS CORPORATE BIOGRAPHY LISTS ONE SON, LAURENT.″ NO RECORDS AVAILABLE ON SUBJECT LAURENT″ THOUGH IT IS POSSIBLE THAT THIS INDIVIDUAL IS THE UNKNOWN PARTY.″ RECOMMEND FURTHER INVESTIGATION, POSSIBLY INTO ADOPTION RECORDS.
3. PORTIA DE CARCAREAS″ MS. CARCAREAS IS KNOWN TO US AS A CORE—MANTIS OMNIGLOBAL OPERATIVE, SPECIALIZING IN COUNTERINTELLIGENCE AND OPERATIONAL SECURITY CONCERNS, AS WELL AS EXECUTIVE TALENT RECRUITMENT. RECORDS INDICATE THAT SHE HAS WORKED FOR CORE—MANTIS AS A HEAD— HUNTER FOR THE PAST THREE-PLUS YEARS. SHE IS KNOWN TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CORE—MANTIS ACQUISITION OF DR. ANDREW DECLERK, LEAD BIOENGINEER, R&D, BECK—YAMA INTERNATIONAL (2018); MUSTAFA AL—ZAKARA, CHIEF SCIENTIFIC ADVISOR, INDUCTION INTERNATIONAL, A DATADYNE SUBSIDIARY (2018); AND DR. IRINA GANIEVA, CHAIR OF THE DEPARTMENT OF GENETICS AND STRUCTURAL DNA RECOMBINATION AT NOVOSIBIRSK UNIVERSITY (2019).
PORTIA DE CARCAREAS″ IS AN ALIAS. REAL NAME IS UNKNOWN.
CONCLUSION:
IT IS CLEAR FROM THIS TRAFFIC THAT DR. MURRAY IS ACTIVELY SEARCHING FOR DR. ROSE, AS YOU SUSPECTED. IT IS PLAUSIBLE TO CONCLUDE THAT DR. ROSE IS CURRENTLY EMPLOYED BY CORE—MANTIS. BASED ON THESE FACTS, IT IS MY CONCLUSION THAT DR. ROSE IS MOST LIKELY ASSIGNED TO ONE OF THREE CORE-MANTIS BIOTECHNOLOGY/BIORESEARCH FACILITIES: CORE—MANTIS COLD BASE″ ANTARCTICA, CORE—MANTIS JO— HANNESBURG, OR CORE—MANTIS SOLOMON ISLANDS. WITHOUT FURTHER ACCESS TO CORE—MANTIS RECORDS, GREATER SPECIFICATION IS IMPOSSIBLE.
ALL CI—OPERATED LISTENING STATIONS HAVE BEEN DIRECTED TO CONTINUE TO MONITOR FOR TRAFFIC ON THE ABOVE-LISTED FREQUENCY.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION.
MESSAGE ENDS_
CHAPTER 21
Carrington Institute—Training Range—London, England October 9th, 2020
The Armorer squinted down at the readouts on his workstation, then covered the mike that extended from his headset with his left hand, turning to say something to Foster, keeping their conversation muted.
Jo watched the two speak, one seated at an angle to the other, at their desks on the raised concrete stand behind the bulletproof Plexiglas that separated their workstation from the actual firing range. She tried not to be curious, and still found herself wondering what they were saying all the same, wondering how they could possibly find fault in her performance.
The Armorer, Potts, had greeted her when she’d arrived on the range with the same characteristic grunt he’d employed during their last meeting, when he’d equipped her for the pharmaDyne run. He’d indicated Foster with his elbow, giving a curt introduction, then handed Jo a set of ear protectors and a pair of shooter’s glasses.
“Let’s see if you’re as special as the old man thinks,” Potts had said.
Foster had opened the door to the range, handing her the empty Falcon and five clips, then waving her to the nearest shooting point. Each clip had been fully loaded, eighteen nine-millimeter rounds, and Jo had reached the stand, put the glasses and protectors in place, and hadn’t yet reached for the Falcon when the buzzer sounded.
Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, she’d thought.
And she’d taken up the pistol, slapping the first clip into place and racking the slide all in practically the same motion, and the first target was already retreating from her, clacking downrange on its motorized chain. They were Q-targets, black-and-white silhouettes of a standing male, torso to head, and she’d begun firing as fast as the Falcon would allow, which could be pretty damn fast if one put one’s finger into it, as it were.
She’d emptied the Falcon into the target’s head before it had finished its trip downrange, and almost immediately, a second target had popped up, perhaps twenty meters away. This one moved laterally, across her field of vision, faster than the first. Jo had reloaded, then emptied the gun yet again. The slide had just locked back when a third target dropped down from the ceiling, moving even faster than the one before, and far more erratically.
Again, Jo had emptied the contents of the Falcon’s clip into the head of the Q-target.
Then they’d popped two targets at once, one from below, one from the ceiling, and again, they were erratic in their course, moving at the equivalent of an adult’s sprint, jerking, turning, changing their elevation and even orientation as they went. Jo fired off her last two clips with the same precision she’d used with the previous three.
With the last shot fired, the echo of gunfire fading to silence on the range, she’d lowered the emptied pistol, checking that the slide was locked back, that the weapon was indeed empty and safe, before setting it down once more on the point in front of her. She’d removed her glasses, pu
lled the ear protectors down around her neck, heard the oddly comforting sound of the spent brass rattling on the floor at her feet. She’d looked to the two men, waiting for their verdict.
It seemed to be taking them a while.
Foster turned his head slightly away from Potts, looking toward Jo. He was in his forties, sturdily built, with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. He seemed to Jo to be much less stern of a personality than the Armorer, something he then proved by giving her a wink. Jo couldn’t help but grin in response.
Potts saw him do it, glared first at Foster, then at Jo, then pulled his hand away from the mike.
“Yes, very well done, very nice.” The Armorer’s voice came through the speakers hanging from the wall behind the firing points, brusque and vaguely dismissive. “That was all quite impressive, yes, but I think we both know that the Falcon is a remarkably forgiving weapon, that the most muddythumbed child can master it. Let’s see how you do with something that isn’t as generous.”
“Fine,” Jo said, and she replaced the goggles and resettled the protectors over her ears. Foster hopped down from the observation stand, disappeared for a second behind the open doors of one of the many gun safes lining the walls outside the range, then made his way through to door to her, carrying a MagSec 4 and another five clips of ammunition.
“It’s a piece of crap,” Foster confided to her as he handed the pistol over, his voice muted by her covered ears. “The three-round burst is awful, and even with the best control the barrel rises like a whore when the fleet’s in town.”
“I am familiar with the gun,” Jo told him.
