by Mark Dawson
“Sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”
“You drugged us?”
“Roofies. Something to knock you out.”
“The hotel manager and his wife?”
“Mendoza killed them.”
“The owner of the bar.”
Logan nodded. “Mendoza.”
He was losing too much blood to carry on for much longer.
“A couple more questions, then I’ll get you to a hospital. How do you make contact with de Lacey?”
His voice was weaker when he spoke again and Milton had to lean closer. “Gmail. A dead drop”
“Is he expecting anything else from you?”
Logan shook his head. “No. I told them the job was done. As far as they know, you’re still in Bilibid. I’m headed home.”
Milton had the beginnings of an idea. “Think carefully. De Lacey has no idea what you look like?”
“No. Never met him.”
“And you’ve never met anyone else who works for him?”
Logan shook his head.
Milton believed him. There was no reason for him to lie.
“Doctor,” Logan said faintly. “Please.”
Milton stood.
Fingers of lightning spread out across the darkness, heralding another detonation of thunder.
Logan looked up at him.
Milton aimed downward and fired.
Once.
Twice.
Logan jerked and then lay still.
Milton took no pleasure in what he had done. He just felt deadened. There was no elation, no satisfaction, not even any relief that he had expunged the need for revenge that would otherwise have eaten away at his insides. He felt hollowed out and blank, an absence of emotion that took him back to the first time he had killed a man and the discovery that his lack of empathy made him perfectly suited for the profession that would later come to define him.
He remembered the feeling, and it frightened him.
This was how he had come to feel during his career with the government. Guilt and remorse would flood the vacuum and he would drown those feelings out by drinking himself into a stupor.
The thought of a drink was attractive now.
Milton shoved the pistol into the waistband of his trousers so that he had both hands free and then grabbed Logan’s limp body beneath the shoulders. He dragged him backwards, opened the door of the Porsche, and dumped him in the passenger seat. He popped the trunk and took out the jerry can of gasoline that he had noticed when he had searched the car before they had left the compound. Mendoza was a conscientious driver, prepared for being caught out by a thirsty car; that was fortunate. Milton poured the gasoline over the bodies and then throughout the interior of the cabin, front and back. The car quickly stank of it.
He went back and found Logan’s pistol. He wiped the weapon clean of fingerprints, then grasped it firmly to ensure that only his would be found on the trigger and grip. He placed the gun on the ground a few feet away from the open passenger-side door; close enough that it might look as if it had been tossed out of the window at the order of someone else.
Milton collected the rest of the things that he had confiscated from Logan. He put the wallet, phone, butterfly knife and car keys into his pocket. He put his own fingerprints on the spare magazine and tossed it into the Porsche. He tapped a cigarette from the sodden pack, put it between his lips, and tried to fire it up with the lighter. The cigarette wasn’t quite as damp as the pack, and it caught. He took two long drags, letting the smoke fill his lungs, and then, holding the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, he flicked it through the open window.
A ripple of blue passed over the seats as the gasoline ignited, and then blooms of flame burst out in bright oranges and yellows and reds. The heat quickly climbed as the fire settled in, consuming the upholstery and the clothes of the two dead men. Milton heard the crack as the windshield fractured down the middle, a jagged line that ran from the top of the frame to the bottom, the glass swiftly blackening from the belching smoke. The windshield popped and then shattered. The smoke issued out, pouring up into the rain.
Milton took out Logan’s keys and went and sat in the car that he had arrived in.
He took another cigarette, lit it and, clamping it between his lips, he started the engine and slowly drove away.
74
MILTON DROVE.
He took out his phone and dialled.
"Ziggy?" he said.
"What's up?"
"Where are you?"
"Still at the airport."
"I need you to come back to the city."
"Where?"
Milton held up the key card that he had taken from Logan's pocket. The plastic oblong was stamped on the reverse with the logo of a hotel chain. "Logan had a room at the Conrad Manila. We need to take a look."
"Where's Logan?"
"Out of the picture."
"And Mendoza?"
"The same. Get in a cab, Ziggy. I'll tell you when you get here."
Milton heard the sound of Ziggy's footsteps. "I'm on my way."
"I need you to do something on the way. I don't have Logan's room number."
"That'll be easy," Ziggy said, before Milton heard him call out to hail a taxi.
"I'll meet you outside."
Milton put the phone away and drove. The hotel was on the waterfront, five miles to the south of the Fort. The city grew more prosperous the farther he travelled. The slums of Tondo became set in stark relief against the well-kept lawns of Rizal Park, the Embassy of the United States and the Zoological and Botanical Gardens. The road curved around the Manila Yacht Club, with million dollar vessels rising on gentle swells illuminated by overhead lights, then passed Star City and the Philippine International Convention Center before he finally arrived at the Conrad. The hotel was fabulous. It resembled the prow of a vast ship, each ascending floor jutting out a little beyond the floors beneath it so the building appeared to lean out toward the beach. There was a large Ferris wheel on the promenade and the sea beyond was rough and angry.
Milton pulled up just as Ziggy was stepping out of a cab.
"Did you get it?"
He smirked. "I hacked housekeeping. Took five minutes."
"Just tell me where it is," Milton said; he had no patience right now for Ziggy's showboating.
"Room 432."
"Thank you."
"Are we going in?"
"Yes," Milton said. "Just follow behind me. No talking. Don't even look at anyone. Nice and casual."
It was just after one in the morning when they approached the large glass doors to the hotel. Milton ignored the staff behind the reception desk and crossed the lobby to the elevators. Ziggy was alongside him; Milton knew that he was the vulnerability, and feared that he would say or do something that would give them away, but he did not.
"Easy," Ziggy said as they were out of sight of the staff.
"We're not there yet," Milton said.
Each elevator car was activated by a room key; Milton pushed Logan's into the slot, waited for the door to slide shut, and then pressed the button for the fourth floor.
"Where's de Lacey?" Ziggy said as the lift started its ascent.
"I don't know."
"But you spoke to Logan?"
"He was a mercenary. The government recommended him to de Lacey. He was working for him to get back at me."
"The British government?"
"Yes."
"Why would the government help de Lacey?"
"I don't know, Ziggy."
The lift slowed.
"You think Logan might be able to lead us to him?"
"That's what you're here for."
The lift opened. Milton followed the quiet corridor to the correct door and slid the key into the reader. The red light turned green, the lock disengaged and the door fell open.
Milton pushed it ajar and went inside.
The room was tidy. There was a closed laptop on the bureau, a suitcase on the bed, a pair of runni
ng shoes pressed together next to the wardrobe and a suit hanging inside it. Milton opened the case: a suit, spare underwear, shorts and a T-shirt, a bag of toiletries, everything neatly folded. Logan's time in the military was obvious; Milton shared the same fastidiousness and preference for neatness and order.
"Looks like he was ready to leave," Ziggy said.
"He was. As far as he was concerned, his work was done."
Ziggy went over to the laptop and opened it.
Milton took out the items from the suitcase and started to search through them. He went to the wardrobe and looked inside: there was a holstered Sig Sauer hanging from the clothes rail. He took it out and placed it on the bed next to the rest of the things.
"What do you want me to do?" Ziggy said.
"Get everything you can about Logan. Email, phone calls. Anything you can find that might tell us where de Lacey is."
Ziggy powered up the laptop. "Shouldn't be a problem."
Milton noticed the lock screen. "You need a password?"
Ziggy shook his head and rapped his knuckles against the top of the screen. "I have physical access," he said. "That means game over. It'll take me ten minutes."
75
MILTON PACED the room. Ziggy was busy. He was sitting cross-legged on the king-size bed with two laptops open in front of him: his machine, the lid decorated with stickers and decals, and the one that had belonged to Logan. The cellphone that Milton had taken from Logan was next to the laptops, connected to Ziggy's machine by a USB cable.
"Come on," Milton said impatiently.
"I'm going as fast as I can."
"You said it would take ten minutes."
"It's a little more complicated than I thought it would be."
"You've had an hour."
"And I'm going to need more than that." He waved his hand to forestall any more complaints. "Can't you go for a walk or something? I'll be quicker without you looking over my shoulder."
Milton was about to retort, but he bit his tongue. Finding de Lacey was dependent on Ziggy being able to work his magic, and upsetting his prickly disposition would just lead to an argument and a longer delay.
"Fine," Milton said. "I'll go and find supplies. What do you want"
"Strong coffee."
THERE WAS a twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven on Harbor Drive, a ten-minute walk from the hotel. Milton set off, taking out his phone and calling Hicks as he walked.
"It's me," he said.
"What happened?"
"It's done."
"Logan?"
"Won't be a problem."
"And de Lacey?"
"Ziggy is working on that now."
"But we're not done."
"No. Not even close."
Milton walked by the huge Ferris wheel, the spokes looking ghostly in the light thrown up by the streetlamps on the promenade.
"How's Josie?" Milton asked.
"Lucky. The bullet hit clipped on the thigh. Flesh wound. They're stitching her up now. I doubt they'll be able to keep her in. She’s already told them she wants out."
"Have you spoken to her?"
"Yes. She said she wanted to see you. She's stubborn as a mule. Says she wants this to be done properly. By the book."
Milton stared out into the darkness.
"Milton?" Hicks said. "What do you want me to do?"
"Stay with her. Call me when she's been fixed up. I don’t need any more surprises from her."
He went into the store and got supplies: a pack of Fortune menthol cigarettes, two bottles of Coke, a handful of chocolate bars and pre-made sandwiches and two cups of black coffee.
He paid the clerk, thanked him, and set off back to the hotel.
76
ZIGGY WAS still working when Milton returned to the room. He was wearing a pair of headphones and Milton could just hear the muffled sound of music.
"Hey."
He didn't hear him.
"Ziggy!"
He looked up, nodded, and took off the headphones.
"What?"
Milton handed him one of the cups of coffee. "Well?”
"It was a little more difficult than I expected." Milton could hear the sound of something loud and aggressive until Ziggy thumbed it off. "Sorry," he said. "Helps me concentrate."
"How much longer do you need?"
"Nothing. I'm done."
"What did you get?"
He held up Mendoza’s phone. "Between this and the laptop, I was able to get into all his email. I reset his passwords, gathered data and accessed everything else: email, social, financial. Open sesame.“
"I don't care how you did it. I just want a link between him and de Lacey."
"Fine," he said, bridling a little at Milton's impatience. "So we know they used a Gmail dead drop. Standard email is clear-text. The NSA can sniff that easily. Data transmitted to and from Gmail's servers within a browser is encrypted, so those transmissions don't usually get intercepted. Usually. Whoever set this up with Logan probably thought they were being clever, but they don't know that Logan is dead. Here. They sent this last night."
Ziggy navigated to an open browser window that showed an open Gmail account. Ziggy moused over to the drafts folder and clicked to open it. There was an unsent email inside. Milton read it.
FINAL PAYMENT MADE. YOU HAVE MY THANKS.
"Can you find the payment?"
"Of course." Ziggy opened another window and Milton saw a statement from an account at Scotiabank in the British Virgin Isles. "This is Logan's account," Ziggy said. "He received a large payment yesterday." He moused up and highlighted a figure in the deposit column. "Half a million."
"From Polemos?" Milton said, noticing the details of the depositor. “Who’s that?”
"It's a front company. Registered in Vanuatu. I've just started looking into it. It's the second payment he’s had from them." He scrolled back and highlighted another payment for the same amount.
"Half up front, half on completion," Milton said. "A million dollars to bring me here and put me in jail."
"Maybe I should drop them a line and tell them where they can find you," Ziggy suggested with a grin, but, as he looked up at Milton and saw him solemnly looking back down at him, he replaced the smirk with a straight face.
"You said the dead drops can't usually be intercepted. But sometimes they can?"
"It doesn't get sniffed, but Google still has the metadata. Including the IP address where the draft was composed."
"You hacked Google?"
He shrugged. "Not exactly. I have a friend who works there. Tells me things that he probably shouldn’t. That's why it took a little longer than ten minutes."
"So where is he, Ziggy?"
"How about I show you?"
He went to the wide window that faced out to sea and pointed.
Milton followed his instruction and looked to the south. A channel separated the land on which the hotel stood from a collection of condominiums. "What am I looking at?"
"I found the IP address. It's over there."
"The condos?"
"No," Ziggy said. "That's Alphaland Marina. It's a very exclusive yacht club. And Tactical Aviation owns a yacht. A big one. It docked three days ago. That's how he's going to leave. In style."
77
MILTON TOOK the cigarettes out to the balcony, shook one out of the pack and lit it. He looked to the marina, a mile away to the south. Dawn was two hours away and it was still too dark to see anything in detail, but he could make out the shape of the yachts from the lights on the jetties. There was one yacht in particular that arrested his eye. It was anchored in the bay and much larger than the others, its sleek lines picked out by the bright white running lights that were set around the perimeter of the superstructure.
Ziggy had found a report in CharterWorld saying that Tactical Aviation had purchased a ninety-foot superyacht six months ago. She was called the M/Y Topaz, and, when Ziggy had checked the records at the Manila customs house, he had found papers for a yacht o
f the same name.
Was de Lacey on board now?
It seemed likely.
Milton finished the cigarette and went back inside.
Ziggy was busy on his computers, sitting amid empty sandwich packets and discarded chocolate wrappers. "I've got something else for you," he said. "The captain of the Topaz applied for departure clearance yesterday. Everyone on board who wants to leave needs to be noted on the application. Look."
Milton watched over Ziggy's shoulder as he scrolled down through a series of scanned pages from the passports of the passengers aboard the yacht. He stopped scrolling when he reached the page from the passport of a Mr. Fitzroy de Lacey.
Milton peered at the photograph. De Lacey was staring straight at the camera.
"When are they leaving?"
"Eight tonight. In sixteen hours."
"So we need to send the email."
Ziggy nodded. He grabbed Logan's laptop and navigated to the Gmail client that he had been using.
Milton looked at the email that they had decided upon. It was simple; just five words.
WE NEED TO SPEAK. URGENT.
"Save it."
THEY WAITED.
Ziggy refreshed the browser every minute, and then every five minutes. There was nothing.
"The payments to Logan," Milton said. "From the shell company."
"Polemos," Ziggy added. "What about them?"
"Can you prove that de Lacey made them?"
Ziggy rubbed his eyes. He'd been up all night, too. "I can try," he said.
Milton went back out to the balcony and called Hicks.
"Good timing," he said. "She's just discharging herself."
"Can you get over here? I think I'm going to need you."
"Sure," Hicks said. "She’ll want to come, too.”
“You can’t just leave—“
“No. She’d probably arrest me if I tried.”
Milton sighed. “Fine.”
“Where are you?"
Milton told him that he was at the Conrad. Hicks said he would be there as soon as he could. Milton hung up.
He took out another cigarette, aware that he had already smoked half of the pack and hardly caring. He lit up and inhaled, then stared at the distant yacht through the wisps of blue smoke. Dawn was breaking, a slow lightening at the horizon that seeped up into the darkness, gradually revealing more and more of the marina and the yachts that were berthed there.
