ensuing bullet before impact, or enough time for the brain to recognise its own destruction. But Victor didn’t fire.
Instead, he squatted down and reached into Georg’s duffel coat. He withdrew the cell phone, dialled 112, switched it to speakerphone, and placed it in one of Georg’s hands. Her eyes opened and stared at Victor, shocked.
‘Remember to forget me,’ Victor said before the line connected.
He headed to the elevator as the emergency operator politely asked which service Georg required.
CHAPTER 8
Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, USA
Associate Deputy Director for the National Clandestine Service Roland Procter took a seat in one of the four black leather armchairs positioned in the corner of his office. The area was set to create an informal space for meetings and discussion, but Procter was usually happier to talk from behind his big desk. His current guest, however, warranted a more even playing field.
Enjoying the chair across from Procter was Clarke, who, though the same age, was at least eighty pounds lighter, several shades paler, and looking not too dissimilar to a French fry in a suit. But if Clarke was a French fry, Procter had to admit he was definitely the hamburger on their collective plate. Though Procter wasn’t sure how much he weighed, it had to be north of two fifty. It wasn’t genetics, it wasn’t big bones, it was just that Procter liked to eat.
Clarke wasn’t CIA and his credentials said Pentagon, but whatever his laminate proclaimed, Procter wasn’t sure exactly who Clarke worked for these days. Clarke could have worked for none of the big agencies or all of them at once, or maybe one that was so secret Procter hadn’t even heard of it. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Clarke shared the same principles as Procter and the same balls to put those principles to good use.
‘I’ve received word from my man,’ Procter began. ‘It seems there was a minor problem last week with the supplier in Hamburg.’
Clarke’s eyebrows rose. ‘What kind of a problem?’
‘The fatal kind.’ Procter gave a quick explanation of the facts as he knew them.
‘Did Tesseract get away clean?’
‘He claims so, and our people in Germany back up his story. The police have the killings down as a gangland incident. Georg, who is in fact a woman, was shot up pretty bad, but she’s had three surgeries and is going to make it. I’m told she’s conscious, and keeping her mouth closed. Not that it would make much difference either way. The cops over there aren’t too concerned about a bunch of criminals blasting holes in each other. Privately, they’re celebrating the destruction of two local gangs. They aren’t looking for anyone, let alone our boy.’
‘Good.’
‘You sound almost disappointed,’ Procter said.
Clarke ignored the barb. ‘We have a real problem though. Regarding Bucharest.’
‘Which is?’
‘One of Kasakov’s people heard Tesseract’s shot. A Russian guy has spoken to someone inside Bucharest PD. They’d found the assassin’s headless corpse by then. It was lying on a rooftop next to a sniper rifle, six hundred yards and a clear line of sight from the front door of the Grand Plaza where Vladimir Kasakov happened to be staying.’
‘So what did Bucharest PD tell him?’
‘What they knew about the shooter. Croatian freelancer, on Interpol’s files. Guy was a real bastard, did mob hits for different people. And now Kasakov knows for sure someone tried to kill him. And he must know that someone intervened on his behalf. Maybe he knows who wants him dead or maybe he doesn’t. But one thing’s for certain: he’s going to want to know who came to his aid and he’s going to keep his head down.’
Procter shrugged. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’
‘It bothers me.’
‘It shouldn’t. We’ll just spin it to throw him off the scent. We’ll make him think that the Croatian guy was killed for some other reason, and Kasakov’s survival was nothing more
Instead, he squatted down and reached into Georg’s duffel coat. He withdrew the cell phone, dialled 112, switched it to speakerphone, and placed it in one of Georg’s hands. Her eyes opened and stared at Victor, shocked.
‘Remember to forget me,’ Victor said before the line connected.
He headed to the elevator as the emergency operator politely asked which service Georg required.
CHAPTER 8
Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, USA
Associate Deputy Director for the National Clandestine Service Roland Procter took a seat in one of the four black leather armchairs positioned in the corner of his office. The area was set to create an informal space for meetings and discussion, but Procter was usually happier to talk from behind his big desk. His current guest, however, warranted a more even playing field.
Enjoying the chair across from Procter was Clarke, who, though the same age, was at least eighty pounds lighter, several shades paler, and looking not too dissimilar to a French fry in a suit. But if Clarke was a French fry, Procter had to admit he was definitely the hamburger on their collective plate. Though Procter wasn’t sure how much he weighed, it had to be north of two fifty. It wasn’t genetics, it wasn’t big bones, it was just that Procter liked to eat.
Clarke wasn’t CIA and his credentials said Pentagon, but whatever his laminate proclaimed, Procter wasn’t sure exactly who Clarke worked for these days. Clarke could have worked for none of the big agencies or all of them at once, or maybe one that was so secret Procter hadn’t even heard of it. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Clarke shared the same principles as Procter and the same balls to put those principles to good use.
‘I’ve received word from my man,’ Procter began. ‘It seems there was a minor problem last week with the supplier in Hamburg.’
Clarke’s eyebrows rose. ‘What kind of a problem?’
‘The fatal kind.’ Procter gave a quick explanation of the facts as he knew them.
‘Did Tesseract get away clean?’
‘He claims so, and our people in Germany back up his story. The police have the killings down as a gangland incident. Georg, who is in fact a woman, was shot up pretty bad, but she’s had three surgeries and is going to make it. I’m told she’s conscious, and keeping her mouth closed. Not that it would make much difference either way. The cops over there aren’t too concerned about a bunch of criminals blasting holes in each other. Privately, they’re celebrating the destruction of two local gangs. They aren’t looking for anyone, let alone our boy.’
‘Good.’
‘You sound almost disappointed,’ Procter said.
Clarke ignored the barb. ‘We have a real problem though. Regarding Bucharest.’
‘Which is?’
‘One of Kasakov’s people heard Tesseract’s shot. A Russian guy has spoken to someone inside Bucharest PD. They’d found the assassin’s headless corpse by then. It was lying on a rooftop next to a sniper rifle, six hundred yards and a clear line of sight from the front door of the Grand Plaza where Vladimir Kasakov happened to be staying.’
‘So what did Bucharest PD tell him?’
‘What they knew about the shooter. Croatian freelancer, on Interpol’s files. Guy was a real bastard, did mob hits for different people. And now Kasakov knows for sure someone tried to kill him. And he must know that someone intervened on his behalf. Maybe he knows who wants him dead or maybe he doesn’t. But one thing’s for certain: he’s going to want to know who came to his aid and he’s going to keep his head down.’
Procter shrugged. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’
‘It bothers me.’
‘It shouldn’t. We’ll just spin it to throw him off the scent. We’ll make him think that the Croatian guy was killed for some other reason, and Kasakov’s survival was nothing more
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