‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘This Reed character,’ Sykes said to take the spotlight from himself, ‘just how good is he?’
Ferguson raised an incredulous eyebrow.
‘He’s killed more people than Stalin.’
CHAPTER 24
Charles de Gaulle Airport, France
Thursday
07:3 °CET
She saw him approaching, walking towards her in a perfectly straight line, relaxed, unfazed by the chaos of the airport around him. He was about five-ten, broad shouldered yet slim. Dark haired. He was wearing a fine black suit, jacket open, top button of his white shirt undone. No tie.
There was something almost mechanical about his movements, each action measured, controlled. He already had his passport in hand, and she took it from him, opened it up. Borland, James Frederick. James. He looked like a James.
He hadn’t shaved today, and the dark stubble disguised his otherwise strong jaw line. His skin badly needed some colour, and his hair wasn’t styled, just cut short and fashionless. He had great bone structure but clearly didn’t make the most of himself.
‘What is the purpose of your visit to France, Mr Borland?’
The man’s reply was candid. ‘Business.’
His British accent was cultured, refined, the voice of a true gentleman. He had the natural class of someone who didn’t have to try. With a bit of work she could make him into a real head turner.
His eyes were blue, incredibly intense. He was especially handsome she decided, but it took a second look to realize. She compared the passport photo with the face before her and noted how in life he wore the same serious expression. She could tell he was a very deep person. If he blinked she didn’t see it.
She remembered she had a job to do. ‘What kind of business are you in?’
Again a one word answer.
‘Removals.’
He wasn’t a big talker, but that didn’t matter. Nothing worse than a guy who never shut up.
‘Are you from London? I love London, it’s a fantastic city. I think you English are the nicest people in the world.’
No reply. Not one for chit-chat then. He just waited with that unwavering blank look on his face. Maybe he was just shy. Yes, that must be it. She managed to sneak a glance at his left hand. No ring. No jewellery of any sort, in fact, and his watch looked like the kind of thing a diver would wear, not a businessman. What was with this guy? It was almost as if he was trying to play down his appearance. What was the point of being a looker if no one looked? If he hadn’t been walking directly towards her, she probably wouldn’t have noticed him.
She smiled, touched her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, ran a finger along her neck, fluttered her eyelashes like mad — anything to give him the signal to chat her up. He wasn’t taking the bait. Yet. Maybe he liked to tease.
She checked the information on her computer. The man flew a lot: Luxembourg, Egypt, Hong Kong. And they were just in the last month. She added well travelled to his list of qualities. She hit a few buttons on her keyboard and handed the passport back to him. He took it from her fingers so smoothly that she had to look down at her hand to make sure he actually had it.
‘Enjoy your stay in France.’
She gave it one last try, tilted her head to the side, and looked at him all doe eyed with her best take-me-to-dinner-and-fuck-me look. He walked away without a word.
Arrogant prick, she thought. He was probably queer.
CHAPTER 25
Budapest, Hungary
Thursday
17:46 CET
The sky above the city was overcast. The rain soaked through Victor’s overcoat. He shivered as he walked down a narrow street lined with puddles. The road was cobbled, the sidewalks uneven flagstones. There were no streetlights, just the glow from overlooking windows providing illumination. No one walked nearby. His footsteps echoed.
He hadn’t dared stay in Switzerland, where both the police and his hunters would be looking for him. Hungary seemed like a good idea. Victor hadn’t been to Budapest for a couple of years, so there had to be less chance of his being tracked here than some other cities. He didn’t believe a private operation could have followed him to Saint Maurice without his knowledge. It would take multiple teams of skilled shadows, precise coordination, access to CCTV footage, aerial and probably satellite surveillance.
Only an intelligence agency would have those kinds of resources and man power. Even then, few organizations had the reach to make such a thing possible. The assassin who’d tried to kill him in Switzerland had been an American. The leader of the kill team in Paris had been American too. Victor didn’t believe in coincidences. It could only be the CIA.
The walls of Victor’s world were crumbling down around him. He was on the execution list of the furthest-reaching covert service on the planet.
He was as good as dead.
His hotel was lost within the backstreets of Budapest’s red-light district. The room came with a bed with a sturdy metal frame and a whole drawer full of fliers for hookers, male as well as female. The hotel was the kind of place where he could lie low for as long as he needed while he collected his thoughts and decided on the next course of action.
Victor left the alleyway and kept walking, staying to the side streets, avoiding people, watching for shadows. He walked for longer than he planned, thinking, analysing. He thought about Paris, thought about his chalet in flames. Two attempts on his life within a week. He felt unpopular.
The sands of his life were running out with every passing second. Already the CIA would be scouring surveillance recordings, liaising with the Swiss authorities and foreign intelligence services — all the time narrowing down their search, closing in on him. He found an Internet cafe and took a terminal where he could watch the door. There were things he had to check if he was going to formulate a plan. And whatever plan he put into practice would require money. It was possible that if the CIA knew where he lived they had also frozen his bank accounts. There had been a time when a Swiss bank would never have revealed information about its clients, but the world had changed that day in September 2001. Now anything was possible.
He was relieved to find his money still in place at the primary bank he used. He would have to withdraw all the money as a precaution and booked an appointment at the bank. Victor had cash stored in various safety-deposit boxes around the Continent, but at the moment he was only concerned with his money in Switzerland. He realized he hadn’t eaten for a while and devoured three cheeseburgers at a nearby cafe. He finished off the milkshake on the street.
Nothing made sense to him any more. Did the CIA want him because of Paris, or did they arrange it in the first place? Did they hire him or did they hire the guys who tried to kill him or both? Did they track him from France to Switzerland or did they already know where he lived? Any answers he could think of led to more questions. He was reduced to speculation, guesswork, and he hated it.
He thought about the broker. This is not what you think, whoever they were had said. Maybe he should have listened. Perhaps the CIA had found out about his job and had tried to kill him afterwards; maybe Ozols was a CIA asset; maybe the flash drive belonged to the CIA; or maybe the CIA just wanted it for itself. Maybe the broker had been part of the set-up; maybe the broker was the CIA; or maybe the broker was on the same hit list as he. Too many maybes, not enough certainties.
Victor hailed a taxi, deciding at the last second to walk instead. The taxi driver hurled abuse at him in Hungarian, the gist of which Victor understood to be a reference to his mother. He didn’t look back. Falling snow mixed with the rain. It felt good on his skin. He walked past a group of homeless men passing around a bottle of something potent, judging by the stink in the air. He felt eyes watching him.