Sykes nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours. I had plenty of time to sort it.’
Ferguson discreetly opened the file and glimpsed the sonar pictures inside. ‘Where is it?’
‘About eighty miles off the coast of Tanga, Tanzania,’ Sykes explained in a low voice.
The veteran CIA officer thought for a few moments. ‘You’ll need to be on the soonest possible flight out. I’ll think of some reason for you to visit the embassy on my behalf.’
The reluctance in Sykes’s face was obvious. ‘You want me to go personally?’
Ferguson nodded. ‘There have been far too many mistakes made on account of using third parties already. I need you there.’ The subtle but flattering appeal worked instantly. Ferguson could see Sykes warming to the idea. He continued. ‘Take a couple of divers — some former SEALs based on the Continent shouldn’t be too hard to find.’
‘I gathered a list of suitable personnel some time ago,’ Sykes said with seeming nonchalance but lashings of thinly disguised smugness.
‘Very good,’ Ferguson said. ‘Plan for them to meet you there and brief them only when you’re on the boat. Enough money should allay any reservations they might have about agreeing to a mission before they have all the facts.’
‘Okay.’
‘And let’s make sure we know enough about them so that, should it be necessary, we can arrange for some unfortunate accidents to befall them, of the Reed variety.’ Sykes nodded, but a little uncomfortably. ‘And once you have everything organized it’s time we started contacting potential buyers so we can make the sales as soon as possible. The longer we have those missiles in our possession, the more at risk we’ll be.’
‘I’ll sort it.’
‘Good man.’
Sykes started to rise.
‘Ah,’ Ferguson began, ‘given this last week’s unfortunate events I think it would be wise if we cross off any Western buyers from the list.’
Sykes sat back down. ‘Excuse me?’
‘To be on the safe side,’ Ferguson assured. ‘It’s best if we sell the missiles outside of Europe or North America.’
‘But the whole point was to sell them to the Pentagon. Our country will pay more than anyone by far.’
Ferguson took a sip of wine. ‘Things have changed,’ he said. ‘It’s too risky now. It was always going to be extremely difficult to deal with our own country and remain undetected, and that was before that massacre in the middle of Paris went down. We have Alvarez sniffing around like a bloodhound and spreading suspicion that this whole thing might be an illegal op as it is. What do you think will happen when we send an invoice to the military? And if we sell them in Europe our people over here will hear about it pretty damn quickly too. Best we stick to other parts of the world only, I think.’
‘What other parts of the world? No North America, no Europe — Russia and China’s already got them — the only countries left who would want them are in the Middle East or North Korea.’
Ferguson took a sip of wine and nodded.
‘Whoa, hold on a minute,’ Sykes said, leaning forward. ‘Now you’re talking about selling arms to rogue states or fucking terrorists. That’s as good as painting a bull’s-eye on our nation’s back. Fuck that. I’m not having the sinking of one of our carrier fleets on my conscience. I’m no traitor; I love my country.’
Ferguson frowned. ‘Mr Sykes, may I remind you those missiles can be used in anger against us already, whether we sell them or not. And, let me tell you, this planet would be far more stable if America loses some muscle mass.’
‘That’s a rather unpatriotic view to take.’
‘Try not to mistake your own lack of balls for patriotism, Mr Sykes. I’ve spent my life fighting this country’s battles and had my blood spilled in the process, so don’t presume to lecture me on patriotism now.’
Sykes scoffed. ‘Spare me the hero speech.’
If they’d have been in private, Ferguson’s knuckles would have connected with Sykes’s excuse for a jaw.
‘Hero speech?’ Ferguson spat. ‘How dare you? I gave twentyfive years and my marriage to fighting the Cold War so you could sit there sporting your polished veneers and designer face cream. This country is still alive because of men like me, men who went the extra mile just to shovel the shit no one else would go near.’
Sykes went to speak, but Ferguson cut him off. ‘But I’ve never considered myself a hero, not once, do you understand me? And I’ll tell you now, I went into that fight knowing I would have to wear my medals on the inside, that it would be whisky in place of parades and instead of a twenty-one-gun salute it would be being left to rot in some shitty corner of hell the average Joe didn’t even know existed. Keeping America safe has been my life, and it’s sucked me dry, consumed every waking moment of my life — of my existence.
‘Then the Cold War ends, and guess what happens? Hey, you’ve done it, you’ve won battle. It’s over. Your hand gets shook and your back gets patted and the thanks last as long as they take to give. And before long you’re forgotten, obsolete, a relic. You keep your job, but no one really wants you to do it any more. Your expertise is worthless now because you actually won your fight. And what are you left with? No money. You got paid peanuts and didn’t care. You took the job because you loved your country. But what happens when you find your country doesn’t love you back? What do you have left?’ He took a deep breath.
‘I’ll tell you,’ Ferguson said. ‘Nothing. That’s what. You’re surplus, a has-been. Old. You don’t speak Arabic; you speak Russian. What good are you now?’
Sykes’s shocked expression told Ferguson what he already knew, that he should have kept quiet. Ferguson grabbed his glass of Burgundy and took a big swallow.
‘This isn’t about the money,’ Sykes said eventually. ‘You were never going to sell those missiles to our military, were you? You want to get revenge. You want to get back at Uncle Sam for forgetting about you.’
Ferguson put his glass down. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t care enough about my country any more to want revenge. This is about the money. I want to be reimbursed for all my years of loyal service when I did care.’
‘Well, I’m not helping you do it if it means selling those missiles to fucking North Korea or worse.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong again, Mr Sykes. You’re going to do exactly as you’re ordered to the absolute best of your abilities. Do you know why? Because you’ve been party to multiple murders. American citizens are dead thanks to you, or had you forgotten? The only way out of this is through lethal injection.’
Sykes glared hard at Ferguson.
Ferguson drained the last of the wine. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Mr Sykes. Once you’ve sold your soul to the devil you can’t then ask for it back.’
CHAPTER 67
Nicosia, Cyprus
Saturday
02:59 CET
Exercise always cleared his head and focused his mind. The simple pleasure of physical exertion was one that most people did everything in their power to avoid. Reed could not understand that, but he could not understand most people anyway. He grunted. He had his toes resting on his room’s high bed to increase the resistance of his one-arm push ups. He breathed hard. Sweat dripped from his nose.
His smartphone flashed, breaking his concentration and interrupting his rhythm. He squeezed his eyes shut to regain his focus, determined only to stop for death itself. Training was about beating his body with his mind, and with a body so perfectly honed it was never easy.
He fought on — breathe out, push, breathe in, lower, repeat, repeat, repeat. Finally he collapsed, no longer able to continue. He lay with his face on the carpet for a minute while he regained his breath.
All the lights were off in his hotel room, and he operated only from his natural night vision. The phone felt heavy when he lifted it, but he knew the fatigue would pass shortly. Reed was at the peak of physical fitness. The new message was from his most recent client. He sat down on the end of the bed to read it.