Victor’s shoes clicked on the tiled floor, the only other sound his breathing. He could feel his pulse rising steadily with each step that brought his ultimate destination closer at a frightening pace. It took a lot of willpower, as it always did, not to turn around and walk straight back out.
He pulled the curtain back and stepped inside the box he likened to an upturned coffin. He pulled the curtain shut behind him and fell to his knees, head bowed, palms together.
In a quiet voice Victor spoke to the faceless silhouette on the other side of the mesh panel.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
FIFTEEN
Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, U.S.A.
Tuesday
06:07 EST
Procter noted the mandarins were all absent at this early hour, so it was just Chambers, Ferguson, and Sykes around the table with him. Chambers looked as presentable as ever, but both Ferguson and Sykes were looking a little rough around the edges, Ferguson especially. He was too old to still be doing six am starts and only had about a year left before retiring.
Alvarez’s voice came through the speakerphone. “I’ve spent all night liaising with the French police and their intelligence services, who have thankfully cut us some slack. I’ve got a copy of their crime-scene and lab work, but unfortunately it doesn’t help us a whole lot. As I expected there’s nothing useful from the scene where Ozols was killed. The way the cops have it the killer was waiting in the alley for Ozols and shot him from close range. He took his empty shell cases with him, not that it would have mattered as you’ll understand in a minute.
“Now, at the hotel we got a second chance at getting something from this guy, but it doesn’t get any better. No unidentified hairs or traceable fibers. The only fingerprints found in the killer’s room belong to the maid who cleaned it. This time he didn’t take his empty shells with him, but no fingerprints on them either.”
“He wore gloves the whole time?” Procter asked.
“Negative,” Alvarez replied. “Surveillance footage shows the killer didn’t wear any. If he had wiped down everything he’d touched there wouldn’t have been the maid’s fingerprints left behind in the kinds of places you would expect to find them. What the lab people did find were traces of silicone. So far I haven’t been able-”
“Washing your hands with silicone solution prevents fingerprints,” Ferguson interrupted.
Procter looked Ferguson’s way.
“It creates a waterproof barrier over the skin,” Sykes continued for his boss. “The oil from your fingers can’t get through it, so you don’t leave prints behind on anything you touch. You can’t tell if someone is wearing it either as it’s completely clear. It was developed to help prevent industrial dermatitis in factory workers.”
Procter nodded. You learn something every day, he thought.
“Okay,” Alvarez continued. “That solves that little mystery, so thanks. We haven’t got a shot of his face from the surveillance tapes as he kept it angled away from the cameras at all times. He’s white though, tall, wearing a suit, he’s got dark hair and blue eyes, wearing glasses. Had a beard too. If he takes the glasses off and has a shave no one’s going to pick him out of a crowd though. Ballistics is a dead end like everything else. The ammunition was made in Belgium but, although not something you see every day, is too common to trace further.
“He was checked in to the hotel under the name Richard Bishop, a British citizen. No one by that name has left the country since yesterday and from what I’m hearing no British citizen by the name Richard Bishop even entered France in the last month. It’ll be bogus, I’m sure, but it would be worth just double-checking with the Brits.”
“I’ll get someone on it,” Chambers said and scribbled herself a note. “I’ve personally contacted the heads of station in London, Moscow, Berlin, Riyadh, Delhi, Islamabad, and Seoul. So far no one’s hearing anything suspicious about Ozols. I’m expecting callbacks throughout the day, but I’m not hopeful. Whoever organized this assassination has done a good job keeping themselves hidden.”
Procter hadn’t made up his mind about Chambers yet. He considered her to be just a stopgap, someone to keep the chair warm until a long-term candidate could be found. How she performed on this would answer his doubts one way or the other. On the one hand the brain on her practically poked through her skull, but on the other Procter just wasn’t sure she had the balls for the role. Literally more than figuratively.
He leaned forward. “And we’ve had no intercepts relating to Ozols, Paris, or the missiles. No known assassins have been spotted in the region recently and we haven’t got a hope of ID’ing him based on the few details we have. I’ve been on the phone to my equivalents in allied countries to see if anyone recognizes the MO but it’s too vague to produce any leads.”
It was Sykes’s turn to speak. “We’ve been checking the Russian angle, and no matter who we speak to it’s the same. Moscow believes the frigate lost in ’08 and everything on board it is unrecoverable. Obviously we can’t ask too many questions unless we tip them off to what we’ve been doing.”
Alvarez continued, “Interpol likewise can’t do a lot with what we have so far but we might have caught a break with this hotel incident. What the CCTV footage showed us with the way I’ve pieced it together is as follows. The killer murders Ozols and returns to his hotel approximately two hours later. When he gets there he spots two men and he either recognizes them or something makes him suspicious. He keeps out of sight until they’re out of the lobby, but they come straight back down in the elevator. But he avoids them and gets in the elevator, but not before being spotted himself.
“A few minutes later he kills them in the corridor outside his room, shooting through a door opposite. A couple of minutes later two more men enter. He waits for them, follows one, and ends up killing them both. Disabled or tortured one with an exploding aerosol if you can believe it. All these people are armed by the way and aren’t carrying ID. Next, he kills a woman in the hotel kitchen, a guy in the apartment building opposite, and from the same building shoots another outside with a rifle. An old lady gets murdered along the way, but the bullets that shot her match the gun of the sixth guy killed, so she probably just got caught in the cross fire.
“Information on the seven others our guy killed is coming through all the time. They look like hired shooters. The way they acted tells me they were in Paris to take out Ozols’s killer. Obviously he took them out instead.”
Ferguson’s brow furrowed. “So you’re telling us that one assassin kills Ozols, and a couple of hours later seven other assassins try and kill him, but he shoots them all dead?”
“That’s exactly how it appears.”
Ferguson raised his palms. “Someone please explain to me how this makes any sense?”
Chambers took off her glasses. “Is there any indication who sent the team?”
“At this stage no,” Alvarez answered regretfully. “But I don’t think it will be too long before we have them all identified. That gives us seven chances to find out who sent them. And whoever did send them obviously knows a hell of a lot about Ozols’s killer. So if we can find out who hired these guys, we’ll have a good shot of getting the killer, and maybe we can still get those missiles too.”
Chambers and Ferguson were nodding, but Procter noticed Sykes wasn’t looking so relaxed. Procter understood why. The kid was out of the loop, had nothing to say, no opinion to offer, and he didn’t like it. He was still comparatively young, and Ferguson obviously thought highly of him, so he shouldn’t be worried by his lack of contribution. There was no point speaking just for the sake of it. Ferguson should have taught his apprentice that much at least. If Sykes was really smart he should be satisfied at this stage of his career just to watch and learn from the playmakers.