Procter put his face in his hands and pulled his fingers down over his eyes and cheeks.
‘Are you quite sure you don’t want to tell me who he is?’
When Procter spoke his voice was quiet, deliberate. ‘I’ll deal with him.’
‘You better had,’ Tesseract said. ‘Because I’ve got some more bad news for you.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘You were wrong when you said it would take a month for me to find you.’
‘What?’
‘It took forty-eight hours. Not as many places selling steak sandwiches within lunchtime driving distance from Langley as you might
think. I stopped by Nelson’s Diner this afternoon. The staff were very helpful when I told them I wanted to find my long-lost uncle. I can see why you like their food. Very tasty, but every day? That’s not good for your arteries. With your weight you should be more careful and get plenty of exercise. I’ll email you a workout programme.’
Procter’s eyes were wide. ‘
What?
’
‘I’d check under your Buick before you next start the engine. Make sure you cut the green wire, not the blue.’
The line disconnected.
Procter shot up from his seat, went to the window and heaved the blind open. His car sat on the driveway as usual. Nothing appeared suspicious. In the garage he grabbed a set of clippers and a flashlight and hurried out front. He lay on his back and used the flashlight to check under the car. Sure enough, there was a bomb set beneath the driver’s seat, wires linked to the starter motor.
Procter took a huge breath, held it, and cut the green wire.
Nothing happened. He exhaled and carefully removed the device.
Back in his study, he put a hand to his chest. It was a long time before his pulse steadied. He poured out the last of the wine and drank it down. In one short conversation his life had been turned upside down. Clarke had betrayed him. Tesseract had threatened to kill him. He didn’t take kindly to either.
A click of the mouse re-opened the email he had been about to send. He scratched his chin for a moment. Tesseract was a dangerous operator, unpredictable. Procter had believed he could control him, but he had just been proved very wrong. If he clicked the mouse, Tesseract wouldn’t be able to put any more bombs beneath his car.
But, under the circumstances, that had been almost understandable. And dammit, Procter was starting to like the guy.
He deleted the email and got up to find another bottle of wine.
Potomac River, Virginia, USA
The fish thrashing wildly on the end of the line was a smallmouth bass. Clarke reeled it in with a modicum of triumph. It wasn’t particularly big – maybe twelve inches long, maybe three pounds – but a catch was a catch. He sat alone in his fishing boat, feeling the morning sun on his bare forearms and face. There was little wind. The water was calm. Trees lined the riverbanks. No one else was in sight.
Clarke’s dad had taught him fishing at a young age and though Clarke didn’t fish often, he did enjoy it when he found the time. Good for the blood pressure too, his physician often told him. Clarke held up the smallie to take a good look. Its mouth opened and closed continuously in a futile effort to breathe.
‘You are one ugly fish,’ he said.
He threw it back in and took a can of Heineken from his cool box. He held it against his forehead before popping the tab. He took a drink. It was cold and crisp and momentarily helped Clarke forget that he’d almost succeeded in doing the impossible and regulating the arms trade. But he hadn’t. Clarke took another long drink.
His cell rang. He was surprised to see the caller was Procter.
Clarke answered it and said, ‘I thought we were going to stay away from each other for a while.’
‘This can’t wait,’ Procter replied. ‘Where are you?’
Clarke found Procter waiting by his car, dressed in his office suit and sunglasses. It was parked on the side of a rural lane, a couple of hundred yards from the riverbank. No one was nearby. Procter looked pissed.
‘You screwed me, Peter. You really screwed me.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
Procter stormed closer. ‘Don’t even try and deny it. I know what you’ve been doing this whole time.’
‘I’ve been fishing.’
Procter smirked. ‘Nice. I’m glad you’ve kept your sense of humour, but I’m talking about your little arrangement with Yuliya Eltsina.’
Clarke did well to keep the colour in his face. ‘Say again.’
‘You had a team go after Tesseract while he was on the Kasakov job, to protect us from the Mossad threat, didn’t you? I’m not happy about that, Peter, but I can understand it, even if in sending them you stopped Tesseract killing Kasakov. Funny thing is, it turns out this was the team who kidnapped Ariff and his family. What are the odds?’
Clarke held up his hands. ‘I don’t know where you’re getting your information from, but it’s wrong.’
Procter shook his head. He was furious. ‘Want to tell me why you were at Heathrow two weeks ago at the same time as Yuliya Eltsina? Did you think I wouldn’t find out? I’m offended you think so little of me.’
‘Roland, please …’
‘Shut up, Peter. Just shut the hell up. All this time you’ve been using me. You were never on my side, were you? What were you really trying to do, help Eltsina seize power?’
Clarke took a breath. He squinted into the sun. ‘That was only half of it.’
‘What was the other half? Don’t tell me you did all this for a blowjob.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. After she was in control of Kasakov’s empire she would only sell arms to buyers I approved.’
Procter’s eyes went wide. ‘And you believed that?’
‘Yes,’ Clarke snapped. ‘Of course I did. I’ve known Yuliya since the height of the Cold War. I trust her. And Roland, your plan would never have worked. Eventually Kasakov and Ariff would have worked out they’d been tricked. At that point the war would have stopped and we would have achieved nothing. My way would have enabled Eltsina to take over Ariff’s network too. She would have been the single most
important trafficker of small arms as well as heavy munitions, answerable to me. Me. I could have made sure the supplies of weapons to America’s enemies ran dry and were never replaced. It would have achieved both our goals.’
‘You should have told me.’
Clarke laughed. ‘Roland, you’re as stubborn as a grease stain. You would never have agreed to doing it my way.’
‘Be that as it may, that didn’t give you the right to lie to me and go behind my back. I’m guessing you told your boys to kill Callo too.’
Clarke shrugged. ‘Keeping him alive was an unnecessary risk. And his death made the ploy more convincing, even you agreed on that.’
‘You’re not the least bit sorry, are you?’ Procter accused.
‘I’m sorry the plan didn’t work,’ Clarke said. ‘I’m not sorry I tried to do some good. Our friendship means a lot to me, but not as much as saving American lives.’
Procter turned and walked away. ‘Our friendship is over, Peter.’
‘Roland,’ Clarke called. ‘Don’t be so melodramatic.’
Procter didn’t look back.
Thirty minutes later, Clarke was back on the river and tossing his line out once more. He’d tried to get hold of Eltsina but the Russian hadn’t answered. She was either avoiding Clarke, on the run, or dead. Any of the three was just as likely as the others, but Clarke guessed the explanation was the latter. Eltsina had warned Clarke what could happen if Kasakov suffered another attack.
Would Kasakov have extracted any information from her first? If Eltsina had been killed for failing in her role as Kasakov’s intelligence officer, then chances were she would have simply been executed. However, if Eltsina’s plans had somehow been revealed then surely Kasakov would have made her suffer first. At which point she would scream out anything to make the pain stop.
Assuming Kasakov knew Clarke’s name, would he make a move against a member of the US government? Unlikely, because of the fear of possible retaliation, but Clarke kept his .45 calibre Taurus nearby at all times, just in case.
He sighed, thinking about Procter. Clarke had never been happy
using his friend the way he had, but it was unavoidable. Not that it mattered now.
The unmistakable noise of an outboard motor decimated the tranquillity. It grew louder and the boat itself appeared, rounding a bend in the river. The vessel was travelling faster than it really should and Clarke felt his own boat begin to rock with the newly created waves. He watched as the boat veered his way. There were two guys onboard. One waved at Clarke.
Clarke adjusted his sunglasses and glanced at the Taurus near his feet. Always better to have a gun and not need one than to need one and not have it, he thought. He tucked the weapon into the back of his shorts. He stood up as the boat grew nearer.
‘Help you, boys?’ he asked.
The two guys were in their twenties, carrying the unmistakable air of purebred hicks. The guy who waved had his left arm in a makeshift sling. He grimaced.
‘My buddy hurt his arm,’ the guy at the motor said. ‘Think his wrist might be broken.’
‘Ouch,’ Clarke said. ‘How’d you do that?’
The guy with the sling shrugged and looked sheepish. ‘Fell over trying to reel in a big ’un.’
‘Hope you got it.’
The guy shook his head.
‘Too bad,’ Clarke said, feeling better about the twelve-incher.
‘Sorry to disturb your fishin’, mister,’ the guy at the motor said. ‘But you got a first-aid kit? Maybe some aspirin?’
‘Sure,’ Clarke said. ‘But ibuprofen is probably better for your needs.’
He turned to fetch his first-aid box. When he turned around, both guys were standing. They didn’t look like hicks any more. The guy with the sling no longer had a sling. Instead, he had a silenced automatic pistol in his right hand. The other guy had one too. Both pointed Clarke’s way.
‘What is this?’ he asked, though he knew the answer.
Clarke thought about the Taurus in the back of his shorts. No way he could get to it, let alone get it out. He tried to stay calm but panic overtook him. He shook his head from side to side.
The guy without the sling looked to the other guy, who nodded and said, ‘Compliments of Vladimir Kasakov.’
Clarke felt the agony of the first bullet hitting him just below the ribcage.
After that, he felt nothing.
Sofia, Bulgaria
Victor had been in the city for twenty-four hours after returning from the US, via Canada. He’d done the same on the way in to American too, to avoid the fingerprinting and photographing of flying directly. He sat at his hotel-room desk and used his new laptop to make the scheduled call with Procter.
The line connected and Procter said, ‘My partner is dead.’
‘I didn’t think you had it in you.’
‘I didn’t,’ Procter admitted, voice strained, ‘but someone else did.’
‘I can’t say I’m sorry about that,’ Victor said.
‘He was a good man.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Do,’ Procter insisted.
‘I hope you’re not going to ask me to avenge him.’
‘No,’ Procter said. ‘I wouldn’t, even if I wanted to. He made his bed. Now he’s lying in it.’
’Where does that leave us?’
‘Well, I’m still a little sore about the bomb you left under my car.’
‘I told you which wire to cut, didn’t I?’
‘Yeah, you did. So I guess we’re even. I take it you got my message about Mossad looking for you in Barcelona?’
‘I did. And I haven’t been there in years.’
‘There we go then. They’re chasing shadows. Keep your head down and it will stay that way. Resources are already being diverted at the agency. Soon, neither of us will have to worry. And I don’t know about you, but I’m going to take a vacation. I fancy somewhere hot and remote.’
‘Sounds nice.’
‘You should do the same. You can afford it. I’ve paid you the second half of the Kasakov fee.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘You only failed because of the intervention of my associate. That’s not your fault. I’ve done the same with the Yamout job. You could not have foreseen Mossad’s involvement.’
‘I appreciate the gesture.’
‘That’s a clever way of thanking me without actually having to say thank you.’
‘I thought so too.’
There was a pause, and Victor felt Procter’s smile. ‘So, my man. We’re done. You went after Kasakov, as agreed, and I’m a man of my word. You’re no longer obligated to me. You’re a free man. Enjoy your retirement. It’s yours if you want it.’
Victor ignored the comment, for now. He said, ‘Tell me something: why go after Kasakov and Ariff the way you did?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why do it under the radar, using someone like me instead of a CIA team? Kasakov and Ariff can’t be popular in Washington.’
‘They’re not,’ Procter agreed. ‘But Kasakov has been the Kremlin’s golden boy for a long time now. He’s made them billions in sales. If there was any hint of the CIA’s hand in his death there would be one hell of a shitstorm from Moscow. Would such a shitstorm bother me? No, sir. But Capitol Hill doesn’t share my sentiments. With Ariff the prime suspect, however, it’s a different story.’
‘That’s one half of it.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Surely it would have been better to send a snatch-and-grab team after Ariff once you knew where he was hiding out. He could still have taken the blame for Kasakov’s death, but you could hand him over to the ICC on war crimes charges and score a major PR coup.’ Victor paused. ‘Unless Ariff being grilled by prosecutors was something you very much did not want to happen. What did he have on you?’
There was a moment of silence before Procter said, ‘I used to run Ariff, back in the day. It’s no secret the CIA supplied Afghan
Mujahideen with Stingers to knock Soviet choppers out of the skies in the eighties. But I was the guy on the ground who got those missiles into ’Stan by using Ariff, who already had donkey trains carrying AKs across the border from Pakistan.’
‘Why would that matter now?’
‘Because even before Ariff was supplying guns and components for IEDS to Americas enemies in Iraq and Afghanistan, he was a known scumbag. Back then he supplied the PLO, Black September, Hezbollah, and every other terrorist organisation from Tripoli to Tehran. The explosives that blew up the Marine barracks in Lebanon in ’83 were from Ariff. I knew all that, but I still used him, without CIA consent. We live in a post-911 world, my man, and Ariff dropping my name at The Hague would have caused me a heap of hurt. So, yeah, I got something out of all this too. Satisfied?’