Alex King 18.The Enemy, page 5
part #18 of Alex King Series
Caroline scrambled back onto her feet. The man was dead and the karambit lay beside him. The knife was a modern take on the Indonesian fighting knife, with a curved blade sharpened on the inside of the curve – much like a scythe – although in this case the blade was serrated, and powder coated in black. It was quite a weapon, and one that no legitimate security guard would risk carrying. Caroline hastily checked the man’s pockets and went through his wallet. ID, debit and credit cards and some euros. She pocketed it for later and took out the man’s mobile phone. She bent down and used the man’s warm thumb to unlock the device and found it disconcerting when she released his hand and the arm dropped solidly to the ground. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, then changed over the passcode so that she could scroll through it for vital information it later, then switched it off and slipped it into her pocket before turning and heading down the slope.
Chapter Thirteen
Langley, Virginia
“How compromised?”
“Is there a difference?”
“I suppose not,” Georgia Scott conceded. “How invested is he?”
“Our paths have crossed before. Once he’s on an assignment, then he’s as invested as it’s possible to be.”
“He won’t be dissuaded?”
“Never.”
“That is a problem…”
“What about working jointly? A coalition?” Newman paused. “If they’re onto Malek Zahedi, then they may have information that is key to our investigation.”
“It’s not an investigation, it’s a trade mission.” Georgia looked thoughtfully across the Potomac River. She would not talk to Newman inside CIA headquarters, Robert Lefkowitz had always told her never to trust the people she worked with when working outside the playbook. “No, that’s not going to be good for us…”
“There has been some bad blood between the Security Service and Langley in the past, it wouldn’t be a good idea to weaken relations further, not since our efforts to rebuild bridges.”
“You were gunned down by a British agent on your last mission!” she retorted.
“A friendly fire incident,” Newman lied. He knew that King had made the decision, but he had reported it in such a way as to stop the special relationship from deteriorating further. Lefkowitz had ordered him as much. “These things happen.”
“Newman, let me be clear on this…” Georgia Scott said impassively. “We will do a deal with Malek Zahedi, and we will take control of the Iron Fist’s AI programme. In doing so, we will both defend our shores, our interests, and that of our allies. And we will have a weapon to turn the tide of disinformation and remote interference on our enemies. We will not think twice about collateral damage, especially when it concerns a loose cannon operative from an organisation that has shown damn-little respect for us in recent years. Perhaps this will clip their wings a little?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Leave that to me, Newman,” Georgia Scott replied tersely. She was damned if she would confer with the man over this. Robert Lefkowitz had tasked her with this operation, and he had been adamant that she should run it and keep it under Langley’s radar. She had been told that Newman was a good man in a crisis, but she wasn’t going to listen to him regarding the British. Allies were only allies when their interests aligned, and there was no way the Brits were going to use the AI programme as a weapon. They were far too stoical, far too moral for that. “Get Malek Zahedi to deal with us and get our operation back on track. Leave King and his band of chancers to me…”
Chapter Fourteen
Marseilles, France
He watched the two women walking along the promenade. Hips swaying, pert breasts bouncing somewhat hypnotically under sheer tops without bras. They were young, but still age appropriate for a man who had just reached thirty-five. Early twenty-somethings living off Daddy’s money for the summer. Patrice stared at their shorts, tight and high cut, their long, tanned legs both shapely and toned. They would have grown up skiing, riding ponies, playing tennis and swimming off the family yacht. He could tell rich girls from a distance, knew if they had grown up eating the best foods, and gained their bodies and fitness from sporting pursuits rather than the gym. He was a connoisseur of fine women, and the finer things in life, and he liked to move in those circles and emulate the rich, even if money had come to him late in life.
Patrice sipped his espresso and finished his croissant. He still had time to catch the girls up. They might not be impressed at first, but he was a good-looking man and he suspected they would be taken in by his chat. If not, well he would keep them engaged until they passed his convertible Bentley. The car screamed money and class, but best of all, it had four seats which meant that he could offer both girls a lift, and feeling that they might have safety in numbers, they would likely accept. It was something that luxury car makers really needed to mention in their brochures. As he finished his coffee, he was picturing them on the balcony of his apartment, taking in the views of the marina. It wasn’t strictly his apartment. Nor was the Bentley for that matter. The owner of both was still curled up in the foetal position and wrapped in plastic inside his own freezer, a single .25 bullet hole in his forehead. The ‘mark’ had lived alone and had few friends. Patrice reckoned he could risk another week living in the dead man’s shoes until he moved on.
His mobile phone buzzed just once, and he read the text message which was accompanied by an image: Alex King. British intelligence officer. Currently in Spain – Costa Blanca. Last seen in Calp.
Patrice took in the ‘mark’s’ age and the brief bio, including that King had an interest in Malek Zahedi, and the details that Newman had used to find him. He studied the photograph. It looked like it had been taken on the steps of a hotel in Northern Europe. Switzerland perhaps. He recognised the eyes of a killer when he saw them. The second text came in: Do you accept the contract? Reply: Y or N
Patrice watched the two young women reach the end of the promenade and cross the road out of his view. C’est la vie… he thought and typed his one letter answer and sent it back to the woman he had never met, but for whom he had killed many times.
Chapter Fifteen
Barcelona, Spain
“Madam, more bread, por favor…”
“And wine, dear…” the woman said from under the brim of her wide, straw hat without looking up. “Oh, and some more of the olives, oh and some more mayonnaise to dip them in…”
The waitress nodded. American tourists were the worst. Demanding and quite unable to eat the local food as it was intended, but they tipped well. Better than the Spanish locals, and certainly better than the British, who generally drank too much and always wanted chips served with everything.
Catalina did not need to waitress. She was financially independent. But she enjoyed the social interaction with local customers and her fellow members of staff, and she spoke often about her aspirations of property rentals and management. Her work colleagues knew that she owned three apartments and she rented them out as Airbnb holiday lets in the summer months and temporary residential status lettings for three-month-long winter contracts. She supposedly made enough money to cover her mortgages and have a little on top. That accounted for her new Fiat 500 and the fact that she only worked part-time hours and often took time off to chase non-paying tenants and clean at the end of holiday rentals. They did not know, however, that she owned a dozen villas and hired an agency to clean and handle bookings. She never went near the three apartments, either. And despite no mortgages existing in her name, she kept her hours at the café and bar to have a legitimate income source and all the paperwork that entailed which entitled her to healthcare and even a state pension. She lived well within her visible means and the money she made from ‘other sources’ outside her waitressing work, and her property portfolio was banked in a numbered Swiss bank account.
She looked at the text and read the instructions and bio. She liked the man’s face. Rugged, younger looking than his years, a strong, chiselled jaw and a pugilist’s brow. Another time and another place and she would have felt attracted to him. But she would not be complacent because she recognised the eyes of a killer. Considering the man’s line of work, it would be a challenge. And that, was primarily why she did what she did. The man would not be an easy target. She answered the text with a ‘Y’ and set about getting more bread, wine, and olives with mayonnaise for the garish Americans to dip them in, God forbid. She would clear the time off with Manuel, the café owner. He was an understanding boss, and he appreciated the hard work she put in contrasted with the constant turnover of younger students and seasonal drifters that Barcelona attracted. She smiled on her way back outside. She enjoyed the coast road down to the Costa Blanca. After she killed the British spy, she would find time to swim in the rivers and waterfalls in the mountains that hemmed in that coastal region, or simply hike in the hills around Benidorm and turn the weekend into a well-needed mini break, before returning for the autumn Barcelona fiestas and music festivals.
Chapter Sixteen
Galway, Ireland
The lobster pots needed repair, but that was a job for winter. He preferred pots made from wicker and rope. Plastic was the bane of the ocean, and he would not subscribe to plastic pots that broke down over millennia. He had made his decision when he had read about shrimp at the bottom of the Mariana Trench – the deepest point on Earth – having plastic in their digestive tracts. Nothing in the oceans escaped man’s interference with nature and considering that eighty percent of the planet’s air came from plankton, then it made sense to help rather than hinder ocean health.
The waves crashed against the harbour wall, the occasional giant set spraying him and soaking into his Aran jumper. His hands were cold, and it was still only that paradox of time between late summer and early autumn where the seasons could not make up their minds, but the North Atlantic took no prisoners, and the west coast of Ireland was not known for its clement climate. He hauled out the lobsters, having rejected the smaller ones out at sea and bound the claws of acceptable ones with elastic bands. He had fallen foul to one before and had almost lost a fingertip. The creatures had two types of claws – one for holding and one for cutting – and they were extremely effective indeed. He stacked the lobsters in the crates, head to tail and keeping them tight to avoid them damaging by fighting each other, then started on the brown crabs. It had been a good haul. He had set his pots and cages two weeks ago, and he had checked on them every two days, hauling out his catch and transferring them to holding cages out at sea where they could be kept alive until he had enough for a worthwhile trip, and studying the daily market prices always played a vital part in his business. Like many small boat fishermen who had eked out a living on his own, he was a canny soul and had got his haul into harbour just as the rough seas and strong winds had come in. Nobody would be going out now for days, maybe a week, and his haul would fetch the best prices at market. It had been a tight run, racing towards harbour for the last five miles of coastline, littered with rocks and the wrecks of vessels whose captains had timed it wrong, or underestimated both the sea and their ability. But he would reap the rewards.
He was startled by the vibration of the phone in his pocket. He did not have any friends, none that he did not drink with in the local pub, at least. His wife, a Basque Spaniard, had passed away from cancer eight years ago, and his daughter had moved to Boston and just like Quint’s version of the song in the film Jaws; and so never more would he see her again…
He read the text. There was something about the man, the photograph and his age that told Cillian O’Shea that the ‘mark’ would have crossed paths with his IRA and Sinn Fein brothers. His own cousin had been killed in France by the British intelligence services twenty years ago, so perhaps fate had brought an opportunity to his door. He looked at his lobster pots and the worn and rusted outboard motor on his day boat. The transom needed replacing, too. A week or two in the Spanish sun and a hundred-thousand dollars in his account would go a long way to making for a more comfortable winter. He typed ‘Y’ and started to drag his crates towards the old Toyota pickup. Maybe he could replace that, too.
Chapter Seventeen
Hammersmith, London
It was a busy day. Minicabs were booked for the school runs twice a day, thanks to the government’s increase to ULEZ meaning that motorists driving cars non-compliant with emission standards paid a daily rate to drive inside inner London. With his small fleet of hybrid and electric vehicles and car-share agreements, Goran Stojanović provided a service which meant that parents could save thirty pounds a week on ULEZ fees alone. He also offered theatre runs for a discount and the late-night bar and pub runs were a constant money spinner.
For the veteran of the Bosnian War, Stojanović had later migrated to Britain and worked as an unlicensed minicab driver. He had worked hard and brought his own car and eventually an office and three more cars and hired drivers. The cars were all ten years old with over a hundred and fifty-thousand miles on the clock, but he knew enough about mechanics and car maintenance to keep them running and over the years he expanded and bought newer vehicles and moved offices. Minicabs could only be used by booking, even if the client was standing beside the vehicle and he manned his phones and vehicles with fellow Serbs. He bought properties to house them, and eventually trafficked them to have free labour while they ‘worked’ off the debt. He was a wealthy man, and he did not need the hundred-thousand dollars that the American woman was offering him, but he yearned for the feeling of excitement and power that killing gave him. He had executed more than a hundred men, women, and children during the wars, and he had enjoyed each time he had pulled the trigger. The feeling of immense power, the anticipation, the feel of the recoil in his hand, the short, sharp report of the pistol in his ringing ears, and the way life simply jolted from the living being in front of him to simply become mere organic matter. The fall and thud of the body on the ground, the feeling of elation it gave him, as if by taking a life he somehow became stronger, more relevant as a human being. He had seen many things in war, and he had done many things. Were they bad? A priest may say so, but he did what had needed to be done. He had taken part in the ethnic cleansing of the filthy Muslims bringing his country to degradation. Serbia’s ethnicity and purity was eroding, its borders shrinking, and the people of Serbia had done what had been necessary. Croatia, Kosovo, and Albania had followed, until NATO had intervened, and Albania had escaped the same fate as its neighbours.
He studied the picture which had been texted to him. A strong face, but he would have bet that he had known a hundred tougher men. Interesting eyes. Blue-grey and glacier cold. A wolf’s eyes. But Stojanović was not afraid of wolves, either. The man’s bio sounded brief but interesting, and no matter what his history, it was clear that the American woman did not consider working with the British. That too, was interesting, because Stojanović had long suspected that she worked with the CIA, and it wasn’t in either country’s interest to work against each other. No, there was something deeper here and whatever it was, it would be worth more than a hundred-thousand dollars. He would accept the contract, and if he could feather his nest at the same time, then he would do so. He typed ‘Y’ and replied to the text. Life was going to get interesting again.
Chapter Eighteen
Berlin, Germany
Franz started the day, like every day with two-hundred sit ups and two-hundred press-ups. Franz never lifted weights, but the routine kept them trim. As did the frequent cycling and swimming. Franz Oppenheimer knew the importance of fitness and diet and regularly fasted and abstained from carbohydrates, which kept them medically underweight. Franz enjoyed looking good in a business suit or a cocktail dress, whichever took his or her mood. Franz or Frankie, they never knew who would start the day, and as Franz showered and felt the steam invigorate them, she reached for the shampoo on the left side of the shower. Today was a she/her day and she would wash, prepare, and dress accordingly.
Frankie was new. She had been created recently after years of living a confused life. Living a lie. Not knowing whether she was gay or straight. Franz was straight, but Frankie was attracted to men and other trans people. There was no homosexual, straight or lesbian label. Frankie was an anomaly in a rigid world of convention.
Towelling off she walked somewhat more effeminately into the bedroom and chose the chest of drawers on the left which were full of women’s underwear, sweaters, and heavily scented potpourri bags. She enjoyed the smell of the delicate clothing, the sheer and soft fabrics. Being Frankie elevated her mood and she thought of the fun she would have ordering her coffee
At one of the wonderful cafés on the edge of Preußenpark. The leaves had turned, and the smells of autumn were on the wind, yet it was still warm enough to enjoy a tight-fitting dress and sit somewhat elegantly, cross-legged and hope for eye contact with a good-looking man. Perhaps more…
The text message alert sounded, and she picked up her phone. The bio sounded interesting, if a little brief, but the man in the photograph had piqued her interest. She felt a stirring inside, found herself becoming aroused, but put the thought aside as she concentrated on the information and instructions. The money was good, and she had not had a contract in almost six months so the money would be a welcome addition to her offshore account in the Cayman Islands. She typed ‘Y’ as her reply and sat down on the bed. The job would call for both Franz and Frankie, so she would have to pack accordingly. Franz often did the dirty work, but Frankie was so useful in providing the element of surprise. She got off the bed and pulled out the bottom drawer of her bedside table. The drawer contained a false bottom and after she lifted the divider out, a metal box was exposed. The lid of the box was fitted with a digital lock that opened by thumbprint. Inside were the tools of her trade. A wicked-looking stiletto knife with an ivory handle, a tiny, nickel-plated Beretta .22 automatic pistol, a heavily customised Colt .45 1911 pistol with tactile rubber grips, an extended magazine and guttersnipe sights. Next to the .45 was a small plastic box of syringes with drugs ranging from scopolamine which was a truth serum that worked by inducing a twilight sleep, to incapacitating agents which would render the victim unconscious, and finally, a quantity of cyanide that would kill inside ten seconds. She looked back at the picture of the ‘mark’ and smiled. Whether it was Franz of Frankie who did the deed, Alex King wouldn’t stand a chance.
