Deep Cover (The Trigger Man Book 2), page 15
“Are you done?”
The forger nodded, sweat beading off his head now. “Yeah. If anyone tries to rebuild deleted files, all they’ll get are junk images of cats, dogs, mountains, memes… That kind of thing.”
“Good.” Walsh motioned that Raoul should return his attention to his laptop. “What about your recycling bin? It says there are files in there.”
The forger looked back at the monitor and pointed to the screen. “Junk files, as I said—”
While Raoul wasn’t looking, Walsh shot him once through the back of the head with his suppressed pistol. Blood sprayed the computer screen as the man who was now a corpse fell forward, his nose and jaw crunching onto the keyboard.
Walsh loaded a data stick of his own onto the laptop and let it run its own data-scrubbing software. Once the program had done its work, he pocketed the data stick and checked the apartment, still careful not to touch anything. Raoul was alone, no girl- or boyfriends asleep in the bed upstairs to surprise him.
Next, Walsh ensured all the windows were closed, then opened all the gas outlets on the stove, put a WIRED magazine into the toaster, engaged the heating mechanism and set it over the stove. Then he was on the streets and driving. He would be far away before the house incinerated, scrubbing all evidence of what had occurred here.
Raoul had fucked up. Walsh had informed Raoul not to release the last data package of Tehran, as Pierce was on the run now, but the fool hadn’t listened. He liked his artistry too much, wanted to show it off. Now there would be questions, an investigation, which might lead back to Walsh. If that happened, it was all over for him.
Everything had been proceeding to plan until Pierce had escaped and met with Zang, who should have also died with him. Walsh should have travelled to Kazakhstan and killed the rogue CIA operative himself, but he had spread himself too thin, trying to control too many elements of this delicate operation. He should have followed his instincts and trusted no one else to be as thorough as himself. Perhaps that was how he should play this dangerous game from now on.
At least one of the nuclear devices was in play, and a second should be too in a day or so, so that counted for something. Everything else though was a mess.
It was time to get the team together and work out an altered plan of attack.
The centre of that plan had to be Mark Pierce’s and Rachel Zang’s quick deaths.
30
Cape Town, South Africa
Clean shaven, with pomade to slick his hair flat against his head, and dressed in a mid-priced charcoal double-breasted suit, striped-blue tie, and Oxford leather shoes, Pierce stepped into the foyer of the International Diamond Conference underway at the Cape Town International Convention Centre, or the CTICC as the locals referred to it. He carried a large, overstuffed leather laptop bag over his shoulder, but it didn’t contain a laptop. In his pocket, he carried a cell phone and headphones.
Pierce bought an entry ticket at the door under the alias of Dimitri Levendis, signing in as an investor from Moscow, providing Pierce with a pass and lanyard. After quickly scouting the crowds, he checked his tie remained neat and presentable, because he’d cut it down to a few threads behind his shirt to foil any potential foes who might try to strangle him with it should he get himself into a fight.
Mingling amongst the trade stands, Pierce saw they promoted products and services ranging from mining software, to X-ray technology for sorting diamonds, drilling equipment suppliers, and engineering consulting services, and this was where most delegates mingled between industry presentations. The crowds were a mixture of executives, mining engineers, geologists, operations and logistics managers, and sales and marketing specialists. Most men were dressed in suits and ties like Pierce, and the women in conservative business attire.
Pierce purchased a black coffee, then stood for a moment watching the crowds while also skimming today’s lecture program.
A talk scheduled to occur shortly was originally to be presented by Clementine Ponsonby, Rupert’s sister, on the technical details of the Cancri, Polytope Diamond’s marine mining ship currently extracting diamonds off the coast of Angola. Topics Ponsonby would cover included the complexities of Cancri’s undersea horizontal crawler, the challenges faced in operating the sediment pipe of the dredger, and the vibrating racks and rotating drums of the onboard diamond recovery treatment plant. The online version of the same lecture that Pierce had read this morning in his hotel showed that Rupert Ponsonby would now present the talk, as his sister was unable to attend due to last minute restructures in Polytope’s senior management. Pierce felt certain Walsh was behind these sudden changes, but the reasons why were not yet clear to him.
It only took Pierce a few minutes to find Rupert Ponsonby, for he’d made no effort to hide or change his appearance from how he appeared on the Polytope website. He was middle aged, clean shaven, with thinning hair full of hair product to give it bounce. The two-piece business suit, tie, shirt and shoe combination looked to have cost in the tens of thousands of dollars, but no amount of money could hide Ponsonby’s rounded gut.
Pierce watched from the half dozen metres separating them. Ponsonby checked his cell phone for messages, and Pierce memorised Ponsonby’s PIN as he unlocked it. Whatever message Ponsonby read caused him to tense and hold his breath until his face turned red.
A curvaceous events coordinator in a tight skirt and blouse, whose name tag introduced her as Jasmine, approached Ponsonby. Her sudden appearance, from Pierce’s perspective, seemed to calm Ponsonby, and he was suddenly all charm.
Pierce stepped closer and approached the trade stand next to where Ponsonby and Jasmine talked, and with his back to them, listened to their conversation while pretending to watch a corporate video running in the stand. The video promoted a firm in Mumbai with expertise in sorting and classifying diamonds, not that this interested Pierce.
Jasmine commented that she looked forward to Ponsonby’s speech. They talked for several minutes on how sad it was Clementine had to cancel; then she offered her condolences on the recent death of Ponsonby’s father.
“Yes, well,” said Ponsonby in a gruff tone and a posh English accent. “I told dear old dad to stay off the booze and cigars. But he never listened to me.”
Pierce found himself frowning at this, for there was no emotion, not even sadness, in Ponsonby’s reply at the recent loss of his father.
“Yes, well. Very sad nonetheless.” When Ponsonby said nothing, Jasmine cleared her throat and said, “Attendees are looking forward to your talk on the Cancri. I understand many of your competitors are also looking to invest in marine diamond mining?”
Now Ponsonby became animated and passionate when he said, “That’s because there are no more diamonds to find on the surface world anymore, Jazzy. The ocean is the future.”
“Is that so?”
Pierce heard the strain in the coordinator’s tone and mused that he wouldn’t like the nickname Jazzy either.
“Yes, I’m very correct. De Beers co-owns the largest diamond mining ships in the world — to date. They are well-established in this business — for now.”
“They are. Their diamond mining ships are the SS Nujoma and the MV Mafuta. I understand they are both very profitable.”
Pierce grabbed a brochure from the stand next to the playing video, then casually turned so he could watch as well as listen to the interaction. He noticed neither of them were looking at each other now. It was like watching two individuals on a blind date who had quickly discovered they detested each other and couldn’t wait to make the first move to get out of there.
Too many further seconds of silence passed, when Ponsonby again said nothing, which prompted Jasmine to say, “Well, good luck on your speech, Rupert.”
“I won’t be speaking about the Cancri.”
“Oh, what topic, then?”
“It’s a surprise, Jazzy. I need to prepare, so if you don’t mind tottering off now and leaving me to it?”
As a near-fuming Jasmine disappeared, a large man built like a wrestler who had put on too much weight approached Ponsonby, carrying two coffees in disposable cups.
“Thank you, Khawuta,” Ponsonby said, taking one coffee. “You can return to security duties now.”
Pierce suppressed a frown of surprise at this revelation, on just how lax and unprofessional Ponsonby’s security detail were. “Yes, sir.”
“No threats I should know about, my man?”
“No, sir.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Ponsonby exclaimed loud enough for everyone within ten metres to hear him clearly. “Khawuta, this coffee is fucking awful.”
Deciding this was his moment, Pierce turned suddenly and almost knocked the coffee out of Ponsonby’s hand while his left hand subtly slipped Ponsonby’s cell phone from his pocket into Pierce’s own.
“Bloody hell!” Ponsonby exclaimed again, not noticing the theft.
“Moi izvineniya,” Pierce said, using Russian to apologise. Then switching to English, said in a thick Russian accent, “I didn’t see you standing right behind me. I am sorry, yes?”
“I wasn’t standing right behind you, you cad! Look at this suit! This is a Brioni, and it’s worth ten thousand pounds! You’re lucky I didn’t get any on the fabric; otherwise…”
“Yeshche raz proshu proshcheniya,” Pierce apologised again, then quickly disappeared into the crowds before Ponsonby could berate him again.
Once he was alone and Ponsonby and Khawuta were beyond his line of sight, Pierce headed to the men’s bathroom and entered a cubicle. After unlocking Ponsonby’s phone with the PIN he’d memorised earlier, he downloaded a mirroring app provided by Valeriya and Yebin onto Ponsonby’s phone. The app now allowed Pierce to hear the executive’s every telephone conversation and passively listen to surrounding conversations via the phone’s microphone. Pierce then tried to download Ponsonby’s emails, but the Russian hacker’s tech couldn’t bypass the encryption software on the mail app. The software was state-of-the-art and reeked of CIA tech. One more link between Ponsonby and Idris Walsh.
Satisfied that the mirroring app was working properly at least, Pierce returned to the conference and found Jasmine.
“Hello!” Pierce said, using stilted English in the same Russian accent. “I found this cell phone on floor, yes? I think it fell from pocket of Englishman with the…” Pierce pretended not to know the English word he was searching for as he made shapes with his own hands around his hair.
Jasmine suddenly smiled and said, “You mean the big hair, with lots of product?”
“Yes. That is what I mean. The man with the thinning hair.”
Jasmine nodded and read Pierce’s name tag. “Thank you, Mr Levendis.”
“Yes, not problem.”
“I hope you are enjoying the conference?”
“Da spasibo.”
The event coordinator disappeared.
Pierce headed up to the second level, with balconies allowing him to look down at the crowds in the main trade display hall. From his near-hidden vantage point, Pierce watched as Jasmine found Ponsonby, stepped up behind him and touched him on his sleeve.
“Mr Ponsonby? Sorry to bother you, but you are needed on stage now.”
“Yes, of course.”
Pierce concentrated hard to make out the conversation from his distance of a half dozen metres above them and with all the other conversations going on around them, but he got the gist of it.
“Oh, and you dropped your phone.” She handed over the device Pierce had given her earlier.
Ponsonby felt in the pocket of his jacket and expressed shock when he discovered it wasn’t there. He checked his phone as she handed it to him, then keyed in the PIN code, and it unlocked. This seemed to bring him relief.
“A young man saw you drop it. Then he couldn’t find you again. He apologises it took so long to return it.”
Ponsonby’s fury grew; then he squashed it down and composed a fake smile. “Thank you, Jazzy—”
“Jasmine.”
“You said the auditorium is ready for me?”
“It is.”
Ponsonby summoned Khawuta with a two-finger signal, then said with a sneer, “Then let’s go kill it.”
31
When Ponsonby, Jasmine and Khawuta vanished from sight, Pierce returned to the men’s bathroom, secured another cubical and changed into black jeans, a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up over a grey T-shirt, and sturdy hiking boots he’d stashed in his laptop bag. The suit, tie, Oxford shoes and laptop bag went into a garbage bag, which then went into a bin in the bathroom, which Pierce covered with paper towels.
As Pierce stepped outside and crossed the road to a corporate office block overlooking the CTICC that he’d scouted out earlier, he slipped on a black cap and sunglasses. Clothing and accessories obscuring his face limited the effectiveness of any facial-recognition software that might catch him today.
While Pierce walked with his earpiece in his left ear canal, his cell phone relayed Ponsonby’s activities, including a visit to the men’s bathroom and a moment of self-praise, presumably to a mirror. Pierce guessed it was in one of the other men’s bathroom within the CTICC because Ponsonby’s microphones were advanced enough to pick up the noise of toilets flushing and hand driers blasting out their hot air.
Acting like he worked there and bypassing the reception in an adjacent corporate office tower who barely glanced his way, Pierce called the elevator using his knuckle so not to leave fingerprints on the button. He ascended to the third floor, entered the men’s bathroom there, and waited until he was alone. Then, slipping on leather gloves and jamming the door shut, he climbed up on a toilet seat and opened the ceiling partition, took down a sports bag with the sniper rifle, the grappling hook and rope, and his Glock 22 with a full magazine of fifteen .40-calibre rounds he had hidden there yesterday.
More sounds filled his ear canal. He heard Ponsonby take the stage, discernible from the murmuring crowds Ponsonby’s phone picked up. The master of ceremonies introduced the new CEO of Polytope Diamonds, then mentioned the tragic death of Rupert Ponsonby’s father only last week. Pierce couldn’t see the scene, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine in his mind’s eye.
While Pierce listened, he unlocked the bathroom door before anyone noticed, and stepped out.
The crowds clapped as they welcomed Ponsonby to the stage.
At the door to a vacant office, Pierce picked the lock and stepped inside. The interior included empty desks, chairs and workstations, curtains, and fluorescent overhead lights.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Ponsonby addressed the delegates. “It’s great to be back in Cape Town. I love this city and its people. South Africa is truly blessed.”
Removing his cap and sunglasses, Pierce took a tarpaulin from the sports bag and laid it across the carpet, away from the window. He pulled over two chairs, one to sit on and the other to rest the Heckler & Koch HK PSG-1 semi-automatic sniper rifle, which he removed from the sports bag and assembled.
Ponsonby droned on in Pierce’s ear canal. “My sister apologises for not being with us today. Clementine is too distressed about our father’s passing and asked that I come in her place…”
Pierce fitted the Hensoldt ZF 6x42 scope with an illuminated reticle. The distance to the CTICC’s main entrance was two hundred metres, the point where he hoped Ponsonby would appear at some time during the day. Pierce adjusted the built-in drop compensator for the fall of the bullet due to gravitational pull over that distance. There was no wind.
“When I last spoke to my father, God bless dear old dad, he said to me, ‘Rupert, there is no one I trust more than my only son. I want it to be you who continues the proud legacy of Polytope Diamonds I established. No one understands my vision like you do, my only son. That’s why I’m leaving you all my shares in the company…’”
There was a pause, and the room fell into silence. Pierce suspected Ponsonby was waiting for applause, but it never came.
“Anyway,” Ponsonby continued, “I have great things planned for Polytope…”
Pierce stepped to the window and looked out through the blinds onto the street below. A busy, sunny day in Cape Town with clean streets and well-maintained pavements. Normal people walked those streets, both dark- and light-skinned. Modern cars drove at respectable speeds and obeyed the traffic laws. Very different to most African cities Pierce had operated in during many past operations across this continent.
Ponsonby rushed through Polytope’s corporate history, detailed its various small-scale diamond mines and larger operations in Angola and the Central African Republic, reported on capital investment projects, environmental compliance targets, quarterly performance figures and mining production rates.
For an unnatural length of time, Ponsonby focused on his various mines’ tailings dams and how clean they were compared to those of his competitors. Pierce wasn’t certain what a tailings dam was and made a mental note to investigate this later. The way Ponsonby kept droning on about them, they seemed important to him.
“So, what is a diamond?” Ponsonby’s energy lifted as he changed topics, alerting Pierce that the CEO might finally say something that was at least mildly entertaining.
“Distinguished guests, you all know that a diamond is nothing more than carbon, a base element. Exactly what we find in coal and the building blocks of humans and all other life on this planet, and as the backbone of hydrocarbons, which fuel our world. Carbon is one of the most versatile elements in the universe, able to bond with all other elements to create the most complex and dazzling molecular structures possible. When carbon bonds with carbon, however, as a sheet, it becomes graphite, which we find in pencils, or as a lattice, and then it becomes a diamond. Carbon is why we are all here today…”
He cleared his throat. “But science and engineering can do great things with carbon. Buckyballs, as an example, are carbon atoms arranged in the molecular shape of a football, or soccer ball for all you Americans out there who think I’m talking about grid iron.” He chuckled and waited for laughter, but none came. “Buckyballs are excellent inventions for increasing the efficiency of solar cells, able to transform sunlight directly into electricity. But my favourite molecule is the carbon nanotube, a long chain of bonded carbon wrapped as a tube that can stretch for thousands of kilometres. And what would we use these for, you ask?”
