The Darkest Day

SIXTEEN

The property had been an internet café, until it was driven out of business by smartphones and wireless technology. There were no terminals, but the cheap desks and chairs remained. The air was dusty and stale. There was no active electricity supply, so no lights, but enough sunlight found its way through the whitewashed windows for Victor to see the client and for him to be seen in return.

‘Can I take off this ridiculous hat now?’

The client’s voice was a deep growl. His accent suggested the East Coast, maybe a native of Virginia or Maryland.

Victor nodded.

The client removed it from his head and placed it down on a desk.

Up close Victor saw scars on the client’s neck. They were old and faded but still distinct against the rest of the tanned skin. They were burns marks, protruding out from the collar of his polo shirt. He had grey eyes and the weathered skin was marked with deep crow’s feet and ice-pick scars from acne or pox decades before. He looked tough and capable; a former military man who, though long out, had not allowed himself to weaken. His posture was straight and rigid. He didn’t fidget. His hands stayed by his hips, in loose fists. There was no wedding band and no pale ring of skin where one had been removed prior to this meeting. His clothes were good quality garments, but there were no designer labels signalling significant disposable income. The Ray-Bans were the most expensive item on his person. His watch was for telling the time on a battlefield, not a display of wealth. He wore the experience of combat on his face and triumph in the set of his shoulders.

The client spent a moment examining the room. He seemed content enough to give Victor his back to do so. He then nodded to himself before facing Victor. He looked to Victor’s hands.

‘You don’t have a gun.’ He seemed more curious than surprised. ‘Do you?’

Victor said, ‘Do you think I need one?’

‘Never thought I’d fall for the old fingers-in-the-back trick. Guess I must have lost a step in my advancing years.’ The client paused. ‘I told Muir that twelve men would be more than enough to handle you.’

‘Then why did you bring only eleven?’

A sigh. ‘One got sick on the way over. Some stomach bug. Shitting and throwing up every which way. No plan’s perfect though, right? You must know that better than anyone. But, I have to say, I can’t see he would have made the difference, can you?’

‘Not really.’

The client appeared to consider this, then nodded. ‘Okay. I think we both know you’ve proved your point. It was a real nice demonstration out there. My guys dropped the ball with the march, sure. But you played it perfectly. I understand the message: you can get to me no matter what. But, as I said outside, there’s no need for any of this. We’re not enemies. We’re on the same side here.’

‘That’s impossible,’ Victor said. ‘I’m the only one who’s on my side.’

The client cocked a sardonic smile and shrugged. ‘Whatever. Muir informed me what happened in Prague. You fucked up. That was supposed to be nice and quiet and clean. That’s why I hired you. I heard you were good at this kind of thing. Muir told me you were the best.’

‘Muir should also have told you to watch your language when you’re with me.’

‘Oh, she did. She told me all about you and your little quirks. But what I’m doing is ignoring her advice. Do you honestly think I give a shit about your delicate sensibilities? I’ll talk however I want. You don’t like it, you know where the door is.’ He gestured. ‘But you’re not going to walk out of here because you don’t like my use of language, are you, son?’

‘I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge here.’

He shook his head. ‘Save the thinly veiled threats. I didn’t have to fly three thousand miles. I didn’t have to meet you. Until today, you had no idea who I was and I could have kept it that way. But I didn’t. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here as a courtesy to you and to Muir as well. Some thanks would be nice, don’t you agree?’

‘I’m overwhelmed with gratitude,’ Victor said.

The client smirked. ‘Fine. Why don’t we get down to business? I’m sure you’re as keen to get out of here as I am. I’m sure both our time is too precious to waste with this merry-go-round. Why exactly did you bring me here?’

‘To ask you one question,’ Victor said. ‘Did you send her?’

‘No,’ the client said, strong and resolute. ‘I did not send her.’

Victor watched his eyes, which remained forward and unblinking. Victor believed him.

‘So it’s about you,’ the client said. ‘Your past catching up with you. And quite a past you have, don’t you?’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’

‘Whatever. We’re done. I won’t be using you again. You’ve got too much baggage to be an effective operator. As was proved in Prague.’ He gestured to the door on the other side of Victor. ‘Excuse me.’

He didn’t move. ‘When my past catches up with me, I know about it.’

‘I don’t know what that means and I don’t care. As I said: we’re through. And I’m gone. This is a waste of my time.’

The client stepped within arm’s reach, expecting Victor to move. He remained where he was.

Victor said, ‘If she was there for me, why didn’t she try again?’ The client waited. ‘If it was my past catching up with me, why did she let me go?’

‘Muir said you escaped.’

‘Barely,’ Victor said. ‘But if she tracked me to Prague, why hadn’t she tracked me down beforehand? Why hasn’t she since?’

‘How would I know?’

‘I don’t know either.’

‘You’re not making any sense. And I’m getting bored.’

‘This won’t take much longer,’ Victor said. ‘If I were her primary objective then she could have moved on me at some other point. If she was sent by someone I’ve angered before now, then why did she wait until that exact moment to strike?’

‘Go on,’ the client said.

‘Maybe I’m not her primary objective. Maybe I was only a target because of who I was after.’

‘You’re saying she was there to protect the prince.’

‘I’m saying that makes more sense.

‘Okay,’ the client said. ‘I’m listening.’

‘She’s five feet nine inches tall, right-handed, one hundred and fourteen pounds, early thirties, dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes, Middle Eastern, probably Persian heritage but with the calcium-rich bones of a Westerner. My guess is she is American. Maybe her family emigrated during the Iranian revolution. My guess is she’s one of yours. She can work the field as well as I can. She knew my approach and I only knew she was on to me a second before I would have been killed. Who is she?’

The client exhaled and shook his head. ‘I… I can’t be sure on that description alone.’

‘Maybe you can’t be sure, but you have a good idea. We don’t have to guess though. Here —’ Victor took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. ‘Take a look at her face.’

The client took the paper from Victor’s hand and held it under a shaft of light for a better look. His expression changed straight away but he went on studying the drawing Victor had sketched of his attacker for a long time. When his gaze returned to Victor, he looked sad.

‘Shit,’ the client said. ‘She is one of mine.’