The Hunter

CHAPTER 27

Marseilles, France

Friday

05:03 CET

Rebecca Sumner adjusted her reading glasses and scrolled through the information displayed on her laptop’s screen. An American attached to the US Embassy had been stabbed to death in Paris last night, just a few hours ago. The police believed it to be a mugging since the dead man’s wallet and phone had been taken. Further in the text it stated that the man worked as a cultural attache at the embassy, which meant he might actually have been a cultural attache or, in typical agency style, it could have been a cover for his true position. His name was John Kennard. The name meant nothing to her.

Rebecca felt the beating of her heart begin to quicken. The timing of it seemed wrong, so close to Monday’s massacre. Her orders had been to stay put and await further instructions, and she had been doing just that. But then the unexpected communique had arrived in her in-box and her control hadn’t got back to her about it. And now this. It seemed like too much of a coincidence to be unrelated, or was she just being paranoid? She sat at her desk in the sparsely furnished apartment she had called home for the past few months. The glow of the monitor illuminated her face. She had no other lights on.

She didn’t know the name of her control, had never met him. Their only communications had been over secure satellite phone links and the Internet. She didn’t know who else was working on the operation or who had ordered it. She was on need to know, and apparently she didn’t need to know very much. What she did know, but which no one had told her, was that the op was off the books, way off the books.

It had been nearly five days since everything had gone so wrong, and Tuesday had been the last day her control had contacted her with the directive to hold her position and await new orders. So she had. For four days she had lived off whatever was in her cupboards, never venturing outside, always at her computer, always waiting. Twelve hours ago something had happened that changed everything. The killer had sent her a message. That hadn’t been in the script.

So she’d disobeyed orders and contacted her control by email within minutes of the killer’s message arriving. It always took a few hours for the control to get back to her, but, half a day later, there was still no reply. Her actions had been a clear breach of the strict protocol by which the operation had been run, but she felt the communication had warranted it. Surely it was a chance to get back on track. She had assumed that she’d received nothing further because those in charge were working out what she should reply back with. But then this John Kennard had been killed.

On the phone her control had spoken with a West Coast accent; she’d guessed he was an LA native. She stared at the screen for another minute, searching for information. John Kennard was from California, the report said.

Maybe the reason why her control hadn’t gotten back to her was because he’d been stabbed to death in Paris last night.

If this Kennard was really her control, then why had no one else contacted her after he’d been killed? It was over seven hours since his death. Plenty of time for her to get a phone call or email. It was late here but not in the States, and no one slept for long on something like this anyway. Her control would have superiors who must know about her role in the operation. But what if no one else knew the control was dead? The op couldn’t be salvaged if no one knew what was going on.

If they needed to speak, her control always phoned her, but he had given her a special number to call in case of dire emergencies, a cell phone number, and she considered this about as big an emergency as it could get. Rebecca picked up the phone.

Her wide eyes stared into the darkness when she heard the automated voice say the line was unavailable. She waited a minute and tried again. Unavailable. And again. Still unavailable. Lines like this didn’t become unavailable. Rebecca felt the unnerving compulsion to look over her shoulder at the apartment door.

She slammed the phone down hard, suddenly understanding what was going on. First what happened in Paris on Monday, then an American from the embassy killed last night, now the emergency line dead. The only explanation was terrifying, but she made a determined effort to remain calm. There must be something you’re missing, she told herself. She pored over all the reports, every scrap of intel she had access to. She needed to prove herself wrong or prove herself right — and quickly.

Interpol gave her the answer she was dreading. She read through a report that came out of Switzerland. A house had burned down north of Geneva, and a man found dead. Police were looking for the killer. Rebecca’s eyes focused on the address. She had seen that address before. She’d helped find it. They’d tried again, but no one had told her. She was out of the loop. Which could only mean one thing.

Rebecca grabbed the files from her desk, carried them into the kitchen, and threw them into the sink. She rummaged through her cupboards and found the bottle of super strength rum she’d been saving for a rainy day. Today it was pouring outside and in. She unwrapped the top, tugged off the stopper, and splashed some into the sink. She took the lighter for the stove off its hook, put the end into the sink, and stood well back.

She clicked the button and the rum ignited. Rebecca took a swig from the bottle and watched the files burn for a moment. It didn’t take her long to throw some clothes into a suitcase. She took practical items, nothing fancy. She had a wardrobe full of clothes she loved but it was no time to be sentimental. She had to get out as fast as possible.

There was a clean-up job under way; she was certain of it now. All the signs were there. The op had gone wrong and whoever was in charge had pulled the plug, and they were cutting off the loose ends. She knew this kind of thing happened in the old days, but she never would have believed it still occurred in this age. You’d better believe it, she told herself.

Why the need to start killing people? Just what the hell was really going on? She had the sinking feeling that the op wasn’t just off the books — it was out of the library entirely.

Her control was already dead. Only seven hours ago. They would be sending someone for her too; they might have sent them already. She looked at her watch. Each passing second brought her own demise hurtling closer.

Her heart was pounding as she zipped up her laptop and grabbed her personal effects. She left the comms equipment. She didn’t need it, and all the files were on the computer. In the kitchen the thick smoke made her cough as she turned on the faucets to put out the fire in the sink.

She left the apartment, her throat choked with fear, and walked along the corridor expecting a man with a silenced pistol to appear at any moment. No, she reminded herself, they wouldn’t do it like that. She’d have an accident, maybe take an overdose. Maybe get mugged in a restroom.

She decided against the elevator and took the stairs. She hurried down them, her face slick with perspiration. On the ground floor she didn’t use the front door but found a fire exit at the back and pushed it open into an alleyway. The cold wind tossed her hair over her shoulders. Rain soaked her.

Rebecca could hear traffic nearby but could barely see. If she ran they might hear her, so she walked slowly and carefully to the end of the alley. Relief washed over her as she stepped out onto the street.

Maybe she was wrong, maybe her control had just been unfortunate, but she had spent her life analysing the odds, and the odds told her to get the hell away. She had a car but didn’t go to it. They would know about it. It was registered in her name. Maybe there was a bomb waiting underneath it or the brake cables were severed.

Rebecca walked down the street, the rain beating down on the top of her head. She felt safer to be near other people. They wouldn’t do anything in public. She hailed a cab, telling the driver to take her to the airport. She had a place she knew she could go, where no one would find her. On the way she thought about what had happened and what might happen, and a plan started to formulate in her mind. By the time she got out of the taxi she knew exactly what she was going to do. It was dangerous, crazy even.

But it might just keep her alive.