The Last Surgeon

CHAPTER 31

Franz Koller sat on one of the recently installed benches at Poplar Point and watched the moonlight dance across the Potomac. The plan was for his client to take the bench directly behind his, facing toward the woods, so they could keep their backs to one another as they talked.

The cloak-and-dagger bullshit was cumbersome, Koller thought, but he had done business with the Agency before, and like the golfing gorilla who hit a four-hundred-yard drive and then followed it with a four-hundred-yard putt, this was the way they operated. He knew whom he was dealing with and they knew that he knew, but that made no difference to the way they did things. The only question that remained unanswered for him, and in truth he didn’t really care whether he ever knew, was the precise identity of Jericho, the individual or group within the Agency who had the resources and clout to authorize the cancelation of at least six people. And at the going rate for the master of the non-kill, that was some serious clout.

There was a chill in the air, a bit unusual for this time of year, and Koller was glad he had opted for his heavy jacket, not only for warmth, but for concealing his favorite direct-kill weapon-a Ruger bull-barrel.22 with an integrally suppressed silencer. The gun provided him with an emergency escape option, and given that this meeting breached several protocols he lived by, he considered the precaution a wise one.

Koller wasn’t bothered by the meeting place so much as he was by the time. Late at night, in a public park, any passing patrolman worth the tin on his badge would be wise to question any bench sitter.

I just want to ask you to be very careful, sir. Muggers like to hang out here late at night.…

Koller grinned at the notion. For a time, he closed his eyes and indulged himself, imagining what it might be like to have a mugger actually approach him here. The direct kill his mind created was swift and silent-one hand up, through the flesh of the throat, and fully around the larynx. After the initial thrust, before death, his imagination allowed him to pluck the would-be assailant’s eyes out with his thumbs.

Somewhat messy, but nicely done, he decided. Nicely done, indeed.

Koller suspected that he was about to meet Jericho the person, or else the head of the organization calling itself by that name. He was curious why this client was so insistent on rendezvousing with him in person. A face-to-face meeting was potentially dangerous for each of them-lethal for one of them if it were Jericho’s intention to kill him. But killing him at this point-at any point for that matter-made no sense. It had to be that once again, as was the case when Jericho elected to burn down Jillian Coates’s condo, established protocol was about to be broken. Only this time, his client had wisely decided it was easier and safer to ask permission than it was to seek forgiveness.

The killer sensed movement and sound, and slid the Ruger onto his lap. A full minute passed before he actually heard the voices of a man and woman, approaching along the walk to his left. Koller inhaled through his nose and began the process of slowing his pulse. They sounded harmless and intoxicated, but professional killers would. He followed the couple out of the corner of his eye as they emerged from a dense grove and approached along the walk from a hundred feet away. At the same time, he scanned to his right. Nothing. If the couple were good enough to fool him, it was going to be a hell of a fight.

He buried his pistol beneath his jacket.

“Hey, there, buddy. How’re you doing?” the man said.

He was an absolute house, six five, two-eighty or more, and if he had anything less than a 0.2 blood alcohol level, he deserved an Oscar. The girl on his arm was petite and quiet.

“Have a good one,” Koller said, still on red alert, but now for anyone whose presence the couple might have masked.

“You betcha,” the bear said.

He hiccuped, stumbled once, and then proceeded on.

Koller holstered the Ruger and checked his watch. Always arrive late. Another unnecessary CIA gorilla shtick. In exchange for the tax-free million or more they were paying him for each kill, he’d give them five more minutes. The Jericho contract had already brought him millions. With luck this meeting would end up adding to that haul.

From behind him, Koller heard footsteps on the grass. Two people, almost certainly men, one of them, like his previous visitor, quite large. He did not turn around, but again prepared himself for action. If they were pros, they were either clumsy pros or meant him no harm. Jericho and a bodyguard, he decided.

The heavier footsteps stopped fifty feet away. The smaller man continued forward, then sat down on the bench with his back to Koller.

“Thank you for meeting me like this,” the arrival said.

That voice. Now Koller understood why his client had shown up with security.

“It’s my pleasure. Who’s the muscle back there?”

“How did you-?”

“Look, you pay me what you do because I’m the best. If you have any other plans aside from a chat, you’ll soon regret that.”

“Killing me would make quite a story. Perhaps since you’re so astute you already know who I am.”

“I watch TV,” Koller said. “You the head of Jericho?”

“This isn’t a quiz show. Form your own opinion about that.”

“I’m not wearing a wire.”

“I know that already. We scanned you ten minutes ago.”

“The drunk and the girl. They’re good.”

“My whole team is good. That’s why we hired you.”

“So, let’s get down to it, then. We didn’t need to meet in person to arrange a job. You already know how that’s done.”

“There have been some changes. What I need now is to know that I can trust you.”

“An ironic request of somebody in my line of work, don’t you think?”

Koller began to relax. There was no way the future vice presidential nominee, with his ticket already well ahead in all the polls, would set himself up to be killed. It also went far to explain Jericho. Before his recent selection, Lionel Ramsland had been the deputy director of the CIA.