Alpha

Chapter Eight

The man who employs the Uzbek does not like video, and does not like voice, and does not like e-mail or text. The man who employs the Uzbek would be happier if all communications could be carried out in person, face-to-face, at the time and place of his choosing. The man who employs the Uzbek understands that there is little by way of privacy left in the world, and that there are always people listening.

Yet he also understands that sometimes concessions must be made. This communication with the Uzbek is one of those times, because of all the work this man does, of all the plans and plots and gambits in motion, this one, in the United States, in California, is the most daring, the most bold. And already, by far, the most lucrative.

So he makes the concession, and sits in front of a laptop computer in a rented apartment in Paris that has been acquired for this communication and this communication alone, and watches as the Uzbek’s face appears on his screen. The video is one-way, as is the audio. The Uzbek will speak, but the other man will not. He will type, so that there will be no misunderstandings, and so that his own voice, in silence, will be loud.

At readiness?

The Uzbek answers in his flawless English. “We are.”

I have no information on the investigation into the man our boy eliminated. That drew attention.

“Without question, but the investigation is centered outside of the location. He was smart about that.”

Smart would have avoided the incident in the first place.

“It was bad luck.”

Someone was looking. Someone in the line was not as discreet as they should have been. This is not tolerated.

“A job on this scale, someone somewhere is going to notice something.” The Uzbek shifts in front of the camera, uncomfortable. Encryption leaves pixelated blocks that drag a fraction of a second behind his movement before resolving again. “I can confirm that security on this end is intact and absolute.”

I know.

The Uzbek says nothing.

The problem arose at the source. It has been dealt with, but the damage is done.

“Are we calling it off?”

No.

The Uzbek nods.

The client’s result is not our result. The client’s result is incidental, as you know.

Another nod.

The client, however, is restless, and must be assuaged. I wish you to speak to him.

The Uzbek’s expression does not change, which does him credit. “Is that necessary?”

I require it.

A nod. “Very well. I shall arrange it.”

Explain to him that this is the last time I will accept such a request. Explain that to him quite clearly, please.

“Of course.” A thin smile. “It will be a pleasure.”

Restrain yourself. I am not done with him yet.

“Of course,” the Uzbek repeats.

How is the boy?

The Uzbek raises a hand, adjusts his glasses, taking the moment to collect his thoughts. “He thinks he’s in love.”

Yes, the girl.

“Do you want me to act upon that? That will require more men, but I could…” The Uzbek trails off, leaving the implication open, unsaid.

No. Moving against her is coercion, and coercion will break faith with the boy. You have insurance in place.

“As instructed, yes.”

Then that is enough. Let him use the girl for his own motivation. We need not do anything.

“Very well.”

This is the last communication before action. Inform me upon completion. I look forward to your good work.

“Thank you.”

The man who employs the Uzbek, who pulls the strings to Gabriel Fuller and sixteen more men in Southern California-and hundreds, thousands of others around the world-pauses, his fingers hovering above the keys of the laptop. He considers. He smiles to himself.

You’re welcome.

These have been busy weeks for the Uzbek.

This last month alone, he has slipped unnoticed in and out of the United States four separate times to coordinate delivery and reconnaissance with operatives in Eastern Europe, South America, and the Middle East. He’s seen to the paperwork, both legitimate and otherwise, for the operation; he has handled the recruitment for not one but two separate operational elements, of which Gabriel Fuller’s is the second, and, frankly, the easier to direct. For the first, he was forced to work via a cutout to preserve anonymity, and this in turn has demanded an even greater vigilance to prevent directions from being misinterpreted or, worse, the exercise of initiative. To this end, he has received the package, the parcel that began its journey some 120 kilometers southwest of Tehran and traveled halfway around the globe, transferred from courier to courier until it was ultimately delivered into his own hands this past Friday morning. He has slept little, eaten poorly, traveled too much, and killed two people, murders that he judged necessary, even vital, to maintain the security and integrity of this operation.

None of these things is as difficult, for him, as dealing with Mr. Money, the client. Mr. Money, a man who doesn’t like him and a man whom he does not like. Mr. Money, who demands things he has no right to demand, and threatens things he is foolish enough to believe he can control, and who has met the Uzbek’s employer and master only once, and feels that entitles him to more. He does not understand that meeting him once was a gift. He does not understand that meeting him a second time would end with his own death, and that no amount of wealth in the world would prevent that.

“I didn’t get where I am today by not knowing what the people working for me are doing, goddamn it.”

He says this to the Uzbek on Wednesday, the day before the Uzbek is to meet Gabriel Fuller at the DoubleTree Spectrum hotel. Mr. Money says these words to the Uzbek in Dallas. Mr. Money had wanted to meet at a restaurant a handful of blocks from the Southern Methodist University campus. The Uzbek had refused. The requirement of needing to communicate in person-and all communications at this level were only to be conducted in person, because that was truly the only way to be certain beyond doubt that they were not observed or overheard-meant that the Uzbek was racking up frequent-flier miles. And each trip meant another set of papers burned, all so Mr. Money could feel that he was still vital and involved in what he had put into motion.

The Uzbek, personally, and with a growing passion, wanted the man dead. But that was bad business, at least as of now. Still, it was only at his master’s order that he took the meeting, this last time, that he went to meet Mr. Money face-to-face to assure him that what he desired would come to pass, and come to pass quite soon.

But not in a restaurant; the Uzbek had refused that, and refused (and marveled at the man’s arrogance to even suggest such a thing) a second time when Mr. Money had offered to meet in his own home. It had been the Uzbek himself who had finally arranged the place and time for their meeting, an evening soccer match between FC Dallas and Toronto FC played at Pizza Hut Park.

In the cheap seats.

“Twelve thousand people and change here,” Mr. Money said. “How is this better?”

The Uzbek shook his head. If the man didn’t see anonymity in a crowd, silence in the noise, it wasn’t worth explaining. In point of fact, he suspected that the man understood perfectly, and was simply annoyed at being asked to follow directions instead of issuing them himself.

“This will be our last contact,” the Uzbek lied. “After this, further communication from you will be ignored. All the channels you have used to contact us are, as of this time, closed. I have been told to relay that to you explicitly. Should the need arise, we shall contact you, not the other way around.”

“You were told? You were fucking told?” Mr. Money made a face, squinted out at the pitch, feigning interest in the game. “That man you work for, he should damn well have the courtesy to come in person, considering how much I’m paying for this.”

“He pays you the courtesy of sending me, sir. Were it my decision, you would have been ignored entirely.”

“I have a right to know what’s going on.”

“You do not.” The Uzbek paused, leaning forward in his seat to watch a corner kick play out right of the near goal line. The ball curled wide, then was headed out of play. He sat back once more. “You have a right to a result, that is all. Knowing how that result will be achieved only serves to compromise you.”

“I hope that’s not a threat.” The man squinted behind his tortoiseshell sunglasses, glanced at the Uzbek.

“It’s the furthest thing from it. But you have contracted for a result within parameters that you yourself defined. This result cannot be achieved hastily, and it cannot be achieved haphazardly. You must give us time to work.”

“I have given you time to work. I’ve given you the better part of a goddamn year to work.”

“The result, as I said, is not one that can be achieved in haste.”

“There’s an election coming up.”

“You’re an American. There is always an election coming up.”

Mr. Money grunted, resumed watching the game playing out beneath them, or at least feigned interest in doing so. Then he slapped his thighs with his hands, grunting again, climbing to his feet. The man squinted behind his sunglasses, glanced the Uzbek’s way. He was short, and growing old, and physically there was nothing intimidating or even powerful about him. But when he spoke next, he did so with the confidence of a man half his age and twice his size.

“You fuck me around, I will most surely fuck you back. You and your boss. Neither of you is as insulated and mysterious as you might think.” Mr. Money tapped at his temple with a long index finger. “You’ve got reach, but I do, too.”

“You have paid for a service,” the Uzbek said, looking up at him. “You will have your result.”

“I damn well better have it.”

Taking the last word, the older man began edging his way along the row to the aisle. The Uzbek watched until he was descending the stairs, then stole a glance at his watch before turning his eyes back to the match. If traffic was with him, he could stay until the half before catching his flight to Anaheim.