Collision

7

Sam Hector sat at his desk, five cell phones spread before him, waiting for the call that would change his life.

With one hand he clicked an antique Chinese abacus. He owned a sizeable collection of abaci from around the world: ivory counters from Africa, jade calculators from China, a prized set from India that had once tallied the household accounts of a maharajah. He loved the soft feel of the beads, the click of their collisions on the rods. Ben Forsberg had given him the one he played with now, a souvenir from a trip to Beijing Ben and his poor dead wife, Emily, had taken before their marriage. It was his favorite.

With the other hand Sam Hector paged through his e-mail inbox. The list was long and from every hotspot of the world. Communiques from Iraq, where he had close to a thousand military contractors working security details from Kirkuk to Basra. From Ethiopia, where a select team of his employees offered advice to the regime on dealing with an insurrection in the south. From Afghanistan, where his teams provided protection for both Afghan and coalition dignitaries and had helped stop a suicide bombing at a school-one of the contractors had shot the bomber dead, unfortunately also killing a local guard who’d grappled with the bomber. Regrettable. He forwarded a note to his Afghan operations director, encouraging him to provide a bit of money for the hapless guard’s family. Anonymously of course; Hector Global couldn’t be held liable for doing their job. War was full of tragic accidents, and the work that Hector Global did was all for the common good. Not just America’s, Sam thought, but for the world’s.

The next e-mail made him frown: a manager in Baghdad, saying that many of the security workers were expressing unhappiness with their tours and the level of violence they faced. If they didn’t like working for Hector Global, they could get on a flight home, Sam believed. Aisle or window, chicken or pasta, pick your seat, he thought. But it had been a rough couple of weeks; he’d lost five men in three separate incidents. It was a relief he did not have to pay medical benefits or life insurance; the contractors were responsible for their own.

Worse, he’d lost the past seven contracts he’d bid on for Iraq work, and the contracts for domestic security were starting to dry up. He had three thousand employees on the payroll; he needed every deal he could land.

He put aside the abacus and typed an e-mail to the Smith woman at the State Department who’d shown the more-than-professional interest in Ben: Sure that Ben will call you tomorrow, he’s back from his getaway I believe today. I’m sure we’ll be able to come to agreement. Best, Sam. He sent it and thought: God, if Ben would have just bedded the idiotic bitch from State when she’d dropped her first hint, that contract would be signed and he’d have several million he desperately needed on the books.

But Ben wasn’t going to be bedding anyone.

The last e-mail in his inbox was from New Orleans and contained a link to a Google Map image. He studied the map for several long, silent moments. The map was the first key to his future. He committed it to memory, felt a little thrill of excitement.

One of the five phones rang; he blinked at the number display. “Hello?”

“Homeland Security has taken Ben Forsberg into custody. Evidence linked him to a dead foreign assassin killed today in Austin.”

But… Jackie hadn’t delivered the envelope. The frame of Ben was incomplete. But he was not going to argue with a sweet twist of fate. “Where is Ben now?”

“At the new Homeland facility downtown, at the old Waterloo Arms. They’re questioning him.”

“No police?”

“No police.”

“You’ve earned a bonus,” he said and hung up. It was useful to have people sprinkled throughout the government who were willing to give you information for a price.

Sam Hector stood and went to his window. He had not killed in years; he was done with dirtying his hands, he thought, but if the Lynches and the team from Lebanon all failed to kill Pilgrim, well, then it was time to sharpen his skills. A tremble of warmth touched his skin, made his face flush. It would be good to be back in the game.

Another phone rang and he scooped it off the desk.

“It’s Jackie, sir.”

“Go ahead.”

“I hooked up with your other crew and we caught us a break.” Jackie sounded almost joyful. “That Pilgrim bastard is two streets over from the hotel you picked as the rendezvous point.”

“You’re sure it’s him?”

“In a Volvo station wagon, cruising, like he was checking out the property. We’re ready to take him down.”

Pilgrim had managed to trace a connection back to the Waterloo Arms. Smart boy.

He considered. And then Sam Hector saw a solution-an unpleasant one-but one that would serve more than a single purpose. He examined the idea quickly, from every angle, testing its strengths and weaknesses and risks. Ben Forsberg and Homeland Security were inside the Waterloo. Pilgrim wanted inside the Waterloo to find how it connected back to Teach’s kidnapping.

“Jackie. You let Pilgrim get inside the building. Then you follow him in and you kill everyone. Everyone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One of you stays with Teach. When everyone inside is dead, you call me back. You’ll each be paid a hundred thousand more. Except you, Jackie, as you haven’t completed your original assignment. Plus, no money can motivate you more than avenging your brother.”

Message clear: Don’t complain. Or I’ll tell them it was you not warning them that got their friends killed. Jackie stayed silent.

Sam Hector hung up. He started to breathe again, feeling like he’d just ordered an army to launch a devastating assault, nearly dizzy with the idea of the carnage he’d unleashed. He had just ordered a mass murder. But it was required. It was the only choice.

It was a very small sacrifice, for a very big gain-an incalculably huge gain-that was going to change everything for him.

He let the smile come onto his face while he waited.

Jackie and the three gunmen listened to Sam Hector’s instructions on how to get into the Waterloo and then Jackie closed his phone. The three men in the van stared at Jackie, two with blank expressions, one with clear disapproval. Jackie glanced down at the old woman-Teach, Hector called her-the men had kidnapped, unconscious, hands bound in front of her, sleeping off an injection designed to keep her out for a few more hours.

“You heard the man,” Jackie said. “An extra hundred thou for each of you.” He announced it with casual arrogance, as if he were disbursing the funds himself.

The Arab leader was unimpressed. “You, Irish, you stay with lady.” A large mole marred his chin. He prodded the unconscious woman with his foot. The other two shifted on the balls of their feet. One had a wild thatch of hair, streaked white and black; the other wore wraparound sunglasses. They all looked like freaks to him.

“No,” Jackie said. “Pilgrim killed my brother. I kill him.”

“No. We are used to working together as a team. Not with you.”

“I’m going with you.”

The leader shook his head. “Three of us, one of you.”

He could let these dumb oafs do the dangerous work. As long as Pilgrim died, did it really matter who killed him? The thought shamed him. He started again to stand.

The leader produced a smile of slightly crooked teeth and a Beretta aimed at Jackie’s chest. “Plenty of hate for this Pilgrim. He’ll die badly. I promise. You guard the woman.” Jackie could hear the sting of an implied insult in the words, as though Jackie were capable of nothing more than watching an unconscious fifty-year-old.

The gunman with the wraparound sunglasses took pity on him, squeezed Jackie’s shoulder. “We’ll give this Pilgrim a bullet for your brother.”

Jackie swallowed his rage and he nodded. Let them go do the work. He didn’t like that they’d seen his face or ordered him about like he was beneath them. He still had the knife strapped to his pants leg and he was hungry now to use it. He thought how the knife’s handle might shine, buried in their throats.

He kept the smile and shook their hands to wish them luck.