The Killer

FORTY-SEVEN

Paris, France

Monday

19:54 CET

Rain splashed against the phone booth and ran down the glass in front of Victor. Headlights glimmered in the raindrops. He lifted the receiver and punched in the number with the knuckle of his index finger. He was glad when the line connected after three rings, glad when he heard her voice.

“It’s me,” he said.

The broker replied, “I know it is.”

He was glad again at hearing those four words, the code for everything being fine. Just a single word difference and he’d have known she’d been compromised. There was no stress in her voice to indicate she was speaking under coercion.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Back in Paris. I’ll see you in one hour.”

He replaced the pay-phone receiver and exited the booth. Twenty minutes later he rang the broker’s buzzer.

“You’re early,” she said when she answered.

He didn’t respond. Of course he would arrive before he’d said. He climbed the stairs to her apartment and knocked on the door. He saw the spy-hole glass darken a second before the door unlocked and she took the chain off. Neither of which would stop a kill team, but maybe it helped her sleep better.

When the door was open she stepped aside to let Victor in, and he walked through the doorway, body half-turned so he didn’t give her his back. She closed the door behind him, locked it and put the chain back in place.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked.

She was dressed in black jeans and a burgundy sweater that clung to the contours of her stomach and breasts. Her dark hair was loose and long, framing her face, making her seem softer, more vulnerable than when they had first met, even if her eyes were harder. Victor pulled his gaze from her and checked the apartment.

Aside from the new computer and printer and a few extra items in the cupboards and fridge it was no different than how he’d left it two days ago. He touched the screw heads on the electrical sockets and air vents. None were rough. In the lounge the lamp shade was still angled as he’d left it, and he was pleased she hadn’t corrected it.

He found her in the kitchen fixing herself a cup of coffee. There was a second tall cup on the work surface that she filled.

“You didn’t answer,” she said. “But I made you one anyway.”

Victor said nothing.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I am.”

“You should rest.”

“Later.”

He picked up the cup and walked back into the lounge. He placed it down near her computers with no intention of even tasting it. He didn’t seriously believe she would poison him, but some habits just couldn’t be broken so easily. She followed him, sipping at her cup.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

“Unsuccessful.”

She nodded. “I’ve had some luck.”

“With the bank or the encrypted file?”

“Both.”

Victor moved over to the window, stood with his shoulder to the wall, adjusted the drapes an inch to the side, and peered out. The street outside was empty. On the other side of the window he did the same to check farther down the street, where he hadn’t been able to see. He looked back to see the broker standing expectantly.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“Maybe you should tell me what you’ve found out before patting yourself on the back.”

She gave him a quick smile. “You’ll be the one patting me on the back.” She moved to her computers and put her coffee down. “It’s really good,” she said. “Columbian. Drink it while it’s hot.”

Victor nodded.

The broker sat down in front of her computer and tapped the touch pad to bring it out of sleep mode.

Victor stood back and watched her work. Her fingers moved fluidly over the keyboard. Programs loaded. Commands were typed. She double-clicked the file and the password screen appeared. She typed something in. Ten asterisks appeared. She hit enter.

“That’s it,” she said. “I’m in.”

On the monitor the file was extracting itself into a series of other files.

“You told me it could take days,” Victor said.

“It did,” the broker replied. “Two days to be exact. We’re actually unlucky it took that long. Ozols only used standard 40-bit encryption. We should have realized, at least I should have. It’s obvious with hindsight. The guy was a retired naval officer, right? He wasn’t even retired intelligence. He had no access to advanced encryption software-hell, he probably doesn’t even know the difference between low-and high-end encryption. I bet he used whatever his operating system came with. It wasn’t like he was trying to make the drive spy proof. Remember, he had it with him to deliver. He probably only wanted a password in case he left the damn thing on a bus.”

Victor remained silent. The broker had succeeded and he hadn’t. He thought about Norimov and what the Russian security services could be doing to him to make him talk in a room without windows. Maybe he was dead already, shot in the back of the head, revenge for the agents Victor had killed.

Victor made a promise to himself. To repay Norimov if he was still alive or avenge him if he was dead. He pictured a man’s face. Around forty, pale skin, dark eyes, square jaw, authoritative. The man who had escaped the van before it exploded. Even if it took years Victor would find him.

He noticed the broker was staring at him.

He ignored her gaze and stepped closer. She opened one of the files and moved aside to let Victor see the monitor more clearly.

The broker said, “It took me forever until I figured out what I was looking at.”

There was a picture filling the screen, some kind of computer-generated image, mostly blue with a grid, lots of numbers. A pixelated form lay in the center. The broker clicked a button and another appeared. Victor stepped toward it tentatively, the light from the computer reflecting in his eyes.

“What are they?”