The Killer

FIFTY-FOUR

Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, U.S.A.

Tuesday

08:17 EST

Procter walked at a pace slightly faster than normal, which for a guy of his size and age wasn’t an easy feat. He was late for the morning briefing and getting his fat ass into one of the skinny agency chairs three minutes late instead of four was his priority. He entered the elevator and rode it up to the top floor. He nodded and grumbled greetings to colleagues as he strode down the corridors. When he pushed open the heavy soundproof door to the briefing room, three sets of eyes looked his way.

“Sorry I’m late. Patricia’s been up half the night with her head hanging over the toilet and looking like an extra from a zombie movie. I got stuck with the school run.”

Chambers smiled and gave him a look that said no problem. For once she was looking a little rough around the edges. Ferguson and Sykes were sitting together on the opposite side of the conference table and looking like they were their own private boys’ club. Procter pulled out a chair between the two camps.

There was some perfunctory small talk before Alvarez began his report.

“Last night, Paris time, agents from the French police’s counterterrorism unit attempted and failed to apprehend a male suspect who they believe murdered Andris Ozols and seven other foreigners a week ago. During the attempt a shootout ensued that claimed the lives of several police officers and left others in the hospital.”

“How sure are we that this suspect is Ozols’s killer?” Chambers asked.

“The French certainly think so. As I understand it, an agent with the DGSE at Charles de Gaulle on other business identified the individual as he left passport control. He was put under immediate surveillance until he left the airport when he entered a taxi, after which he was followed around the city by a police helicopter. I doubt they knew for certain when he was first spotted at De Gaulle, but they wouldn’t have tried to take him down if they weren’t sure. And the fact that he shot his way out of a RAID assault definitely fits our guy’s MO. I think there can be little doubt.”

Procter asked, “What was he doing back in Paris?”

“That’s yet to be established,” Alvarez replied. “But he was observed entering an apartment occupied by a woman. That’s where the RAID team attempted to take both persons into custody. It’s unclear at the moment exactly how they managed to escape.”

“I don’t suppose that makes much difference,” Ferguson muttered.

“At the moment those details aren’t the most important point,” Chambers said. “What I want to know is, Who’s the woman?”

“The French claim she’s an unidentified Parisian and not much else,” Alvarez answered. “But they know a lot more than they’re telling us. They’re aware we weren’t exactly forthcoming about Ozols, so until we enter a little quid pro quo I think we’ve reached the limit of what they’ll tell us just yet.

“The authorities have managed to keep the press at bay so far, so we’ve got no intel that way, but a second major shooting in a little over a week is a pretty fucking big deal in that part of the world. More details might come out in the news. However, we’ve been lucky, and the NSA has grabbed us a few useful intercepts. According to the French Secret Service she’s an American.”

Procter, who had been looking out of the window, straightened in his seat. “An American?”

“Her name is Rachel Swanson, but the DGSE believe this is an alias.”

“What else do we know about her?” Chambers asked.

“That’s it so far.”

Sykes asked, “Do we have anything to indicate why he met with her?”

“That’s the question,” Alvarez said. “Maybe she’s his lover or just a friend, but I’m thinking business associate is more likely.”

“Employer?” Procter asked.

“It’s a possibility.”

Chambers gestured to Procter: “I want to know everything there is to know about Miss Swanson, alias or not.”

Procter nodded.

“In light of this Swanson development,” Alvarez said. “I think we should check past and present CIA employees.”

Chambers’s eyebrows rose.

“Excuse me?”

“Something’s been bugging me for a while now,” Alvarez began. “We assumed that another prospective buyer for the missiles or the Russians had Ozols killed. But we can’t dismiss that it’s someone within our own walls.”

“I’ve already had words with the director to make sure it wasn’t us who put the contract out on Ozols,” Chambers said.

“I’d dig anyway. Someone might be operating off the books. Before, there was no reason to suggest this was the case.”

“And what is there now to suggest otherwise?” Procter asked.

“A hunch.”

“A hunch?”

“My hunch, to be more specific. Sebastian Hoyt is dead.”

Chambers leaned forward. “Say again.”

“Hoyt, in case anyone has forgotten, paid the American hitman, Stevenson, that briefcase full of cash to kill Ozols’s killer. He died of a heart attack on Sunday night while he lay in the bath. According to the autopsy, there are no signs that his death was anything other than natural, but it’s a hell of a convenient coincidence for whomever Hoyt was working for.”

Procter couldn’t disagree. “I’ll say.”

“Chances are Hoyt was murdered simply as a precaution, but the timing of it, just after we found out his role in all this, makes me suspicious.”

Ferguson shook his head. “Hardly enough reason to think we have a mole.”

“I’m not saying we have a mole-maybe a leak, maybe a rogue operation running under our noses.”

“Okay,” Chambers said. “There’s no harm in trying to find out if this Swanson is or was affiliated with us. I’ll authorize full access to our personnel records, asset lists, and so on.”

“And may I suggest that any information found goes no further than the people in this room.”

“Of course.”

Sykes tried not to shift in his seat.