The Killer

FIFTY-SEVEN

Washington, DC, U.S.A.

Wednesday

19:40 EST

Most people Ferguson knew of his own age were starting to really feel it, but Ferguson felt as fit and healthy now in his sixties as he did in his forties. He may have lost some weight with the passing years, but his body showed no signs of packing in on him anytime soon. He planned to enjoy a long and relaxing retirement, and, with a bit of luck, a very wealthy one. He pictured himself lazing on a beach in the Seychelles with nothing more troublesome to worry about than his tan lines.

Of course all that hinged on the thorny problem of cleaning up a rogue operation gone wrong. Ferguson had yet to be panicked by the events of the last week and a bit. He had faced both metaphorical and real bullets in his lifetime, and he saw this as just another awkward knot to slip out of. He was still two steps ahead of being found out. And he planned to remain so.

It was a short walk from his car to the memorial. He’d seen it up close a hundred times or more, but still it never failed to impress him. The huge Greek-style building that housed Lincoln’s statue was brightly illuminated, and though it was almost eight at night, there were still dozens of people on the steps leading up to it.

Ferguson began ascending the steps, looking for Sykes. He couldn’t see him, but he supposed that was testament to the precautions they were both taking. Finally, more out of breath than he would have expected, Ferguson reached the top of the steps. Still no Sykes. Ferguson checked his watch. He would give him five minutes maximum, then call his cell phone.

He saw him after no more than three minutes. The man looked downright scared. It was clear to Ferguson that he had judged Sykes’s mettle incorrectly. He had a sharp mind and a deft shrewdness for intelligence work, but he wasn’t cut out to be involved in an operation where tangible risk was involved.

“Pleasant night,” Ferguson said when Sykes reached him.

The younger man was taller, bigger built, and had on a thicker coat, but he looked far less comfortable in the cold evening. “Is it?”

Ferguson began walking, Sykes automatically following at his side. “We have a situation you need to be aware of, Mr. Sykes.”

Sykes rubbed his hands together. “What situation?”

“Elliot Seif was killed earlier today.”

“So? That’s a good thing, right? Oh shit, did Reed screw up?”

“No, of course he didn’t. The police believe Seif shot his wife and then turned the gun on himself. A domestic dispute gone wrong.”

It took a few moments before Sykes spoke again. “Then what?”

“The day before Seif was killed, he was robbed.”

“Robbed?”

Ferguson nodded. “Someone shot and wounded his bodyguards and took Seif’s notebook computer.”

Sykes processed the information for several seconds. “Tesseract?”

“I would think that a fair assumption.”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ferguson walked at a slow pace. His small eyes moved from side to side, checking for anyone who looked out of place before he spoke.

“From what is in the police report it appears that someone got to Seif in the parking garage underneath his building. The robber wore a mask. No other witnesses, security cameras had been disabled, both bodyguards didn’t so much as get a shot off. And Seif reported his computer had been taken. Nothing else, no wallet or watch, just his computer.” Sykes didn’t say anything. Ferguson stopped and faced him. “What information would Seif have on him?”

Sykes looked confused; he struggled to speak for a second or two. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Tesseract didn’t rob him to pass the time, and he didn’t take his laptop as a souvenir. He took it for a reason. What can they do with it?”

Sykes shook his head. “I don’t understand, why did he go after Seif at all? You said they would contact us to try and return the drive. You said they’d try and deal.”

“Well,” Ferguson began, “that’s evidently not what they’re doing.”

“Then what the hell are they doing? I don’t get it. None of this makes any sense.”

Ferguson sighed. “Use your head, Mr. Sykes. Isn’t it obvious?”

“What? What’s obvious?”

“They’re coming after us.”

Sykes’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“If they’d wanted to try and exchange the drive for their lives, they would have done so by now. They haven’t.”

“But that doesn’t mean-”

“Tesseract couldn’t have found out about Seif without Sumner’s help,” Ferguson interrupted. “And the only logical reason for them collectively going after Seif would be if they thought they could get information, something they could use to get to us, something from his computer. So, I’m asking you again, what could that something be?”

Sykes wasn’t thinking, he was reacting, panicking. “Oh fuck.”

“Kindly calm yourself.”

“Just how am I supposed to remain calm when I’ve just found out I’m at the top of an assassin’s hit list? I don’t want that fucking sociopath after me. Have you forgotten he’s killed a dozen people in the last week alone, and that’s only the ones we know about. I don’t want to be lucky number fucking thirteen.”

Sykes continuously looked around as if he expected Tesseract to be hiding in the shadows. It was embarrassing to Ferguson that he’d ever thought Sykes could handle this kind of operation. Quite simply, Ferguson had known eunuchs with more balls.

He went to speak, but a couple, arm in arm, walked close by. He led Sykes farther away until they were out of earshot.

“They must have worked out some way to track us down; that’s why they took Seif’s computer. Think, why would they do that?”

“Seif’s just an accountant. He handled the transactions to the accounts Tesseract used. He doesn’t know anything.”

“There must be something,” Ferguson prompted.

It took him a few seconds before Sykes muttered, “Ah.”

“What?”

“They’re trying to follow the money.”

“Explain,” Ferguson demanded.

“That’s the only trail there is,” Sykes explained. He was talking quickly. “From one account to the next. Seif’ll have records of the transactions made. They could find out where the money came from.”

“And where did the money come from?”

“Olympus.”

The already-deep lines in Ferguson’s forehead deepened. “I’m assuming you don’t mean the home of the Greek gods.”

“Olympus Trading,” Sykes corrected. “It’s one of the front companies we use.”

“And what is it?”

“It’s an import-export outfit in Cyprus. It’s just a skeleton, a couple of employees, a building, some warehouse space. The money was washed through its books on the way to Seif.”

Ferguson absorbed the information for a few seconds. “What can they find out from it? Worst-case scenario.”

“Worst-case scenario is they find nothing, I think.”

“You think?”

“I know.” Sykes almost sounded sure. “There’s nothing there that can lead back to us. Just account after account. Olympus must have a hundred clients and customers. It would be impossible to get anything from its books.”

“Are you positive of this?”

He nodded. “I set up Olympus myself. The paper trail will take them to the moon and back before it leads to us.”

“Good. Then we have nothing to worry about.”

Sykes looked far from convinced. “Unless they’ve worked out some way to do it that we haven’t thought of.”

Ferguson offered no further reassurance. He began to walk away when Sykes called after him. Ferguson turned around. “What is it?”

Sykes caught up with him. “Olympus is a dead end, but they don’t know it is, do they?”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Ferguson had said the same thing to Sykes earlier, and Ferguson noted Sykes’s smug tone. He liked having the knowledge, the power.

“No,” Ferguson said. “It’s not.”

“My point,” Sykes explained with more than a little cockiness, “is that if they went to Seif, they’ll go there, to Olympus.”

Ferguson nodded, understanding, impressed. “Very good, Mr. Sykes. Very good indeed.”