The Killer

EIGHTY-THREE

Tanga, Tanzania

Tuesday

16:50 UTC

When Victor awoke, he wanted to be sick, but he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings as soon as consciousness allowed. He was lying in a hospital bed, a mosquito net surrounding him. His vision was blurry, but it was bright, daytime. A ceiling fan thrummed overhead. The room was small. He was alone.

Every inch of him seemed to hurt. There were bruises everywhere. Wounds all over his body had been dressed. A ring of bandages was wrapped tight around his stomach, but his left forearm was the most heavily bound. Nothing was splinted or cast, so he knew there were no broken bones, but fearing tendon damage he tentatively flexed his left hand. He winced at the pain, but all his fingers seemed to move correctly. He hoped that there wouldn’t be any long-term damage. If he made it back to Europe, he would get it looked at by a specialist just to be sure.

He felt weak; it was difficult to sit himself upright. He guessed he was suffering the side effects from any painkillers and sedatives as well as from his injuries. He brushed the mosquito net aside. Since there were no tubes inside him, he swiveled his legs out from under the blanket, and the soles of his feet touched the cool floor.

He didn’t know why he was in a private room instead of a ward, maybe just on merit of his skin color. It was an effort to stand, and he moved slowly over to the window. Looking out he saw that he was on the first floor, no more than fifteen feet from the ground. Not far, but in his current physical state he doubted he’d be able to support his own weight, let alone climb. The window was a potential escape route, not his first choice of exit.

He would have to be careful how he elected to leave. If he slipped away unnoticed, it could create a fuss; people’s memories would be keener if questions were asked about him at a later point. If he took his time, discharged himself without incident, then if anyone came asking questions, no one would really remember him except for his race and wounds. After he left, he would come back and pay an intern to steal his records.

He enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his skin. It was good to be alive, better than he could have believed. But he wasn’t safe. He was surprised there were no guards outside his room. Maybe the Tanzanian authorities didn’t know his part in the killings of the previous night. He realized his sense of time was off. He didn’t know what time of day it was or how long it had been since that knife fight in the river. He remembered waking up before, maybe twice, but couldn’t remember any details. He hoped it was only the next day.

The door opened, and he turned quickly to see a doctor enter. Victor could barely see the face, his eyes having trouble focusing. The doctor was tall and overweight. White. He looked to be in his fifties.

“How do you feel?”

His accent was strange. Victor couldn’t place it.

“Groggy,” was his reply.

The doctor seemed agitated. “You should be resting.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost two days.”

Victor knew he was fortunate that people who mattered didn’t yet know he was here after so long a time. But any further time spent in the hospital gave any enemies more chance to zero in on his position. He needed to leave, now, regardless of causing a commotion. Victor opened the cupboard near the bed and found some of his clothes.

“I need to go,” he said.

“I’d like to talk to you before you do.”

“I haven’t got time.”

“Are you quite sure?”

There was something in the tone that made Victor look up. The face started to come into focus. There was a curious expression etched on the doctor’s features. His white coat looked pristine. There were no pens in the pocket, no stethoscope around the neck, no identification.

Victor stopped getting dressed. “Who are you?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“I worked that part out for myself.”

The man who wasn’t a doctor smiled. “I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

“If you’re here to kill me you’ve waited too long.”

“You think I’m a killer?” He laughed to himself. “Hardly.”

“Then what are you?”

“Think of me as an administrator.”

Victor continued putting on his clothes. “Is the accent necessary?”

“Is this better?” An American.

“Where’s your backup?”

“I don’t have any.”

A lie.

“Then what’s stopping me from killing you?”

“In your current physical state, I think even you would struggle with that. But, more notably, the same thing that would prevent me from doing likewise.” The administrator pointed, gestured through the door’s window to the corridor outside full of patients and hospital staff-a janitor, nurses. Witnesses. “I just want to talk.”

“We’re talking,” Victor said. “You have the time it takes me to get dressed.”

“Then I’ll be curt.”

Victor kept his gaze on the administrator the whole time. He couldn’t see signs that he was armed. “Please do.”

“I’m here because we can help each other.”

“How?”

“We both want the same thing.”

“Which is?”

“This thing to be over.”

“And?”

“I can make that happen.”

“Why?” asked Victor, genuinely intrigued.

“Don’t be fooled by the cuddly exterior,” the administrator said. “I’m really not a very nice man.”

“I wasn’t fooled,” Victor said. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

“My reasons are my own. But this whole mess should never have been created. I want to clean it up.”

Things were starting to make sense. “And whom exactly are you representing?”

“The government of the United States of America.”

“I doubt that very much,” Victor said.

“I represent the U.S.A. in my own way,” the administrator corrected.

Nether spoke for a moment, and the administrator took an object from a trouser pocket and threw it to Victor. He caught it in his right hand. The assassin’s knife. Victor unfolded it slowly. His left forearm throbbed.

“That’s a pretty special weapon,” the administrator said. “Custom made. No metal. Ceramic blade, carbon-fiber fittings, gladiator point, kriss edge.”

“You know your knives,” Victor said.

“I wasn’t always a desk jockey,” the administrator explained without emotion. “What happened to the man who stabbed you with it?”

Victor folded the blade away. “I stabbed him back.”

A smile appeared on the administrator’s fleshy mouth. Victor went to return the knife, but a palm was raised his way. “Keep it. It’s more use to you than me.”

Victor kept it in his hand. “Since you’re being generous,” he said, “do you have a cigarette?”

The administrator shook his head. “I can probably get one for you.”

“Forget it,” Victor said after a few seconds. “I think I’ve just quit.”

“Good for you,” the administrator said. “So is your answer a yes?”

“It’s a maybe. But that isn’t the only reason why you’re here, is it?”

The administrator smiled. “Very perceptive. You’re right; there is something else I want. I would like to retain your services. From time to time.”

“I’m thinking of retiring.”

“I would hope you might reconsider.”

“Why do you need someone like me in your service?”

“My colleague made a mistake in using you as an expendable asset. I recognize your potential is far higher.”

“My ego doesn’t need massaging.”

“Be that as it may, there are times when being able to subcontract delicate assignments out of house is necessary. Going through the conventional channels to get the job done is not always the most efficient use of time or resources. Especially when that job is, technically speaking, illegal.”

“You must have the contact details of a thousand men like me. Why do you need another?”

“Because those people exist and you don’t. Despite all that has happened these last two weeks, you still have your anonymity as well as your life. The agency still knows nothing about you; no one does. That’s some accomplishment.”

“You still found me.”

“Not really such a tall order after yesterday. But, even so, I don’t know who you are, and I doubt I’ll ever find out. I consider this past fortnight to be your interview. You’ve proved yourself extremely qualified for the position I need to fill.”

“I’ve been very lucky.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I don’t believe you do either.”

“And how would this arrangement work?”

“You’ll perform no other work besides that which you do for me. Those contracts will come directly from me or an associate of mine. And that’s it. Simple.”

Victor showed nothing in his expression. “I know what you’re getting out of this, but how do I benefit?”

“Money, of course.”

“You don’t know what my fee is yet. I think I’m about to increase my rates.”

The administrator smirked. “I’m confident we’ll be able to afford you.”

“What else do I get besides money?”

“Immunity. We can help you avoid any unnecessary complications with other nations. The French are still busy looking for you after Paris, and I’m sure the Swiss would like to ask a few questions as well. And let’s not talk about the Russians.”

“You make a compelling pitch.”

The administrator continued. “Most important, if you do exactly as instructed and don’t flaunt yourself, I can make sure that no one on my side of the Atlantic bothers you either.”

“What if I say no?”

“I don’t believe you will.”

Victor held his gaze, knowing exactly what would happen if he said no. The broad-shouldered janitor who was trying to look busy in the corridor outside would be reaching into his too-clean toolbox for something other than a screwdriver.

“All right,” he said. “I accept.”

“I thought you would.”

“On one condition,” Victor added.

“Name it.”

“I want the person who started this. And that isn’t negotiable.”

There was barely any change in the administrator’s face. “I thought you might say something to that effect. You can have him.” He took an envelope from his clipboard and laid it down on the end of the bed. I’ll contact you in a couple of weeks once you’ve had time to rest so we can discuss how to proceed.”

When the administrator was almost at the door, Victor spoke. “There is something else.”

“I was wondering when you were going to ask.” The administrator stopped and faced him. “You want to know what was on that boat, don’t you? You want to know what all this has been about.”

Victor didn’t look back. “I couldn’t care less about that. I never have.”

The administrator’s broad forehead wrinkled, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Then what is it?”

“There was a woman.” Victor was near the window. “Rebecca.”

“Rebecca Sumner,” the administrator said, the curiosity in his voice obvious. “She was killed in Cyprus.”

“That’s right,” Victor said slowly.

“So what do you want to know about her?”

The bright sunlight warmed Victor’s face.

“Everything.”