flames. Two attempts on his life within a week. He felt unpopular.
The sands of his life were running out with every passing second. Already the CIA would be scouring surveillance recordings, liaising with the Swiss authorities and foreign intelligence services — all the time narrowing down their search, closing in on him. He found an Internet cafe and took a terminal where he could watch the door. There were things he had to check if he was going to formulate a plan. And whatever plan he put into practice would require money. It was possible that if the CIA knew where he lived they had also frozen his bank accounts. There had been a time when a Swiss bank would never have revealed information about its clients, but the world had changed that day in September 2001. Now anything was possible.
He was relieved to find his money still in place at the primary bank he used. He would have to withdraw all the money as a precaution and booked an appointment at the bank. Victor had cash stored in various safety-deposit boxes around the Continent, but at the moment he was only concerned with his money in Switzerland. He realized he hadn’t eaten for a while and devoured three cheeseburgers at a nearby cafe. He finished off the milkshake on the street.
Nothing made sense to him any more. Did the CIA want him because of Paris, or did they arrange it in the first place? Did they hire him or did they hire the guys who tried to kill him or both? Did they track him from France to Switzerland or did they already know where he lived? Any answers he could think of led to more questions. He was reduced to speculation, guesswork, and he hated it.
He thought about the broker. This is not what you think, whoever they were had said. Maybe he should have listened. Perhaps the CIA had found out about his job and had tried to kill him afterwards; maybe Ozols was a CIA asset; maybe the flash drive belonged to the CIA; or maybe the CIA just wanted it for itself. Maybe the broker had been part of the set-up; maybe the broker was the CIA; or maybe the broker was on the same hit list as he. Too many maybes, not enough certainties.
Victor hailed a taxi, deciding at the last second to walk instead. The taxi driver hurled abuse at him in Hungarian, the gist of which Victor understood to be a reference to his mother. He didn’t look back. Falling snow mixed with the rain. It felt good on his skin. He walked past a group of homeless men passing around a bottle of something potent, judging by the stink in the air. He felt eyes watching him.
He put a hand to his chest for a moment. The pain was an annoyance but far from debilitating. There would be no longterm damage, but he now had a large bruise in the centre of his chest. When his current predicament was over, he planned to visit the company who had supplied him with the glass and creatively demonstrate to them just how bulletproof it really was.
The broker must have known something, he was sure of that now, but he had been so convinced they’d set him up he didn’t contemplate anything else. Now he was running for his life, maybe because of that bullheadedness.
He performed countersurveillance on autopilot, passing through side streets, doubling back, taking buses, changing. He’d decided to contact the broker long before he reached another Internet cafe, after trying unsuccessfully to come up with a course of action that didn’t go against his paranoia. If he had been right the first time and the broker did have a hand in what had happened in Paris, it wouldn’t matter, he would still be up against the same odds. But perhaps the broker knew something that could help him. He still had the flash drive. It could be the bargaining chip he needed.
He logged on to the game’s message board. The broker wasn’t logged in, but there was a personal message in his profile’s in-box. From the broker, dated Monday. He opened it. A response to their last communication, a rant about honouring the arrangement, about ‘trust’ of all things. Victor deleted it. He composed his own message:
Tell me what really happened in Paris and I may deliver the package.
He thought it short and sweet. All he had to do now was wait.
CHAPTER 26
Paris, France
Thursday
22:22 CET
Kennard walked through the deserted street with his hands deep inside his coat pockets. Clouds of moisture billowed around his head with each step. He had a lot to do, like checking his operational email, but this was the most important task. He reached the public toilet and had a cursory look around. Protocol dictated that he should check the area out first, but it was too cold for that by-the-manual shit.
His shoes echoed on the concrete steps as he descended beneath the ground. The stink of piss was perhaps less overpowering in Paris than it might have been in LA, but repugnant is repugnant, whatever the strength. He slipped a coin into the slot and pushed his way through the creaking gate.
Only one of the three ceiling lights was working. A single bare bulb providing the grim illumination, casting deep shadows from the fixtures. The air was even colder than it was outside. The American saw his breath misting in the gloom. The walls were stained, the urinals cracked, taps rusted, floor wet.
What a shithole. No wonder the French were such a miserable people when they had to put up with public restrooms like this. At first glance the place was empty, and Kennard checked his watch. He was exactly right on the button. He rubbed his palms together, hoping the asset wasn’t going to be much longer.
He became aware there was someone in one of the stalls a second before a toilet flushed. A moment later the door opened and a figure emerged. He moved to the sink, casting Kennard a brief sideways glance.
The man was dressed in a dark suit and overcoat. There was a squeak as the man turned a faucet and began washing his hands. He did so slowly, in a methodical manner, seemingly unbothered by the cold. The reflection of the man’s blue eyes stared at Kennard in the mirror above the sink. This had to be him.
‘Blake?’ Kennard asked.
‘I’m Dawson,’ the man who was neither Dawson nor Blake answered.
His British accent confused Kennard, and for a moment he hesitated. But the accent didn’t matter. The code had been completed. Kennard moved to the sinks and reached a hand into his coat. The other man turned violently toward him, so fast that it made Kennard freeze in place.
‘It’s not wise to make such moves,’ the man stated flatly.
Kennard believed him. Slowly finishing the action, he drew a small but thick manila envelope from his inside pocket.
‘For you,’ he said.
The man eyed it for a few seconds, turned, and used the back of his wrist to hit the hand dryer. Kennard stood, envelope in hand, feeling like a chump, waiting for the Brit to finish. After the dryer had completed its cycle the man turned back and took the envelope from Kennard’s fingers.
‘You’re supposed to open it now,’ Kennard explained.
The man tore open the envelope and reached inside. He drew out a sleek smartphone, turned it once over in his hands, and went to slip it into his inside jacket pocket.
‘You need to access the files now,’ Kennard said. ‘I was told you’d have the password.’
The British guy looked at Kennard for a moment then turned on the smartphone and opened the files. Kennard watched his eyes absorb the information, the man’s face illuminated by the glow of the screen. The smartphone contained several files that Kennard had received from his employer. He had no idea what the files contained; the phone was password protected. It was no doubt the operation plans so someone could assess who was to blame for the screw-up. The fact that Kennard’s contact was British meant that it had probably been a joint black-bag op with MI6. And one with potentially severe repercussions, hence all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. But he was only guessing, and in Kennard’s experience it didn’t pay to do too much thinking in his job.
The Brit stared at the smartphone for a long time before finally looking up. He gestured to the American.
‘I think you should read this as well.’
Kennard nodded as the phone was handed to him. Text filled the small screen. Kennard tried to read what the document said, but the light stung his eyes and made him squint. It had details: height, weight, hair colour, biographical information, what looked like a CIA record. It was someone’s dossier. There was a photo, slowly
