so close to being rich beyond his wildest dreams he could taste it. So far he had simply been unlucky, that was all. Ferguson was sure of it. The tartare steak was difficult to swallow.
His phone flashed again, and Ferguson saw Sykes’s name on the screen. The gutless fool had been trying to get through to him all morning. It was obviously something important, or in Sykes’s mind important, but Ferguson wasn’t in the mood to hear about another screw-up just yet.
If anything else went wrong, Ferguson would be having some more difficult nights. Should everything be wrapped up cleanly, there would still be all that came before it to tidy up too. Even if Alvarez ended up nowhere, Chambers and Procter wouldn’t simply let things lie. As much as Ferguson disliked them, Procter in particular, he was painfully aware that the fat fuck and anorexic bitch were shrewd and determined individuals.
With Procter’s great big nose sniffing around, Ferguson knew he was going to have to draw this thing to a resolution with absolutely no loose threads. Otherwise Procter would keep tugging away until the whole thing was pulled apart. The only way to put the issue to bed was if someone took the heat for hiring Tesseract. There had to be a bad guy.
A conversation a few decibels on the wrong side of polite interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to see Sykes arguing with the maitre d’. Ferguson sighed and gestured for Sykes to be allowed to pass.
Ferguson made a point of eating and not looking at him as Sykes took a seat opposite. A file dropped onto the table.
‘Merry fucking Christmas.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
Ferguson glanced upward to see Sykes’s smiling features. His face looked like it belonged in an ad for a range of male grooming products for the not-so young and not-so good-looking.
‘Christmas has come early,’ he announced. ‘It’s over.’
‘What?’
‘It’s over.’ Sykes declared again
The sixty-seven-year-old heart inside Ferguson’s chest started to beat faster. ‘He’s dead?’
Sykes’s face stretched even further. ‘Blown to fucking smithereens.’
‘Sumner?’
‘Dead too. Reed got them both. There’s not enough left of either to identify. Nothing will come back to us. Ever.’
Goose bumps rose down Ferguson’s back. ‘Thank God,’ he said, joining Sykes with a smile of his own. ‘That boy is worth every penny. I do hope the Brits appreciate his skills.’ He paused for a moment to enjoy the sweet taste of victory. ‘I was almost concerned there for a moment.’
Sykes laughed. ‘You’re telling me. My heart’s been in my mouth for over a week.’
‘Relief feels good, doesn’t it, Mr Sykes?’
‘Fuck, yeah. But it gets better.’
‘He has the drive?’ Ferguson asked, excitement in his voice.
Sykes nodded. He pointed at the file.
Ferguson raised his eyebrow and his forehead wrinkled. He reached for the file. ‘Already?’
Sykes nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours. I had plenty of time to sort it.’
Ferguson discreetly opened the file and glimpsed the sonar pictures inside. ‘Where is it?’
‘About eighty miles off the coast of Tanga, Tanzania,’ Sykes explained in a low voice.
The veteran CIA officer thought for a few moments. ‘You’ll need to be on the soonest possible flight out. I’ll think of some reason for you to visit the embassy on my behalf.’
The reluctance in Sykes’s face was obvious. ‘You want me to go personally?’
Ferguson nodded. ‘There have been far too many mistakes made on account of using third parties already. I need you there.’ The subtle but flattering appeal worked instantly. Ferguson could see Sykes warming to the idea. He continued. ‘Take a couple of divers — some former SEALs based on the Continent shouldn’t be too hard to find.’
‘I gathered a list of suitable personnel some time ago,’ Sykes said with seeming nonchalance but lashings of thinly disguised smugness.
‘Very good,’ Ferguson said. ‘Plan for them to meet you there and brief them only when you’re on the boat. Enough money should allay any reservations they might have about agreeing to a mission before they have all the facts.’
‘Okay.’
‘And let’s make sure we know enough about them so that, should it be necessary, we can arrange for some unfortunate accidents to befall them, of the Reed variety.’ Sykes nodded, but a little uncomfortably. ‘And once you have everything organized it’s time we started contacting potential buyers so we can make the sales as soon as possible. The longer we have those missiles in our possession, the more at risk we’ll be.’
‘I’ll sort it.’
‘Good man.’
Sykes started to rise.
‘Ah,’ Ferguson began, ‘given this last week’s unfortunate events I think it would be wise if we cross off any Western buyers from the list.’
Sykes sat back down. ‘Excuse me?’
‘To be on the safe side,’ Ferguson assured. ‘It’s best if we sell the missiles outside of Europe or North America.’
‘But the whole point was to sell them to the Pentagon. Our country will pay more than anyone by far.’
Ferguson took a sip of wine. ‘Things have changed,’ he said. ‘It’s too risky now. It was always going to be extremely difficult to deal with our own country and remain undetected, and that was before that massacre in the middle of Paris went down. We have Alvarez sniffing around like a bloodhound and spreading suspicion that this whole thing might be an illegal op as it is. What do you think will happen when we send an invoice to the military? And if we sell them in Europe our people over here will hear about it pretty damn quickly too. Best we stick to other parts of the world only, I think.’
‘What other parts of the world? No North America, no Europe — Russia and China’s already got them — the only countries left who would want them are in the Middle East or North Korea.’
Ferguson took a sip of wine and nodded.
‘Whoa, hold on a minute,’ Sykes said, leaning forward. ‘Now you’re talking about selling arms to rogue states or fucking terrorists. That’s as good as painting a bull’s-eye on our nation’s back. Fuck that. I’m not having the sinking of one of our carrier fleets on my conscience. I’m no traitor; I love my country.’
Ferguson frowned. ‘Mr Sykes, may I remind you those missiles can be used in anger against us already, whether we sell them or not. And, let me tell you, this planet would be far more stable if America loses some muscle mass.’
‘That’s a rather unpatriotic view to take.’
‘Try not to mistake your own lack of balls for patriotism, Mr Sykes. I’ve spent my life fighting this country’s battles and had my blood spilled in the process, so don’t presume to lecture me on patriotism now.’
Sykes scoffed. ‘Spare me the hero speech.’
If they’d have been in private, Ferguson’s knuckles would have connected with Sykes’s excuse for a jaw.
‘Hero speech?’ Ferguson spat. ‘How dare you? I gave twentyfive years and my marriage to fighting the Cold War so you could sit there sporting your polished veneers and designer face cream. This country is still alive because of men like me, men who went the extra mile just to shovel the shit no one else would go near.’
Sykes went to speak, but Ferguson cut him off. ‘But I’ve never considered myself a hero, not once, do you understand me? And I’ll tell you now, I went into that fight knowing I would have to wear my medals on the inside, that it would be whisky in place of parades and instead of a twenty-one-gun salute it would be being left to rot in some shitty corner of hell the average Joe didn’t even know existed. Keeping America safe has been my life, and it’s sucked me dry, consumed every waking moment of my life — of my existence.
‘Then the Cold War ends, and guess what happens? Hey, you’ve done it, you’ve won battle. It’s over. Your hand gets shook and your back gets patted and the thanks last as long as they take to give. And before long you’re forgotten, obsolete, a relic. You keep your job, but no one really wants you to do it any more. Your expertise is worthless now because you actually won your fight. And what are you left with? No money. You got paid peanuts
