He unslung his shoulder bag and removed the handgun. He placed the weapon under one of the bed’s pillows. Carrying the bag around was to be avoided. It would draw attention. He spent ten minutes examining the room before he opened the balcony doors to let in some air. Reed had a view of the harbour and the dhows floating on the bright turquoise sea. He had no plans to stay in the hotel, but the room gave legitimacy to his presence. His white face made him too recognizable to linger in the vicinity otherwise.
The dossier already told him that the target was staying in room 314. The two divers were down the hall in 320. There was an elevator and two sets of stairs. Reed always preferred to use stairs if it was practical to do so. In an elevator he was virtually trapped and completely exposed when the doors opened to whomever was waiting. He exited the room and returned to the lobby.
There was a modest hotel bar that seemed pleasant enough. He bought a bottle of mineral water and took a seat where he could see enough of the lobby to know if the target left. Reed had been informed that his prey would be in Tanga for at least a couple of days, but the Englishman was nonetheless prudent. The mineral water was refreshingly cold. He was a little bored.
Though Reed had killed five people inside a week and was due to kill another shortly, only killing the target he knew as Tesseract had given him anything close to satisfaction. Even that was limited, since dispatching him had placed no real demands on Reed’s considerable skills. He had originally given Tesseract credit for his performance in Paris, but now concluded that surviving that attack had more to do with the incompetence of the assailants than with Tesseract’s own ability. A truly capable professional would not have been killed so easily in Cyprus. It was a shame that a potentially worthy adversary had been found so wanting — lamentable, but Reed had yet to encounter anyone who lived up to such a mantle. In short, Tesseract was an amateur compared with Reed.
The bar was almost empty except for some foreigners who were grouped in a corner and laughing over a few drinks. Reed took a small sip from his water. Maybe it was time to only take challenging contracts. It was more befitting to his abilities that way. Perhaps until the new year he should perform only for the Firm and decline any private offers that came his way. Well, unless they appealed to his sense of adventure. Reed was getting ahead of himself, he knew. He still had this job to complete, and untaxing as it was, he still needed to keep his focus. When one’s concentration waned, mistakes followed. Reed’s smartphone was in the pocket of his trousers. He took it out and placed it on the table before him.
He waited.
CHAPTER 71
Central Intelligence Agency, Virginia, USA
Monday
09:15 EST
It took a few seconds for the ringing phone to pull Ferguson from his nap and another few before he understood what had woken him. Decades had passed since Ferguson had needed to be on guard while resting, and his once-acute senses had dulled with age and inactivity. He reached out a thin hand to grab the phone. He’d only meant to close his eyes for a moment.
His voice was croaky. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s done.’
‘Who is this?’
It was Sykes. He spoke hurriedly, frantically. ‘We’ve got the missiles, well, two of them, what we could get from them. We’ll go back tomorrow, see what else we can salvage. They doubt we’ll get anything though.’
‘Slow down,’ Ferguson said. ‘And tell me again.’
Sykes spoke more slowly, describing exactly what had been extracted and the situation regarding the remaining missiles. Ferguson took a few moments to digest what he was being told. He sat up.
‘You have two of the missiles? In your possession?’
‘Not one hundred per cent of them, but propulsion, electronics, et cetera. In a truck outside.’
Ferguson stared out of his office window. He felt as though someone had injected him with pure joy.
‘That’s tremendous news. Well done, Mr Sykes.’
‘Thanks.’
Sykes’s toned echoed none of Ferguson’s own happiness. Not that it mattered.
‘Stay in your hotel and keep a low profile tonight, and tomorrow you can see what else can be recovered.’
‘Okay.’
Ferguson hung up. He felt tired, both in mind and body, but at least it was almost over. Just another messy assignment in a lifetime of necessary but untidy service to his nation. A nation that had registered him obsolete. After all those years of faithful service it was surely only right that he receive a generous retirement package.
It would be nice to have more missiles, but the greater the number, the harder it would be to transport and store secretly. Two missiles were plenty. Hell, he only needed to sell one to bank more money than he could ever spend.
Once the dust had settled, Ferguson would be whiter than white. There wouldn’t even be the barest hint he had anything to do with Tesseract or Ozols or the missiles. He thought about all the events that had conspired to create this result while the computer powered up. What could he have done to have made things work out more smoothly? Even with the benefit of hindsight there wasn’t much that should have been done differently. No one could have foreseen Tesseract’s surviving that ambush in Paris. Things had only become messy after that. The one mistake Ferguson knew he’d made was in using Sykes, but fortunately he was in a position to correct that.
His loyal deputy would take the blame for everything. Sykes had the power to have seen this thing through thus far, with the ambition and the idiocy to get himself killed in the process.
Dalweg and Wiechman had been contacted the day before and briefed on what was about to happen and what they were to do afterward, so Ferguson had only one message to send. The email took him seconds to write and gave him considerable satisfaction to send. The email contained just one word.
Proceed.
CHAPTER 72
Tanga, Tanzania
Monday
17:17 EAT
The kitchen was even hotter than outside and carried the loud noise of busy work. There were maybe a dozen members of the kitchen staff working frantically, preparing and cooking food, washing up, cleaning. A huge chef was shouting orders with the vigour of a drill sergeant. Victor, with a small crate of fruit on his shoulder, drew neither looks nor words as he dodged around the working bodies. He appeared to have a purpose and a reason for being there, and busy people rarely interrupted their work to challenge someone else who also seemed to be working.
Victor kept his head tilted slightly forward so it was hard for anyone to see his eyes. Eye contact helped people remember. His gaze passed over the work surfaces as he moved, trying to find a knife to palm. He saw none and didn’t want to risk loitering and attracting attention just to get one. A weapon was always useful, but for what he was planning he could go without. He left the crate on the floor by the interior door before he slipped through.
The assassin had still been waiting outside when Victor left him. He’d taken the same flight to Tanzania, flying coach while the assassin flew first, and had followed the man since. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have fancied his chances at shadowing so skilled a target, but Victor had one considerable advantage. He was supposed to be dead.
Victor had imagined sliding a knife into the assassin’s flesh alongside the spine and piercing the heart or
