The Last Surgeon

Somewhat messy, but nicely done, he decided. Nicely done, indeed.

Koller suspected that he was about to meet Jericho the person, or else the head of the organization calling itself by that name. He was curious why this client was so insistent on rendezvousing with him in person. A face- to-face meeting was potentially dangerous for each of them-lethal for one of them if it were Jericho’s intention to kill him. But killing him at this point-at any point for that matter-made no sense. It had to be that once again, as was the case when Jericho elected to burn down Jillian Coates’s condo, established protocol was about to be broken. Only this time, his client had wisely decided it was easier and safer to ask permission than it was to seek forgiveness.

The killer sensed movement and sound, and slid the Ruger onto his lap. A full minute passed before he actually heard the voices of a man and woman, approaching along the walk to his left. Koller inhaled through his nose and began the process of slowing his pulse. They sounded harmless and intoxicated, but professional killers would. He followed the couple out of the corner of his eye as they emerged from a dense grove and approached along the walk from a hundred feet away. At the same time, he scanned to his right. Nothing. If the couple were good enough to fool him, it was going to be a hell of a fight.

He buried his pistol beneath his jacket.

“Hey, there, buddy. How’re you doing?” the man said.

He was an absolute house, six five, two-eighty or more, and if he had anything less than a 0.2 blood alcohol level, he deserved an Oscar. The girl on his arm was petite and quiet.

“Have a good one,” Koller said, still on red alert, but now for anyone whose presence the couple might have masked.

“You betcha,” the bear said.

He hiccuped, stumbled once, and then proceeded on.

Koller holstered the Ruger and checked his watch. Always arrive late. Another unnecessary CIA gorilla shtick. In exchange for the tax-free million or more they were paying him for each kill, he’d give them five more minutes. The Jericho contract had already brought him millions. With luck this meeting would end up adding to that haul.

From behind him, Koller heard footsteps on the grass. Two people, almost certainly men, one of them, like his previous visitor, quite large. He did not turn around, but again prepared himself for action. If they were pros, they were either clumsy pros or meant him no harm. Jericho and a bodyguard, he decided.

The heavier footsteps stopped fifty feet away. The smaller man continued forward, then sat down on the bench with his back to Koller.

“Thank you for meeting me like this,” the arrival said.

That voice. Now Koller understood why his client had shown up with security.

“It’s my pleasure. Who’s the muscle back there?”

“How did you-?”

“Look, you pay me what you do because I’m the best. If you have any other plans aside from a chat, you’ll soon regret that.”

“Killing me would make quite a story. Perhaps since you’re so astute you already know who I am.”

“I watch TV,” Koller said. “You the head of Jericho?”

“This isn’t a quiz show. Form your own opinion about that.”

“I’m not wearing a wire.”

“I know that already. We scanned you ten minutes ago.”

“The drunk and the girl. They’re good.”

“My whole team is good. That’s why we hired you.”

“So, let’s get down to it, then. We didn’t need to meet in person to arrange a job. You already know how that’s done.”

“There have been some changes. What I need now is to know that I can trust you.”

“An ironic request of somebody in my line of work, don’t you think?”

Koller began to relax. There was no way the future vice presidential nominee, with his ticket already well ahead in all the polls, would set himself up to be killed. It also went far to explain Jericho. Before his recent selection, Lionel Ramsland had been the deputy director of the CIA.

CHAPTER 32

For several minutes Lionel Ramsland remained silent. He had already been chosen to join the ticket with John Greenleigh, his party’s leading presidential candidate, well in advance of the August nominating convention. Popular and respected defenders of democracy, few expected they would lose.

“I know that we erred with that condo fire,” Ramsland said finally.

“Do you remember what I told you about my marks?” Koller asked.

“Refresh me.”

“Under no circumstance are clients ever to engage, tail, touch, or even breathe near anybody associated with a mark without my authorization-and that authorization is something I would simply never grant.”

“Okay, you’ve made yourself clear.”

“I had materials well concealed in the place that I hadn’t had the opportunity to remove. If the police had found them, it could have gone poorly for me-and you.”

“Our mistake.”

“And you paid me for that mistake. So?”

“Well, it seems Operation Jericho has a few new and unforeseen stress points. Nothing I’m that worried about, especially with you on our side. But then again, I didn’t get to where I am by being passive.”

“You know I’m a professional and I always deliver. Customer satisfaction guaranteed or your victim back,” Koller said with a chuckle. “Maybe I should have that slogan printed on my business cards.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Go on, sir.”

The man many considered more powerful and decisive than his much younger, more intellectual running mate cleared his throat. Koller noted for the first time the fatigue in his voice.

“I love this country,” Ramsland said, “and consider myself a patriot, someone who would do anything in his power to protect her. Anything. It’s important to me that I believe you would do the same.”

“Country love is your business, not mine.”

“The people who have hired you in the past told me I could expect that answer from you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have brought the subject up.”

“As the moving force behind Jericho, I could not in good conscience address our latest concerns without meeting you face-to-face and at least asking.”

“Detachment is a valuable asset in my work, but so is loyalty.”

“To the country?”

“No, Mr. Ramsland, to my clients.”

“I see.”

“Why don’t you cut the cloak-and-dagger bullshit and come sit next to me?”

Ramsland did as the killer suggested and for a few pregnant moments, the two men locked gazes and sized each other up.

“You’re not what I pictured,” Ramsland said.

“I try to stay out of the papers. Sweet to think you were fantasizing about me, though.”

“My sources told me that you had a-how did they put it-an eccentric sense of humor.”

“I don’t really enjoy being talked about. Go on. I think you should get to the point.”

“Ah yes, I was told about your bluntness, too. Okay, let me begin by saying that we have a responsibility, you