Steven Gore - Final Target

“Tell him we’ll send a Mutual Legal Assistance Request as soon as we get Washington’s approval. In the meantime, maybe he can start checking out Fitzhugh-but carefully.”

Zink rose to leave.

“We don’t want this guy spooked,” Peterson said. “So make sure they don’t haul him in until we’re ready.”

W hoever dumped Fitzhugh’s body into the Thames on the day Chief Inspector Devlin and Agent Zink were to knock on his door wasn’t a fisherman, a meteorologist, or a sailor. Instead of drifting out to the North Sea, Fitzhugh’s remains rode a tidal surge upstream, driven by winds blowing in from the east. Fishermen dropping lines off Victoria Embankment, where he was found wedged between a skiff and a piling, considered and debated the matter for weeks. The consensus, ultimately, was that Fitzhugh must’ve been dropped into the river at St. Katharine’s Docks, perhaps even dragged down Alderman’s Stairs. In any case, certainly no nearer than the Tower Bridge. After all, the paper said Fitzhugh hadn’t been dead all that long when the young solicitor walking in the darkness along the river toward his office in Blackfriars vomited at the sight of Fitzhugh’s headless and limbless torso floating by.

Chief Inspector Eamonn Devlin was disappointed. While some officers viewed the murder of a criminal as just deserts, Devlin figured it was no more or less than a timely escape from justice. He often fantasized about becoming the Lord High Executioner, thinking it a shame that the position no longer existed.

Devlin wasn’t personally certain Fitzhugh was a crook, but when the FBI rings up and asks you to perform discreet inquiries, and when an agent arrives bearing a most solicitous letter from Washington, it wasn’t much of a leap.

By the time he’d noticed the homicide entry on the morning bulletin, Fitzhugh’s two arms and one leg had been recovered. By noon, when Zink arrived at Devlin’s office, Fitzhugh’s head, which had been bobbing along and unnerving tourists near the Houses of Parliament, had been netted by a passing tour boat captain.

Just before 2 P. M., Devlin received word that Fitzhugh had been provisionally identified based on a missing person’s report filed by his wife when he hadn’t returned home the previous evening.

Devlin walked Zink down the hallway in the City of Westminster’s Agar Street Station to meet with Inspector Rees of homicide, who’d been assigned the Fitzhugh case, unofficially categorized as a Humpty-Dumpty.

“What’s your interest in Fitzhugh?” Rees asked, as they stood in his small office.

“Securities fraud,” Zink said. “We were going to indict him in a few weeks.”

Rees grinned. “Instead, he’ll be reassembled.”

Devlin frowned.

“Sorry, Chief Inspector. Sometimes we…I…”

“I don’t think our guest appreciates your attempt at levity.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector.”

“It’s okay,” Zink said. “I’m used to it. I started out as a street cop.”

“What was the cause of death?” Devlin asked.

“A slim sharp object entered his thoracic cavity from the rear and came to an abrupt stop in his right ventricle.”

“Any similars?”

“By victim? Chartered accountants. None. By method? A few.”

“Suspects?”

“In Fitzhugh? None. In dismemberments? Russians or Chechens.” Rees looked toward Zink. “Of the fifty-four nationalities in the City of Westminster, few others have the stomach for this kind of work. But anything is possible.”

“Motive?” Zink asked.

“Until you arrived, we had no thoughts beyond the likelihood that it was a contract killing or, of course, a domestic manslaughter followed by a desperate attempt to dispose of the body.”

“Have you searched his home and office?” Devlin asked.

Rees shook his head. “That’s next on the agenda.”

“Why don’t you take Agent Zink with you? I’m certain he’ll be interested in examining Fitzhugh’s files.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector.”

“And I’d like you to copy me on your reports.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector.”

As Zink was boarding his Heathrow flight back to San Francisco, he telephoned Matson, ordering him to appear at the Palo Alto safe house at 3 P. M., fifty-five minutes after his scheduled landing.

Twelve hours later, Matson’s sunken-eyed, ashen face stared at Zink on the other side of the coffee table.

“Who have you been talking to?” Zink demanded.

“No one. No one knows.”

“Burch gets hit just before we’re about to lean on him. Now it’s Fitzhugh.”

“I haven’t said anything to anyone. Not even my wife.”

“Bullshit. What about Granger? When did you last talk to Granger?”

“A week ago. But we didn’t talk about the case except he said he wasn’t gonna make a deal. I was gonna tell you about it when you got back from London.”

“And when were you going to tell me about your connection to TAMS Limited? I found the papers in Fitzhugh’s house.”

Matson blanched. “I was gonna…”

Zink sprang across the table and grabbed Matson by the shirtfront, yanking him from the sofa.

“You were gonna what? I could go to Peterson right now and get your ass indicted by sundown. Is that what you want? Hide one more thing from me and that’s what you’re going to get. You got it, you little shit?…I said, you got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Matson squeaked out. “I got it.”

Zink pushed Matson back down, but remained standing, glaring at him. Matson flinched when Zink reached into his briefcase for a legal pad, still astonished that a man that small could be so strong, and so quick.

Zink yanked a pen from his shirt pocket, then sat down.

“Tell me every fucking thing about TAMS fucking Limited.”

“It’s nothing.” Matson wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Just a company Fitzhugh set up. Burch was supposed to do it, but he was busy or something. TAMS owns a flat in London. Alla lives there. I wasn’t hiding it. We haven’t even gotten to the stockbrokers yet. They came long before TAMS. You got to have money before you can buy anything. Even though Granger had gotten the SEC to let us issue the shares, we still had to find somebody to sell them for us. That’s how we hooked up with Northstead Securities.”

Matson took in a breath and exhaled, then leaned forward on the couch.

“The guy we dealt with was named Yuri Kovalenko. You should’ve seen this monster. Granger and I walked into his office in San Diego and sitting behind the desk was a guy with a huge, shaved head and hands like a meatpacker.

“Kovalenko had a spreadsheet all ready. It showed that SatTek was supposed to issue Northstead some shares at two dollars each, and that they would keep whatever they could sell it for above that. The stock goes up to five, they get three; goes up to six, they get four. It pissed me off. They could be making twice as much as SatTek.

“I wanted to get up and walk out right then, but it hit me real hard what kind of guy I’m talking to, and I’m not sure who to be more frightened of, the SEC Enforcement Division or him. But I figure I need to say something, so I tell him that the SEC will only let us pay a commission. A few percent. Kovalenko looks at me like I’m a fool and points this sausagelike finger at me, but Granger cuts in and says how much of a risk Northstead is taking in the deal and blah, blah, blah.”

Matson emitted a nervous laugh. “The only one who was at risk right then was me.”

Zink smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re claiming you got coerced into doing this by Kovalenko?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I was still thinking that if we did things just right, and brought in enough money, even at two bucks a share, we could grow SatTek into a big company. Five million shares meant ten million dollars for SatTek. That and a little leverage and we could buy up some of our competition.”