Steven Gore - Final Target

“You ready for another one?”

“Willing and still able. What’s the topic?”

“You on the Internet?”

“Only through my grandson.”

“Have him do a search on a company called SatTek. It’s a stock scam. My friend, a lawyer in San Francisco, is being set up to take the fall.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Help me tail the company president. Two hundred pounds a shift for each guy you need to bring in. I’ll be coming in on his flight into Heathrow.”

T wenty-four hours later, Gage was standing in the economy line at the international terminal at SFO waiting for Matson. When first-class was called, Gage watched Matson stroll to the front and nonchalantly present his ticket to the ground crew.

Gage pulled out his cell phone, then cupped his hand over his mouth. Mickey picked up the call on the first ring.

“He’s about five foot nine, mid-forties, brown hair, a little pudgy,” Gage said quietly. “Unless he changes clothes on the plane, he’ll be wearing tan slacks, a yellow button-down shirt, and a dark brown sweater. He’s carrying an attache case, a camel overcoat, and a suit bag.”

“Will you be able to stay with him?” Mickey asked.

“He’ll be getting off before me, so I’ll probably lose him at passport control, but I’ll catch up at baggage claim.”

Gage called Mickey as he followed Matson through customs, and stayed on the phone as Matson met a woman in the arrivals hall. Gage scanned the crowd until he spotted Mickey by an exit. Late sixties, gray-haired, alert eyes that darted, never resting too long on Matson and not reacting when he spotted Gage.

“Did you see the dumplings on that one?” Mickey asked Gage “She’s a tidy package.”

“Mickey, you’re supposed to be watching him.”

“May they stay as close together as a banger in a bun for as long as he’s in London. Amen.”

“I have a feeling they will. What do you think? French? German?”

“With her Eurasian features and those tight pants? I’ll bet Russian or Ukrainian.”

“In any case,” Gage said, “they’re all yours. I’m heading for the hotel. Keep me up on what they do.”

“With delight,” Mickey said. “And by the way, thanks for getting me out of the house.”

Gage took the Heathrow Express train to Paddington Underground Station, then caught a cab to his hotel. By the time he checked in and unpacked, Mickey called.

“She took him to a flat in Knightsbridge. Right off Brompton Road. It must’ve cost a bomb. Top floor. And she was driving a Jaguar XK, red.”

“Convertible?” Gage asked.

“Right. How’d you know?”

“You’ve seen the guy. What else would it be? Did you see the way he draped his sweater over his shoulders like some…what’s the word?”

“Would that be a five-letter word down or a seven-letter word across?”

“Take your pick.”

“Dandy or coxcomb.” Mickey chuckled. “I’m sure either one will do.”

“You think you can find out who owns the flat and the car?”

“My dear, dear Gage.” Mickey’s voice oozed with mock disappointment at Gage’s seeming lack of respect for his talents and his remaining connections in the Metropolitan Police.

“Sorry. Will you find out who owns the flat and the car?”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

“I’m going to take a nap and try to head off some of the jet lag. Come by at 11 A. M. I’m in 1704 at the Carleton Tower.”

Gage knew exactly what time it was when he heard the knock at his door.

“I like the beard,” Gage told retired Superintendent of Police Mickey Ransford. “It makes you look like a fuzzy old bear.”

“The wife says it tickles. Apparently, after forty-three years of marriage I’ve become cute again.”

Gage smiled to himself as Mickey stepped through the doorway. Just a few years earlier, Mickey’s subordinates had variously compared him to a bloodhound, a bulldog, and a pit bull. Somehow, in retirement, he’d devolved into a pug.

Gage directed Mickey to a couch, then poured tea from a service resting on a side table and sat in a matching armchair.

“Any chance Matson spotted you?” Gage asked.

“No. Old men like me are like lost house keys. You don’t pay them any mind until they’re gone, and then you can’t find them.”

Mickey stirred sugar into his tea. “There’s an old Ukrainian saying.” He looked up, winking. “It’s something like, ‘Old age is not a blessing.’”

“So you were right.”

“As always. Alla Petrovna Tarasova. A long-legged Ukrainian with a beautiful name. Tourist visa. Extended.”

“And who owns the flat?”

“TAMS Limited, registered in Wales.”

“T…A…M…S…Let me guess.” Gage smiled. “Tarasova-Alla-Matson-Stuart.”

“That’s how the smart money is betting.”

“Did you happen to find out-”

“Morely Alden Fitzhugh IV, chartered account. Director. A memorable name.”

Gage felt SatTek’s offshore financial universe begin to rotate around a fixed point. “That’s the same guy who’s head of a holding company connected to SatTek.”

Mickey squinted toward the ceiling and raised a forefinger. “How do your American girls say it?” He grinned, then looked at Gage. “I…don’t… think…so.”

“What? You mean there are two guys with that name?”

“There isn’t even one with that name. There was, of course, until last week when his various components were found drifting about in the Thames. As I said, a memorable name. One must pass through the news sections of the Times to reach the crossword puzzle.”

A wave of jet lag shuddered through Gage’s body. The fixed point turned out to be a black hole.

“And no. No one was arrested. The home secretary was quoted as claiming that the Russian maffiya was responsible. But it’s budget time in Parliament so one can’t take these sorts of announcements seriously. Blaming Russian gangsters for everything is quite popular among the political classes. For all we know, there was a domestic quarrel and he simply went to pieces under his wife’s wrath.”

Mickey’s cell phone rang.

“A taxi just picked up Matson,” Mickey said. “Shall we join the chase?”

Gage slipped on a jacket and dropped a digital camera into his breast pocket. Mickey guided him from the hotel to a black London cab parked on a bordering street.

“We’re lucky,” Gage said, after getting into the back with Mickey.

“Luck has nothing to do with it.” Mickey aimed a finger at the driver, a stocky man leaning toward the steering wheel, gripping it with both hands. “Meet Hixon One. Sergeant, Metropolitan Police, retired.”

“Is there a Hixon Two?”

“Certainly,” Mickey answered. “Following Matson.”

“Nice to meet you Mr. Gage,” Hixon One said, pulling into traffic.

While Mickey relayed the directions from the car following Matson, Hixon One fought the midday traffic from Sloane Street, to Kensington Road, and finally to Kensington High Street, where he pulled over.

“Hixon Two says Matson went into that pub over there.” Mickey pointed across the street at a heavy wooden door, the center of which was occupied by a stained glass image of an ax. “Shall I go in?”

“No. Send Hixon Two. But tell him the guy Matson’s meeting may not be as naive as he is.”

“You mean her.”

“How do you know Matson’s meeting a woman?”

“No. Hixon Two is a she.”

“My daughter,” Hixon One said, smiling and reaching for his cell phone. “Reconnaissance and Surveillance Regiment, SAS, on leave, helping her old man out. Eighteen months from now we’ll be Hixon amp; Hixon, Enquiry Agents, Limited.”