Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

Aniskovach had originally planned to appear shocked at news of the leak but now chose to stand emotionless. There seemed little point in acting ignorant.

“There are many who care only for headlines who are extremely pleased with your actions. Press releases are already being prepared to boast of our victory.” Prudnikov sighed. “Quite the hero, aren’t you?”

“I do my duty as well as I can.”

Prudnikov laughed bitterly and leaned back in his chair. “It appears that your stock has risen sharply and that you have some new friends in the Kremlin, friends who inform me that you’ve done Russia proud, friends who inform me that it would weaken our very nation if I were to downgrade your responsibilities. Apparently the lives of four distinguished soldiers, four real heroes, is but a small price to pay for keeping our missile superiority. I have been instructed that I should congratulate you, reward you even.”

The SVR colonel tried not to look too pleased with himself. This was going even better than he had expected.

“Thank you, sir.”

“There is no need to thank me, Gennady, when this has been entirely of your own doing. Any thanks you receive should therefore be directed purely toward yourself.”

“Then I thank myself.”

Prudnikov’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Your arrogance will be your downfall.”

“Perhaps,” Aniskovach began, “but so far any arrogance has been more than justified. There is no reason to suggest that justification shall not continue. In which case confidence would have been a more accurate choice of word. Sir.”

Prudnikov, showing a look of pure disdain, considered Aniskovach for a long time. He didn’t retort, and Aniskovach took his silence as a sign of concession in the verbal battle. Eventually the head of the SVR adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “Since I cannot demote you,” he said, “I may as well make use of you. You are to continue your hunt for General Banarov’s assassin. Hopefully on this matter you have already reached the limits of any damage you may have caused. Do we know anything more of him?”

Aniskovach had not told Prudnikov the full extent of what happened in Tanzania and had completely left out the involvement of Banarov’s killer. Such information was too valuable to give up until the most opportune moment. For now, though, one minor detail to placate Prudnikov wouldn’t hurt.

“Well,” Aniskovach began with a carefully measured quantity of drama. “We’ve had a very interesting development in that regard.”

Tanga, Tanzania

Tuesday

16:50 UTC

When Victor awoke, he wanted to be sick, but he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings as soon as consciousness allowed. He was lying in a hospital bed, a mosquito net surrounding him. His vision was blurry, but it was bright, daytime. A ceiling fan thrummed overhead. The room was small. He was alone.

Every inch of him seemed to hurt. There were bruises everywhere. Wounds all over his body had been dressed. A ring of bandages was wrapped tight around his stomach, but his left forearm was the most heavily bound. Nothing was splinted or cast, so he knew there were no broken bones, but fearing tendon damage he tentatively flexed his left hand. He winced at the pain, but all his fingers seemed to move correctly. He hoped that there wouldn’t be any long-term damage. If he made it back to Europe, he would get it looked at by a specialist just to be sure.

He felt weak; it was difficult to sit himself upright. He guessed he was suffering the side effects from any painkillers and sedatives as well as from his injuries. He brushed the mosquito net aside. Since there were no tubes inside him, he swiveled his legs out from under the blanket, and the soles of his feet touched the cool floor.

He didn’t know why he was in a private room instead of a ward, maybe just on merit of his skin color. It was an effort to stand, and he moved slowly over to the window. Looking out he saw that he was on the first floor, no more than fifteen feet from the ground. Not far, but in his current physical state he doubted he’d be able to support his own weight, let alone climb. The window was a potential escape route, not his first choice of exit.

He would have to be careful how he elected to leave. If he slipped away unnoticed, it could create a fuss; people’s memories would be keener if questions were asked about him at a later point. If he took his time, discharged himself without incident, then if anyone came asking questions, no one would really remember him except for his race and wounds. After he left, he would come back and pay an intern to steal his records.

He enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his skin. It was good to be alive, better than he could have believed. But he wasn’t safe. He was surprised there were no guards outside his room. Maybe the Tanzanian authorities didn’t know his part in the killings of the previous night. He realized his sense of time was off. He didn’t know what time of day it was or how long it had been since that knife fight in the river. He remembered waking up before, maybe twice, but couldn’t remember any details. He hoped it was only the next day.

The door opened, and he turned quickly to see a doctor enter. Victor could barely see the face, his eyes having trouble focusing. The doctor was tall and overweight. White. He looked to be in his fifties.

“How do you feel?”

His accent was strange. Victor couldn’t place it.

“Groggy,” was his reply.

The doctor seemed agitated. “You should be resting.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost two days.”

Victor knew he was fortunate that people who mattered didn’t yet know he was here after so long a time. But any further time spent in the hospital gave any enemies more chance to zero in on his position. He needed to leave, now, regardless of causing a commotion. Victor opened the cupboard near the bed and found some of his clothes.

“I need to go,” he said.

“I’d like to talk to you before you do.”

“I haven’t got time.”

“Are you quite sure?”

There was something in the tone that made Victor look up. The face started to come into focus. There was a curious expression etched on the doctor’s features. His white coat looked pristine. There were no pens in the pocket, no stethoscope around the neck, no identification.

Victor stopped getting dressed. “Who are you?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“I worked that part out for myself.”

The man who wasn’t a doctor smiled. “I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t.”

“If you’re here to kill me you’ve waited too long.”

“You think I’m a killer?” He laughed to himself. “Hardly.”

“Then what are you?”

“Think of me as an administrator.”

Victor continued putting on his clothes. “Is the accent necessary?”

“Is this better?” An American.

“Where’s your backup?”

“I don’t have any.”

A lie.

“Then what’s stopping me from killing you?”

“In your current physical state, I think even you would struggle with that. But, more notably, the same thing that would prevent me from doing likewise.” The administrator pointed, gestured through the door’s window to the corridor outside full of patients and hospital staff-a janitor, nurses. Witnesses. “I just want to talk.”

“We’re talking,” Victor said. “You have the time it takes me to get dressed.”

“Then I’ll be curt.”

Victor kept his gaze on the administrator the whole time. He couldn’t see signs that he was armed. “Please do.”

“I’m here because we can help each other.”

“How?”

“We both want the same thing.”