Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

“Which is?”

“This thing to be over.”

“And?”

“I can make that happen.”

“Why?” asked Victor, genuinely intrigued.

“Don’t be fooled by the cuddly exterior,” the administrator said. “I’m really not a very nice man.”

“I wasn’t fooled,” Victor said. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

“My reasons are my own. But this whole mess should never have been created. I want to clean it up.”

Things were starting to make sense. “And whom exactly are you representing?”

“The government of the United States of America.”

“I doubt that very much,” Victor said.

“I represent the U.S.A. in my own way,” the administrator corrected.

Nether spoke for a moment, and the administrator took an object from a trouser pocket and threw it to Victor. He caught it in his right hand. The assassin’s knife. Victor unfolded it slowly. His left forearm throbbed.

“That’s a pretty special weapon,” the administrator said. “Custom made. No metal. Ceramic blade, carbon-fiber fittings, gladiator point, kriss edge.”

“You know your knives,” Victor said.

“I wasn’t always a desk jockey,” the administrator explained without emotion. “What happened to the man who stabbed you with it?”

Victor folded the blade away. “I stabbed him back.”

A smile appeared on the administrator’s fleshy mouth. Victor went to return the knife, but a palm was raised his way. “Keep it. It’s more use to you than me.”

Victor kept it in his hand. “Since you’re being generous,” he said, “do you have a cigarette?”

The administrator shook his head. “I can probably get one for you.”

“Forget it,” Victor said after a few seconds. “I think I’ve just quit.”

“Good for you,” the administrator said. “So is your answer a yes?”

“It’s a maybe. But that isn’t the only reason why you’re here, is it?”

The administrator smiled. “Very perceptive. You’re right; there is something else I want. I would like to retain your services. From time to time.”

“I’m thinking of retiring.”

“I would hope you might reconsider.”

“Why do you need someone like me in your service?”

“My colleague made a mistake in using you as an expendable asset. I recognize your potential is far higher.”

“My ego doesn’t need massaging.”

“Be that as it may, there are times when being able to subcontract delicate assignments out of house is necessary. Going through the conventional channels to get the job done is not always the most efficient use of time or resources. Especially when that job is, technically speaking, illegal.”

“You must have the contact details of a thousand men like me. Why do you need another?”

“Because those people exist and you don’t. Despite all that has happened these last two weeks, you still have your anonymity as well as your life. The agency still knows nothing about you; no one does. That’s some accomplishment.”

“You still found me.”

“Not really such a tall order after yesterday. But, even so, I don’t know who you are, and I doubt I’ll ever find out. I consider this past fortnight to be your interview. You’ve proved yourself extremely qualified for the position I need to fill.”

“I’ve been very lucky.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I don’t believe you do either.”

“And how would this arrangement work?”

“You’ll perform no other work besides that which you do for me. Those contracts will come directly from me or an associate of mine. And that’s it. Simple.”

Victor showed nothing in his expression. “I know what you’re getting out of this, but how do I benefit?”

“Money, of course.”

“You don’t know what my fee is yet. I think I’m about to increase my rates.”

The administrator smirked. “I’m confident we’ll be able to afford you.”

“What else do I get besides money?”

“Immunity. We can help you avoid any unnecessary complications with other nations. The French are still busy looking for you after Paris, and I’m sure the Swiss would like to ask a few questions as well. And let’s not talk about the Russians.”

“You make a compelling pitch.”

The administrator continued. “Most important, if you do exactly as instructed and don’t flaunt yourself, I can make sure that no one on my side of the Atlantic bothers you either.”

“What if I say no?”

“I don’t believe you will.”

Victor held his gaze, knowing exactly what would happen if he said no. The broad-shouldered janitor who was trying to look busy in the corridor outside would be reaching into his too-clean toolbox for something other than a screwdriver.

“All right,” he said. “I accept.”

“I thought you would.”

“On one condition,” Victor added.

“Name it.”

“I want the person who started this. And that isn’t negotiable.”

There was barely any change in the administrator’s face. “I thought you might say something to that effect. You can have him.” He took an envelope from his clipboard and laid it down on the end of the bed. I’ll contact you in a couple of weeks once you’ve had time to rest so we can discuss how to proceed.”

When the administrator was almost at the door, Victor spoke. “There is something else.”

“I was wondering when you were going to ask.” The administrator stopped and faced him. “You want to know what was on that boat, don’t you? You want to know what all this has been about.”

Victor didn’t look back. “I couldn’t care less about that. I never have.”

The administrator’s broad forehead wrinkled, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Then what is it?”

“There was a woman.” Victor was near the window. “Rebecca.”

“Rebecca Sumner,” the administrator said, the curiosity in his voice obvious. “She was killed in Cyprus.”

“That’s right,” Victor said slowly.

“So what do you want to know about her?”

The bright sunlight warmed Victor’s face.

“Everything.”

17:02 UTC

The administrator closed the door behind him and walked down the busy hospital corridor. He made sure not to look at the janitor lingering close to Tesseract’s room. A simple nod would have been the signal for his man to enter and execute the injured assassin, and Roland Procter did not want his new employee killed unnecessarily.

Locating Tesseract had been relatively simple. After Sykes had finished briefing Procter, he had used local assets to do the searching. It hadn’t taken that long. There were only so many recently hospitalized white guys in the city.

Procter thought about Ferguson. This whole thing had happened because the old bastard hadn’t had enough slaps on the back for doing his job twenty years ago. It was no excuse to turn traitor for a few million. It was a sorry end to a once fine man’s career. Procter wasn’t driven by money; it was power he wanted. Power could buy everything that money could as well as everything that it could not.

He exited the hospital in an excellent mood. Within a few short days he would have compiled a case against Ferguson so compelling even the hacks on the Hill couldn’t brush it under the carpet. With careful leaking of information to the press, Procter would ensure his face was seen at every breakfast table in the city. Savior of the CIA was quite a catchy title, he’d decided.

He expected to be promoted within six months. Chambers was only there until they found someone else, and Procter would soon make himself the perfect candidate. With Ferguson dead, it would give even more weight to Procter’s ascension. Sullying the name of a dead hero would be worth even more than destroying a live one. Everyone who mattered, in the agency and on Capitol Hill, would want a scandal of that magnitude kept under wraps. If he elected to keep quiet, the amount of political currency Procter could gain from the top brass was immense.