Tom Hinshelwood - The Killer

He found the camera near the elevator, positioned so it could see the elevator doors and the adjoining corridor. Victor counted the doors and saw the room he wanted halfway between the elevator and the far intersection. Victor knew the man was alone, but there was always the chance that one or both of his companions had joined him in the room since Victor had watched the CCTV footage.

If they had guns, which Victor had to assume, things could quickly turn bad. But if he was fast he could get the information he needed, probably just a name or an address or maybe a phone number, and, he hoped, get out before anyone else realized he was there.

It took mere seconds to reach the door, but, before he had a chance to make a move, another door opened farther along the corridor. Victor kept walking as one of the two big guys exited his room. He was marginally shorter than Victor with blond hair and a scrappy beard. He wore long shorts and a loose T-shirt. His strength was obvious. The man’s gaze stayed on Victor as they passed each other.

Victor kept his pace and turned the corner at the end of the corridor, resisting the natural urge to look back. The man would be watching him until he left his vision. Victor stopped when he was out of sight and listened. He heard a knock, then a few seconds later a door opened. Hushed voices before the door closed again.

Two in the same room complicated things, but at least it meant each would be a distraction to the other. It would give him a better chance of gaining the element of surprise. Victor carried on down the corridor instead of doubling back. He didn’t want the camera to get a shot of his face, poor quality or not.

He walked as fast as he dared without appearing to hurry. The hotel seemed relatively empty. He didn’t imagine it did much business even at the best of times. His pulse was slow and steady.

Victor approached the turning where the elevator was located. He heard the chime as it reached the floor. That was all he needed, another guest or hotel employee nearby to give him more problems. He slowed, wanting the person to leave the elevator in front of him instead of behind. He heard the doors open.

The man who stepped out was in his early forties, tall, fair skinned, with Slavic features, carrying a suitcase. He could have been considered handsome but for the recent wound stitched shut on the right side of his face.

That face Victor had seen before a week ago in St. Petersburg through the scope of a sniper rifle.

Victor didn’t slow his pace or react in any way. He hoped he was somehow mistaken, even though he knew he wasn’t. The SVR were here. The first thought that entered his mind was that they’d tracked him down, but that made no sense. The organization had a fraction of the resources and technology of the CIA, and outside the old Soviet bloc its influence was limited. Unless they had been shadowing him since Russia, it was beyond their capabilities. And if they had followed him here he wouldn’t have just encountered one of their number by chance.

The Russian turned his head and looked Victor’s way. Just a casual glance, and for a few seconds it seemed as if he’d failed to recognize him. He turned his head away and took another step from the elevator. Then his head involuntarily snapped back to look in Victor’s direction, whole body stiffening, expression changing as he identified the man walking toward him.

They were no more than three yards apart when Colonel Gennady Aniskovach thrust a hand inside his jacket. Victor sprinted forward, closing the distance fast. Aniskovach drew his handgun, but Victor was within his reach before he could fully extend his arm.

Victor grabbed the Russian’s wrist and twisted sharply. At the same time he threw his free fist at Aniskovach’s face. The punch connected on the nose, breaking it instantly and sending a spray of blood from the nostrils. Aniskovach grunted with pain, and the gun dropped from his hand. His eyes filled with water. Victor kicked the gun into the elevator and flung the dazed Russian in too.

Inside, Victor grabbed Aniskovach by his shirt and slammed him against the mirrored wall. Blood flowed from his nose, dripped rapidly from his chin. Water spilled from his eyes. Victor frisked him, finding a spare mag and pocketing it.

“How did you find me?” he demanded in Russian.

It took a second for Aniskovach to speak. “I…didn’t.”

Victor took a hand from the Russian’s clothes and grabbed his throat, Victor’s fingers on one side of his esophagus, thumb the other. He started to squeeze, hard, cutting off the air intake. Aniskovach choked.

Victor gave him ten seconds without oxygen before releasing the pressure enough for him to talk. He coughed for a moment. “I’ve only just got here…”

He started coughing again. Victor understood-they weren’t here for him. The flash drive. The SVR had found out what it contained and had come to collect whatever was on that sunken ship. That meant they had taken it from Norimov. The elevator doors closed and it started to ascend.

Victor tightened his grip on Aniskovach’s neck. “Did you kill him?”

The Russian looked confused. “Who?”

With his free hand Victor pressed his fingers into Aniskovach’s wounded cheek. He screamed and Victor squeezed harder on his throat. The Russian gasped and spluttered, his face reddening until Victor eased his grip enough for him to talk.

“You know who.”

Aniskovach spat phlegm and blood from his mouth. “Norimov?”

“Yes.”

“We didn’t kill him.” The Russian took a series of deep breaths and raised his head. “He was working for us.”

“What did you say?”

“Norimov…sold you to us.” Aniskovach took great delight in the effect his words had. His face twisted into a smile, thin lips shining with blood. He spoke between coughs. “And he did so…for much less than…I would have paid.”

Victor’s grip unintentionally weakened. For a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything. Norimov, the only person he would even come close to considering a friend, had betrayed him. For nothing more than money. He felt hollow.

The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor and the noise brought Victor crashing back to the world. He glanced over his shoulder, ready to incapacitate whoever was waiting. A man stood outside the elevator. He had a lean, muscular physique, dark hair, and blue eyes, dressed casually.

Reed.

19:22 UST

The two killers stared at each other for a single long moment. Reed held the advantage, his enemy was half-turned away, hands gripping another man, pinning him against the back of the elevator. But Reed didn’t move.

Reed was rarely surprised, but he was as good as paralyzed. Tesseract was dead. He had died in a hotel room in Nicosia, blown into atoms by an expertly placed bomb. Tesseract was dead, yet he was standing no more than four feet away. Reed stared forward blankly, his expression one of disbelief as his brain tried to rationalize what was obvious. He had failed.

Reed reacted second, only beginning to draw the Glock as Tesseract was already wrenching the other man away from the wall.

Victor swung Aniskovach one hundred and eighty degrees and threw him out of the elevator just as Reed extended his arm and fired; the man took the bullet meant for Tesseract in the chest, momentarily contorting before crashing into Reed. Both men were sent flailing.

Reed hit the floor first, on his back, Aniskovach’s body landing on top of him an instant later. He didn’t have time to brace himself, and the impact momentarily stunned his body but reignited his mind.

He couldn’t see Tesseract, and there wasn’t time to get out from under the dead weight, so Reed angled the Glock and fired blind.