Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

If he really tried, there was a slim chance he might be able sort things out enough to survive the inevitable fallout. But Reed had been at Sykes’s hotel. He was sure of it. The man who had shot Wiechman. And the only explanation for Reed being there was that Ferguson had sent the assassin to kill Sykes. It was enough to change Sykes’s priorities. Getting rich and his career came a clear second to staying alive.

He gave himself up at the embassy on Sunday afternoon. He’d been in CIA custody since then. Ten minutes ago he’d been led from his room to an agency office in the basement of the embassy compound.

Sykes stood silently before Procter, who sat behind a desk in a chair obviously too small for him. Ten seconds past. Twenty. Procter saw he was struggling to start.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

“I would like to stand if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

“They’re your legs.”

Sykes kept his hands clasped behind his back. He would do this with some dignity. In fact, he reminded himself, it was about the only thing he had left. Sykes spoke without pause for almost thirty minutes. He started with just the highlights: Ferguson’s coming to him with the plan; his agreeing; recruiting Kennard and Sumner; using Sumner to hire Tesseract and to identify him through dummy jobs; getting Hoyt to hire Stevenson; hiding the money trail through Seif and Olympus; using information supplied by Kennard to help Tesseract kill Ozols; having Stevenson’s team attempt to kill Tesseract; sending McClury after Tesseract when Stevenson failed; dispatching Reed to kill Kennard, Hoyt, Seif, Sumner, and Tesseract; thinking Reed had been successful in Cyprus; decrypting the flash drive and locating and recovering the missiles; and how it all went wrong.

When he had finished, Procter seemed far too calm considering what Sykes had just told him.

“And,” Procter began, “the purpose of his highly illegal course of action, one that resulted in a large number of deaths, was to sell the Oniks missiles to the highest bidder?”

“Yes,” Sykes admitted. “We did it for the money.”

“Okay, good.” Procter seemed pleased at his cooperation. “And you were involved in this operation from the start, were you not, Mr. Sykes?”

Sykes knew he was going down hard. And he deserved it.

“I was instrumental from the very beginning.”

“I appreciate your honesty. I can certainly understand how difficult this is for you.”

What was going on? Did he just hear some sympathy? Procter was obviously softening him up for the killer blow.

“Now,” Procter continued, “it may surprise you to learn that I already knew much of what you’ve just told me.”

Something exploded inside Sykes’s stomach. “How?”

“How doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you’ve come in voluntarily. If I’d been forced to bring you in unwillingly, this conversation would have been decidedly more unpleasant. Tell me more about what happened yesterday.”

Sykes’s throat was dry. He explained about Dalweg and Wiechman and the recovery of the missiles from the sunken Lev and their return to the hotel, the conversation with Ferguson. “That’s when everything went bad.” He explained things as he remembered them.

Procter took everything in silently and made the occasional nod. When Sykes was finished, Procter asked, “Why was Tesseract in the country, at the hotel?”

Sykes shook his head. “The only thing I can think of is that he was coming after me.”

“But how did he even know about you?”

“Somehow Sumner got wind that she was a target and avoided Reed. She then teamed up with Tesseract to come after me and Ferguson. I guess she worked out who we were. I don’t know how.”

Procter was silent for a moment then started asking questions. Lots of questions. Sykes answered. All the gory details. He left out the fact that he’d seen Reed in Tanga, since it wouldn’t do any good if Procter knew that the reason why Sykes was confessing was that Ferguson wanted him dead. If that information came out later, so be it, but for now, Sykes wanted to feel like he wasn’t quite as low as Ferguson on the traitorous-scum ladder.

“You have filled in a great many blanks to this sordid and despicable affair,” Procter said, “and for that I am greatly appreciative. However, you have knowingly engaged in criminal activities that constitute the highest penalties allowed by law.”

“I understand that, sir. And I accept the consequences.”

It felt good to be honorable, if only for a few minutes.

“But,” Procter continued, “it could be seen that you are guilty of nothing more than obeying orders. Ferguson was the instigator in this ridiculous mess, and you the victim of his lunacy.” Sykes wasn’t sure how to respond, so he didn’t. “I can see that you had no wish to conduct this operation, but you were put in an impossible situation. Ferguson was your superior, a hero of this organization. You had no choice but to do as you were told, and I can appreciate that.

“From day one we teach you to obey your superiors, to follows orders that you may not understand because you are not always in possession of the full facts. And you have to obey them, to the letter, even if you don’t agree with them. Because if you do not, you could destroy something of vast importance.”

If Sykes wasn’t mistaken a flicker of light appeared at the end of the very dark tunnel.

Procter continued: “The loyalty you have demonstrated to your superior is to be commended. But now you must chose where your true loyalty lies. To the agency or to your mentor?”

There wasn’t even a second’s deliberation, but Sykes mentally counted to ten to make it seem as if the choice had not been an easy one. He felt the pause perfectly demonstrated the internal conflict that was supposedly within him.

“My loyalty is to this agency, sir.”

Procter nodded solemnly. “I’m very glad you said that. Very glad indeed. Because I need your help.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Most of what you have told me cannot be substantiated, can it?”

Sykes thought carefully for a moment. “No, sir.”

“And therein lies the rub.”

“I’m still not sure I understand.”

“It’s your word against Ferguson’s.”

Sykes nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And his word is worth more than your own.”

The thought of Ferguson’s getting away clean made his blood boil, but his words came out pathetic instead of angry. “That’s not fair-”

“Fair or not, that is the situation. So we must be smart, mustn’t we?”

Sykes was confused. “Yes, sir.”

“Ferguson won’t be aware of what’s happening, and neither will he find out what you’ve told me. So what I want you to do is this. I want you to carry on as normal, and do what Ferguson tells you to do. Just record it.” Procter stood and placed the flats of his palms on the desk. “I need proof, enough proof to string Ferguson up by the throat so tightly even he cannot wriggle free. We need the case against Ferguson to be so overwhelming and the charges so severe that it’s impossible to keep it quiet. People need to know what’s happened.”

Sykes was starting to understand. Procter was desperate to make sure this wasn’t swept under the carpet.

“And bringing Ferguson to justice will mean I can forget about any indiscretions you have performed up until this point,” Procter continued. “I won’t forget those people who helped in its course. But I don’t want to put you under any pressure to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

Sykes straightened his back, knowing that he had could gather more than enough proof already to hammer the nails in Ferguson’s coffin. It would be a pleasure to do so. Sykes smiled inwardly. He knew what Procter was up to, the sly fucker. Procter would be the crusader who cleaned-no purged-the CIA of corruption, who showed that one of the organization’s greatest heroes was rotten to the core. That kind of achievement would accelerate him straight into the director’s chair in just a few years. After that, Who knew? Procter was going places, that much was certain. And if Sykes continued to be as smart as he knew himself to be, he would be going there too. Sykes had a plan.