Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

“I want to make things right,” he said, and he meant it.

Procter smiled. “Good for you.”

13:13 UTC

“How are you feeling, Antonio?”

Alvarez blew out some air and, in answer, raised his slinged right arm as much as the pain would allow. He had some pills in his system, and they took much of the edge off.

“I’m told it should heal good,” Procter said.

“Won’t be pitching anytime soon though.”

Procter stepped into the hotel room, and Alvarez closed the door behind him. The room wasn’t particularly big to begin with, but with Procter now taking up a good amount of the available space it was positively cramped.

“You know how much blood you lost?”

Alvarez shook his head. “No, but I’m betting I’m half African now.”

With one arm Alvarez moved his bag to one side and sat down on the room’s single bed. The bag was small and only contained some dirty laundry and Alvarez’s few personal effects. The clothes he was wearing had been bought for him while he spent most of the night on a hospital bed. He’d been flown to Tanzania’s capital by an embassy chopper and given a hotel room to rest in.

“But you’re lucky you didn’t come away with worse,” Procter said, tone noticeably more serious. “Going off on your own like that. What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t have a whole lot of time to think.”

Procter frowned. “As an officer of the CIA you should probably have answered differently there.”

“I’m high on painkillers.”

Procter showed some teeth. “Then I’ll let it pass.”

Alvarez didn’t say anything. He reached across to the bedside table and grabbed a bottle of mineral water. He switched it to his right hand to twist the top off with his left, but the bottled water was damp with condensation and too slippery in his weakened grip.

“Let me get that for you,” Procter offered, stepping closer.

Alvarez kept the bottle away from Procter. “I got it.”

He pushed the bottle against his chest and, with the extra support, managed to get the top off. He took a small sip and placed it back down.

“Not as thirsty as you thought?” Procter asked.

“Guess not.”

“You know,” Procter said, “a part of me wants to shout my big mouth off at you for disobeying my commands.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because I’m not sure if it would be just ego talking. After all, you did a good, if unconventional, job.”

“We didn’t get the missiles.”

Procter shrugged. “The second Ozols got killed and the drive went missing we were never going to get those missiles. It was a lost cause from the get-go, no matter what spiel came out of Chambers’s mouth.”

Alvarez rubbed his shoulder.

Procter continued, “You stopped anyone else from getting them. That’s the most important thing.”

“Status quo maintained?”

“That’s the business we’re in.”

“What happens to Ferguson and Sykes?”

“Sykes turned himself in. He’ll cut a deal, help the case against Ferguson.”

“When’s Ferguson going to get the good news?”

Procter chewed on his answer for a moment. “That’s going to take some more legwork. But don’t worry, he’ll get what’s coming to him.” He reached a hand for the water. “Mind?” Alvarez shook his head, and Procter took a long drink. “And don’t think about going solo again,” he said after screwing the top back on. “I won’t be such a nice guy next time you pull this kind of shit.”

Alvarez half raised his arm again. “Couldn’t if I wanted to.”

Procter looked at him closely. “But do you want to?”

Alvarez thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Once was enough.”

“Good. Because you’re going to be behind a desk for a while. Partly because you need time to heal and partly because I’ve got to be seen giving you a telling off. The agency doesn’t have time for mavericks.”

Alvarez nodded.

“What time’s your flight out?” Procter asked.

Alvarez turned his wrist over to look at his watch. “Soon.”

“Make sure you’re on it.”

“I will.”

“What are you going to do when you get back?”

“Normal stuff. Have a barbeque, go to a ball game. See my kid.”

“Sounds nice,” Procter said.

Moscow, Russia

Tuesday

14:11 MSK

Colonel Gennady Aniskovach passed through the corridors of the SVR headquarters and, with a controlled amount of anger, accepted that his face now drew more glances damaged than it had when beautiful. Prudnikov’s secretary, who had previously always gazed at him with brazen longing and desire, averted her eyes when he arrived at her desk. Aniskovach waited while she announced his presence by an intercom and, despite the pain it caused, gave her his best smile when she finally glanced his way before he entered Prudnikov’s office.

The director was reading a report of some variety and did not look up. There was no small talk. Aniskovach knew he had exhausted that particular pleasure. Eventually Prudnikov placed the report to one side. He adjusted it so it was square to his desk.

He poured himself a glass of water and took a drink. “My throat is hoarse from the amount of explaining I have been forced to do on your behalf. As you may expect, the GRU in particular are not exactly happy that four decorated members of our special forces have lost their lives and that another two were injured during an operation we told them nothing about-an operation that should have been theirs to conduct in the first place.”

He rubbed his brow before looking up, gray eyes narrow. “I do not appreciate that you have put me in this position yet again. I did as you requested, and I gave you the task of recovering those missiles, at the same time allowing you the chance to repair your tarnished reputation. And what do you do? You are responsible for yet more deaths; you create yet more problems for me. And you didn’t even come back with so much as a handful of bolts.”

“I’d like to remind you of the unforeseen circumstances that interfered with the mission,” Aniskovach responded calmly. “Yet I still managed to successfully destroy the missiles and therefore deny America acquiring our technology.” Aniskovach stood straight backed. “And I offer my sincerest regret for the loss of life, sir.”

The head of the SVR smirked. “Even you cannot make that sound sincere, Gennady. Though others may not see past your charm, I am not so easily misled. I’ve spoken to the soldiers at the hospital, and I know what really happened. You had nothing to do with the destruction of the missiles. That was but a fortunate coincidence, so don’t try and claim credit. I always knew that you were ruthless, but now I know that you have no conscience, not even when good men die to serve your ambition. If it were purely up to me, I would have you thrown out of the organization or, at the least, I would confine you to a desk for the rest of your career where you could do no more damage.”

“Sir, I-”

“Silence.” Prudnikov waved his hand. “Do not spill your veneered words on me. There is no need for it. I say this honestly: Your ability to capitalize on your own mistakes is extremely impressive. Even at my best I don’t believe I could have wriggled from the fisherman’s net as well as you have.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m sure you don’t. But it seems the GRU were not the lone recipient of information relating to the Tanzania operation. That we very nearly lost our missile technology to the Americans has created ripples in the pools of power above my head. It was an especially clever move of yours to leak what happened to those who know no better so that the illusion of success can shield you from your failure. If nothing else, I must respect your guile.”