Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

“I asked if you understood.”

“Y-yes. I understand.”

The master of the non-kill pulled a fifth length of rope from beneath the mattress at the head of the bed, then knotted it firmly about the teen’s neck. Finally, he opened the black bag once more and withdrew a bowie knife with a nine-and-a-half-inch blade, a pair of large pliers, and three brown glass bottles, which he held up to the lamp to ensure they were full of whatever liquid they contained.

Finally, he rose and moved to his laptop computer. His erection was now fully tumescent, and his demeanor magnificently calm.

Koller could see Darlene’s reflection in the three-foot mirror hanging above the desk. He watched unblinking as she tested the ropes. Her sobs and strangled breathing were a symphony to him. He checked his radial pulse again.

An even forty.

Alpha state.

The young whore had served her purpose.

He was ready to write.

He motioned Sandy down between his legs and made only the faintest murmur of pleasure when she took him in her mouth. Koller never averted his eyes from the mirror and the reflection of Darlene’s terrified, tear-streaked face.

Opening a graphic file he had stored on his laptop, Koller ran a picture of the wooden nutcracker through his encryption program. His software, named Demaratus for the Spartan king known for his innovative use of steganography, was coded to his exacting specifications by some of the most powerful minds in computer cryptology. The application electronically prompted him to type his message. He no longer felt the compulsion to reprimand Jericho for its unacceptable behavior. He was far too relaxed for that. Instead he wrote:

You broke the rules of engagement… mistakes will not be tolerated… the consequence is a new bid… post now… this is nonnegotiable.

The words, he knew, were perfect-dispassionate, but accommodating. His demands would be met. Any alternative, as Jericho was well aware, was unacceptable. Jericho would comply or find someone else, and when it came to orchestrating murder that appeared to be due to accident, natural causes, or suicide, there was Franz Koller, and there was everyone else.

Koller saved his message and instantly the image of the nutcracker reappeared where seconds ago his words had been. To decrypt the message required the matching key-a version of Demaratus that was customized for each client. Using his eBay account name, ChemLuv56, Koller posted the nutcracker for bid. Jericho was instantly alerted that a message from the assassin was awaiting a reply.

Five minutes passed. Sandy worked vigorously to bring Koller to climax, while Darlene had acquiesced to her mattress prison. A message alert bubble popped up on the Dell laptop screen. GuvnerPoppins, the code name he assigned to Jericho, had listed a new item for bid. Koller clicked on the link and opened up an auction page on eBay. The item listed, containing Jericho’s response, was a Stanley hammer and some nails. The irony of the chosen products was not lost on him.

The genius of his communication protocol was that every auction was authentic. Somebody would eventually be the highest bidder for the hammer and nails. It would then be shipped to the winner from a blind post office box.

Simple.

Koller downloaded the image and ran it through his decryption program. The return message read simply: Understood . Then Koller, bidding as ChemLuv56, made an offer for the hammer of $1.50. He smiled after placing it. He had just upped the fee for his next non-kill by half a million dollars. He doubted Jericho would make such a mistake again.

Koller pushed Sandy’s head back, freeing himself from her mouth.

“Don’t you want me to finish, baby?”

“No,” Koller said. “I have some business to attend to.”

He moved to the bedside and hefted the huge bowie knife in his hand.

“No!” Darlene rasped, the rope constricting her vocal cords. “Please, no!”

Sandy made a move forward, but Koller stopped her with a wave of the knife. Then, with his erection even larger than when Sandy had been performing fellatio on him, he straddled the blonde and with four perfectly placed strokes, severed the ropes.

Finally, he kissed each whore on the forehead and stepped back from the bed.

“Simon says, go home,” he said.

Second Chance was asleep on the love seat in the study in his favorite position-on his back, with all four spindly legs pointing straight up at the ceiling. Nick had showered, dressed, and shaved, and was ready for the night’s rounds in the RV, but mentally he was still scouring the city streets for Manny Ferris.

Initially, the possible breakthrough in his search for Umberto had dropped his SUD score to a rare two: A little bit upset, but not noticeable unless you took care to pay attention to your feelings, and then realize, “yes” there is something bothering me. Now, frustration had pushed his number up to a five.

Posters had been taken down, and maps of Washington, D.C., and Baltimore covered a good portion of the floors and walls of the study. In two days of dedicated searching, he had canvassed all of the most unsavory neighborhoods, back alleys, flophouses, and cardboard villages where Manny Ferris might be found. Dotting his maps were carefully placed color-coded pins, each representing a city street that needed to be searched again. He used a highlighter to trace the miles of pavement he covered, questioning every store clerk, loitering kid, and homeless person along the way. Nothing. Ferris was either the most determined hermit in the world or, in the four years since making his big announcement to Matt McBean, he had traveled on.

But to where?

Detective Don Reese had fared no better, even though he had given up his fishing trip to search.

“Manny Ferris is not in D.C.,” was his terse conclusion.

That was when the bounce in Nick’s mood had leveled off and begun to slip. To his dismay, the Department of Veterans Affairs was as tight about disclosing last known addresses of their vets as it was about paying out PTSD benefit claims. They would not even comment on the status of the Marine.

Nick respected the agency’s commitment to safeguarding personal information, given the PR fiasco and millions paid in damages after several highly publicized thefts of classified laptop computers. Even so, to keep vets from finding each other, when friends from combat might be crucial to a soldier’s or sailor’s well-being, seemed irrationally protective.

For some reason, Nick could not shake the feeling that Manny Ferris was alive. In a spiral-bound notebook, he kept a detailed log of every call he made to chief medical examiner offices in major East Coast cities, as well as to morgues in D.C., Virginia, Delaware, and Maryland. There were two instances of recorded death certificates for Manuel Ferris, one for a man in his eighties, the other a nineteen-year-old killed in Iraq. He even paid fifty dollars to a Web site purported to be a favorite among private investigators. The site searched newspaper articles and a multitude of court records, including incarcerations and name changes, but it was wasted effort.

Nick checked the time. He and Junie would be on the road in thirty minutes. He peered out at the pink-and-gold-cast sky, wondering if such sunsets would ever feel anything but empty to him.

The ever-present curse of PTSD was that everything reminded him of something he had lost-his bed of a restful night’s sleep, the sun of his fiancée, the maps on the wall of his missing friend. Feeling another episode of melancholy coming on, Nick closed his eyes and balled his hands into tight fists, but relaxed them when he heard his front door open.