Michael Palmer - The Last Surgeon

From behind him, Koller heard footsteps on the grass. Two people, almost certainly men, one of them, like his previous visitor, quite large. He did not turn around, but again prepared himself for action. If they were pros, they were either clumsy pros or meant him no harm. Jericho and a bodyguard, he decided.

The heavier footsteps stopped fifty feet away. The smaller man continued forward, then sat down on the bench with his back to Koller.

“Thank you for meeting me like this,” the arrival said.

That voice. Now Koller understood why his client had shown up with security.

“It’s my pleasure. Who’s the muscle back there?”

“How did you-?”

“Look, you pay me what you do because I’m the best. If you have any other plans aside from a chat, you’ll soon regret that.”

“Killing me would make quite a story. Perhaps since you’re so astute you already know who I am.”

“I watch TV,” Koller said. “You the head of Jericho?”

“This isn’t a quiz show. Form your own opinion about that.”

“I’m not wearing a wire.”

“I know that already. We scanned you ten minutes ago.”

“The drunk and the girl. They’re good.”

“My whole team is good. That’s why we hired you.”

“So, let’s get down to it, then. We didn’t need to meet in person to arrange a job. You already know how that’s done.”

“There have been some changes. What I need now is to know that I can trust you.”

“An ironic request of somebody in my line of work, don’t you think?”

Koller began to relax. There was no way the future vice presidential nominee, with his ticket already well ahead in all the polls, would set himself up to be killed. It also went far to explain Jericho. Before his recent selection, Lionel Ramsland had been the deputy director of the CIA.

For several minutes Lionel Ramsland remained silent. He had already been chosen to join the ticket with John Greenleigh, his party’s leading presidential candidate, well in advance of the August nominating convention. Popular and respected defenders of democracy, few expected they would lose.

“I know that we erred with that condo fire,” Ramsland said finally.

“Do you remember what I told you about my marks?” Koller asked.

“Refresh me.”

“Under no circumstance are clients ever to engage, tail, touch, or even breathe near anybody associated with a mark without my authorization-and that authorization is something I would simply never grant.”

“Okay, you’ve made yourself clear.”

“I had materials well concealed in the place that I hadn’t had the opportunity to remove. If the police had found them, it could have gone poorly for me-and you.”

“Our mistake.”

“And you paid me for that mistake. So?”

“Well, it seems Operation Jericho has a few new and unforeseen stress points. Nothing I’m that worried about, especially with you on our side. But then again, I didn’t get to where I am by being passive.”

“You know I’m a professional and I always deliver. Customer satisfaction guaranteed or your victim back,” Koller said with a chuckle. “Maybe I should have that slogan printed on my business cards.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Go on, sir.”

The man many considered more powerful and decisive than his much younger, more intellectual running mate cleared his throat. Koller noted for the first time the fatigue in his voice.

“I love this country,” Ramsland said, “and consider myself a patriot, someone who would do anything in his power to protect her. Anything. It’s important to me that I believe you would do the same.”

“Country love is your business, not mine.”

“The people who have hired you in the past told me I could expect that answer from you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have brought the subject up.”

“As the moving force behind Jericho, I could not in good conscience address our latest concerns without meeting you face-to-face and at least asking.”

“Detachment is a valuable asset in my work, but so is loyalty.”

“To the country?”

“No, Mr. Ramsland, to my clients.”

“I see.”

“Why don’t you cut the cloak-and-dagger bullshit and come sit next to me?”

Ramsland did as the killer suggested and for a few pregnant moments, the two men locked gazes and sized each other up.

“You’re not what I pictured,” Ramsland said.

“I try to stay out of the papers. Sweet to think you were fantasizing about me, though.”

“My sources told me that you had a-how did they put it-an eccentric sense of humor.”

“I don’t really enjoy being talked about. Go on. I think you should get to the point.”

“Ah yes, I was told about your bluntness, too. Okay, let me begin by saying that we have a responsibility, you and I. A great and important responsibility.”

“If you say so.”

“I can tell a lot about a man by his eyes. But yours tell me nothing.”

“That should bring you some degree of comfort,” Koller offered. “It means I have no agenda other than the one you pay me to have.”

“And if somebody were to pay you more money to have a different agenda?”

The man, closing in on the end of his sixties, close to being a heartbeat from the presidency, was uninspiring. But then, to Koller, most people of stature and power were. Ramsland was a throwback to the days of détente and domino theory backroom politics-a saggy-skinned prune with puffy eyes who overfilled the blue power suit peeking out from underneath his London Fog trench.

It amazed Koller that the balding, silver-haired fool stirred up emotions in anybody other than his mother, let alone a majority of the free world. Koller kept his eyes fixed on the man, and had a brief flash as to what he would look like with his lungs full of sarin. Still, underneath Ramsland’s doughy exterior, Koller sensed toughness, and warned himself not to lose sight of that observation. Guys who played chicken with tanks and missiles tended to have balls.

“I might not be a patriot like yourself, but what I am is a professional. A consummate professional with my own set of laws. At the moment, you are protected under those laws. Whatever you have to say here you can say in confidence.”

Ramsland took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“Okay, Mr. Koller. I know that by torching Jillian Coates’s place we violated one of your laws and placed you in some jeopardy. But she had gone on air with some potentially damaging information, and we felt we had to act quickly.”

“I know much more about the woman than you do, believe me. All you did was make her more determined than ever to keep investigating things. I’ve had to start following her to make certain she doesn’t make any progress.”

“We had intended to follow her, but with what you’re costing us, and the small size of our group, we just didn’t have the resources.”

“What you did was panic.”

“Okay, okay. We panicked. But I need to tell you that our concerns about Ms. Coates weren’t entirely unjustified.”

“Oh?”

“A week or so ago there was a security breach at a downtown VA facility. A kid, a black kid in his early teens, no less, accessed the computer system and started digging around for information about an individual connected to Jericho.”

“How is Coates involved?”

“The kid’s name is Reggie Smith. He’s fourteen. He has a decent-sized rap sheet from his habit of hacking computers. He lives with a foster mother and father in Baltimore. Living near them is a family friend, a doctor named Garrity.”

“Nicholas Garrity. I know, I know.”

“Jesus, you are good.”