No Tomorrow (37 page)

Anderton backed away. “I hope you understand that this isn't over.”

“It is,” Victor said. “You just don't realize it yet.”

She disappeared back where she'd come from and Victor heard her sprinting away and sirens somewhere on the street above them. He held Gisele's head to his chest and gave her a moment to let her emotions out. The sirens grew louder and the rain heavier. She stared up at him. He saw her brow furrow in the way it always did when she was working up the courage to ask him something.

“Why . . . why didn't you shoot her?”

Victor retrieved the MP5 from the floor and held it in one hand to push the muzzle against his temple. Gisele's eyes widened in panic and she reached out to stop him.

He squeezed the trigger.

Click.

“What with?” he asked.

London, United Kingdom

F
rost and mist covered the common. The short grass was frozen into a crystalline white carpet that cracked and crunched with each footstep. Victor disliked the sound. Too much like nails on a blackboard. Nearby, Canada geese didn't seem to care. A flock was gathered on and around a duck pond, making their distinctive honking noises at the swans and ducks that also used it. His breath clouded. Despite the cold, he wore sunglasses to filter out the glare of a bright sun. Joggers and dog walkers passed on a path that cut across the heath. Victor stood far enough away that he could not make out either Norimov's face or Gisele's.

They sat together on one of the benches overlooking the pond. From this distance he couldn't read their lips, but he wouldn't have even if he'd been standing closer. He respected their privacy. He didn't know much about family relationships, but he knew enough to understand they had a lot to work out.

He stayed on stag until finally Gisele stood and began walking away. Victor caught up with her.

“You can give that a rest, you know,” she said.

“Not until it's over.”

She rolled her eyes. “It will be. I've got her by the balls over this business in Afghanistan. If she has any sense she'll make a run for it. The rest of my firm knows all about the case now. Lester, bless him, was doing it pro bono without their knowledge. Aziz is going to have his conviction quashed, and then she's screwed. It's only a matter of time before she goes down.”

“When she does, I'll give it a rest.”

They walked some more. She said, “How's the ankle?”

“Getting better. Slowly.”

“I'm glad. What are you going to do when Anderton is out of the picture?”

“What I always do: disappear.”

“What . . . for good?”

He nodded.

“But you don't have to. The police aren't after you. They're after her.”

“It's not as simple as that. It's better for everyone that I go.”

“But you saved my life. Several times. And I still don't know you. I want to rectify that. I figure you're a little more personable when we're not being chased.”

“No good will come of it, Gisele.”

She said, “Why don't you let me decide if that's true? My mother liked you, after all.”

“Because she didn't know me. You know more about the real me than she ever did.”

“And I want to know more. You've done so much for me. At least let me buy you a coffee, or something.”

“No,” Victor said. “If you're in my life then you'll never be safe. I won't do that to you.”

“So, that's it? Once Anderton is behind bars, I'm never going to see you again?”

“That's the way it has to be.”

“I don't believe that's true. I think what you're really trying to say is that you don't want to see me.”

He didn't respond.

“That's it, isn't it? You've never given a shit about me, have you? You did this for my mother, not for me. And now you're going to go because you've done your job and that's it for you. All done and dusted. Over. The End. Yes?”

He nodded. “That's right.”

She exhaled through her nostrils, lips locked, jaw flexed. “Fine,” she said. “Fuck off, then.” When he didn't immediately move, she said, “What the fuck are you waiting for? Go.
Go
.”

He turned around and walked away.

Anger instead of pain. The better way.

M
arcus Lambert sat in one of the luxurious leather seats in the passenger compartment of his Gulfstream jet. Opposite him sat Anderton. He regarded her with an even expression while she said her piece.

“In a way I admire him,” she was saying. “Whatever his name is. He found the girl under our noses and kept her alive despite our best efforts. That kind of guile is rare. God, I wish we'd had him on our team back in Helmand. Can you imagine it?”

“Admire,” he repeated.

“Yes, admire. But he still needs to be taken care of. As does the girl. Marcus, I need another team. I need a larger team this time. I need more resources. Boots on the ground and guns aren't enough. It's not too late to fix this.”

Marcus poured himself a neat Belvedere on the rocks.

“Well?” Anderton said.

He sipped the vodka. It tasted no different from any other kind of vodka, but appearances mattered more to him than enjoyment. He'd worked too hard not to sample the best. He'd worked too hard to throw it all away.

“No,” he answered. “The answer is no. No more men. No resources. It's time to abort and bow out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It's over, Nieve. Even if you kill them both, that's yet another crime to keep buried. You can't have shootouts in the middle of London and expect to stay hidden. That's tantamount to lunacy. You said you would take care of this. Instead you've quadrupled our exposure.”

“I'm taking care of it.”

“Like we took care of it in Helmand? And now look where we are. We couldn't keep the murder of one British intelligence officer suitably quiet. It still came back to haunt us. I think your unnamed assassin has proved he will not go down without a fight. That's even more exposure. It's time to cut our losses and take a trip to a nonextradition country.”

Anderton laughed. She actually laughed. That's how delusional she had become, Marcus thought. She said, “Don't be so cowardly, Marcus. This is far from a lost cause. It's out in the open, yes, I admit that. But proof is such an abstract concept and I refuse to accept defeat until I'm in chains. By the time this is over I'll have them branded as terrorists. And when terrorists are shot, there will of course be media attention and so on, but ultimately it will come out that Gisele is the daughter of a Russian mobster and the mystery man . . . well, we can create whatever narrative we like for him. Throw in a bit of the Official Secrets Act, and there'll be no loose threads to pick. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Marcus said, thinking
I don't
. “But there comes a time when the cost of victory is too great. This is a battle that cannot be won cleanly. Better to fight it another day. In court, if necessary. But not on the
street. Not with bullets. We must be reasonable. We must not let our emotions rule us.”

Anderton was shaking when she said, “No, Marcus. It's far too late to keep this clean. But we have to finish it. There's no other option.”

Marcus sighed, then nodded. There was no arguing with the woman. All he could do now was go along with Anderton and cover his own ass as much as possible. There were few things he'd like better than to put a bullet in the stupid girl who had created this shit storm, but he wasn't going to do anything that might get himself killed in the process. The job was compromised. The truth would come out. It was only a matter of time.

He wasn't about to give up all he had achieved. He refused to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Not for a spoiled woman overcome by ego.

He looked at his watch. “Last chance, Nieve. Come with me to South America and leave all this behind. What do you say? We can be in the air in twenty minutes.”

Her green eyes blazed. “I don't run away. I fight until the end. You know me. But send me a postcard.”

“I had a feeling that would be your response.”

He pushed a button on the chair's console. A man entered from the cockpit. He had a silenced pistol in one hand and a hypodermic syringe in the other.

“What is this?” Anderton said, rising from her seat.

“It's for the best,” Marcus replied, as the man stepped closer.

A
ndrei Linnekin sat in the uncomfortable office chair of his spartanly furnished office. The chair was deliberately uncomfortable. It was an ugly hunk of plastic and thin padding that made his back sore and his ass numb. The Russian crime boss had personally fished it out of a junkyard. He couldn't sit still on the chair. He couldn't relax in it. It reminded him he had to stay sharp. He couldn't become comfortable. When he did, his reign at the top would be over.

He said, “Before we continue, there is something you must understand. This is a matter of principle. I'm a man of honor before I'm a man of power. I keep my word, first and foremost. That is important to me. If I say I'll do something, I'll do it or die trying. I have no ego. I know I've been lucky to get where I am today. I have no more intelligence than any man. I have no more strength or courage. But I am where I am nevertheless. I have been attacked, although I am unharmed. All my men know this. They are upset because they failed me and are scared
of the repercussions that may follow. There will be none. It is I who failed them.

“I believe in integrity and I believe in justice. I believe a man is only as good as his word and I believe that we are only treated as we allow ourselves to be treated. Forgiveness is against human nature. To forgive a wrong is to invite another. I believe in justice. No wrong should go unpunished.”

“I understand,” the visitor said.

“You do? Good. Because I cannot continue with this unless you do. Because you are to deliver justice. I appreciate your involvement. You come highly recommended. Is it true you killed Yuri Ibramovich?”

The oligarch, once a member of the Moscow mafia, had formed a breakaway outfit and used his criminal organization to force his way into legitimate businesses. He had been found dead in his fortified dacha, his throat slit from ear to ear, his murder having gone unnoticed by the army of mercenaries who patrolled his home.

“I never discuss my previous work.”

“I'll take that as a yes. But I have lots of killers working for me. If it were merely a matter of having a man killed, I would have had no need to ask the bosses back home for help. Before this nameless f—” Linnekin stopped himself, cursing, then punched his desk because the man who terrorized him still held power over his actions. He took a composing breath and began again. “Before this nameless
fuck
can be killed, he must be found. He could be anywhere by now. My men wouldn't know where to start. I don't know who he is. I want you to hunt him down.”

“I assure you that my associates and I are well versed in locating the invisible. You'll hear from me again only when it's done.”

“The money will wait for you in escrow. I don't want to give that man another thought until his blood runs cold. Make sure he knows who sent you before he dies.”

The visitor nodded and stood and left without a word.

Linnekin watched the woman walk away. She was slim with good bone structure. Reputedly an expert shot. A redhead.

To himself, Linnekin said, “Let's see if the price of crossing me was worth it.”

This team had never failed. They were efficient and ruthless.

Four Scandinavians: a Finn, a Swede, and two Danes.

As always, thank you to those who work the magic behind the scenes and help this wordsmith along the many highs and lows.

At my publishers: Hollie Smyth, Jo Wickham, Tom Webster, the sales team, Sean Garrehy, Anne O'Brien, and Thalia Proctor. Special thanks to my editors: Danielle Perez and Ed Wood.

My agents: Scott Miller and Philip Patterson. Thanks also to Isabella Floris and Luke Speed.

And, finally, a big thank-you to my friends and family.

Don't miss Tom Wood's

The Game

Available now from Signet

Algiers, Algeria

T
he killer was good. He moved with a fluidity and an economy of motion that made him seem relaxed, almost carefree, yet he was ever aware of his surroundings and always alert. He had a lean, forgettable face that looked a little older than his thirty-five years. He was tall, but of average height for a native of the tallest nation on the planet. A resident of Amsterdam, Felix Kooi worked as a freelance assassin with no allegiances. He sold his services to the highest bidder, whatever the job, in a career that had endured at least ten years. That career was about to come to an end.

Kooi had a room at the El Aurassi Hotel but spent little of his time there, always leaving shortly after dawn and returning only during the evening, never using the same route or the same entrance twice in a row. Each day he ventured around the city like a tourist, always walking, never visiting the same location more than once, but exploring every medieval mosque, museum, and sightseer destination Algiers had to offer. He ate in restaurants and
cafés, but only those serving Algerian and North African food. He walked on the seafront but never lazed on the beach.

Today Kooi was in the old town—the casbah—and had spent an hour wandering around the market near the El Jidid Mosque. The market was a huge, sprawling arrangement of tented stalls selling everything from wicker baskets to live chickens. It was centered on an irregular square and seeped along the numerous adjoining alleys and side streets. He seemed to do nothing beyond browsing, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of such a vibrant gathering of people and merchandise.

Victor had followed Kooi for three days. In that time he had learned that Kooi was good, but he wasn't exceptional. Because he had made a mistake. A mistake that was going to kill him.

Victor's CIA employer didn't know the reason for Kooi's cover as a tourist in Algiers. Procter didn't know whether the Dutch assassin was preparing for a contract, meeting a broker or client, obtaining supplies, or lying low from one of the many enemies he had no doubt made in a decadelong career as a hired killer. Victor had followed him for three days as much to determine that reason as to devise the best way to kill him, even though he didn't need to know it in order to fulfill the contract. Such knowledge was important because maybe someone was as keen for Kooi to live as Victor's employer was for him to die. Getting caught in the middle of such a tug-of-war was not something Victor was eager to repeat.

Three days shadowing Kooi around the city had been a necessary aspect of the precautionary measures Victor employed to stay alive in the world's most dangerous profession, but unnecessary because there was no secret
to uncover. Kooi wasn't working. He wasn't meeting a contact. He wasn't on the run. He was on vacation. He was acting like a tourist because he was a tourist.

And that was his mistake. He was a tourist. He was in Algiers to relax and have a good time, to explore and see the sights, and too much of his focus was on being a tourist to effectively protect himself from someone like Victor.

A merchant selling carved wooden statuettes caught Kooi's attention and he listened and nodded and pointed and examined the man's wares. He said nothing in return, because he didn't speak French, or else didn't want the trader to know he did. Victor watched from a distance of twenty meters. Kooi was easy enough to see, being at least half a head taller than the locals occupying the space between him and Victor, and Victor's similar height ensured that his line of sight was rarely interrupted unless he chose for it to be.

Kooi was aware and alert, but he was a tourist and his countersurveillance techniques were basic, and basic had never been a problem for Victor. He was more cautious in return, and Kooi hadn't come close to identifying the threat. He had seen Victor, because Kooi was good, and like Kooi's, Victor's height and ethnicity made him stand out in Algiers, but because he was only good and not exceptional, he hadn't marked Victor as anything other than a tourist. Victor knew this because Kooi's behavior hadn't changed, and no one who learned an assassin was following them acted exactly the same as they had prior to the acquisition of that knowledge.

The Dutchman's lack of precautionary measures in his downtime told Victor he hadn't experienced the same kind of professional learning curve that Victor knew he
had mastered by virtue of the fact he was still capable of drawing breath. He wasn't envious of Kooi's comparatively charmed existence, because that existence would soon be over.

“Mister,” a voice said to Victor in heavily accented English, “you buy a watch.”

A young local man stood to Victor's right, showing his lack of teeth with a wide smile. He wore brightly colored linens. His black hair jutted out from the top of his skull in unruly clumps. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal skinny forearms ringed by wristwatches, counterfeit unless the man had several hundred thousand dollars' worth of merchandise weighing him down while not having enough money for a toothbrush.

“No, thank you,” Victor said, shaking his head in an exaggerated manner for the kind of emphasis necessary to persuade local traders to try their bartering skills elsewhere.

He didn't seem to notice. “I got for you Tag Hour, Rolax, all the nice ones. Look, look.”

“No,” Victor said again, his gaze on Kooi, who had a wooden statuette in each hand and seemed to be deciding on which to purchase. He chose one and handed over some cash for the winning selection. The Dutchman was smiling and nodding, pleased with his purchase or amused by the trader's rapid-fire overselling. He slipped the statuette into a thigh pocket of his khaki shorts.

“Look, look,” the young watch guy said again, about ten decibels louder. He waved his arms in front of Victor's face.

He gestured with his hands to show he was interested in the watches when his only interest was in stopping the local from attracting attention. Kooi wouldn't hear over
the din of the market, but he might notice the young man's waving arms and the shiny watches glinting in the sunlight.

“That one,” Victor said, pointing to a Rolex with hands that didn't sweep.

A toothless grin stretched across the seller's face and he unclasped the watch while Victor counted out a fair price for it.

“No, no,” the young local said, “not enough. More. More.”

Victor obliged him with another note, having followed the bartering convention of underpaying. However much he offered, the local would want more.

He slipped on his knockoff Rolex and left to follow Kooi, who had extended his lead by another five meters in the interval.

“Bye, mister,” the young local called behind him. “You have the good day.”

Kooi took his time strolling through the market. He took a circuitous route, but only to make the most of the experience rather than for any tactical consideration. He continued to check his flanks on occasion, but Victor walked directly behind his mark. It would take a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn for Kooi even to see him—a move that would give Victor plenty of notice not to be there when he did.

Fabric stalls and small stores selling local fashions lined a twisting side street into which Kooi veered. He didn't stop to examine the wares, but he walked slowly, head rotating back and forth in case anything caught his interest. Victor let the distance between them increase, because now that they were out of the main market square, the crowd density had dropped by around thirty percent. Had
Kooi been more active in his countersurveillance, or had he simply walked faster, it would have made Victor's task more difficult, but even if he did lose him, he knew where the Dutchman was staying.

Kooi was in Algiers for another week based on his flight and accommodation bookings, so there was no time pressure, but Victor would take the first opportunity that presented itself. Regardless of Kooi's relaxed attitude to his own security, he was a competent professional and therefore a hard target, and there was no guarantee Victor would get more than one chance to see the contract through to completion.

He hadn't identified a weapon, and Kooi's khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt were not conducive to hiding a firearm, but he could easily have a knife in a pocket or in a belt sheath or on the end of a neck cord. Plus, bare hands could be equally deadly if employed correctly.

There were no requirements to the successful completion of the contract beyond Kooi's death, but Victor preferred not to identify an assassination as one if it could be avoided. He planned to keep it simple—a mugging gone bad. Common enough the world over. He had a folding knife in the pocket of his linen trousers. It was a local weapon, bought from a street vendor not dissimilar to the toothless young watch seller. Not the kind of quality Victor would prefer to work with, but it was well made enough to do the task he'd purchased it for. As long as he could get within arm's length of Kooi, he could cut any one of several arteries that were protected only by the thin skin of the neck, underarm, or inner thigh. A seemingly superficial cut, luckily placed by an aggressive robber, inducing death in minutes before medical help could reach him.

All Victor had to do was get close to Kooi.

The Dutchman continued his exploration of the city, leaving the old town and wandering to the docks, where he gazed out at the Mediterranean and the many boats and yachts on its blue waters. He took a seat outside a restaurant with an ocean view, and used his teeth to pick grilled lamb from skewered brochettes and ate aromatic couscous with his fingers. He was slim and in shape but he had a big appetite.

Victor waited nearby for the hour Kooi spent over his meal and followed as his target headed back into the city. He didn't take the same route back—that would have been too reckless, even for a man as relaxed as Kooi—but he walked in the same direction, taking streets that ran close or parallel to those he had already walked.

Kooi surprised Victor by heading back to the casbah market. That didn't fit with his MO of never visiting the same locale twice. The market crowds enabled Victor to close the distance between them, and he pictured the rest of the route back to Kooi's hotel. There were numerous quiet alleys that would present all the opportunity Victor needed to complete the contract. He could get ahead of Kooi easily enough, knowing his ultimate destination, and come at him from the front—just another tourist exploring the wonders of Algiers—maybe sharing a nod of recognition as a couple of guys with similar interests, strangers in a strange land, the kind who could end up friends over a few beers. By the time Kooi realized the man heading in his direction was a killer like himself, he would already be bleeding.

A simple enough job. Dangerous given the target, but uncomplicated.

Victor was surprised again when Kooi led him to the
same part of the market square they had been in earlier. He wasn't exploring anymore. He had a purpose. The Dutchman removed the wooden statuette from his shorts and set about swapping it for the one he had rejected previously. The merchant was happy to oblige, especially when Kooi gave him some more money.

“Hey, mister,” a familiar voice called.

Victor ignored him, but the toothless young man sidestepped into his path, his arms glinting with watches. Kooi headed off.

“You buy another watch, mister? For your wife or lady. She like nice watch too, yes?”

Victor shook his head and moved to step around him, losing a couple of meters on Kooi in the process. The local didn't let him pass.

“I give you good price. Buy the two, get the one cheap. Good deal. Look, look.”

“No,” Victor said. “No wife. No lady. No watch. Move.”

But the young guy, buoyed by his earlier success and Victor's reappearance, didn't want to understand. He blocked Victor's path, waving and pointing in turn to the women's watches that circled his lower wrists and mispronouncing the brands.

“Please,” Victor said, trying to get around the guy before he lost Kooi, but not wanting to hurl the seller away and risk the attention such a commotion would create.

Kooi turned around. He caught something in his peripheral vision, or maybe he decided to examine some novelty after all. He eased himself through the crowd, not looking Victor's way—yet—as he made for a stall.

“Good price,” the watch seller said, holding out both arms to block Victor's attempts to get by. “Your lady like
you a lot.” He smiled. “You know what I say?” He puckered his lips and made kissing noises.

“Okay, okay,” Victor said. “I'll take that one.”

He reached for his wallet to end the standoff before Kooi noticed, but the Dutchman glanced over when the young trader clapped his hands in celebration at securing a second sale.

Kooi saw Victor.

There was no immediate reaction. He stared for a second, because he realized he had seen Victor before. He stared for another second, because he didn't know where. He stared for a third second, because he was assessing the chances that a lone Caucasian male he had seen before and who had just been directly behind him was simply a tourist too.

And he
ran.