The Game (Tom Wood)

ELEVEN





The French bistro was small and cramped, with tightly packed tables beneath a low ceiling. Black and white photographs of famous French nationals covered the walls. Framed and signed football shirts had pride of place behind the bar. The lunchtime rush was over and there were plenty of empty tables, but the close proximity of neighbouring diners meant there was little chance of privacy, especially with the affable – and slightly drunk – owner making the effort to chat with all of his customers.

Victor selected a table outside on the pavement where there were no other patrons. He chose the table furthest from the entrance and took the chair against the wall so Muir sat opposite him, her back to the road. Pedestrians passed in sparse enough numbers to ensure they were not overheard.

Sunglasses shielded Victor’s eyes from the glare of a sun unobstructed by clouds. The photosensitive lenses of Muir’s own glasses had darkened automatically to compensate for the brightness.

A waiter was quick to arrive with menus but Victor motioned for him to keep hold of them.

‘Just coffee, please,’ he said. He looked at Muir. ‘Espresso?’

‘Sure. Whatever.’

‘Two espressos.’

The waiter nodded and smiled.

After he was back inside the bistro, Muir placed her phone on the table between them and slid it over to Victor. He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t look at it.

‘Procter being out of action changes nothing about the way I conduct business. I’m not assessing a target in person and especially not in a public space. Put your phone away. I’m here only to listen to what you have to say. So say it. The ten minutes begin now.’

Muir shuffled her chair closer to the table and leaned across. She tapped the phone. ‘Do me a favour and look at it, okay? It’s just a photograph. Just a guy’s face. That’s all. Just take a look.’

‘No,’ Victor said. ‘If you don’t want me to stand up and walk away right now, you do things my way. I’m here to listen. That’s all. Ten minutes isn’t a long time. I suggest you use it economically.’

‘You don’t have to touch the phone if you don’t want to.’ She manipulated it briefly and the screen lit up in Victor’s peripheral vision. ‘Just look at his face. It’ll make all this a lot simpler. And quicker. Please, it’s someone you know.’

‘I’m not sure why I’m failing to make myself understood. I’m not looking at the photograph. I don’t care who it is. I’m not killing him.’

Muir smiled a little. ‘You can’t kill him. He’s already dead.’

That got Victor’s attention, but Muir waited a minute until a couple of teenage girls had passed on the pavement. He overheard something about a double date gone spectacularly wrong.

Muir slid her phone back and slipped it away into a pocket. ‘And the reason why this guy is currently horizontal is because you made it happen.’

She sat back in her chair and watched him process the information.

He said, ‘My previous contract.’

She nodded. ‘Felix Kooi. Dutch national. Citizen of Amsterdam. Professional contract killer. Killed almost a month ago. Stabbed in a back alley in Algiers. A mugging gone wrong, according to the authorities.’

‘You told me you didn’t know the details of the work I’ve done for Procter.’

Muir showed her palms. Her hands were small and glowed white in the sun. ‘I only know because it’s relevant. And it’s all I know. I promise.’

‘I’m not sure how much your word counts for at this particular moment.’

‘Hey, I don’t lie. All right?’

‘I imagine that stance poses significant problems for your chosen profession. Deception is inherent to spying, is it not?’

‘I’m not sure if we really have spies any more, at least in the traditional sense.’ She glanced around. ‘I’m an intelligence officer for the CIA. I gather information on the bad guys and sometimes I act on it, or on information supplied to me.’

‘All without a single untruth.’

‘Okay,’ she conceded, exhaling heavily, ‘sometimes I might take a liberal attitude with the truth. But only for the greater good.’

‘How commendable of you.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re trying to achieve with this.’

‘We’re having a discussion about how much your word is worth. Or not. I’m sure you can appreciate how that is pertinent to this conversation.’

‘Listen. I’m playing straight with you. I am. I wouldn’t go through all this to try and BS you.’

‘Very wise.’

Muir glanced at her watch. ‘I’m going to continue, if that’s okay with you?’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘You were supplied with a significant amount of intel on Kooi, of course, so I won’t waste what little time you’ve granted me regurgitating what you already know. The salient part of his bio is that he was responsible for the assassination of an American diplomat in Yemen two months ago, which is why Procter sent you to deal with him. He—’

The waiter appeared outside with their coffees. He smiled as he placed them down on the table. The tiny white espresso cups were ringed with lines of red glaze.

‘Would it make you more comfortable if I explain how I found you?’ Muir asked once the waiter had left them. She tentatively sipped the steaming espresso. ‘Procter figured you’d want to know.’

‘I already know.’

‘How?’

Victor remained silent and drank some coffee. He’d picked up the injury to the top of his left ear in the aftermath of his contract prior to Kooi. Procter, with his considerable power, and insight into events and those responsible for the injury, could have easily found out the specifics. He knew enough about Victor to know he wouldn’t be satisfied with a noticeable scar. Given the uncommon nature of the injury it would have been a relatively simple task for supercomputers and analysts to sift through the patient records of cosmetic surgeons for a man fitting his description.

Muir said, ‘Procter just told me to say “your ear”. He wouldn’t tell me anything else.’

Victor nodded.

‘You’re our third of four ear guys,’ Muir continued. ‘Today marks my third straight week of tracking down men with cosmetic ear surgery within the past twelve months.’

‘Procter’s a good boss.’

Muir nodded. ‘Of course. He’s the best.’

‘Even though I imagine he hasn’t told you he’s doing it, he’s looking after you. There’s a good reason he’s supplied you the absolute minimum of information about me. Do you know why that is?’

She nodded again. ‘So you wouldn’t consider me a liability.’

‘Most people wouldn’t be so careful. They wouldn’t even think about that.’ Victor sipped from his little cup. ‘You should send him a card if you haven’t already.’

‘I sent flowers.’

‘The last victim of Felix Kooi,’ Victor began after a nod. ‘When you say he was a diplomat in Yemen, what you really mean is he was a CIA non-official cover operative, correct?’

She hesitated a moment, then said, ‘That’s classified.’

‘Of course it is, Miss Muir.’ Victor swallowed the rest of his espresso and placed his cup back on its little saucer. ‘And hence I’m afraid to say that you’ve wasted the past three weeks. Because one thing about me that Procter should have made unequivocally clear is my intolerance for the withholding of relevant information. Perhaps, if you would like to know more about why I am so inflexible on this particular issue, you can ask your boss. He knows.’ Victor stood. ‘Thank you for the coffee. It was delicious.’