Black List (34 page)

Alex did nothing. The memory stick in his pocket was his only means of salvation. Surrendering it now would mean a life on the run, a life with no future.

Lowering the weapon, Halvorsen squeezed off a single round. The crack of the gunshot, and the sudden explosion of sand and broken stones at Alex’s feet, made him jump with fright.

‘The next one’s in your stomach. Believe me, it’s a bad way to go,’ Halvorsen promised, raising the weapon so that it was pointed at his abdomen. ‘Give me the Black List, and we all walk away from this. You’re a smart man, so do the smart thing, Alex.’

Alex sighed and closed his eyes, knowing that further attempts to stall would be futile. Reaching into his pocket, he lifted out the little plastic memory stick, held it in his hand a moment as if to savour the victory that was almost his, then tossed it to the older man.

Halvorsen caught it out of the air, then deftly slipped it into his jacket pocket.

‘If you think you can trust the men who created that list, you’re making the biggest mistake of your life,’ Anya warned him. ‘I know you are doing this because you’re afraid of them, but you don’t have to be. I can protect you. I’m giving you a chance to help me stop them forever, Kristian. Give us back the list, and I promise we can do this together. Don’t let it end this way. Don’t let them use you like they use everyone else. Please.’

There was a moment of hesitation, of doubt that showed in his eyes as the force of her words sank in. Even he wasn’t immune to the sheer emotion and desperation in her voice.

But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Halvorsen smiled and shook his head, his mind made up. ‘You were a good operative, Anya. The best, but you’re short-sighted. That was always your downfall.’ He gestured to the road stretching off into the distance. ‘You’ll have a long time to think about that.’

Alex watched as he removed the keys from the van’s ignition, then used a small penknife to slash both front tyres, rendering the vehicle unusable. ‘You’re going to leave us out here?’

He shrugged. ‘My orders were to recover the list. The Circle want no part of your vendetta against Marcus Cain, so consider this a warning. I suggest you listen to it. And for what it’s worth, I hope your luck holds – both of you. But if you ever come looking for me, the Circle will make sure it doesn’t.’

With those parting words, he settled himself into the driver’s seat of the BMW. Sinclair followed a moment later, pausing briefly to look at Alex one more time. He said nothing, though the look in his eyes conveyed far more than mere words.

For his own part, Alex regarded his former friend with absolute disgust. ‘If I were you, I’d hope we don’t meet again.’

‘We won’t.’ Giving Alex a mocking salute, Sinclair slipped into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.

With that, the sleek saloon took off and roared back onto the main road, leaving only dust and tyre marks in its wake.

Alex and Anya were, once more, alone.

The journey had passed more or less in silence. Neither Sinclair nor Halvorsen had much to say to one another. In truth, Kristian Halvorsen was racked with guilt over what he’d done to Anya. He had known the woman for more than twenty years, could still remember the day he’d sat down to debrief the tired, bedraggled teenager who had walked right into the central police station in Oslo to claim political asylum.

Never could he have imagined then that it would lead them to this.

But it was worth it, he told himself as he patted the memory stick in his pocket. Whether she hated him or not, he had saved her life by retrieving the Black List today. The Circle, who had remained largely neutral in this conflict so far, would not tolerate such a threat to their anonymity.

It was worth it, he told himself again. To protect Anya, it was worth it.

‘I need a piss,’ Sinclair said, breaking the silence. He was sitting with his seat tipped back, feet resting on the dashboard, his blonde hair streaming in the breeze from the open window.

‘The plane is only a few miles away. Hold it in,’ Halvorsen advised him. The same private jet that had delivered himself, Alex and Anya to this country was now waiting to take him back to Norway, parked at a small airfield near the Black Sea.

‘I’ve been doing that for the past half hour,’ the young man protested. ‘Come on. Somehow I doubt they’ll catch up to us now.’

Rolling his eyes with impatience, Halvorsen turned off the road and drove a short distance down a bumpy dirt track until they were out of sight.

Sinclair sighed, staring thoughtfully out at the dusty, scrub-covered hillside in front of them. ‘Tell me something, Kristian. Is there anyone you won’t fuck over to get ahead?’

Halvorsen glared at him. ‘Watch your tongue, boy. You’ve been useful so far, but don’t push it.’ He shifted position in his seat, the automatic in his jacket digging uncomfortably into his hip. ‘Now get on with it. Make it quick.’

‘It will be,’ Sinclair promised him.

Then, in a sudden darting movement, his hand leapt out. Before Halvorsen could stop it, the automatic had been yanked clean out of his pocket. He whirled around, making to grab for it, only to find the barrel staring him in the face. A pair of wild, remorseless eyes stared back at him.

His last thought before Sinclair pulled the trigger was that at least he no longer had to worry about Anya’s vengeance when she finally caught up with him. Perhaps he even deserved what was coming.

Exiting the car with his ears still ringing from the crack of the gunshot, Sinclair wiped a splash of blood off his face, then used a handkerchief to wipe down the gun. Circling around to the driver’s side, he opened the door, gripped Halvorsen under the arms and heaved him out; no easy task considering the man’s size and weight.

Nonetheless, with some effort Sinclair managed to drag him a short distance, then placed the gun in his meaty hand.

Reaching into his pocket, he fished out the memory stick and held it up. The Black List, the file that Anya, the Circle, even Halvorsen were willing to kill for, and it was all his. A world of power in the palm of his hand.

He smiled, pocketed the memory stick and returned to the car, already reaching for his cell phone and dialling a number from memory.

‘It’s me,’ he said simply, eager to keep the call as short as possible as he started the engine up once more. ‘I have what you need. Meet me at the agreed place.’

‘It was all for nothing,’ Anya said, staring absently off into the distance as traffic rumbled past on the main road nearby, engine fumes mixing with the smell of manure, human bodies and cooking food. The glass of ice water on the table in front of her sat untouched, despite the intensity of the midday sun beating down on them.

After leaving the crippled van behind, the two of them had started the long walk along the deserted coastal road, largely staying out of sight lest a police car pass by and notice them. At last, tired and wilting in the hot sun, they had decided to chance their luck and flagged down a passing station wagon that looked like it was older than Alex.

Miraculously the elderly couple onboard had bought their story of being lost tourists, with Anya explaining away the cuts and bruises on her face by claiming she’d been mugged a couple of days earlier. The woman had cast a suspicious glance at Alex, no doubt harbouring her own thoughts on that matter, but nonetheless had allowed them to collapse gratefully into the back seat.

Despite some misgivings on the part of their hosts, their rusty and dilapidated ride had brought them as far as the small town of Corlu, where they had stopped at an outdoor cafe for a much-needed drink, and to plan their next move.

Anya however seemed to have run out of plans. Indeed, Alex had never seen her so despondent. She looked beaten, plain and simple. Everything she’d risked so much for had come to nothing.

He on the other hand was harbouring quite different emotions.

‘Cheer up, mate. It could be worse,’ he said, taking a gulp of his beer. The ice-cold liquid tasted better than he’d imagined, and before he knew it he’d drained the entire glass. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh of absolute satisfaction. ‘Bloody hell, that was worth waiting for.’

Anya regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and irritation as he motioned to the waiter to bring over another. ‘I don’t see why you’re so happy.’

He couldn’t help but grin. ‘Oh my God, I think this is the moment,’ he exclaimed. ‘Right here, right now. Knowing something the other person doesn’t. This is what it must feel like to be you.’

Her blonde brows drew together in a frown. ‘What are you talking about?’

Reaching into his back pocket, Alex laid something down on the table. Something that prompted a wonderfully satisfying look of disbelief from his normally stoic companion.

‘Is this what I think it is?’

Alex nodded, then thanked the waiter as he laid another bottle of Efes Pilsen down in front of him.

Anya was oblivious as she gently picked up the memory stick with the reverence of a sacred relic. ‘How can this be?’

Alex shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. ‘I just did what Kristian said – the smart thing. No way was I giving that fat prick the Black List after everything we went through. I’m just glad he didn’t have a computer with him.’

That was when he saw it. The smile. The smile so rarely seen, but so welcome when it finally came.

Leaning back in her chair with a weary sigh, Anya shook her head in amusement, though there was something else in her eyes as she regarded him across the table. Something he hadn’t seen before – respect.

‘I will say one thing for you, Alex Yates. You never cease to surprise me.’

He grinned and held out his bottle in a toast. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said as they clinked glasses.

Clearly however one thing still troubled his companion. ‘But if you didn’t give Kristian the Black List, then what was on that memory stick he took from you?’

At this, Alex merely smiled and took another sip of his beer.

It was a beautiful evening in the port city of Samsun, a warm breeze sighing in from the Black Sea across the wide harbour crowded with yachts, speedboats and countless other pleasure craft.

Glancing out the window, Arran Sinclair watched a motor launch filled with young men and women heading out to a much larger vessel moored out in the bay, no doubt to party the night away before heading off to their next destination. All were tanned, all good-looking, all rich.

He caught himself wondering if he might find himself in such company before too long. With this heartening thought in mind, he turned off the main road and into a small private airfield overlooking the coast.

As he’d expected, there was only one plane sitting parked beside a small hangar at the far end of the runway. A private jet, sleek and expensive.

Its owner was waiting for him as he pulled Halvorsen’s car into the hangar, flanked by a pair of stocky bodyguards. All were dressed in civilian clothes, though Sinclair knew well enough that they were anything but civilians. They were Pakistani intelligence operatives, but more than that, they were rich Pakistani intelligence operatives, who were willing to part with 3 million US dollars to get their hands on the Black List.

Not bad for a few days’ work.

Bringing the car to a stop, Sinclair killed the engine and stepped out. The inside of the hangar was just as warm as the balmy evening air outside, but the steel shell overhead provided at least some respite from the sun’s glare.

‘You are late,’ his contact remarked, checking his watch.

Sinclair shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalant confidence that stood in stark contrast to what he was feeling at that moment. ‘But I’m worth waiting for.’

‘We shall see.’ Vizur Qalat was a tall, neat-looking man in his mid forties, with dark hair swept back from a high forehead, and clean-cut features that somehow made him seem younger than his years. His English was impeccable, perhaps the result of a higher education in the UK, making it almost possible to forget the sinister agency he represented.

But there was an edge to him. Something hidden beneath those suave good looks that put Sinclair on edge, warning him this was not a man one ever wanted as an enemy.

‘I assume you have brought it with you, Arran?’ he prompted.

Reaching into his pocket, Sinclair held up the memory stick for inspection.

At a nod from Qalat, one of the bodyguards strode forward and plucked the device from his hand, while the other unpacked a laptop from a carry case and set it up on a small work table nearby.

‘You’ll forgive me if I verify the contents,’ Qalat said, clearly unconcerned whether Sinclair approved or not.

‘No problem,’ Sinclair assured him. ‘When will my money be transferred?’

Qalat didn’t look at him as he waited for the laptop to start up. ‘As soon as we have confirmation, you’ll get your reward,’

In the tense moments that followed, Sinclair found his thoughts drifting back to Alex, and particularly his female companion. It was a shame that Halvorsen had insisted on leaving her alive, perhaps clinging to some mistaken belief that she would one day understand and forgive his betrayal. Although he knew little of her, Sinclair was troubled by that woman. He had faith in his own ability to disappear and leave no trail, but he’d sleep better at night knowing she was out of the way.

On the other hand, he felt a twinge of genuine sympathy for Alex. His former friend had been a great asset, and was undeniably skilled at what he did. But for all his great abilities and intellect, he’d remained a naive and trusting fool right to the end. Perhaps now he’d wise up.

He let out a breath as Qalat waited a few seconds for the contents of the memory stick to load up. Straight away the computer’s automatic virus-checkers went to work, sweeping the memory stick for any sign of malicious code, then promptly advising that it was clean.

Smiling, Sinclair watched as his benefactor clicked on the file to open it. However, his smile soon vanished as the laptop froze for a moment, a dialogue box appearing on screen to inform him the file couldn’t be opened.

Sinclair felt his heart beat faster, his palms growing moist with perspiration. Qalat tried to open it again, only to meet with the same result.

Turning on Sinclair, the Pakistani intelligence officer regarded him with an almost disappointed look. ‘Would you care to explain this, Arran?’

‘Let me see it,’ Sinclair said, hurrying forward and attempting to open the file himself. It didn’t take long to confirm that his efforts were wasted.

Only then did the realisation finally hit him. Only then did he realize that it was Alex who had scored the final point in their battle of wits. He had been duped in the most pathetically simple way possible.

‘Alex, you bastard.’

The conditional access module, the very same piece of software he’d mailed to his friend when this all started, was now running on this computer. The same tool used to entrap and manipulate Alex had now been used against him.

He reached out and closed down the laptop with trembling hands, knowing it was a futile gesture since the damage had certainly been done, then backed away and turned to look out of the hangar.

‘I’m annoyed with you, Arran,’ Qalat remarked, though Arran barely heard him. Just as he barely heard the click of a safety catch being disengaged. ‘I had such high hopes for you.’

Once more Sinclair stared out across the sunlit bay, watching the distant pleasure craft and the holidaymakers and the rays of the evening sun glinting off the water. The world was as it had been before, but not for him.

Not now. Not ever.

He closed his eyes for the last time as the dull thud of a silenced gunshot shattered the peaceful silence of the hangar.