The next morning, The Ghost got up early and jumped in a taxi that took him straight to the Federal Courthouse for Crime and Correction. Being a Sunday, it was closed, and he was the only person standing at the top of the ten stone steps that led to the front entrance. He made his way to the spot on the pavement where he expected the police van to drop García off and then timed how long it would take to climb to the entrance. He made the same journey three times, all at slightly different speeds, until he was happy that he had the correct range of timings. He calculated that, from leaving the van, García would reach the top step in somewhere between twelve and fifteen seconds.
Next, he took a leisurely ten-minute walk through the local neighbourhood that led him directly to the hospital. He paused outside the Emergency Department entrance and reached inside his jacket to retrieve the lanyard that gave him the status of a heart consultant. He then entered the building through the automatic glass doors. As soon as he was inside, he headed for a bank of lifts that he knew included a service elevator that would take him directly to the fifteenth floor.
Two minutes later, he walked up a small set of winding metal steps that gave direct access to the roof. He made his way across to the west aspect and removed a small telescopic gunsight from the inside pocket of his jacket. He adjusted the focus and zoomed into the top step at the front of the courthouse, then waited patiently for something to happen. After about ten minutes, he spotted a teenager casually walk up the steps and make his way to the front doors, where he stopped to read the signage giving the weekly opening times of the court. As the young man turned and walked away, he had no idea a gunsight was tracking his every step.
Twenty four hours later, Pedro battled his way through a paltry breakfast of cold scrambled eggs mixed with chilli peppers and a sausage that he was sure had never been anywhere near a real pig. At least the coffee was hot, and it helped wake up his senses. He’d only slept intermittently and was feeling physically and mentally exhausted. He’d had plenty of time to think and yet couldn’t work out how this unknown enemy had tracked down Gonzales and Ramos.
While Pedro sat and contemplated what the hell was going on, The Ghost was already set up on the hospital roof, having checked out of his hotel at dawn. His aluminium precision rifle was resting on a titanium bipod, which kept the weapon totally stable. Pedro’s court appearance was still two hours away and that gave him plenty of time to practise, as he lined up dozens of unsuspecting bystanders in his telescopic sight.
At precisely ten o’clock in the morning, Vargas and Torres entered García’s cell. He was perched on the edge of his bed.
“Pedro, last chance before we head off to court. Where have you stashed your share?”
“Share of what, chief inspector?”
Vargas let out a frustrated sigh. “Okay, García. Let’s go.”
The Ghost glanced down at the display on his black digital watch. It showed 11.26, meaning García was due to arrive in the next four minutes. He leaned forward and peered through the telescopic sight. It was perfectly focused on a press photographer standing at the top of the steps. He could feel pure adrenalin coursing through his veins. It was moments like this he lived for. No nerves, no guilt, just pure excitement.
In fact, the police van containing García was running about five minutes late due to unexpected traffic. A large crowd had gathered outside the front of the courthouse and, hidden among the news reporters, camera operators and press photographers stood an interested observer, Matias Paz. A few yards away from him, another figure, who also shared a special interest in García’s arrival, surveyed the scene. Vargas looked around for any sign of obvious danger as he waited for the police van to arrive.
Inside the back of the transit, Pedro sat on a raised ledge above the rear wheel arch, facing the two armed officers who had escorted him from his cell a few minutes earlier. His hands were cuffed, resting on his thighs, and he kept his head bowed to avoid eye contact with the policemen. He was deep in thought, contemplating his options, which were narrowing by the minute. Pedro figured there was probably enough evidence to convict him for the robbery, which meant he faced a minimum of ten years in Devoto Prison. That was bad enough, but even worse was the thought of being cleared, released and then being tracked down by the relentless psychopaths who had tortured and killed his friends. He concluded that the only rational option left open to him was to cut a deal, give up his share of the heist and hopefully source a new identity, courtesy of the police. There and then he vowed he would speak with his pro bono lawyer to request a pretrial meeting with Vargas. His life had spectacularly imploded, so it was time to make the best of a bad situation.
A roar went up as the black Ford Transit came to a stop by the front of the courthouse steps. The Ghost sensed a slight increase in his heart rate as he waited for the appearance of his prey. It seemed an eternity before the side door of the van slid open and García emerged, flanked on either side by a uniformed police officer. At that exact moment, all hell seemed to break loose. A cacophony of noise erupted among the hysterical crowd and, as the trio moved slowly forward, reporters screamed out questions, digital cameras beeped, and news cameramen jostled for position. Chaos reigned, and, for a brief moment, time seemed to stand still for Pedro. A random thought flashed into his mind: this must be what it’s like to be a celebrity. It was the last thought he ever formed. A thousand metres away, an elite contract killer calmly counted to himself.
“… ten, eleven, twelve …”
The Ghost’s index finger gently began to apply pressure on the trigger. The movement was strangely elegant and perfectly controlled. It appeared as if everything was moving in slow motion. His body refused to flinch as he felt the sensation of the round leave the barrel of the rifle. The bullet took just over a second to reach its target. It ripped into García’s back just to the left of his spine and exited through the right atrium of his heart. His body slumped to the ground like a rag doll. Mayhem broke out and two of the onlookers in the crowd reacted in completely different ways. Vargas ran towards García’s stricken body while Paz moved in the opposite direction.
The man known as The Ghost collected the spent cartridge, broke down the sniper rifle and packed it neatly back into the suitcase. He dumped his white medical coat and stethoscope down one of the air-conditioning vents on the roof of the hospital and five minutes later was in a taxi heading for the central train station.
Pandemonium broke out on the steps of the courthouse. The large crowd scattered in all directions, although a number of news cameramen held their positions to film Vargas and the two officers who surrounded García’s body as if they were trying to protect the corpse from further punishment. As he stared at the large gaping hole in García’s chest, Vargas suddenly noticed a second body prone on the ground about ten feet away. The round had gone straight through Pedro and struck a female news reporter in the abdomen. The centre of her blue cotton dress was covered with a large red stain and she continued to leak a pool of blood onto the stone steps.
A screaming siren cut through the manic hubbub, and Vargas knew that meant the paramedics were close by. All they needed was a pair of body bags.
Within thirty minutes of the shooting, Paz was back in his office giving Herrera a blow-by-blow account. He could hardly contain his delight as he regaled his number two with the gory details of the sensational assassination.
“Luci, this ghost guy is a fucking genius. No one heard the shot, and there was no sign of a gunman. Straight through the fucking heart. He could have been a mile away for all I know.”
Herrera laughed as his boss continued his ecstatic rant.
“No one will ever know where that bastard, García, hid his share. That secret is buried with him. For once, I can’t wait to talk to old man Franklin. He’s been kicking my arse since this whole mess blew up. Tell the boys, tonight we are going to hit the casino. I’m feeling lucky.”
The Ghost left Retiro railway station, part of the central travel hub for Buenos Aires, and took his reserved first-class seat on the fast train to Rosario. It was the third largest city in Argentina and, essentially for The Ghost, it had an international airport. He knew he faced an onerous five-hour journey ahead but he always followed the same rules on a foreign assignment: never use the same airport or airline for entry and exit, and always use a different alias.
He slept for most of the journey and, a few minutes before arriving at Rosario station, he retrieved a small, soft travel bag from inside the black suitcase that still contained the rifle. As the train slowed to a halt, he placed the case in the rack directly above his seat number and walked through the carriages to the very front compartment. When he stepped onto the platform, his local contact, who had made the same journey in standard coach, walked along the aisle and entered the first-class compartment, making his way to seat 5A, where he promptly collected the black case stowed above it.
Fifty minutes later, Italian businessman Marco Rossi waited in line at the Aerolíneas first-class check-in desk for his one-way flight to Rio. He sensed his mobile buzz and, when he glanced at the screen, he saw an alert from his bank confirming he was two million dollars richer.
The red phone burst into life. Franklin deliberately let it ring for a good few seconds before taking the call from Paz.
“Sir, I have very good news – García is dead. Your ghost pulled off an incredible hit. I was right there when it happened, just a few yards away when the round cut him down.”
Franklin’s reply was not exactly what Paz was expecting. “I know you were there, you cretin. I spotted you lurking in the crowd outside the courthouse. The shooting is currently the fucking lead story on CNN rolling news.”
“Shit, what are they saying?”
“At the moment they are speculating that it’s all part of a gangland war that involves the three dead bank robbers. Let’s hope it stays like that.”
Paz picked up his remote and aimed it at the giant eighty-inch TV screen on the wall opposite his desk. He flicked the channel on to CNN and, sure enough, the shooting was being shown from multiple angles. He kept the sound muted and continued with his act of deference towards Franklin.
“What do you want me to do now, Señor?”
“I still want you to find the contents of our fucking box. Work on García’s friends, workmates, relatives, anyone with a connection to him. Someone must know something. I suspect the cops won’t stop looking for the stash, so neither should we. And, Paz, try and be a bit more subtle with your methods. We really don’t want any more killings unless they’re absolutely essential. Later tonight John is taking part in a live TV debate with four other nominees. He is creaming it in the polls and a strong performance will almost guarantee the nomination. In a few months’ time, I’ll be the father of the next president of the United States. That’s why I won’t feel safe until I know everything has been destroyed.”
Vargas was holding court in the open-plan office at police headquarters, debriefing his team on the morning’s events. The safe-deposit robbery, which had occurred ten days before in Buenos Aires, was now leading the world news. He was the man in charge of the investigation and yet he didn’t actually have a clue about what was really happening.
“García was taken out by a highly trained sniper. A completely different M.O. to the other four killings. We need to check out every building within a mile radius that has a direct line of sight to the courthouse.”
Torres interrupted his boss. “Chief, we’re already on it. We’ve been looking at Google Earth and it seems there are four contenders. As soon as we finish here, the guys will check them all out.”
Vargas nodded and continued. “The reality is, whoever did the hit is probably already out of the country. But there’s a much bigger picture to consider here, and, right now, we haven’t got a handle on what’s actually going on. This case is not really about a bank robbery any more. We’re facing a highly skilled and motivated organisation that wants its property back at all costs. They’ve walked away from millions of dollars in pursuit of whatever was in their box and they’ve ruthlessly killed nine people along the way, including one of our own. Now it looks like they brought in an outside contract killer to take out García, which tells us they are extremely well funded.”
Vargas paused and Torres cut in again. “It feels like we are up against a secret army that is always one step ahead of us.”
“And that, Juan, is possibly the most worrying aspect of this entire case.”
Vargas moved towards his office and signalled for Torres to join him.
As they walked together, Vargas suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. At the opposite side of the open-plan office, two senior detectives were deep in conversation with a female, also dressed in civilian clothes. She had her back to Vargas, but, for a brief moment, he believed for all the world that he was looking at his wife. Her particular stance, her petite frame and her long black hair were so much like Sophia, Vargas was convinced it was her and was transfixed. Torres followed his superior’s eyeline and smiled.
“She’s a hot one, chief, but I’ve heard she is a bit of a ball-breaker. She’s the deputy head of HR and works out of the commander’s office.”
Torres’s voice brought Vargas back to earth but his hands trembled as he wiped his brow and he swallowed hard. Slowly he gathered himself together and led Torres into his office. Once the two detectives were alone, Vargas finally managed to pick up the thread of his thoughts.
“Juan, I think they must have someone on the inside. It’s uncanny how they always seem to be one step ahead of us. From now on, any major operational decisions need to be kept between you and me until the very last possible moment. We don’t know who we can trust.”
“Understood, chief. By the way, what you said out there about a hitman, do you really believe that?”
“Yep. And, as I said, I think he is probably long gone and—”
Vargas was interrupted by Detective Martin, who knocked and opened the office door in one simultaneous movement. He strode in, accompanied by another man who neither Vargas nor Torres recognised. He was casually dressed in a black T-shirt and a pair of washed-out Levi’s.
“I’m sorry to crash in, sir. This is Daniel Colombo from IT. He’s been working on the mobile that you found at Ramos’s flat.”
Vargas smiled at the young tech expert and gestured for him to take the chair in front of his desk. “Daniel, we could really do with some good news. What have you got for us?”
Colombo placed the iPhone down on Vargas’s desk. “Chief inspector, the data on this phone has been encoded and encrypted to a level that I’ve never seen before. Plus, everything has a triple-lock password, which makes it almost impenetrable.”
“Daniel, what do you mean by almost?”
“Well, we did get a small break, sir. For some reason, the very last call made by this mobile didn’t get fully encrypted.”
Vargas almost leapt out of his chair. “So we have a lead?”
“Sort of, sir. The number we retrieved doesn’t belong to anyone in Argentina. The last call made on this phone was to an international number in America, placed to area code 415.”
“And what state might that be?”
Daniel grinned like a cat that had got the cream. “California, sir. San Francisco, to be precise.”