With a practiced flick of his wrist, James Hayward let himself into a Kuala Lumpur flat belonging to a man named Kirksman. Kirksman didn’t appear to be at home, so Hayward helped himself to a club soda from the refrigerator and collapsed into an overstuffed easy chair in front of a gratuitously large television.
Kirksman was a fascinating character, Hayward thought. His English got worse every month, even though most of the man’s clients were Americans and Brits. It seemed that the poorer Kirksman’s communication skills became, the more money he made. Hayward wondered whether Kirksman’s terrible English made him seem more mysterious and therefore more legitimate. Kirksman didn’t do what most people would consider to be mainstream work. The little Malaysian man was a glorified smuggler. He flew passengers and cargo wherever the money demanded, regardless of who else might have disapproved.
Kirksman’s clientele was colorful. Most were in the drug trade. Some, like Hayward, were in intelligence. A handful dabbled in both, which had struck Kirksman as odd, until Hayward had explained to him once during a lights-out midnight flight through restricted airspace that an intelligence service capable of funding itself would never be fully at the mercy of its political masters.
Mystery solved, as far as Kirksman was concerned, and why should he worry the least bit about his clients’ motives and methods? A paying customer was a worthy customer. To Hayward’s knowledge, there was no form of payment Kirksman wouldn’t accept: cash, jewelry, bullion, automobiles, homes, apartments, appointments with very friendly women, and, occasionally, plastic surgery. Kirksman’s flexible economics were as close as the man ever came to ideology, Hayward surmised.
Hayward looked at the obscenely large clock on the wall. Kirksman was ten minutes late. Hayward didn’t have ten seconds to spare, much less ten minutes. He picked up Kirksman’s home phone to dial his cell number, but at that moment Kirksman walked through the door with a bag of groceries in one hand and a leash attached to a small yippy dog in the other.
“You’re late,” Hayward said.
It took Kirksman a moment to get over his initial shock, but he recovered quickly. “My big hairy nuts,” he said. “Hayward, you look like hell.”
Hayward shook his head and pointed at the ceiling.
Kirksman waved his arm dismissively. “I have the place swept for bugs once a week,” he said in an undecipherable singsong as he set the bag of groceries on the countertop.
“Not often enough for my comfort,” Hayward said. “I’d rather you didn’t use my name.”
“Sounds like you have an expensive problem.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Absolutely,” Kirksman said. A greedy smile lit up his face. “How soon?”
“Right now,” Hayward said.
Kirksman clucked and shook his head. “That will be very expensive. I had plans.”
“I have no illusions.”
“Where to?”
“Spain.”
Kirksman whistled. “It’s my lucky day.”
Hayward frowned. “Shut up and pack.”
Kirksman raised his eyebrow, then obliged. He grabbed a stained canvas bag and started to shove things into it.
“How long will the trip take?” Hayward asked.
“Nineteen hours,” Kirksman said, “give or take. Plus a stop for fuel on the way.”
Hayward winced. He couldn’t hide the chagrin on his face. He tried to empty his mind, but his thoughts gravitated to Katrin. What were they doing to her? His insides tightened and he flexed his fist. He recalled an extremely long evening spent in the basement of a DC safe house. The experience involved a belt sander and a saltshaker. Hayward was on the receiving end. He still had the scars on his back, a permanent reminder of who owned him and the lengths they would go to exert their will. He shuddered and his stomach tumbled. It made him nauseous to think of the depravity Katrin might be enduring at their hands.