LARCH WAS A PATIENT MAN, but his client was not. Mr. Haynes had phoned with more details of his target and needed it dealt with by midnight. Larch didn’t ask why, and Haynes didn’t explain. Haynes only repeated the importance of securing the target and not missing the deadline. Larch began to worry. There were more surprises than normal with this contract. He had already accomplished his first task. But still there was a loose end. Now a second, surprise target. With less than nine hours until the client’s absolutely-must-be-done-no-excuses deadline, he felt he had no choice but to pursue riskier options, involving non-targets if necessary.
The target was well protected, always accompanied by a plainclothes cop. To find a protection gap, he brought his mobile device identifier, essentially a cellphone sniffer. A small box connected to his phone, it intercepted the unique electronic identity number of any cellphone. Police used them regularly. He obtained his through his regular American channels. He had already tracked the target’s phone to several locations. He could also read the numbers of the people he called and could listen to unencrypted calls. Tracking calls since Tuesday revealed a number in Montreal, several calls to the local police, and a reoccurring number to a woman living downtown. Text conversations suggested a possible girlfriend and an upcoming date. It was unlikely the cop would stick close by when the target and the girlfriend were together. He was running out of time as his client, ever more nervous, wanted the target dealt with now. He had failed twice with his regular tactic: detect, hunt, and eliminate. It now seemed like the highest percentage play he could devise would be to make the target come to him.
An easy search revealed the location: the apartment that he now faced across the street. She finally came into view in her green hatchback. She scooted into a parking spot near the main entrance of the apartment building he had been watching. He had been meticulous researching the professor. But his client insisted on rapid action this time. He didn’t know much about her, and he didn’t like improvising. She walked to the main door with a confident stride, wearing a black parka, dark pants, sunglasses, and with a grocery bag in each hand.
He timed his arrival at the front entrance of the building with Swiss accuracy. He dropped his two Superstore shopping bags and pretended to search for his door keys while she fumbled for hers. She jabbed and twisted the key into the lock, opened the door, and moved straight to the elevator. Larch followed and stood beside her as the elevator door opened. She pushed 2 and he pushed 3. It was unlikely that she would be very familiar with anyone living a floor higher, since she probably either went straight to her apartment or took the stairs. A building with four floors was big enough to provide a distant, formal atmosphere, where few tenants would recognize each other. Her lack of suspicions proved his instincts correct.
At her floor, the door pinged open, and the woman walked out. Larch peeked around the corner and confirmed that she stopped at number 211 before the elevator door hissed shut. He darted out at floor three, bounded down the flight of stairs, and peered through the small window of the fire door at the end of the hall. No police officer in the hallway.
He would have one chance to do this right. He sensed rising urgency in his conversations with his client. He was beginning to dislike Mr. Haynes very much. He resolved that this would be his final mission for him. An image of his pastel-coloured beach house on Mustique flashed in his head. Sandrine would be waiting for him. Maybe it was time to slow down a bit. Spend more time with her. She had been very patient, too.
He shook the images from his head and returned his attention to the stairwell and the task at hand. From one of his shopping bags, he pulled out a pair of work gloves, a short black box, and his lock pick tools. He closed the briefcase and opened the fire door. He only needed sixteen steps to reach the door of suite 211. He waited, listened to the silence, looked at the gap between the door and the floor to check for any movement of the shadows. Nothing. She must be stationary somewhere in the apartment.
He jammed the lock tool, flicked it to the right, and after a few moments of feeling the pins, heard the lock cylinder click into place. He kneeled, weapon pulled from his jacket pocket in hand, and gently swung the door open.
Satisfied. Claire felt drop-down-in-your-chair-and-cross-your-arms satisfied. She had stopped the smugglers and had showed Lansdowne how it was done. Hall was on her side. He seemed pleased and ordered her to go home and recover. Emerging from her bedroom, she was dressed in a dark brown T-shirt that matched her eyes and black Roots track pants. She felt refreshed after a short but deep sleep, a quick trip to the store to stock up on food, and a military-speed shower. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Were those worry lines around her eyes? Thirty-one and she still didn’t look like a ship’s captain. But yes, she had the respect of the people who counted on the Kingston. Except one.
And Daniel had texted again. Dinner date in a few hours. She offered to come over to his hotel where he was holed up. After his protest and plea for escape, she invited him over. Not something she would normally do, but he did come with his own police escort. Did she even have enough of a romantic track record to have a “normal”? A few rebuffed offers from a paltry five men, mostly navy, inappropriately positioned somewhere in her chain of command. Then there was Alexandre, but he took off when she signed up. There was something about Daniel she liked. Yes, he was handsome, but there was something else, a future perhaps, waiting to burst out from inside. At a minimum, he was worthy of further investigation. Did she dare hope for some sort of a connection tonight? She would take it slow and boot him out if she saw any signs of —
She froze.
Was that a noise from the front door?
It might be Mr. Skyler, the nice retiree who regularly forgot that he lived in 213. He would fiddle with the lock, and when it didn’t respond, he would realize his mistake. But this sounded like the door was opening. The landlord? Maybe she should have listened to her voice messages after all. She didn’t remember any messages from him. She shoved her head into the hall to see what was happening at the door at the far end.
It was barely open, but moving, and there was a hand low, pushing it open —
Larch saw a shadow veer to the left. He had been spotted. He darted into the room, holding his pistol straight out, ready to face anything.
The girlfriend stood alone in a T-shirt and track pants a few metres away, looking surprised, transfixed, and unbelieving.
Claire didn’t know what to make of her situation. She was still dripping and a stressed man just busted open her door to her apartment. And he was holding a pistol, what looked like a Beretta. How to react?
“Get out,” Claire ordered. “Vas-t’en, maudit —”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Always on the offence, her training reminded her. She lunged at the man with her comb as her only weapon. It was, after all, a row of sharp plastic spears.
But the man was ready, his body and centre of gravity low, the pistol in his right hand. He shifted to his left to avoid her assault, but she anticipated his move, and her foot slammed into his chest. His body thudded into the wall beside the door, her lone framed picture crashed, and glass splintered on the floor. She grabbed the gun’s muzzle and wrenched it away and out of his hand. The gun spun across the floor, out of reach.
Another flurry of fists and she scratched his face. As she retreated and anticipated his counterattack, his hand found blood from his cheek. The pain shot to his brain just ahead of the feeling of surprise.
Then, he saw what she held in her hand. A plastic comb. Another surprise. He would be more careful now.
She came at him again with a ferocity that surprised him. A slash with the comb, then a blow from her elbow onto his nose. She kicked at his knees. She knew they were a weak spot, easily broken. Any fighter was swiftly weakened with a broken knee.
He saw the move, shifted to the right, and slammed his own elbow down onto her extended left arm, frozen for a moment as her strike missed its target. The scream he heard confirmed that he had hit the right nerve, and her arm was immobilized.
But she didn’t stop.
She retreated a step, swept her hand behind her, and used her familiarity with her space to search for another weapon on the low living room table. Larch lunged across the floor away from her and spun around to face her.
Claire was breathing heavily, as if she were engaged in a boxing match. She grabbed a small bowl. It seemed made of porcelain or something else potentially lethal if she managed at high speed to make contact with his head.
She threw it but missed his head. It smashed with a loud crack on the wall instead. He lunged at her, tackling her headfirst. She fell backward, her head smacked the floor, and then her world collapsed into black.
Claire awoke, suddenly aware of the whirr of the refrigerator and the slow tick of a wall clock. A buzz pulsed through her body. She heard a loud ringing in her right ear. How long had she been out? She opened her eyes. She tasted the salty sting of blood. She was sitting on her bed, her head propped up against a pillow. The stranger sat in a chair directly in front of the bed. He looked relieved. He held a pistol loosely in his right hand.
“Miss Marcoux. It’s nice to finally meet you.” He dropped her wallet on the table between them. She saw the contents of her purse scattered on the kitchen counter behind him. “I see why you were so effective in fighting me.” He waved her navy ID card.
“Qui êtes-vous? … Who are you?” She noticed that the man tensed immediately as she tried to move her hands to rub her eyes. Her hands were bound with several layers of duct tape. As were her feet.
“My name is not important. What you have to say to me is.”
“What do you want?”
“Where is Mr. Ritter?”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“When are you expecting him back?”
She said nothing.
“Don’t take it personally. It’s just business. And you’re just the latest impediment to the completion of my duties.”
He pulled out his cellphone. He knew how to use her to meet his deadline.