56

Late Thursday afternoon, Nikki received a call from Agent Flynn, her least favorite of the two FBI agents. She had described him as “the little Napoleon” when she told Wellington about him, though the phrase was probably redundant.

“We just got done talking to the show’s producer and director,” Flynn reported. “They answered every one of our questions. You can relax. Apparently they’re just raising suspicions among the contestants as part of the reality show game.”

“And you believed them?” Nikki asked.

“Of course.” Flynn ramped up the defensiveness in his voice. “They had scripts already written showing how that element would play out. Something about seeing how the contestants’ faiths hold up when they’re facing death.”

“Did you talk to the contestants?”

“No, we didn’t talk to the contestants. It tends to ruin the element of surprise when you fill the contestants in on what’s happening.” Nikki did not appreciate the sarcasm oozing over the phone lines. “And frankly, I wouldn’t even be telling you this if I thought you still had a way of communicating with Judge Finney. But according to the show’s producer, they’ve suspended the Internet access for the contestants.”

The comment jarred Nikki. Her only means of communication with Finney disrupted. “Why?”

“Because the contestants don’t need it anymore. That part of the show’s over.”

To Nikki, the timing seemed too coincidental. “Did you conduct any searches?”

“No.”

“Talk to any assistant producers or production crew members?”

“Ms. Moreno, we arrived unannounced on the island. We immediately began asking the producer and director questions, and they both got these snide little smiles on their faces like Agent Rafferty and I were the butt of some clever joke. Since I don’t like being laughed at, I ripped into them pretty good. But then they showed me the preexisting scripts for the last few shows where all of this will be unveiled. It became clear that my partner and I were wasting our time.”

Nikki could tell this was going nowhere. And maybe the guy had a point. Besides, if the show’s producer or director had been thinking about offing Finney, he would have to reconsider now that the FBI was investigating.

“Did you tell them about the codes?” Nikki asked.

Flynn let the silence hang long enough to make Nikki worry. “No. We protected our source,” he said at last. “Just like we promised. But they were very curious.”

The phone fell silent again as Nikki considered her next move. If there even needed to be a next move. It just didn’t seem like Finney would be so easily duped.

“You’re welcome,” Flynn said.

“Oh yeah,” Nikki said. “Thanks.”

Thursday night’s show was a mixed bag for Finney. On the good side, it was announced that he won the viewers’ verdict for the Tuesday episode. Norfolk’s Finest Sports Bar exploded with approval, and Nikki couldn’t wipe the grin off her face. Finney had done well on the cross-examination segment, but Nikki also suspected that he got a few sympathy votes based on his botched escape attempt. Hey, a victory was a victory.

The show’s producers announced that Finney had designated World Changers as the recipient of his fifty-thousand-dollar prize. They showed a few clips of World Changers in action—Christian high school and college students who spend part of the summer rehabilitating inner-city homes for the poor and disabled. Nikki nearly teared up as they interviewed a few of the residents whose lives had been changed.

She gave out congratulatory hugs for the rest of the night, even to Byron, who seemed to be at her elbow every time she turned around.

Finney didn’t fare as well in the water torture aspects of the show, dropping out after only eight hours. Patrons of the bar had mixed opinions about how hard it would be to go the full twenty-four hours, as Dr. Ando had done. Byron told anybody who would listen that he could have lasted at least three days.

As soon as the closing credits rolled, Nikki received a call. “Did you see what Finney said?” the caller asked.

Between the background noise and the poor reception, Nikki could barely hear. “Wellington?”

The reply broke up, and Nikki closed her other ear with a finger, ducking her head to get away from the noise.

“Can you hear me now?” the caller asked.

“A little better. What’s up?”

“We’ve got to meet,” Wellington said. “Did you hear what Finney said?”

As a matter of protocol, the Assassin checked the offshore account one last time. It was the third bank he had used this week, transferring the funds each day. Internet banking through his secure satellite phone—the wonders of modern technology. Tomorrow he would begin diversifying the seven hundred thousand dollars, spreading it around between several different banks. He would begin investing as soon as he had finished laundering the additional eight hundred thousand that would be deposited on Saturday.

He reviewed his plan again, probing for any details he might have missed. He was not happy about having the Client involved in the hit, but the Client had insisted that this one was personal. The Client wanted to watch the victim die. The Client wanted to taunt the victim as he drew a last breath. The Client wanted to humiliate the man.

The Assassin should have doubled the rate.

The hardest part, he knew, would be making it look like an accident. But he had a backup plan for that, too. A scapegoat. How fitting, in the midst of a religious show like this, to have a scapegoat ready to take all the blame for the sins of others.

The Assassin’s escape would be easy. By the middle of next week, the Assassin would virtually be a new man—facial plastic surgery, hair implants, the works. He would change his body type as much as possible over the next two months, hitting the gym every day. Big weights, low reps. Hired killers gained and lost more weight than movie stars.

The only loose end would be his client. And if the Client started getting shaky, the Assassin had been known to eliminate that problem as well. Gratis. What was that saying? “Two men can keep a secret . . . if one of them is dead.”

It was nothing personal. The Assassin just didn’t like loose ends. Made it hard to sleep at night.

He e-mailed the Seeker.

Everything is poised for completion on Saturday. Nobody suspects a thing.

Azrael