The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

His young handler in Atlantic City had evidently convinced him that Zahir always followed through, so he had come. Mr. Subtle was looking around furtively, as if he was afraid someone would jump out and slap handcuffs on him.

Kill you, maybe, but no handcuffs. Mr. Subtle slithered into the diner, saw Zahir nod at him, and slinked over, slid into the booth. He looked scared and wary. “I’m here.”

“Of course you are.”

Mr. Subtle slid down in the booth, as if it would hide him and his paunchy belly. Zahir flicked a hand toward the waitress, mouthed Coffee.

Woody Reading looked at the man opposite him, the beaked nose, dark hair and eyebrows, not a handsome man, mid-thirties, the man his handler, Aziri, had said would not kill him easily and fast if he didn’t bring him the blueprints, he would gut him like a fish, then he would destroy his reputation and his family. He knew Aziri believed it to his soul, and so did Woody.

Zahir was amused and pleased that the man was looking as if Zahir would strike like a snake if he said the wrong thing. Good. A frightened man tended to do what he was told.

The coffee was delivered. The waitress didn’t linger. She wasn’t stupid; she could smell the fear roiling off the man in his silly trench coat—and the other man, the dark one who looked sexy until she’d looked into his eyes and felt her flesh crawl. Dead eyes. Dead eyes.

“Aziri told me to bring you the blueprints or you would kill me.”

Zahir only smiled, nodded. “At the very least. So you have them under your trench coat?”

Mr. Subtle leaned forward to whisper, “Yes, but please, won’t you reconsider? I know what you’re planning, but believe me when I tell you that the FBI is closing in. I don’t want to be caught.”

“After what you’ve already done, you’re only now considering you could be caught?”

“Look, I gave the Bishop the plans for the plane, even backup plans for Bayway. But now it’s getting too hot. People aren’t stupid. My company will be targeted soon, then they’ll fix on me. Won’t you reconsider? I could still return the blueprints, no one the wiser. Do you really need them?”

Ah, Matthew and his ridiculous moniker—the Bishop, bestowed by Ian several years before like a crown on his head. Zahir laughed low, and Woody jerked back, nearly upending his coffee. “That is none of your concern. You are well paid. You need know nothing more. Give me the blueprints.”

Unspoken, but quite clear, was: Give me the blueprints right now or I’ll slit your throat and walk away before the first drop of blood splashes in your coffee cup.

“Listen,” Woody said, desperate now, “surely you realize everyone’s on edge after Bayway. I thought the explosion was only supposed to disable the refinery. I didn’t know you were going to kill a dozen workers. Since the Bishop has always told me he didn’t believe in collateral damage, it was you, wasn’t it, who pushed the button, not the Bishop?” He stopped himself, looked over his shoulder. No one had heard, but it didn’t lessen his fear. He leaned across the table. “My superiors are asking questions. There was a security briefing this morning, about COE. I don’t know how much longer I can stay off their radar.”

Zahir took a sip of his coffee. “You never had to accept the first payment made to you, did you? You never had to buy that rather flamboyant house on the cliffs in Saint Bart’s. You never had to give your mistress diamonds. And you’ve continued to steal and lie and savor the money given to you.

“So, Mr. Reading, this is not a negotiation, nor do I owe you any explanations. Give me the blueprints. Now. Or we’re finished, and you won’t ever see me again until late one night when you are sound asleep with your arm around your mistress and the knife slips between your ribs.”

Zahir began to stand, and in his hand was a small stiletto. He felt the tube nudge his leg under the table. He pulled it up and clipped it inside his jacket.

“Smart decision.” Zahir threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, smiled, noting the sweat on Mr. Subtle’s face as he slid an envelope across to him. “The amount agreed upon. Do you know, Mr. Reading, I’ve never been a patient man, and you surely tried my patience this morning. Never go against me again or you won’t enjoy what happens. Nor will your whore or your wife or your three children. Your cushy job will go up in smoke and everything you hold dear will burn around you.”

He rose. “We do thank you for your cooperation.”

Zahir left Silver Corner to the sound of an envelope being ripped open. As he walked away, he tapped the tube to his leg, pleased.

37

KING TO G1

Interstate 95

Matthew couldn’t shake the vision of her, on her side, legs drawn up. He saw the blood flowing into her hair, the strands turning black.

She was dead. Ian was dead and he’d chosen Vanessa over him. His friends, his only friends, so close to him, like family. Yet Vanessa was a lie. Who had she been working for? Some government agent, the CIA maybe, since she’d first hooked up with him in Ireland. And that meant they knew who he was, who all of them were, yet they hadn’t come after COE.

Why hadn’t she simply walked him into a police station at gunpoint? Obvious answer—whoever she worked for had heard talk about his gold-coin bombs, and they wanted his technology so much they were willing to let him continue his bombings. No doubt they’d tasked Vanessa to get the coins, having her infiltrate COE as a bomber. But he’d never let her near the coins, always kept them hidden, after that first time in Belfast he’d shown them to her, to impress her. Well, before he’d had to kill her, she knew how powerful his bombs were, realized in that moment before death that she’d failed.

He wondered what would have happened if he had shared the coins with her. Well, he hadn’t been that stupid.

She was nothing more than a traitorous bitch. She wouldn’t get them now, and neither would her bosses.

Andy started to moan again.