at his sides. He didn’t try to take the knife from his flesh. He had to know there was no point even if he’d had the strength left to tug it free of the vacuum’s pull. Such an action would only quicken his demise. Victor considered what he would do if their places had been reversed – whether it was better to live those extra few seconds in pain and fear or to hurry to the boatman.
Victor patted along Kooi’s thighs and around his waist to make sure there were no hidden weapons that might be employed with the last of Kooi’s strength. He knew better than most that when faced with death, people could find a way to stay alive or take their vengeance, because he had done both.
There was a wallet and room key in one of Kooi’s hip pockets and the statuette in the thigh pocket, but nothing else. Victor examined the statuette. It was about six inches in height and lacquered black. Victor didn’t understand what it was supposed to be. It looked like a reptilian man, somewhat comical and juvenile. Kooi had strange tastes.
Victor slipped the wallet into one of his own pockets. He didn’t need to check the contents because anything inside the wallet was of no interest to him. He would dispose of it later. Taking it was merely to give the police a story. He unclasped Kooi’s wristwatch and ripped a pendant from his neck for the same reasons. There was no phone to take, but Victor rarely carried one himself.
Kooi, his face pale while he sat dying, stared at Victor as he was robbed.
‘Who sent you?’ Kooi asked in a whisper.
Even if paramedics showed up that second, Kooi couldn’t be saved, so Victor answered, ‘CIA.’
‘Are you…?’
Victor shook his head. ‘Independent contractor. Like you.’
The Dutchman blinked and swallowed while he gathered the energy to speak again. ‘For the American?’
Victor nodded.
A weak smile. ‘I knew I should… have said no… to that job.’ He coughed at the effort of saying so many words in succession. He fought to keep his head upright and his eyelids open.
‘Greed kills us all eventually,’ Victor said.
‘But me first.’ Another weak smile. Another cough. Blood glistened on his lips. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Ask me again when I join you.’
He nodded, accepting the response. ‘Would you do something… for me?’ He paused and wheezed. ‘A favour. It’s important…’ His eyelids fluttered. Blood dripped from his chin. He tried to lift his hand. ‘Please…’
‘Maybe.’ Victor said. ‘What is it?’
Kooi never answered.
FOUR
Somewhere over the Atlantic, three weeks later
The Lear jet cruised at an altitude of thirty-one thousand feet. In the cockpit a pilot and co-pilot monitored the instruments and joked amongst themselves. There was no other crew. On the far side of the cockpit door, a woman and a man sat in the passenger cabin. The woman’s name was Janice Muir. The man was Francis Beatty. They sat on opposite tan leather seats, facing each other across a small table. The sky outside the small round window was black and absent of stars.
A tablet computer lay between them. A photograph was displayed on its screen. The photograph was pixellated and slightly blurry, having been shot at distance and then enlarged as far as its resolution could handle. The tablet was rotated to suit Muir’s perspective. Beatty used a finger to wipe the screen and bring up other photographs. They showed a man in a suit walking along the street of a European city, then ascending some steps to enter through the black door of a whitewashed townhouse.
Muir said, ‘Are we sure he’s the target?’
‘Possibly,’ Beatty answered. ‘Right height. Right build. Right sort of age. The hair is different, though.’
‘A wig?’
‘I’m guessing he’s just changed his style.’
The woman thumbed the tablet’s screen to cycle back and forth through the photographs. ‘I’d like a little bit more than a guess.’
Beatty frowned. ‘We’re working with intel that is out of date. People grow and cut their hair all the time. I don’t think it makes a difference.’
‘We’ve had two false positives so far. I’d prefer to avoid another.’
‘Perhaps it will be third time lucky.’
This time Muir frowned. ‘I prefer to deal with facts, not luck.’
‘Just a turn of phrase.’
‘Probability?’
He shrugged and rocked his head from side to side. ‘Hard to say.’
‘You’re being paid to say.’
‘Then I’d say sixty-five per cent, give or take.’
‘That doesn’t fill me with confidence.’
‘I was trying to be accurate, not reassuring. From what little we can see of his face in