Scion (34 page)

“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied Ashley, crestfallen at another lead dwindling away.

“Now, exactly how much does this information mean to you?” asked the chairman, the twinkle in his eye telling Ashley exactly how much it would cost.

Although the lead was dead, there was still a chance that it would lead them onto something else. She needed the information.

“What do you have in mind?” her voice had taken on a more husky, sexy tone as she reeled the chairman in.

“How about dinner?”

“I’m not hungry, well not for food anyway,” suggested Ashley, leaning forward. She had undone another button in her blouse and it flapped open enough to allow the chairman a very enjoyable eyeful.

As Ashley predicted the previously forward letch was flustered and was not used to having his wish handed to him on a plate. He would normally have had to ply his women with alcohol to get anywhere near them and never anyone in Ashley’s league.

The Chairman’s mind had moved from his business head to his leisure head and when Ashley suggested a couple of minutes to get herself ready, he almost jumped out of his seat and rushed from the office, taking note of the time. In 120 seconds he’d be back in there and Ashley would be ready for him.

As he closed the door, Ashley buttoned up her blouse, walked over to his computer screen and noted the name and address of the client on the screen. In his eagerness to please, the chairman had failed to clear his screen. Ashley had noticed this in the reflection in the window. All she needed was 10 seconds alone in the room and she’d have everything she needed.

With the name and address memorised, Ashley walked across the office and opened the door to a chairman who was wetting himself with anticipation. When he saw the blouse firmly buttoned to the neck and the look of disgust on Ashley’s face, he realised he’d been played, well and truly played.

“Prick teasing bitch,” he spat out as she walked down the corridor and out of his life.

Ashley was just leaving the building as her phone rang. It was 18.35 in Switzerland, 17.35 in London.

“How’s it going?” asked Scott.

“Eduardo Ramirez, Paraguana, Falcon, Venezuela,” replied Ashley as she stepped past the night guard on her way through the front door of UBZ.

“Who?”

“A guy called Eduardo Ramirez but he died yesterday!”

“Yesterday? Shit!” exclaimed Scott frustrated at another dead lead before considering the coincidence and adding.

“How did he die?”

“Don’t know yet but I think I need to speak to my old colleagues,” Ashley made subtle reference to the DIA. They had discussed her contacting them ad nauseum but Scott felt the chances of her being tracked far outweighed the help they could offer with what they had so far.

“I don’t know, whoever has been tracking us has access to government agencies and resources and they killed your boss!”

“We don’t know that for certain,” protested Ashley, although the chances of it not being related she knew were minuscule.

Scott remained silent, not justifying her response with a reaction.

Ashley took the hint.

“OK, OK but if we don’t get any further by tomorrow, I’m calling them,” she concluded firmly.

Scott smiled as she made her stand.

“OK, let’s see how we get on today, I’ve still got two people to visit.”

“Two?” replied Ashley surprised.

“Yep, my father’s old lawyer and one other.”

“But I thought you didn’t get anything at Companies House?”

“I didn’t.”

“So who then?”

“There are only two people in the world with the power to destroy my island who knew where it was and that I was there!” replied Scott. “And I’m going to pay a surprise visit to the one I think I can trust tonight!”

Chapter 61

The helicopter set down on the Spirit of Washington heliport in the South East of Washington and deposited its one passenger before immediately departing. Max Ernst strode off the helipad and into the waiting limo which contained the Unit Commander responsible for tracking Eduardo Ramirez

“Met Police HQ,” instructed Ernst to the driver before raising the sound proof partition.

“OK, where are we?”

On hearing the update of Ramirez fleeing to the Anacostia area of D.C., Ernst had immediately called a chopper to take him to Washington. Baker had entrusted him personally with resolving the Ramirez issue and so far he had failed. With Ramirez disappearing into the most neglected and crime ridden area of the capital, it seemed the hunt was getting harder rather than easier. Four hours had passed since their last sighting of Ramirez and Ernst was beginning to panic. The information he had was dynamite in the wrong hands although there were very few of them left. There was always the chance Ramirez may hit lucky and approach somebody not within Transcon’s control.

“Nothing. They’ve just disappeared. They walked out of that station and vanished.”

The answer was exactly what Ernst had feared. They were going to find very few if any allies in that area of Washington.

“I’ve put requests out for every black and hispanic Unit member to be sent to Washington with immediate effect,” added the commander.

Ernst was impressed the man had realised that his predominantly white team were going to achieve nothing more than drive Ramirez even deeper into the deprivation of Anacostia.

“Excellent, how many and how long?”

“I’m afraid only about twenty,” replied the commander slightly embarrassed, it seemed the Unit had not embraced the age of diversity.

“What about freelancers?”

“If you OK the expenditure, I should be able to treble that easily.”

“Do it,” replied Ernst without hesitation.

As the commander got on the phone to instruct the trawl for black and hispanic freelancers, Ernst called Baker. It was not a call he was looking forward to but it had to be done.

Ernst quickly brought Baker, who was uncharacteristically quiet, up to speed.

“I’ll only say this once,” replied Baker slowly. “In three weeks, I will win the election to become the next President of the United States of America. I don’t care what needs to be done to ensure that happens. Do you hear me, I don’t care what you have to do. Just kill that little fucker and do it quickly.” Baker hung up.

For twenty-five years his plan had been perfect. With less than four weeks to completion, it was all of sudden one disaster after another. The bastard child, Ramirez, Hughes…fuck, he had forgotten all about Hughes. The stupid little fuck had called his office earlier in the day. He should have told Ernst but he had enough to do. Ramirez was the real threat. Hughes was just a nuisance, he could wait.

***

Stephen Hughes was in trouble, the Director of National Intelligence had one major flaw, gambling. Not just a few thousand dollar problem but a few hundred thousand dollar problem. A problem that he felt sure would be fixed with his next sure thing. Unfortunately, that sure thing always turned out to be not quite so sure after all. With debts well beyond his government salary, the additional monies paid to him by Transcon for his ‘consultation’ services were not just a luxury but an absolute necessity.

Following his call to Ernst the previous day, he had expected a call informing him of his new payment details. However, it never came and the number he used was now unobtainable. He had tried Transcon all day but the answer was always the same. ‘I’m afraid Mr Ernst isn’t available.’ He had even tried to speak to Henry Freeman, the boss but he too was unavailable and it was clear from the reaction that his call was not welcome.

The final blow was dealt when one of Washington’s less than illustrious citizens called him to find out where the fuck his money was. Hughes apologised profusely and immediately checked with his off-shore private bank as to why the man’s payment had not been sent. The answer was simple, he had no funds to pay him. The payment he had received from Transcon, via an anonymous subsidiary only two days earlier that would cover his debt payments for the month, had been withdrawn the night before. How they had managed to do it he didn’t know but he was in no position to complain. The payments were highly irregular and any complaint would raise more questions for the Director of National Intelligence than answers. Questions that would more than likely see him imprisoned.

Hughes was a desperate man, the gambling bosses had already threatened him with serious bodily harm. He could claim death threats had been made against him and obtain extra security but as had been pointed out, that didn’t save his sweet little mother or ensure his darling daughter or wonderful wife didn’t meet with some horrific tragedy. Hughes was fucked. He could either spill the beans to the president about the conspiracy and Transcon’s involvement and risk jail or try to find another source of income. Jail was not something Hughes could contemplate and therefore his focus was entirely on who could benefit from his information. Of course, foreign intelligence services would pay him vast sums of money but Hughes was many things but he was not a traitor. Transcon, as far as he was concerned, was an American corporation and as such everything they did benefited the American economy. Ergo, he was not a traitor. Plus they still executed traitors.

After many hours of panicked thought, Hughes finally had a brainwave. The illustrious governor of Florida, the next US president was an exceptionally wealthy individual who, with his help, could be fully up to speed on all issues long before he took office. It was a brainwave that completely by chance would finally tie Dan Baker to Transcon and cost Stephen Hughes his life.

Chapter 62

The train pulled into Gerrards Cross just after 18.00 and by 18.15 Scott had found Butler-Jones’ house. Tucked away towards the back of the small town, it really was quite spectacular. An Edwardian mansion house covering two floors and set in over two acres of land. A quick recce of the grounds uncovered minimal security, motion sensor spotlights and infra red cameras mounted on each corner of the house. Although it looked impressive, to a professional like Scott, it was a dream come true. There were more blind spots in the system than good spots and the homeowner would assume he was safe because the lights would come on should anybody come close. Scott picked a spot in the woods just out of sight of the house and waited for darkness to fall. The sun had just set but the twilight would last for at least another thirty minutes.

By 19.00, darkness had fallen and Scott was on the move. More slippery than an eel, he was up and over the wall of the garden grounds without the faintest noise. The route to the small door he had decided was his best access point had him weaving in and out of the motion sensors until he found himself next to the door at the rear of the house. He gently turned the handle and was not particularly surprised when it opened. Gerrards Cross looked like the type of place where people were a lax when it came to locking their back doors.

Scott slipped into what appeared to be a boot room, Wellington boots lined the floor while Barbours and other waterproofs hung from pegs that covered the wall. A door across the small room stood ajar and through the gap, Scott could see a large kitchen which seemed empty although he could hear voices coming from deeper in the house. Pushing open the boot room door very gently, Scott entered the kitchen and listened to where the voices were concentrated. They appeared to be coming from the room to the right at the bottom of the corridor which Scott guessed would be the family room. Scott could see through the small gap in the kitchen door that an identically sized room lay across the hallway on the other side. Scott assumed this would be the formal lounge. Three more doors led off the hallway and it was one of these that Scott wanted. Scott pulled the kitchen door and stopped the instant it was about to creak. He quickly grabbed some kitchen oil and rubbed it into the hinge. His patch job complete, he continued and once the door was open wide enough, he quickly and silently entered the hallway.

Scott looked at the first door and noted the slight difference in the design of the door and size of the frame. It was an addition and more than likely a toilet added after the house was built. Of the two doors that remained, one was much closer to the kitchen and assuming the dining room would be nearer the kitchen, Scott plumped for the third door as the room he wanted. However, it was directly opposite the family room from where the voices continued to emanate and where the door was wide open.

In one swift and fluid motion, Scott crossed the hallway and entered and closed the third door and found himself standing in John Butler-Jones private study. If anyone had seen him they had made no noise and after waiting a few seconds, Scott walked across to Butler-Jones’ desk. As he sat in the seat, his blood began to boil. The photos on his desk of a happy family hit Scott hard, a daughter in a graduation gown and a teenage boy holding a set of keys next to a new car. They reminded Scott of all the things he had dreamt of throughout his life had he grown up in a normal family. It was not that he didn’t love the islanders nor the path he had taken but being an assassin was a particularly lonely job and in fact perfect for an orphan but at the same time not many kids dreamt of being an international assassin.