Secret Skin (38 page)

The subject said: Help.

He opened it up. The address was [email protected].

The message simply said:

ARE YOU LISTENING?

Michael's last words. He was, wide awake and listening to his past.

*

'It wasn't your fault?'

'I had a choice.'

'Did you now?' Henry said. Letting the silence build, waiting for Savage to fill the gap.

'What's the word on Andre?' Savage said.

'Minor internal bleeding from the round impact, he'll live.'

'Shaken up?'

'I doubt it. We'll see when he's out.'

More silence. Both men waited for the other to speak.

'You are though, right?' Henry said.

'Maybe.'

Henry cleared his throat and looked away for a second. When his clear eyes swung back Savage knew what was coming.

'What else did you find out there?'

Okay, not that.

'Who says I found anything?'

'If you're boning my wife in my bed, why fall asleep with your dick in her mouth?'

It took a moment. 'The computer?'

'I taught you better than that. Something made you not care, what's that important?'

Savage threw the woman's knapsack across the desk.

'And this is?'

'Journal, recorder with some damning interviews, footage from an illegal prison. Evidence of interim administration death squads.'

Henry stared him out, Savage didn't offer any more.

'It's my arse on this,' Henry said, 'You were supposed to tell me about anything you found.'

Savage watched him open the bag, pull out the recorder and pen-drive, then flip through the journal.

'Yeah, I read your messages. We were supposed to be recovering her body for the family, but Universal News don't plan on telling them.'

'My messages are encrypted Savage.'

'Hey, I'm more than just a stunningly handsome poster boy for the new private military.'

Henry winced. 'You think? What else?'

'Well, the funny thing is this, what's in that bag is worth killing for, to someone. But whoever took her head left all this there, which means they either didn't know what she had, or didn't care.'

'What does that tell you?'

'I'm not sure, yet.'

Henry shook his head. 'Come on, you read the messages, what do you think?'

'It doesn't feel right. Jessica Price's death isn't public, officially she's only missing on assignment. So if Universal News weren't looking for the family's sake, why were they looking at all?'

'Sympathetic treatment for the family perhaps? Media blackout so the kidnappers don't get any free PR?'

'This is Universal News we're talking about. They'd start a war if they could get more viewers for their news channels.'

'Hmm, sounds almost plausible.' Henry jabbed the page in the open journal in front of him. 'Is this what's really eating you?'

Savage leaned over and read the words on the page, 'Maclays Banking Group.'

'I thought we'd moved past that,' Henry said.

'I still get the dreams.'

'After all you've done out here?'

'Christ, if I did the same things at home I'd be banged up for a very long time.'

Henry looked up from the journal. 'Savage, I can train you to survive the battlefield, if you decide to leave-'

'I'm on my own?' Savage held Henry's eye until he looked away.

The TV in the rec room next door began to blare. An Arabic news channel. Then the voices of other men on base. The channel changed, more news, music, a movie, until they realized the banter was far more interesting. Savage flinched at the sudden intrusion.

'Well there's nothing much to go on here anyway,' Henry threw the journalist's notebook on the table. 'A company name in a journal doesn't mean a thing.'

'I know that,' Savage said. 'The Universal News person you've been in contact with, Jason Williams, according to your emails. What do you know about him?'

Henry smiled. 'Not much. PR guy. He's the account manager.' Henry spat the job title out like sour milk. 'You know how it is these days. You'll deal with anyone as long as they pay well, on time, and cause you as few headaches as possible.'

'Yeah, but here's the thing, this guy, Williams, he only manages two accounts. Universal News and Maclays Investment Banking Group.'

'How'd you get that intel in the middle of the night? The Brits aren't even awake yet.'

'Hah, well, my powers of deduction are legendary as you know.'

'How?'

'LinkedIn. He has a profile on there.'

'You're not even blushing.'

The two men laughed, relieved by the break in tension.

'So, what now?' Henry said. 'The job's over. What do you want from this?'

'I'm not sure. All I know is if I don't find out where this goes, I'll always be wondering what if?'

Savage wanted to tell him about the email then, but hesitated. Henry had taken Savage from being scared and lost. Given him steel for his backbone. He'd earned Savage's respect, but he held back, he didn't know why.

'The chances of it having anything to do with what happened-'

'I need to know why I ended up here Henry.'

'Because this is where the big bucks are, that's why.'

Savage shook his head. 'I'm not proud of last night.'

Henry hesitated, 'We all have something. Want to talk about it?'

'No.'

Silence. Savage broke it.

'I want you to check your emails, there's a British government contract that'll help. Put me up for it.'

'Want to tell me which one?'

'You'll recognize the company name.'

'Damn it, Savage.'

'You keep telling me I should take a break.'

'Not like this.'

'Will you help or not?'

Henry tapped his pen against the desk. The noise from the next room was taking over. The shouts of the men drowned out the TV.

'I'll think about it,' Henry said.

He stormed out of the room to the source of the noise. Whoever it was would get a specialized Henry bollocking, quiet, calm, and far more threatening than any loud mouth drill sergeant. Rumors said he'd run a few death squads himself. You didn't tangle with him if you liked life.

Savage followed him. He always had Henry's back, didn't matter what, didn't matter how.

In the rec room Viktor stood centre stage facing away from them. An audience of six guys were laughing and whooping it up. Savage didn't know any of them. New meat.

'And then,' Viktor said, 'the two pussies are cowering behind the car.' He screwed his hands under his eyes, 'Bluh, bluh, like baby you know? I shout, "C'mon fuckers, up! Enemy over there, not down on your mother's tit."'

Savage's mouth dropped open.

'Then I fire,' he made the actions. 'Bullets hitting all around, you know. Bang, bang, peow.' He aimed his imaginary long at the smallest of the men for emphasis. The small guy flinched. Obviously impressed.

Savage's hands tingled. Henry gave him a sideways look.

'Pow. I take one guy,' Viktor said. 'Pow. Two guys, then...' the men listened in awe of the big man with the a-positive vampire tattooed on his arm.

'Then what?' one of the guys shouted.

'The bitch's head rolls out of the car to my fucking lap.'

He pulled Jessica Price's decapitated head into full view.

'Then I say, "You can suck my dick later, you ugly slut."'

He slapped her cheeks - porno style. Then grabbed the head with both hands, thrust his pelvis towards her mouth and made fuck-faces.

'Don't lose your head, bitch.'

The roars of laughter died when two shots hit the ceiling inches from the big man's head scattering plaster over the men.

Savage looked down and saw Henry's hand holding his up to the ceiling.

Viktor caught Savage's eye and smiled, then laughed.

Two more shots gouged the plaster.

Henry said, 'Look at me.'

Savage tore his eyes from Viktor's.

'I'll help you,' Henry said. He put his other hand over the gun and took it from him. 'I'll help, but right now, go to your quarters.'

Savage walked away, then Henry grabbed his arm and handed him the gun back.

The hard look on the men's faces told Savage why.

*

Savage's head span with what ifs. What if they come for me? What if I hadn't killed the boy? What if I'd never come here? What if this guy Williams knows something about what happened?

He woke his computer and clicked send/receive. More spam. No one else asking for help. Was the Maclays email a spoof? It couldn't be. The only person he'd told about Maclays was Henry. Not even Andre knew. And he trusted both with his life.

He right clicked the Help email, selected message options and copied the header information from the email. Every email you receive has a header, an information source that the computer reads but is hidden from human view.

It'll tell you useful things like where the IP address that sent the email is located, you can even look up a map of where they are along with the phone number, if you're lucky.

What did we do before the internet? Or mobile phones? He opened one of the many free email IP tracers on the web and dropped the header in to its search field.

The email appeared to originate in Zurich, Switzerland, routed via Czechoslovakia, and then a private IP address. When he looked that up he got a reference to Pakistan. It could mean everything, it could mean nothing, a Blackberry via a VPN could show something equally oblique.

Corporations used them all the time for the same reasons he did. Privacy.

He clicked reply. Hesitated. What would he say? If he said the wrong thing he might scare them off.

He didn't have to be perfect. He wrote…

Who are you?

Savage +971 50 224 3911

...and pressed send.

He waited for it to go, and then immediately pressed send/receive again to see if anything came back. Too soon of course. Compulsively he pressed it again. Still too soon.

Twitch, twitch.

He knew what he had to do. He unplugged his portable hard drive and laptop, pulled a bag out from under the bed, opened the wardrobe, and began to pack.

A few minutes later Henry opened the door.

'Good,' he said. 'We leave in ten.'

Rape or Kill? Or kill, then rape? A few hours later the man with the big blue eyes looked down at the check-in girl and wondered which he'd prefer, if he had the time.

She wore a close fitting Islam-friendly uniform. He could still see her voluminous breasts beneath. Nothing she could do about that.

'Did you pack your bags yourself sir?' she said.

'Of course I did sweetheart,' a Louisiana accent, the eastern European thing got old so quickly.

'Could anyone have tampered with your luggage?'

'No way.'

'Has anyone given you anything to take on-board.'

'Not today,' he said. 'Tell me, you're not local are you?' Of course she was. 'I can't place your accent.'

Her big lashes fluttered down. She said something about regular travel but he wasn't really listening. His mind already on the next job. Another stand-by clean up operation. But public, oh-so public. No holding back this time. And there would be more. By Wednesday it should all be over and he could spend his money.

Right then, he was just glad to leave the dirt, the dust and the bumbling Viktor persona behind.

He should have taken care of that journalist himself. But that wasn't his call.

Shame. He could have had some fun with Jessica Price before he'd found out what she knew. She'd been a looker.

He'd taken everything he needed from her bag in Henry's safe. He needn't have bothered motivating the troops to go back to the body for it. And Savage had run to this very airport yesterday.

But Savage delivered. His client had been right all along.

'And what is your destination Mr. Kevorkian?'

'London.'

'Oh, I adore London.

'Oh, me too. Do you visit much?'

'Actually I'm working this flight. I have a layover until Tuesday.'

Her eyes sparkled.

'Call me Konrad, please.'

'Business or pleasure sir?'

'Pleasure. Always pleasure.'

'Really?' she slid his passport and boarding card across the desk. 'I have no plans.' Her name and number on the top.

'Tayla,' he said. 'Looks like London really will be a pleasure. I'll see you soon.'

She looked him up and down.

'I hope so sir.'

He smiled at her as he walked away. They said you could tell a fake smile because it didn't reach the eyes. So he faked the eyes too.

His phone vibrated. The must-answer buzz.

He pulled it out, pressed open on the encrypted message and auto-logged into the system. A new name popped up and a new guess for him, another in the queue behind it. Both London based, of course.

He turned to see if Tayla was watching him leave. He gave her the smile again. She simpered.

London here I come, he thought.

MONDAY

8.25am. The interior of the golden mirrored lift doors revealed a clean-shaven slightly bemused Savage rubbing his chin. He missed the beard.

The ID badge the receptionist had given him had a photograph from three years earlier. It pictured someone alien to the reflection in the mottled glow. Younger, more naïve, no scars, a slight smile, pale skin.

A different person.

He'd arrived Friday afternoon and spent the weekend cocooned in room service, trash TV and the hotel gym, trying to ignore the bad dreams. As Friday was the holy day in Arab lands, his normal working week started on Saturday, a UK Monday felt like mid-week already.

But the time off had been useful, he'd avoided the culture shock of coming home to the west and steeled himself for why he was there.

Bankers.

He'd forgotten about their special lift. The golden glow for their golden boys and girls, the money makers and the market makers. It was always the little things you forgot.

His reflection mocked him. He'd been so used to it, every morning, one of the chosen, the elite. He resented it now. The bland arrogance and entitlement to meaningless things.