A Time to Die
BY TOM WOOD
The Hunter
The Enemy
The Game
Better off Dead
The Darkest Day
A Time to Die
Ebook short story
Bad Luck in Berlin
COPYRIGHT
Published by Sphere
978-0-7515-5600-1
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Tom Hinshelwood 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
SPHERE
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
A Time to Die
Table of Contents
By Tom Wood
COPYRIGHT
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Sixty-nine
Seventy
ONE
Killing was the easy part. Getting away with it was the true skill. Victor had been doing both for half his lifetime. The realisation came to him in a rare moment of self-reflection and was summarily dismissed because to be lost in thought meant to be unaware of his surroundings. Whilst thinking of his past he was not evaluating the people around him, judging angles of attack and lines of sight, deciding on the best choke, gouge or strike to neutralise threats, nor could he determine the best method of subsequent escape.
To kill required little more than the ability to point and shoot. Almost anyone could do it. To escape required the successful diversion of blame. As a professional assassin, Victor’s motive for killing was either money or self-defence, the latter always related to the pursuit of the former. He killed who he was paid to, and who he had to. Because he had little-to-no connection with his victims he could sidestep almost all of the blame. That was focused at his clients – those who had the most to gain from application of Victor’s talents.
The idea of blame was in his thoughts as his gaze shifted to assess the men and women in the carriage around him. There were families and couples, and of those travelling as singles most were too old or young or wore the wrong clothes. No one caused so much as a ping on his threat radar.
There was only one other man around Victor’s age. He sat opposite Victor, nursing a cup of cold tea. Even without trying Victor saw there were nine brown rings in the cup and a scum had formed on the remaining tea.
The train was the famous Red Arrow that made the long overnight journey from Moscow to St Petersburg. It was a nine-hour trip north through the Russian countryside, and one the Red Arrow had been doing for over half a century. Modern rolling stock did the journey in half the time, but half the style. Victor’s private cabin in the first-class carriage was small but opulent. It even had its own shower. An extravagant way to travel, but worth every penny to Victor, who placed considerable value on his privacy.
The man seated opposite Victor wore dark chinos and a loose shirt of thick white cotton, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The shirt was creased from the day’s wear. The man looked alert but also tired. It was nearing midnight and he had red in his eyes and dark circles beneath them but was wide awake and fidgeting. Victor allowed their gazes to meet, which the man took as an invitation to begin talking.
‘This is how we were meant to travel.’ The man was British and had a deep, well-spoken accent. ‘Flying? No, thanks. That’s for those that don’t know any better. A car? That’s like being your own chauffeur.’ He frowned and turned the corners of his mouth down. ‘Trains are for the civilised chap.’
He smiled to show he wasn’t being wholly serious, but Victor saw the smile as the probe it was, testing the boundaries of a stranger and hoping to find common ground and with it someone to while away the hours.
Victor remained silent. In his experience, less was more when it came to conversation.
‘I’ve taken this trip before,’ the British man said. ‘I can let you know which window to look out of and when. For when it gets light, I mean. Like a tour guide. You don’t have to pay me, of course. Unless you want to.’
This time the smile was genuine.
‘I’ve always liked trains,’ Victor said. ‘Or rather, I used to. When I was a boy.’
‘First time on this one?’
Victor nodded.
‘Then you’re in for a treat.’ He offered his hand. ‘I’m Leonard Fletcher.’
Victor didn’t like shaking hands. He didn’t like physical contact at all. People who wanted to touch him usually wanted to do him harm. He shook the hand anyway, because the man offered no threat to him and Victor needed to engage in such actions to maintain his façade of normality.
‘My name’s Jonathan.’
‘Nice to meet you, Jon. I was worried it would be all couples or old people. Sometimes it is. No one to talk to. Beautiful scenery is great and all, but you can’t see it at night, can you? Going to bed early isn’t an option; I’m something of a night owl. I’m not interrupting, am I?’
‘Not at all,’ Victor said.
‘That’s what I thought. I figured you were bored too. I hope you don’t mind me coming over.’
‘Not at all,’ Victor said again.
An announcement emanated from the public address system. The dinner car was closing soon.
‘Have you tried the Croatian red?’
Victor shook his head. ‘I’m not much of a wine drinker. Unless it’s a good dessert wine.’
The British man was undeterred. ‘You really should. The Merlot is a treat. And cheap too, which is always a bonus.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind
.’
They sat in silence for a minute. The British man began to grow agitated in the silence; he wanted to talk, but was struggling to keep the conversation flowing. Victor’s stilted answers meant the other guy had to do the heavy lifting.
The man rewound through what had already been said and found something to roll with: ‘You mentioned before that you liked trains when you were a kid. Were you a bit of a trainspotter?’
He grinned at the taunt. He wanted to provoke a response, whatever it might be.
Victor shook his head. ‘I had more practical hobbies when I was a boy. I enjoyed making things, so I’m not sure why I liked trains. I would see them from my window, coming and going from the railway station. I watched them all day long sometimes. Maybe it was the noise; the steady rumble of trains can be soothing, like music.’
‘Hold on, you’re saying you literally watched them all day? Are you serious?’
Victor nodded.
‘No television in your house?’
Victor shook his head.
The man said, ‘Wow, your childhood must have been boring as shit. I feel sorry for you.’
‘We don’t miss what we never had, do we?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I was a spoilt brat. We had every gadget and toy. Mother drank and left us to the nanny and Father didn’t know how to communicate with us, so parenting meant buying us stuff we didn’t need. Funny you say you liked trains because he had a train set up in the loft. I guess it was his own toy. A good excuse to avoid the brats and have some quiet time. He could spend hours up there. He tried to get me into it once, but I didn’t understand the point of it. You watch the train go round once, you’ve seen everything you’re going to see. I don’t know why anyone would think that was fun. That way madness lies, if you ask me.’
‘That’s the thing,’ Victor said, leaning forward, ‘it’s not just about the train going round the track. It’s about the miniature world. The detail. The perfection. It’s about the static grass and the trees carefully crafted from twigs and coloured lichen and the tiny model people going about their lives in a timeless, idyllic landscape. There’s an incredible beauty to it, but you have to want to see it.’
Fletcher sucked air through his teeth, feeling awkward. ‘Oh right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I didn’t realise you had one yourself. I should have guessed, shouldn’t I? You said you liked trains as a kid.’
Victor shook his head again, sitting back. ‘No, I never had a train set either. I wanted one more than anything in the world. But no TV. No train set. Just the window I had to climb up on the sideboard to see out of. Nearest thing to a real train set was a picture that I tore from a magazine. When it was too dark outside to see the real trains I would use a torch I’d made and look at the picture and imagine the train was moving along the track, the electric motor whirring as I worked the controls.’
Fletcher stared at him. ‘Are you winding me up?’
‘Not even a little bit. Believe it or not, that picture was my most prized possession.’
‘Well, that’s a kid’s imagination for you. Where does it go? I don’t think I ever had one because I had a Nintendo. No reason for creating make-believe worlds for yourself when they’re on the screen, is there? I don’t think I read a book until I was seventeen, and then it was only to impress some girl at my college.’ He laughed and tapped the tabletop with his palm. ‘I wasted a whole week reading this massive boring tome of shite and I didn’t get so much as a snog out of it. Things we do for women, eh? So, what happened to the picture? Keep it in your wallet still?’ He was joking.
Victor said, ‘Not exactly. But it’s sitting in an airtight bag inside a safety deposit box within the most secure bank vault in Switzerland.’
Fletcher laughed again, longer and louder, and had to wipe tears from his eyes once he had taken control of himself. He then saw that Victor hadn’t been joking.
‘You’re kidding me?’ the man breathed. ‘That must cost you a small fortune.’
He shrugged. ‘I spent years hiding it from the others. The older boys would have taken it for themselves or torn it up just for fun. I’m not typically nostalgic. I don’t think about my past if I can help it. But that picture of the train set is one link to who I used to be that I haven’t been able to fully bury. If the picture was valuable to me then, now it’s priceless. I suppose you could say I’ve never stopped protecting it.’
‘I have to say,’ Fletcher said, rubbing a finger on his chin, ‘you might very well be the weirdest person I’ve ever met on this journey. And I’ve met a few. I don’t mean that in a bad way,’ he was quick to add.
‘I didn’t take it as such,’ Victor said. ‘I’m a difficult man to offend.’
‘What’s your story then? How come you’re alone on a hellishly expensive overnight train?’
‘Work,’ Victor said. ‘You?’
‘I told you I don’t like to fly. Well, the truth is I can’t fly. My firm hates it, but they can’t do anything about it because it’s classed as a medical condition. We have some great employee protection in the UK. Yay for socialism, right?’
‘Who do you work for?’
Fletcher hesitated – only for an instant, but Victor saw it – then said, ‘An accountancy firm in London.’
‘You’re an accountant?’
Fletcher nodded.
Victor imitated the nod. ‘You know, in my experience, people who don’t want to be asked questions about their work often say they’re accountants. No one wants to talk about percentages and liabilities, do they?’
Fletcher laughed once more despite Victor’s neutral expression.
‘I know this,’ Victor said, ‘because sometimes I too say I’m an accountant.’
The laugh faded to a smile while the man’s gaze searched Victor for answers to questions not yet asked. Victor was silent while he let the man think. He didn’t need long to say:
‘You know who I am, don’t you?’
Victor said, ‘Yes.’
Fletcher considered this. His fingers tapped on the tabletop. ‘St Paul’s Cathedral…’
‘Used to be one hundred feet higher,’ Victor finished.
‘Cleric?’ Fletcher asked.
Victor nodded and said, ‘The original spire was destroyed in the Great Fire of London. The lead from the roof formed a molten river of metal through the street.’
Fletcher stared for a while as he replayed events and realised Victor knew enough about him to know he would seek out a bored-looking man to chat to.
‘I didn’t know any of that about the fire,’ Fletcher said. ‘I just knew the code. I’m supposed to meet you in Helsinki.’
‘Last-minute change of plan.’
A frown creased Fletcher’s forehead. ‘They never change the plan. Do you have any idea how much effort – how much paperwork – it takes?’
Victor remained silent.
‘You don’t look as I thought you would,’ Fletcher said. ‘I mean: your file has no photographs or physical details.’
‘Which was a condition of my servitude.’
‘Servitude? You make it sound so sordid.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘I almost didn’t believe some of the things I read about you. I expected you to be, well, terrifying. Yet… you look so bloody normal. Like you’re just a regular no one.’
‘I work very hard at that.’
‘Well, you succeed. I never would have guessed you were Cleric if you hadn’t made that clear. But, I suppose, that’s why they pay you so much money.’
‘That’s not the only reason.’
Fletcher laughed a little to disguise his nervousness. ‘Why did you engage in small talk first? Why not get the code in earlier?’
‘I wanted to be sure you didn’t know me. I wanted to know for certain that no photographs of me were on file.’
‘Are you saying I wouldn’t have been able to bluff it?’
There was a measure of offence in Fletcher’s question.
Fletcher’s lips stayed closed for a moment and his face was rigid, but it relaxed as he decided to let the slight to his skills go. He said, ‘So, why the train face-to-face and not in Helsinki as planned?’
‘Chinese Secret Service are waiting to follow you when we get to St Petersburg.’
‘Damn,’ Fletcher said. ‘They’ve never left me alone since I was stationed in Hong Kong.’
‘Persistence is a Chinese virtue.’
‘Isn’t that the truth? Well, this carriage is as good a place as any to discuss your next assignment. I take it you’ve checked it?’
Victor nodded. ‘No one is watching or listening.’
‘Of course,’ Fletcher said. ‘Else you wouldn’t have been talking about your childhood, would you?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘But that could have been lies for all I know. There are no personal details in your file, after all.’
‘I assure you that I was telling the truth.’
Fletcher accepted this and scratched the back of his neck. As before, Victor let him come to his own conclusion. It took longer this time, because Fletcher didn’t want to come to the inevitable truth.