“That’s more than a little strange.”
“Our problem is, we’re back to square one now that a replacement has started to make Holic’s hits for him. We’re hunting for an unknown face, with no data on where he comes from.”
“And that’s where I come in?”
“Like I said, the paperwork on this can be done from behind your desk. With minimal leg work. I’d like you to schedule an appointment with the authorities in Brno, and check out the market square where the hit took place. Get in touch with British Intelligence and find out everything you can on Alton Bromly and his activities over the past nine years. Your nose is one of the best we have. You’ve always been able to see things no one else sees. Maybe we’re missing something.”
“Is that a nice way of saying I have a criminal mind?”
“No offense, but your past, as you said, fits the mold.”
“I know why I was asked to join Onyxx. And it wasn’t my good looks,” Pierce joked.
Merrick handed Pierce the file on his desk. “It’s all in there. Everything we have on Bromly and his years of service to Interpol. Look it over on the flight. Prep your deviant mind. There’s also a copy of our bogus kill-file in there.”
Pierce took the file. “Has Holic talked?”
“I’ve interrogated him a number of times since we locked him up. He claimed from the moment we captured him that the file wasn’t authentic. I didn’t believe it. I had no reason to until yesterday.”
“Have you talked to him since Bromly was hit?”
“Last night I flew up to Clume to see him. And now, after talking to you, I think you’re right. Holic has a new agenda.” Merrick opened his drawer and pressed Play on the tape recorder. “I took a recorder with me last night and taped my conversation with him.”
Within seconds Holic Reznik’s Austrian accent filled the room.
“You’re back, Merrick. Does that mean the killing has begun? Your silence must mean it has. And now you’re here to ask me who has filled my shoes, ja?”
“Who is your replacement, Holic? Who has the kill-file?”
“If I tell you it would end all the fun. I told you that your kill-file was a fake, but you didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now? The look on your face tells me you do.”
“Who is your replacement, Holic? Give me the name of the man who has taken up your cause.”
“A ten-million-dollar question. Are you willing to match that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at my hands. I can barely feed myself thanks to Bjorn Odell and that bitch, Nadja Stefn. I’m too young to live my life sucking my food through a straw. A heavy price to pay for killing a few insignificant people, don’t you think?”
“I’ll ask again. Who has the original kill-file? Who shot Alton Bromly?”
“Perfection has replaced perfection, that’s who. Like fine wine, it’s all in the fruit and how it’s taken care of while it matures on the vine.”
“You talk in riddles.”
“A riddle that, if you figure it out, will answer your question, Merrick. But you won’t be able to. I own the winning hand in this game, and you know I do or you wouldn’t have flown up here to pay me a late-night visit.”
“You’re telling me ten million dollars will call off your dog?”
“The money means nothing without a pair of working hands to spend it.”
“Meaning?”
“You have an expert team of surgeons at your disposal. They operated on my hands not long ago. But I think they can do better. They could give me back full use if they knew what was at stake, don’t you think?”
“What?”
“You heard me. My hands restored to full use by the best surgeon you employ.”
“Impossible.”
“Then I guarantee that the killing will continue, Merrick.”
“This is madness, Holic. End this insanity.”
“Only you can end it. Another agent will fall soon. Then another and another. Did you count the names on the list? The list I altered so you could check them off as they fall. It’s a very long list, isn’t it? Who do you think will be next? Take a guess. A wild guess is all you have, but maybe you’ll get lucky. The odds are against it. Your list was meant to torment you and your superiors, nothing more. To give you names without dates. Ingenious, don’t you think? Has it been keeping you up nights? You look tired, Merrick. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t fit, ja? Let me assure you that it will never fit until the last man falls.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I’m a perfectionist, and without my hands I’ve been forced to find an alternate to remain in the game. After all, my reputation is at stake. How could I surrender without giving back to you as much as you’ve given me? The clock is ticking, and this time, time is on my side.”
Merrick turned off the recorder and looked at Pierce. “After talking to you, I have to agree that Holic doesn’t know how to lose. That he will continue to play his sick game until he’s dead. It’s true our medical staff has the technology to restore mobility to his hands, but—”
“Then Onyxx would be responsible for putting a gun back into the restored hands of the devil.”
“My superiors would never go for that.”
Pierce stood. “Of course you’re right. But then their names aren’t on that list. It’s damn easy to make decisions when your own ass isn’t the one being pinched.”
Merrick caught the censure in his agent’s voice. “The rules here are black and white, but necessary. If we make deals with every criminal we apprehend, where would that leave us? The bottom line is we have the assassin under lock and key. The entire mission wasn’t a failure. Holic is ours.”
“And from his iron cell he’s unleashed a competent replacement. One that appears to value perfection as much as he does.”
Merrick swore. “I’ll admit, at the moment, Holic has us by the balls.”
“Then we can only hope that his successor slips up. And if he doesn’t, you better start looking for another team to replace us, because we’re in for a slaughter.”
Chapter 2
Thomas Walrich’s body was discovered ten hours after he toppled face-first into the Amo River in Florence, Italy. A bullet traveling two hundred and eighty yards struck him in his right temple and he went swimming a second later clutching a briefcase, his mousy-brown toupee clinging to his forehead.
After his final exit, and sudden plunge into the Amo, both the briefcase and the toupee were swept away with the current. The briefcase was recovered two weeks later in Empoli. The toupee, caught in a yacht’s twin caterpillar engine, ended up in the Tyrrhenian Sea, lost forever.
The authorities notified the appropriate agencies after recovery of the body. A positive identification was made, and within twenty-four hours Adolf Merrick received a phone call telling him that another operative had fallen—the stats on his death cloning those of Alton Bromly’s. It seemed that Holic’s replacement was on target again, and Merrick would be forced to make a check mark on his useless copy of the kill-list.
This time, Thomas Walrich, an American agent on secret assignment in Italy.
That made two assassinations within three weeks. Pierce was right: at this rate they were in for a slaughter.
Suddenly