“If you don’t want to answer my question, you can just turn around and leave.”
“Hey, no need to get that way. I was just asking, that’s all. My friends call me Dial.”
“Who said we were friends?”
“Fine,” Dial said. “On my birth certificate, it says Henry Sommers. Is that better?”
The guy looked him up and down. “Why do people call you Dial?”
“Because when I’m working, I’m dialed in. You know, focused.”
The guy snorted and rolled his eyes. “Who sent you,
“I got a call from a friend. Said you were looking for people.”
“What friend?”
“Dieter Mainz.”
The guy’s eyes narrowed. “
“I just said I did, didn’t I?”
“Hold on.”
The man disappeared into another room, closing the door behind him.
Henry “Dial” Sommers — aka Billy Barnett, aka Teddy Fay — took a seat on the only other chair in the room, and rolled his head over his shoulders, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
The truth was he did not know Dieter Mainz personally, but he knew someone who knew the German mercenary. That someone had made it clear to Mainz that his cooperation would go a long way in keeping him from being turned over to some very bad people he had pissed off.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again, and the man returned. “Come with me.”
He led Teddy through the building and into a large garage. Half a dozen men were hanging around the far corner, not talking to each other and looking like they were waiting for something. Two other men were standing next to a black Suburban that Teddy would bet was armored.
“Wait here,” his escort said, then jogged over to the two at the SUV.
A few seconds later, he waved for Teddy to join them.
When Teddy did, the guy said to the others, “This is Dial,” without his previous sarcasm.
“Thanks, Sammy,” the older of the two said. “That’ll be all.”
The escort — Sammy — nodded and left.
“I’m the Corporal,” the older one said. He didn’t introduce his friend. “I talked to Dieter. He said you’re good in a tight spot. Trustworthy.”
“Happy he thinks so.”
“Says you know how to shoot, too.”
Teddy nodded.
“I understand you did some contract work for the Agency?”
“Among others.”
“How long ago was that?”
A shrug. “A few years.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Did my job too well.”
“Dieter mentioned an incident in Rome.”
“That’s the one.”
The Corporal looked at him, waiting for more, and Teddy looked back, making it clear that was all he was going to say.
“Dieter also said you didn’t talk much.”
“Talking is overrated.”
The Corporal huffed then studied him again. “I like you, Dial. The job runs through Friday night. Ten K, flat fee. You interested?”
“What type of job is it?”
“Termination.”
“Opposition?”
“Potentially considerable.”
“You supply the hardware?”
“Yes. If you have special requests, we can try to accommodate that, too, but no promises.”
Teddy acted like he was considering the offer. “All right, I’m interested. When do I start?”
“Right now.” The Corporal held out his hand and Teddy shook it. “Welcome to the team.”
Asimov received a call from the Sarge on Thursday afternoon.
“I’ll bring Barrington to you by midnight tomorrow night,” Sarge told him.
“What’s the plan?”
“That’s not important. All you need to know is that his part of our contract will soon be complete.”
Perhaps Asimov didn’t
“If you don’t know, it will be easier for you to deny involvement.”
Though true, Asimov didn’t like the way the Sarge had said it, as if he were teaching Asimov a lesson. “And Rawls? Will he be there, too?”
“He is still in London.”
“Then when will he be dead?”
“When I tell you he will be.”
That was one step too far. Asimov opened his mouth to put the Sarge in his place, then realized the Sarge had hung up.
Asimov took a deep breath. Barrington would soon be dead; that’s what he needed to concentrate on.
The timing could not have been better. A few members of the council who had voted for him had begun to grumble about how long everything was taking. Soon, he knew, they would start having second thoughts about his leadership.
He called his secretary. “Inform everyone we will have a council meeting at nine o’clock tonight, at the usual location.”
“Yes, sir.”
This time, Asimov waited until the others had all arrived and were seated before he entered the room. As instructed, as soon as he took the chair at the head of the table, four women entered. They were all in their early twenties, beautiful, and wearing dresses that showed off more skin than they covered. Each carried a bottle of wine, and made their way around the table, serving the members of the council, then filed out of the room.
Once they were gone, all eyes turned to Asimov.
He lifted his glass. “A toast.”
The others raised their flutes.
“To the family,” he said
“To the family,” the rest of the council repeated.