been cautioned to speak in code and be as roundabout as possible when discussing things. The United Kingdom hosted two enormous listening posts that fed emails, text messages, and cell phone calls into the Americans’ NSA listening program, Echelon. Every electronic communication in the United Kingdom, be it over the Internet, a cellular network, or a telephone line, was harvested and a copy kept on permanent storage at one of the NSA’s massive server farms. It was always better to be safe than sorry, and Ashford always assumed someone was listening in.
“There has obviously been some sort of hiccup,” said the MI5 man.
“Hiccup?” replied Standing back in Manhattan. “You Brits are amazing. I think fuckup would be a more apropos term. Wouldn’t you?”
Ashford didn’t bother responding. There were times when Standing really got under his skin.
“Are you still there?” asked the billionaire.
“Yes. I’m still here.”
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
The MI5 man pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me what happened,” replied Standing. “I want to know how we went from bright and breezy to all screwed up.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have access to that information right now. The sources we’d normally reach out to in a situation like this are not answering their phones.”
“Don’t give me that we bullshit, Robert. You need to get to the bottom of this. Right now. Do you understand me? Only some of the bread got baked. What’s more, the bakers seemed to have been very badly burned.”
Ashford felt a migraine coming on. Before his staff meeting, he’d been flipping back and forth among several American news feeds. He’d been able to assemble a limited picture of what was happening, but there were still too many blanks that needed to be filled in. He had called his contact in Los Angeles, but the number was no longer in service. He had gone dark. Ashford was not pleased.
The Russians were normally very good at this type of work. In fact, the MI5 man had paid a lot extra to use former Spetsnaz operatives. It was a bit like using a sledgehammer in lieu of a fly swatter, but Standing had a bottomless well of cash, and he wanted the cleanest of clean, the most untraceable of hits.
Each weapon was only to be fired once and then gotten rid of. The hitters were then supposed to be taken to a hotel near LAX to fly back to Russia the next morning. The good thing about hiring Spetsnaz operatives was that on the outside chance something got screwed up and they were caught, they would never, ever speak. Escrow accounts had been set up for each of the hitters, and news of their arrest would trigger an automatic payment to their designated beneficiary and annual payments would continue to be made for every year they remained in prison. It was referred to in Russian as an annuity of silence.
The fact that the operation appeared to have been foiled didn’t make any sense. The targets had been three American civilians with no bodyguards or security presence whatsoever. They had neither military nor law enforcement backgrounds. It should have been one of the easiest contracts ever. But somewhere something had gotten screwed up.
“Kitchen fires are very dangerous things,” continued Standing. “They have a way of spreading.”
Ashford didn’t exactly know how to interpret that remark. Was Standing worried about Salomon coming after him? “You’ve got plenty of fire extinguishers,” the MI5 man replied, referring to the billionaire’s personal security detail. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“That’s the problem with fires. You may think you have it under control, but then suddenly it explodes and it’s all around you. Those kinds of fires get lots of news coverage. No one likes fires, but those are the fires I like the least.”
“I understand.”
“Just in case,” Standing asserted, “let me be perfectly clear. If I start
“There has obviously been some sort of hiccup,” said the MI5 man.
“Hiccup?” replied Standing back in Manhattan. “You Brits are amazing. I think fuckup would be a more apropos term. Wouldn’t you?”
Ashford didn’t bother responding. There were times when Standing really got under his skin.
“Are you still there?” asked the billionaire.
“Yes. I’m still here.”
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
The MI5 man pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me what happened,” replied Standing. “I want to know how we went from bright and breezy to all screwed up.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have access to that information right now. The sources we’d normally reach out to in a situation like this are not answering their phones.”
“Don’t give me that we bullshit, Robert. You need to get to the bottom of this. Right now. Do you understand me? Only some of the bread got baked. What’s more, the bakers seemed to have been very badly burned.”
Ashford felt a migraine coming on. Before his staff meeting, he’d been flipping back and forth among several American news feeds. He’d been able to assemble a limited picture of what was happening, but there were still too many blanks that needed to be filled in. He had called his contact in Los Angeles, but the number was no longer in service. He had gone dark. Ashford was not pleased.
The Russians were normally very good at this type of work. In fact, the MI5 man had paid a lot extra to use former Spetsnaz operatives. It was a bit like using a sledgehammer in lieu of a fly swatter, but Standing had a bottomless well of cash, and he wanted the cleanest of clean, the most untraceable of hits.
Each weapon was only to be fired once and then gotten rid of. The hitters were then supposed to be taken to a hotel near LAX to fly back to Russia the next morning. The good thing about hiring Spetsnaz operatives was that on the outside chance something got screwed up and they were caught, they would never, ever speak. Escrow accounts had been set up for each of the hitters, and news of their arrest would trigger an automatic payment to their designated beneficiary and annual payments would continue to be made for every year they remained in prison. It was referred to in Russian as an annuity of silence.
The fact that the operation appeared to have been foiled didn’t make any sense. The targets had been three American civilians with no bodyguards or security presence whatsoever. They had neither military nor law enforcement backgrounds. It should have been one of the easiest contracts ever. But somewhere something had gotten screwed up.
“Kitchen fires are very dangerous things,” continued Standing. “They have a way of spreading.”
Ashford didn’t exactly know how to interpret that remark. Was Standing worried about Salomon coming after him? “You’ve got plenty of fire extinguishers,” the MI5 man replied, referring to the billionaire’s personal security detail. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“That’s the problem with fires. You may think you have it under control, but then suddenly it explodes and it’s all around you. Those kinds of fires get lots of news coverage. No one likes fires, but those are the fires I like the least.”
“I understand.”
“Just in case,” Standing asserted, “let me be perfectly clear. If I start
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