Last Surgeon by Michael Palmer Page A

would be forty or even less. He expected the girls would help him to achieve that state.
    Patience
, he cautioned himself.
Patience.
    He would wait as long as it took for his anger to fully subside before responding to the ill-conceived, reckless torching of Jillian Coates’s condominium. Only then, when he was in what he called his alpha state, would he compose his message, encode it within the pixels of today’s eBay item-a tacky hand-painted nutcracker-and then post the nutcracker to his eBay auction account.
    Steganography, the art and science of writing concealed messages. Documented examples of steganography dated back to ancient Greece, when wax-covered wooden tablets kept coded messages hidden from the enemy. Koller had first been exposed to it in a college course, but over the succeeding years, he had taken aspects of the craft to the point where he could have earned millions in licensing fees, had he not preferred to use his custom software to plan, execute, and be compensated for non-kills. The latest version of Koller’s steganographic technique was akin to taking the most sophisticated coding technology available and dosing it with steroids.
    He still couldn’t wrap his mind around Jericho burning down Jillian Coates’s condominium without consulting him first. He had made it clear when Jericho first approached him about a series of new contracts: Under no circumstances were his clients ever to engage, tail, touch, or even breathe near anybody associated with the job without his authorization-and that authorization was simply not going to be given.
    Obviously, the sister of one of the marks fell into the “associated with” category. The more he dwelled on it, the more agitated he became. Where were the girls?
    Wearing only a white terry cloth robe, Koller rose from the bed and powered through two hundred push-ups on the gritty motel carpet without breaking a sweat. He meditated fifteen minutes afterward before checking his pulse once again.
Fifty
. Better, but still not good enough. He could not remember the last time he had lost his temper to this extent.
    He was upside down and naked, performing a motionless headstand, one of the countless yoga positions he could execute to any yogi’s satisfaction, when he heard a soft knock on the door. Dropping to the floor with catlike grace, Koller crossed the room without bothering to dress. A quick check through the peephole confirmed it was the escorts he had hired. The tall hooker with ebony skin he knew as Sandy. He had hired her before and offered to triple her usual fee in exchange for her cooperation this night. The short blonde accompanying her was a relative newbie, not yet out of her teens. She would be perfect, he decided.
    “Good evening, ladies,” Koller said, motioning them inside and turning on one bedside lamp. The cool evening air washed over his body, igniting his senses. The night smelled of action. Koller watched the blonde glance down at his penis as she passed. He closed the door behind them with a soft click, then double-locked it.
    “Do you like what you see?” he asked the blonde.
    The girl nodded and smiled with artificial shyness.
    “Can’t you speak, bitch?” Koller snapped.
    “Darlene can speak just fine,” Sandy said.
    Koller crossed the room and kissed the tall, dark woman hard on the lips. Then he drew her hand down to help him become aroused.
    “Did I ask for your opinion?” he said suddenly, grabbing her by the hair, but focusing on the other whore. “Did I?”
    “No, baby,” Sandy said, “you didn’t ask me nothin’.”
    “That’s right, I didn’t,” Koller said sweetly, releasing her. “Okay, listen up, ladies. The game is simple. I pay, you do. Sort of like Simon Says. You do what Simon says and the night is going to be very much fun. Mess up and fun will be a little more elusive. Either way, I promise you one thing; our evening’s going to be memorable. Isn’t that right, Sandy?”
    “Simon ain’t