The Prometheus Deception by Robert Ludlum Page B

thinking.”
    â€œWe’re in a short-term business.”
    â€œIt doesn’t have to be.” Bryson let a moment of silence pass. “Not if we come to mutually agreeable terms. We all lock some away; it’s expected of us. Discretionary accounts, reimbursed expenses, overstated of course—a percentage of our expense allowance salted away, laundered clean, invested in the market. Put your money to work for you. I’m willing to put some of it to work for me right now.”
    â€œTo buy your own life,” the professional said solemnly. “But you seem to forget that my livelihood goes beyond one transaction. You may be one account, but they’re the entire goddamned bank. And you don’t bet against the house.”
    â€œNo, you don’t bet against the house,” Bryson agreed. “You just report back that the mark was even better than you’d been led to believe, more skilled. Managed to escape, Jesus, the guy’s good. They’re not going to doubt you on that; it’s what they want to believe anyway. You’ll still keep your retainer, your deposit, and I’ll double the contract amount. Sound business practice, my friend.”
    â€œAccounts are watched very carefully these days, Bryson. It’s not like when you were in the game. Money is digital, and digital transactions leave tracks.”
    â€œCash doesn’t leave tracks, not if it’s unsequenced.”
    â€œEverything leaves tracks these days, and you know it. Sorry, I’ve got a job to do. And in this case, it’s facilitating suicide. You have a history of depression, you know. You had no personal life to speak of, and the groves of academe could never compare to the excitement of spy work. Your clinical depression was diagnosed by a top-rank psychiatrist and psychopharmacologist—”
    â€œSorry, the only shrinks I’ve ever seen were government-issue, years ago.”
    â€œA few days ago, according to your health-insurance records,” replied the killer, a grim smile in his voice. “You’ve been seeing a shrink for over a year.”
    â€œThat’s bullshit! ”
    â€œAnything’s possible in this day and age of the computerized database. Pharmacy records, too—antidepressants prescribed for you, purchased by you, along with antianxiety drugs, sleeping pills. It’ll all be there. A suicide note left on your home computer, too, I’m told.”
    â€œSuicide notes, are almost always handwritten, never typed or computer-generated.”
    â€œGranted—we’ve both set up hits to look like suicides, I’m sure. But believe me, no one’s ever going to dig into this that far. There’ll be no postmortems for you. You have no family to request an autopsy.”
    The professional’s words, though no doubt prescripted, still wounded, because they were the truth: he had no family, not since Elena had left. Not since my parents were killed by the Directorate , he added to himself bitterly.
    â€œBut let me say, I’m honored to be given this assignment,” the hit man resumed. “They say you were one of the top field men, after all.”
    â€œWhy do you think you were assigned?” Bryson said.
    â€œI don’t know, and I don’t care. A job’s a job.”
    â€œYou think you’re expected to survive it? You think they want you around telling tales? Who knows how much I might have told you? You think you’re going to survive this last job?”
    â€œI don’t really give a shit,” said the man unconvincingly.
    â€œNo, I don’t think your employers ever planned to let you live,” Bryson went on, grimly. “Who the hell knows what I spilled to you?”
    â€œWhat are you trying to say?” asked the hit man after a moment of uncomfortable silence. He seemed to hesitate for an instant; Bryson could feel the grinding pressure of the pistol barrel momentarily let