The Betrayer Read online

  She was a tall woman, athletic, as good of a match as he’d found in a long time. Blonde, fair, a good drinker, and bold in bed, even from the very first moment he got her clothes off, when they were still little more than strangers to each other. He could see a man wanting to hang on to a woman like her. He could see himself wanting that. Almost. He truly enjoyed the contrast of her skin next to his — hers fair, his so dark. He enjoyed, too, the bands of muscle that ran along the sides of her spine, the look of them in the near-darkness, and the feel of them beneath his strong hands as he took her from behind.

  But just minutes after he had finally gotten the call he’d gone there to wait for, he phoned the woman from his disposable cell phone and requested that tonight she drive him to the ocean. He knew the moment he made the request what it meant. He knew even as he’d punched her number into his phone what he desired.

  He suggested that she bring him to a secluded stretch of beach, which she did. Once there, they sat in her car with the engine and lights off and drank from a bottle of Polish vodka he’d brought along. It was high tide, and each falling wave, muffled by the closed windows, sounded like the roar of some distant animal. Eventually they exited the vehicle, carrying a blanket she kept in the backseat, and, under the moonlight, engaged in one more round of rough sex, after which he easily subdued her with a wrestler’s hold, retrieved the syringe he kept hidden in a nylon sleeve secured inside his boot, and expertly injected her with a dose of ketamine, then dragged her unconscious body into the turbulent surf and waited till she drowned.

  He stood there for a while, as naked as she was, and watched the now-lifeless body tumble within each dark wave. Striding farther into the cold salt water, he let the force of the ocean wash all traces of her from his skin. Back onto the beach, he bundled up his clothes and boots and grabbed her blanket, letting it drag behind as he walked, to erase his footprints.

  He carefully followed the trail he’d made on his way in, then used the blanket to dry off. Dressed, he put the blanket in a garbage bag — he always carried a few with him — and drove her car to a hotel by the highway interchange, parked in its crowded lot, and walked to a nearby diner.

  Within fifteen minutes he had disposed of the blanket down a storm drain, stolen a late-model Ford sedan, and was on his way south.

  I probably shouldn’t have done that, he thought as he watched the empty highway ahead. I should have just slipped out of town. I’ve waited too long to risk blowing it now.

  But it was done. And it wasn’t that the kill hadn’t been thrilling. He particularly liked what he called “naked kills” — both he and his victim stripped bare. Very satisfying, as personal as it gets. He usually favored strangling, but too many people had seen him with this woman. He needed her death to look like an accident, and there wasn’t a killing he couldn’t make look like an accident.

  What he liked about ketamine was that it dissipated quickly, and since he had inserted the syringe between her toes, the likelihood of the needle mark being found was nil. To the authorities it would appear that this woman had drowned while skinny-dipping after too much vodka. A pair of condoms had prevented any trace of himself being left inside her, and the salt water in which he had left her body, as well as the sand the steady waves churned up, would erase any trace of him that their final encounter may have left upon her. Of course, June in New Hampshire was perhaps a bit early for a midnight swim in the Atlantic, but people did crazy things all the time, especially when drunk.

  If the cops did, however, deem her death suspicious and went hunting for the stranger with whom she’d recently spent her nights — and if they were good or lucky enough to locate the hotel he’d been staying at — they would find only a fake name. He had paid for his room with cash, and the credit card the desk clerk had swiped for incidentals would turn out to be stolen. A colleague in South America provided him with a steady supply of stolen cards. And if the cops dusted his room for prints, they would find none. Since it was likely that they would sweep his sheets and pillowcases for hair, he had taken the precaution of removing them and taking them with him. He even went as far as replacing them with a clean set of standard hotel sheets and disposing of the stolen ones en route to his final meeting with the woman. And though he shaved his head and his entire body daily, there was still the matter of eyebrows and eyelashes to consider, not to mention bodily fluids that he may have emitted during sleep and the dead skin cells that may have sloughed off. So he always had at least one set of replacement sheets with him whenever he traveled.

  Still, I should have left her alive, he decided. If I had, I could have returned there and sought her out after this was done. She was, after all, as good a match as he’d found in a long time. Willing and gifted and, most important, able to take him.

  But the urge had been just too much to resist — the need to get away with it, just one more time, to wield the power and then escape the consequences of having wielded it. Killing professionally had its thrills, no doubt, but these kills — when it wasn’t at all necessary, when there was no profit to be had, and when he and his victim were both naked — these were his reasons for living.

  Well, that and the promise of vengeance.

  He abandoned the Ford in Harlem just before dawn, then rode the subway to his final destination. A room had been reserved under one of his fake names at the Chelsea Hotel, and the walk from the subway station to the hotel’s entrance took less than two minutes.

  He was, he observed, the only being on Twenty-Third Street during those two minutes. A rare thing, he thought, to be all alone in a city like this.

  The room was large and overlooked Twenty-Third. If he stood close to the glass and looked down, he could see the steps leading to the hotel’s front entrance, though not the actual entrance itself. Good enough, he thought.

  On the bed lay a large manila envelope that contained five thousand dollars in cash — his “working” money, but he’d be here for nothing. There were also several eight-by-ten photographs and two prepaid cell phones, their batteries disconnected. Attaching the battery to one of the phones, he powered it up, then entered the number written in a prearranged code on the outside of the envelope. He was looking through the photos when his call was answered.

  The male voice said, “That took longer than I would have liked.”

  “I had to take care of some things before I left.” Vitali didn’t see any need to lie. Nor did he see any need to mask his accent.

  “Nothing foolish, I hope.”

  Vitali ignored that. “When do I begin?”

  “We’re set for sometime late tonight.”

  “I’m looking at the photos. He isn’t in any of them.”

  “You know the situation. We need to draw him out. Tonight should accomplish that nicely. Do exactly what I tell you to do, nothing more and nothing less. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is what you’ve been waiting for.”

  “You do not need to keep telling me that.”

  “I just want to make sure you understand.”

  “I do.”

  “Good. I should have all the details by noon. Stay put until then.”

  The line went dead. Vitali dropped the cell phone onto the bed and continued looking at the photographs.

  Three of them, each one a surveillance shot taken by cameras fitted with telephonic lenses. The first photo showed a male and a female walking on a city sidewalk. A circle had been drawn in red marker, somewhat unnecessarily, around the male’s face. Vitali had seen this man only briefly — three years ago through a car windshield at night — but he recognized him nonetheless. This was John Coyle Jr. — Johnny to his friends. He would be about thirty now. Average height and build, but fit. And his dark hair was still cropped to military shortness.

  In the years since Vitali had last glimpsed him, Johnny Coyle had done little more than drift through life. At one point he had even left the country, virtually disappearing for over a year. Coyle ha
d been in the US Army before that — had qualified as a paratrooper, then graduated from Ranger school. Obviously, Vitali had wanted to be kept informed on this Coyle in particular, and his employer had done a good job of that, providing Vitali with updates twice a year, all in anticipation of this day finally arriving.

  Though Johnny Coyle had made it through his Ranger training, he never actually got to serve. An off-post car accident shortly after graduation had left him with a shattered left ankle and a subsequent medical discharge, which Coyle had fought but ultimately lost. It was shortly after his discharge, while Coyle was still on crutches, that Vitali had caught a brief glimpse of him. The photo in Vitali’s hand had been taken within the last few weeks and showed Coyle walking without the aid of anything — crutches or a cane. His injury had occurred three years ago, and clearly his ankle had since healed — or at least healed enough. Still, the injury was a potential weakness, and Vitali had an eye for weakness.

  As confident as he was, as physically bigger as he may be, Vitali knew this Coyle was a man he should not underestimate. To qualify as a paratrooper meant he was tough and smart. But to finish Ranger school, that meant much more. This Coyle was the elite of the elite — or at least had been, once. It took real effort — daily effort — for Vitali to keep his own edge. He’d perfected the art of the motel room workout — pull-ups from upper door frames, push-ups with his full duffel bag on his back, squats with any and every weight available in his arms. And he ran nearly every day — nothing tested a man’s heart like running.

  But physical conditioning was only part of it. Mental toughness was what made the difference. The body can do anything the mind tells it to. When the mind gives up, so does the body. What was it Vitali’s father had said? Fatigue makes cowards of men. There were no truer words.

  Vitali still had his mental edge, his soldier’s edge; there was no doubt about that. His monk’s discipline saw to that. His killing for a living — and for pleasure — kept him sharp, alert, always thinking steps ahead.

  But would Johnny Coyle still have his edge? Had civilian life — his “strange self-exile in Brooklyn” was how Vitali’s employer had described it — softened him?

  Hard to tell from a photograph. Vitali noted that Coyle’s eyes were narrowed, as if he were looking carefully at something in the distance as he walked along. Scanning, perhaps, studying his surroundings, just as Vitali always did. Of course, the man could have just been squinting at the sun. And if he were still razor sharp, he would have noticed the surveillance team photographing him, no? Vitali was confident that he would have.

  Nonetheless, I can’t underestimate him, Vitali thought. I won’t make that mistake. I won’t make the same mistakes you made, Father. I promise that.

  The female walking beside Coyle was beautiful — as beautiful a woman as Vitali had ever seen. Tall, regal, long red hair. A true redhead? He’d never had one of those. His eyes lingered on her for a moment. She was dressed like a bohemian: peasant dress, dark tank top, sandals. Vitali knew the type — rich American playing at being poor. Strike one. Her right arm bore a sleeve of tattoos. Lots of bright reds and greens and blues and black shadowing making what looked to be a dragon coiling from her upper bicep down to her right wrist. Vitali didn’t like his women tattooed — strike two — and ideas of what he would do to her if he got the chance were already forming in his mind.

  The second photo was of another male — the youngest child, Jeremy. A teenager when Vitali had last seen him, so twenty or so now. Good-looking, but in a fragile, slightly feminine way. The long, well-tended hair only made him look more…tender. Foolish boy, Vitali thought. Though Jeremy Coyle had no military experience, Vitali had been warned that the kid was somewhat streetwise — brushes with the law, casual associations with a bad crowd, a real scrapper. And though he was wiry — and men like that were often stronger than they appeared — Vitali was not at all worried. He had learned his early skills in lawless Moscow — his father’s brother, a member of the Russian mob, had begun training Vitali as a boy, and then resumed his training after Vitali had fled the army. All this was to prepare him for his inevitable journey to the States, where he would work beside his father, who was employed by an American crime boss. And once he had finally made his way into the States — once he had begun working beside his father — Vitali learned even more. So much more. All that his old man, a true master, had to teach.

  Till his old man had been killed.

  But even the hardest of Moscow thugs — and they were the hardest in the world, there was no doubt in Vitali’s mind about that — had never once given him anything close to a run for his money.

  No, he wasn’t worried too much about this boy.

  This second photograph had been taken through the window of a café, and seated across from the younger Coyle was another female. Older than Coyle — much older, Vitali noted. They were holding hands across the table in a way that seemed secretive. A weakness I could exploit? he wondered. Looking closer, he saw that the woman was wearing an engagement ring and wedding band. The stone in the engagement ring was large. Coyle was not married, so another weakness, perhaps?

  Even though the faces of the two females hadn’t been circled, Vitali made a point of studying both women closely.

  The third and final photo was of the oldest of the three Coyle children. A female, in her midthirties now. Pretty, though in a plain way, not beautiful like the other two females. Forgettable, really, except maybe for something in her eyes. Something…knowing. But she was clearly fit, and Vitali was drawn to women who were fit — victims or lovers (and then victims), fit women were the most fun for him. He didn’t know this female’s name — she hadn’t been present the night his father had been killed — so he flipped over the photo and found on the back a short bio sheet. Printed on it were details, among which was the name Catherine. Nicknamed Cat. Below that was her Long Island City address, and below that a list of neighborhood bars she frequented.

  The photograph, a night shot, taken by a surveillance team like the others, showed her getting out of an unmarked sedan. A short leather jacket did little to hide the holstered handgun clipped to her belt. A Glock, he noted. She was FBI three years ago, just as her father had been. So she and Johnny Coyle had that in common — he had obviously joined the Rangers because of his father, and she had pursued a career in the FBI because her father had been FBI.

  But would she still be FBI now? Or had her father’s disgrace stained her and driven her out?

  Maybe the list of bars was a clue to that. Vitali knew enough about the FBI to know that weakness wasn’t tolerated. How long could a drunk hope to last in that organization?

  There wasn’t anything about Catherine Coyle’s employment status on the bio sheet. An oversight? Or was he to assume she was still an agent? Even if she were still FBI, Vitali wasn’t at all intimidated; he could never allow himself to fear a woman — any woman, no matter what the situation, what kind of badge she might carry, what skills she might possess. Such a thing would simply be an absurdity. He knew, though, that he should find out either way. After all, if she was still FBI, then that meant she worked for men…

  Opening his duffel bag, Vitali removed his netbook computer and portable document scanner. Once the computer was up and running, he connected it to the scanner via USB cable and proceeded to scan both sides of each photo to his hard drive, saving them as JPEGs and then uploading the JPEGs to the secure online storage site where he also stored digital copies of his sex videos. After deleting the scans from his hard drive and running a scrubber program to clear all traces of them away, he tore the original photos into pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

  He studied the JPEGs for several more minutes, memorizing the faces of the two males and three females, then briefly browsed through the list of his collection of videos — nearly fifty, but he wanted more, would always want more. He thought of watching one of his recent additions but decided against it. There would be time for that later.


  And maybe, too, even more additions from which to choose.

  Finally, he exited the secure storage site and shut down the computer.

  Leaving his room, he made a quick surveillance run, exploring each floor of the hotel, walking all the stairs, and making note not only of all the exits but every dark corner as well. He even found the trapdoor that allowed access to the roof. It was secured by a padlock, so he would need to pick up a pair of bolt cutters, just in case, when he went out later to buy food and cigarettes. Any brand other than Parliaments…

  Satisfied that he knew the layout of the place well enough, he returned to his room and stood at the window over Twenty-Third. He watched with keen eyes the few people passing silently below as the first hints of early morning light rose.

  All he needed now was to wait for the phone call at noon.

  And after that, for night to fall.

  Chapter Two

  Jeremy Coyle was waiting for eleven o’clock to arrive, his hands shaking. He had done risky things before — it could be said that he lived for risk, had valued his own life so little these past few years that he flirted with risk whenever and wherever possible. And though he was familiar with danger, and the moments that preceded it, he had kicked his many addictions once and for all and was straight now, thinking and seeing clearly for the first time in a long time.

  The downside to all this was that he understood with real clarity what it was he was about to do, once eleven o’clock came around and after he made the necessary phone call.