The agent poured himself another cup of coffee, black and strong. He needed something to keep his head clear, something with which to keep awake a bit longer. Working late that evening was certainly not part of his plan, but his chief had decided otherwise. He walked the long corridor back to his office, passing the reception desk where a petite, middle-age woman was sitting, seemingly engrossed in her work.
A newswoman could be heard on a TV in a corner stand.
"Business mogul Nikolay Gorbachyov has been found dead in his Moscow residence late last night. He was apparently shot twice in the chest. There are no suspects as of yet. We will update as the FSB releases more information. Our sincere condolences to his wife and his family."
"You're working late tonight, Olga," he said as he glanced at the receptionist.
"Overtime," she simply answered with a lopsided grin. "Good money. Your second of the night?" she gestured with her head toward the cup of coffee in his hand.
"Third, actually," he replied with a lopsided grin as he entered his office once again.
Being summoned all the way from France, to fly to Moscow and work for the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, he knew it was serious business. The FSB had contacted the Interpol headquarters in Lyon and had asked for their best man for an important task. Apparently, they needed someone to infiltrate the system and he was the guy for it.
French agent Maurice Lambert was a man in his late fifties, although he looked quite younger as he had always kept physically active. He had started as a young hacker, doing odd jobs for greedy entrepreneurs, until he realized that working illegally was a bit too dangerous. That was when he landed with this great opportunity in his early thirties; working for the Interpol. Now only a few months before retirement, six to be exact, he was determined that this would be his last assignment.
Taking a sip of his coffee and setting it next to his computer keyboard, he once again concentrated on finding whatever he was supposed to find. He had looked at all the files through and through, but nothing. He had checked all the agents' e-mails and personal records, even the administrative workers' backgrounds. But absolutely nothing. He picked up his assignment file and opened it once again, re-reading it one more time.
"Stolen money. Moles. Conspiracy." The words played in his mind, and he let out a heavy sigh. "100 million dollars. Suspects in both the FSB and the Interpol." This was completely insane. A huge amount of money suddenly disappeared from the FSB account, and they highly suspected there were moles in both agencies. Traitors. Conspirators. And they expected him to find some clue, a slip, something.
He pressed the middle three fingers of each hand in his eye sockets, rubbing them tiredly, and let out another sigh as he felt the first poundings of a headache.
Beep.
His computer had stopped on something. Maurice separated his fingers and looked at the screen. There were files, and lots of them.
"What the hell?" He recognized some of the faces, but most were unknown. There were names, employment numbers, years of active service, statuses, addresses. Then, the blinking mailbox icon at the bottom right caught his attention. Without hesitating, he directed the arrow on top of it and double-clicked.
The files and images went by in flashes, but the words and images stood out like daisies in a field of weeds.
Yuri Gretkov. 100 millions dollars. Kill Nikolay Gorbachyov. Moles in the FSB and the Interpol. There was a date, a place, the whole setup. And cover-up.
Moles in the Interpol. He recognized the names and faces. "Sons of bitches. Never did trust those assholes."
He copied the files and pasted them on his desktop, making sure it all looked completely ordinary. He couldn't risk anyone seeing them, not knowing who the traitors were. And he couldn't risk printing the files at the FSB headquarters. It could easily be tracked down to his office and his life would be in danger.
The safest thing to do would be to e-mail the files to his laptop at his apartment here in Moscow, and then bring the laptop with the files in it with him to Lyon when he returned home. There was only one person he could trust; his chief, his boss, his mentor.
Once that was done, he deleted the file on his desktop just to be safe and grabbed his jacket on the back of his chair. But as he was about to exit his office, he had a sudden thought. He sat back in his chair, grabbed a blank paper sheet, and wrote a letter to his last family member. He wrote her name down on the envelop after sealing it, and then left it on top of his desk.
He then practically ran along the corridor, not bothering to say goodbye to Olga who gave him an odd look as he darted past her desk.
He had never felt so nervous during one of his assignments. Something wasn't right, and he sensed it with every pounding in his head. His stomach was twisted in a knot, and he was sweating bullets. Discovering this conspiracy was just by chance, a fortunate one, but it was discovered and he had to see it exposed.
He drove a bit above the limit, after all he was somewhat of a cop and should follow the law, but this was important. Taking the first flight out to Lyon was also very important, and delivering the files to his chief was highly important.
As the names and faces whirled in his minds over and over, he hadn't noticed the black car following him close behind. Then, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash as the car collided in his from behind.
"WHAT THE...!"
Maurice's car slid off the road. Looking in his side mirror he noticed the black sedan, which was still very close and coming closer by the second. He managed to regain control, but the black car slammed in him once more, and this time there was no recovering. His car hit the side of a building and Maurice blacked out for a second, realizing the airbag had popped open in his face.
Groaning weakly, he was just barely able to turn his head to the left to see that the driver of the black sedan had stopped only a couple of meters away. The headlights were kept on as the driver got out of the car, walking slowly but purposely toward him. Maurice glanced at the revolver in the man's right hand.
Not taking his eyes off the revolver, he tried to reach his own in the glove compartment, but his right shoulder just wouldn't let him stretch that far; it was apparently dislocated.
"Damn," Maurice muttered to himself. "Who are you? What's all this about?" he asked weakly.
"Agent Lambert," the man said in an accented English. He was obviously Russian. "You have been working late tonight. You should not have been working late tonight," he continued, which made Maurice grunt, recognizing his face immediately. He had seen it earlier on his computer screen, which linked him to the Gretkov conspiracy.
"This is about the files," he guessed and the Russian simply sneered. "What do you want?"
"I'm simply here to get rid of the evidence," he replied. "You know something you shouldn't."
"How in the hell did you know I found the files?" But before the Russian could answer, it dawned on him. Damn. "You had a warning bug on it. You were alerted right away," and the Russian gave a brief, crude laugh.
"Hm, yes, technology. It is great, isn't it?" he retorted, taking his cell phone out of his jacket pocket to show the agent and putting it back. "Do you really think we could take any chance? Do you have any idea how long I have been working for the FSB? I'm sorry, but I cannot allow you to deliver the files to the Interpol," he explained, although by the look on his face, Maurice could tell he wasn't sorry at all.
"What I found links Gretkov, you and all your other partners-in-crime to the death of Nikolay Gorbachyov and the stolen money," Maurice hissed. "I have no interest in knowing why you would want that tycoon murdered, but your boss Gretkov will never make parole. He'll..." but Maurice never finished his statement as the Russian pulled the trigger of the gun, aimed at the agent's head.
The gun shot resounded in the clear night, prompting a nearby dog to bark. The Russian traitor wasted no time. He walked to his car and opened the trunk, retrieving a canister filled with gas. He walked toward the agent's car, covered it with gasoline, and set the car on fire with the French agent's lifeless body in it.
Walking to his car, he took his cell phone out of his pocket once again, dialed a number and waited for an answer.
"Viktor?" the voice answered.
"It's done," he simply said, and hung up as the burning car exploded behind him.