Ryan Stone was actually enjoying his omelette, which was good because it had been a hard-won morsel. Hawkins, as one would expect from a woman with no couch, was not exactly Martha Stewart. She appeared to have no fresh vegetables, or meat of any kind, in her kitchen, so the omelette had become sort of an improvised affair, with ketchup taking the place of all the usual produce. But it worked, and he was hungry enough to enjoy almost anything. Studying his partner over his fork, he noted that Hawkins seemed to be basically back to her old self. That was a relief, because if she was right, if that bomb had really been a calculated assassination of their only remaining suspect, this case was going turn into quicksand fast, and she was going to need to be at her best. There would be no rest for her if she managed to convince people that those agents had been murdered by someone who was still alive. He was mid-bite when he heard Hawkins suck her breath in through her teeth; the sharp gasp drew his attention, and he looked up to see that she had suddenly gone as white as a sheet.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed by the change in expression on her face.
She held up a hand, motioning for him to be quiet. She was intensely focused on whatever was in that newspaper; her brow was furrowed, and her eyes had narrowed to slits. Her obvious anxiety was contagious, and as Ryan waited, food forgotten on his fork, he barely dared to draw a breath. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she plucked something from the paper, and slid the rest of the pages across the table to him, tapping an ad in the middle of the page with her finger. That done, she dropped her chin to her chest and closed her eyes, apparently deep in thought. Ryan looked down at the ad and he could see why it had caught her attention. It was hard to miss the half-page advertisement, which appeared to be for an old-fashioned English style-pub. That, in and of itself, was not unusual, except for the name of the pub, written in looping, old fashioned script: “The Hawk and Tailor.” It was accompanied by a picture of an anthropomorphized bird of prey wearing a little hat, vest, and boots. It was odd, certainly, but the resemblance to her name could easily be a coincidence, she had to have seen something more. Looking down at the body of the ad, he noticed that it was nothing but gibberish, a meaningless jumble of letters. To him, it looked like some sort of printing error, but why would that have bothered her so much?
“What is this, Hawkins?” he asked, at last.
“Every other letter,” she muttered impatiently, without looking up.
Every other letter? What was that supposed to mean? Ryan had to think about it for a minute, but it finally hit him. A simple cipher. Getting up and rifling through several kitchen drawers, he managed to locate a pencil and a scrap of paper. He smoothed out the paper on the table and looked at the ad again. It read:
The Hawk and Tailor
HSOLP%EHYMO$UPHXALDQABBRLJA#SYTOYWEWSZTFEPR;D@ARYC,DI[KYNIOWWQIPDTIBDF.FT#OPOQBMARDLFSOFRDTUH&OESZEIABGDETNHTASJ,LTYH)OVUNGTHR.NNMO!WXILTE’SSYTBIPM”EAFOODRJRKORUUNNDMTSWTOIOPFGOCUVR.LSIETBTCLXEZGMAGMYEH.ZBWERTYTIEORPLKUFCSKCTBHJIES?TAIOMHEK,GATGJEKNSTEH>ALWAKGIJNPSM.S–EPNAMRSALQBZEAL@L)UPM
Circling every other letter, he wrote them out on his new piece of paper:
HOPEYOUHADABLASTYESTERDAY,IKNOWIDID.TOOBADFORTHOSEAGENTS,THOUGH.NOWIT’STIMEFORROUNDTWOOFOURLITTLEGAME.BETTERLUCKTHISTIME,AGENTHAWKINS.-PARABELLUM
Dividing the resulting jumble of letters into words, he wrote out the final message, and he saw what had shaken up Hawkins so badly. It wasn’t poetry, but the message was clear:
Hope you had a blast yesterday, I know I did. Too bad for those agents, though. Now it’s time for round two of our little game. Better luck this time, Agent Hawkins.–Parabellum.
“Is this what I think it is?” Ryan asked, finding himself unable to disguise the fear in his voice.
“I am afraid so,” Hawkins replied, finally opening her eyes, and raising her head. “You know what this means, then?”
“It can’t be,” he shook his head.
An intense feeling of dread had settled over him and suddenly that omelette felt like a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach. He pushed the newspaper away. Of course, he knew what it meant, there wasn’t an NIA agent alive who wouldn’t, but he couldn’t believe it was possible.
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“What else could it be? This is his calling card, his signature. If Parabellum is the third man, it explains everything.”
“But he hasn’t been active in years.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Parabellum has gone silent plenty of times before. Killing in brief bursts, then nothing, for years. You know that.”
Ryan nodded slowly,
“But why would he be interested in a kidnapping?”
“It was never about the boy. It’s his standard MO, he begins by setting up a difficult, high-profile crime that necessitates the use of one of the agencies best. It’s like an audition, like we are competing for his favor and attention. He doesn’t care who he gets, as long as they are considered ‘the best’.”
“And if they pass the audition…”
“That’s when he starts killing agents, and when he issues his challenge. It was never about Alex Pauling, never about the impossible ransom, it was all about luring an agent into his game. All about luring me, in this case. I wonder if he appreciates the irony?” the last part was said more to herself than to him. “I guess that finally explains why the ransom note didn’t say not to call the police,” she laughed mirthlessly, “he didn’t want to risk Pauling actually complying, that would have ruined everything.”
“Slow down a minute. How can we even be sure that this is really Parabellum and not just some prank, or a copycat?”
“This was tucked into my paper, on the page after the ad,” Hawkins retrieved the slip of paper she had removed earlier, she handed it to him.
Flipping it over, Ryan realized that it wasn’t paper at all, it was a photograph. A photograph of a beautiful diamond pendant on a broken chain, lying on top of yesterday’s newspaper, right next to the date. Like proof-of-life.
“What is this?” he asked.
“It’s the necklace the 3rd target was wearing when she died,” Hawkins replied, there was a strange inflection to her voice that he didn’t understand. “It was designed specifically for her by her husband, and it was torn from her neck by the killer. A copycat wouldn’t know that, and they certainly wouldn’t have the necklace.”
Ryan swallowed hard,
“If Parabellum really has surfaced again, if he really has decided on you as his next target…” Ryan trailed off. “We are in serious trouble, aren’t we?”
“Oh yeah,” Hawkins raised her eyebrows. “If precedent is any guide, this challenge is a death sentence. Generally, after he has put his chosen target on notice, it’s open season. Parabellum wages psychological warfare; he taunts them with notes and false clues, but it is more than that. The truly cruel part of their assault is the series of murders he perpetrates. He rarely attacks his target directly, at least not at first. Instead, he surrounds them with deaths that they cannot prevent, family, friends, colleagues, children. No one is off limits. Over a period of weeks, even months, he takes skilled and confident agents and breaks them down. The targets become isolated, afraid to act for fear of the consequences, afraid to ask for help because whoever they ask would likely end up dead. And since the deaths revolve around them, their own colleagues grow to hate and fear them. When they are totally and utterly defeated, isolated from everyone, that’s when they vanish. Often, they are missing for days, or even weeks. Then their bodies appear, always horribly tortured, mutilated and staged in shocking and theatrical poses. And that’s the end. Parabellum’s activity ceases and it is as if he never existed at all. The investigation continues, of course, but no one has ever even come close to identifying a good suspect, and eventually, the case goes cold.”
“Until he chooses another target,” Ryan whispered.
“Exactly,” Hawkins nodded gravely. “Parabellum’s total body count to date, before yesterday that is, was believed to be 29 people. As a result, he is considered one of the most prolific serial killers in Canadian history. He has never failed. Never. Their targets always break, and then they die. And make no mistake, these were each some of the most brilliant agents the NIA had. Parabellum destroyed them all utterly, without ever even coming close to being detected. That is what he wants, to prove he is better than the best.”
“Not just a perfect murder,” Ryan breathed, “29 perfect murders. Right at our doorstep. And it is starting again. How the hell can you be so calm about this?!” he could feel the panic creeping up on him.
“I let him get inside my head once already,” Hawkins’s eyes flashed angrily, but her voice was deadly calm. “I’ve always promised myself he would never break me that way and still, he nearly did last night. I won’t ever let that happen again. I can’t.”
“We have to call this in, right away,” Ryan reached for his cell phone. “Notify the agency.”
“No!” Hawkins stopped him, grabbing his wrist urgently. “Don’t call anyone.”
“What, are you crazy?!” Ryan exclaimed. “They need to know about this as soon as possible. We need backup, protection.”
He pulled away and got out his phone.
“Wait! Please.” the look in her eyes made him stop. “There is something I haven’t told you yet. Something important.”
“What could you possibly have to say that would change my mind about this?”
“It’s better if I show you,” she replied quietly, rising from her seat. “Please, trust me, just for a few minutes.”
Ryan nodded reluctantly and followed her out of the kitchen.