The Assassin tc-3

by Stephen Coonts

  The photographer on the sidewalk across the street made call after call on his cell phone. Before long another photographer arrived. A half hour later a television crew, complete with supporting truck, arrived. After they were set up, the reporter — a woman — talked into a camera for a while, then they waited. Ten minutes later another guy showed up carrying two camera bags, one on each shoulder. They formed a gauntlet that everyone leaving the building had to pass through. Several people did, and the media let them pass unmolested.

  Marisa was in there for an hour and a half. The limo appeared at the curb, and the driver got out. Diem in our rental was a hundred feet behind. I walked over and climbed in just as Marisa came out the door and the photographers sprang into action. Inquiring minds want to know. One would think she specialized in hot love scenes for the cinema. She marched determinedly through the crowd, didn’t say boo to the lady with the microphone — which she stuck in Marisa’s face — and climbed aboard the limo. Away we crept, off through traffic, back to the chateau Petrou out in the country.

  “What was that all about?” Diem wanted to know. “Why the star treatment?”

  “We’ll buy a paper this evening.”

  When we did, we discovered that Marisa was the prime suspect in her husband’s murder. Of course, the police didn’t state in so many words that she was it, but she was answering questions before the examining magistrate. Again. She had access to the poison that did him in, opportunity and lots of motive. The dirty laundry of Jean and Marisa’s marriage was smeared all over the paper for the world to read. And she was young, beautiful, rich and slightly exotic. If she managed to beat the rap, she could probably get a movie contract.

  I studied the photo in the paper, which was a full-face close-up. I saw a lovely woman with her emotions under tight control. I looked for a hint of guilt or innocence, and didn’t see a trace of either one.

  The holy warriors came in late afternoon, when the canyon was deep in shadow. The temperature had dropped to about twenty degrees, and the breeze was off the Hindu Kush. One man was on the point. He stayed on their trail, such as it was — a few scuff marks, here and there a partial footprint — wary as a nervous deer. He passed completely in front of Longworth and disappeared to the left, up-canyon.

  He and Brown waited. Longworth’s watch seemed to stop. He breathed shallowly so his breath vapor would dissipate without rising as a cloud.

  When they came there were four of them and two dogs on leashes. They walked well spread out. Harry Longworth studied them through binoculars. They were carrying AK-47s.

  He ran the binoculars over the far ridge, looking for any sign of movement. Seeing none, he laid down the glasses and picked up the sniper rifle.

  The line of searchers passed directly in front of him, the nearest man about eighty yards away, and continued on up the canyon. Fifty yards farther on they began crossing a flat place almost devoid of rocks.

  That’s when he shot the man on the left. He heard the high-pitched crack of Gat Brown’s M-16, again and again.

  All four men and the two dogs were down when Harry Longworth saw a flash of movement on the far side of the canyon and heard a burst of three shots.

  The point man! He had doubled back.

  The wind blew and the evening got darker in the canyon.

  Finally, when Longworth was convinced the point man wouldn’t move, he did. Harry’s bullet caught him and he slid down a steep, naked slope and came to rest against a small stone.

  It was full dark and bitterly cold, with the wind working up to a gale, when Harry Longworth found Gat Brown. He piled some stones on him as he said a little prayer. Brown always pretended to be an atheist — and perhaps he was — but now, Harry Longworth thought, he was with Jesus. Maybe.

  The problem with religion is that you don’t really know.

  Longworth took Gat’s weapon and rucksack and left him there in that rocky canyon in the foothills of the Hindu Kush.

  The next day Marisa didn’t come out. I wondered if our bugs were working. The CIA had someone at Ft. Meade listening to the household drivel on a real-time basis. Grafton had insisted upon it. I called Grafton’s assistant, Robin Cloyd, the lady of the jeans and sweatshirts and big hair, on an encrypted satellite phone. “Hey. This is Tommy.”

  “Well, hello there, world traveler. Where are you today?”

  “France. What are the spooks hearing from the Petrou chateau?”

  “Oh, lots and lots of stuff. Should I send you a summary on your Black Berry?”

  “Yeah.” We spies were really into twenty-first-century gadgets. “But let’s cut to the chase. Is there anything there that I should know about?” “Well … I am scrolling through this stuff… The agency uses a program that reduces speech to text, so we get it untouched by human hands.” She hummed a little bit, then said, “It all looks very benign. When are you coming home?”

  “My birthday. For sure.” I was lying, of course; I had no idea where I would be tomorrow. “Let me know when Marisa sounds as if she might go out.”

  “Of course.”

  “Great.”

  “Thanks for calling, Tommy.”

  Robin Cloyd was a strange woman. As I repacked the satellite phone in its little case, I wondered about her.

  The third day of our vigil, Marisa set forth again in the limo. We were forewarned by a call from Robin, and were waiting in our rental when the limo appeared. I checked with the binoculars. She seemed to be alone.

  “How do you stand all this excitement?” Diem asked as we rolled along.

  “Too lazy to work and too stupid to steal. You know that old song.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted.

  I kept waiting for Diem’s personality to grow on me, but so far it hadn’t germinated.

  It was raining that day in Paris, a steady rain from a dreary sky, matching my mood. Marisa’s chauffeur didn’t try to lose us, which was good, because he would have succeeded. He dropped Marisa at one of the big department stores on the right bank of the Seine. She was just disappearing through the doors of the retailing temple when I bailed out of the rental and charged off after her. I was hoping she was here to meet someone, and I figured Jake Grafton might like to know who it was. For that matter, so would I.

  It was warmer and drier inside, with women huddled over the scent and makeup counters and talking in low tones. Marisa was waiting on the elevator, facing the door.

  I waited until the door opened and she entered, then jumped on the escalator.

  She went up to the eighth floor and into the restaurant. I found a vantage point outside that allowed me to see her through the plate glass windows. She took a seat at a small table in the corner, all alone, studied the menu and ordered when the waitress came around. If she was supposed to meet someone, she wasn’t waiting. Hmmm.

  There were three other couples dining there and several single ladies. Two ladies went in and were seated while I dawdled. Half the tables were empty.

  I waited ten minutes, just in case, then went inside. The maftre d’ smiled at me, and I pointed at Marisa in the corner.

  I walked over and joined her.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” she said and gave me a hint of a smile.

  “You were waiting for me?”

  “I was unsure of the best way to get in touch with you. While I was sitting in the bath, I wondered, should I just name a place and time and ask you to meet me? Or should I go somewhere and wait until you arrived? Which would you prefer in the future?”

  “I called the newspapers before I came in. The photographers are gathering outside.”

  The waitress brought her a bottle of white wine from the Rhone valley, and an extra glass for me. The waitress poured. The wine was dry and delicious.

  “So,” Marisa said when the waitress trotted off, “are we going to sit here telling each other lies, or will you give me the real reason that you are following me?”

  “The real reason. Honest injun, cross my heart and
hope to die. My boss told me to.”

  “Aah,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  The waitress brought a menu for me, but I refused it. “Whatever she’s having,” I said, nodding at Marisa. “Bring me the same.”

  The waitress smiled, sure she was in the presence of true love, and went away happy.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, “when the lunch comes we’ll trade dishes, just in case.”

  She was sipping wine as if she had waited all week for this taste, yet she kept her eyes on me. Now I saw what I hadn’t seen in the photos — she looked stressed.

  “Of course, if you brought your polonium with you, you can just sprinkle it all over my grub before I taste it. I’ve heard it gives you a thrill that Mexican hot sauce never will.”

  She put her wineglass on the table, and I reached for her hands. Held them both — they were cold — then released one. Sure enough, she had a slight tremor. She withdrew the unattached appendage, but she held on with the other. Her hand felt solid, sensual. For a prime suspect, she felt mighty good.

  “Or you can haul out your Walther and start blasting,” I said. “I’m sure everyone will understand. You do have a good lawyer, don’t you?”

  She didn’t say a word. Didn’t turn a hair. I didn’t know if she ever played poker, but I wouldn’t bet ten cents with her holding cards.

  “Did you poison your husband, was it your mother-in-law, or was it that swine Abu Qasim?”

  Now she withdrew her hand and gave me a wan smile. “Mr. Carmellini. Tommy. I know you mean well, that you are a soldier for good and righteousness and those other American things.” With her French accent, the words really sounded cool. Corny, but cool. “I wish for you to deliver a message to Admiral Grafton.”

  I sipped wine as I thought about things. “Okay,” I said. “Shoot.”

  “He knows all the names, including yours, and he plans to kill all of you.

  “My name?”

  “Those are my words for Admiral Grafton.”

  By “him” I figured she could only mean Abu Qasim. A cold chill slid down my spine. Four days ago Jake Grafton had predicted murder as Abu Qasim’s goal, and had named the targets.

  After a moment’s thought, I asked the obvious question. “How did he learn the names?”

  “My husband told him.”

  “I’ll give Grafton the message,” I said.

  She appeared sincere, the mask gone.

  Or she was one hell of an actress.

  I wondered which was the case.

  “Thanks for the wine.” I rose, nodded at the startled waitress and walked out.

  If you thought I was going to have a relaxing lunch with the prime suspect in a husband poisoning, and perhaps another, you’re nuts. I wouldn’t have even touched the wine if I had seen her hand near the bottle. Marisa could pay the lunch tab. I figured she could afford it.

  Sheikh Mahmoud al-Taji met his visitor in a safe room in the basement of the mosque. His visitor had entered the mosque in full robe and headpiece, so no one had gotten a good look at his face. Even if they had, he was heavily made up, wearing a full beard.

  This basement room was the safest place for private conversations. The room was completely suspended upon shock absorbers in the middle of a larger room and surrounded with insulation. Installed on the floors and walls of the basement were amplifiers that broadcast the sounds from within the mosque above.

  “It is good to see you again, Abu Qasim.”

  “I need to pray. Will you pray with me?”

  The two knelt on the rugs and prayed to Allah, the all-merciful. When they had finished, they sat upon the rugs and conferred in low tones.

  “It was as you said it would be,” al-Taji said. “The English courts did not convict me. Truly, we can use these people’s laws against them. They are tied up in their own contradictions.”

  Al-Taji thought that the English were stupid, with their insistence on the rule of law. He took a moment now to expand upon that theme. It was Allah who ruled, and his words given through the Prophet were supreme. The English had lost their god somewhere along the way, and were the worse lor it.

  Abu Qasim knew Western society was more complex, but he didn’t choose to discuss it with the sheikh. They had more important things to occupy them.

  “The Americans killed Rameid,” Qasim said, “in his refuge at the base of the mountains. Killed him two days ago with a long-range rifle.”

  Al-Taji was taken aback. “May he rest in peace,” he muttered.

  “I, too, am a hunted man, as you know. One suspects that you also are a target.”

  “But the English did not convict me!”

  “They did not convict Rameid, either,” Abu Qasim pointed out, “or Abdul-Zahra Mohammed or the others. They use the law when it suits them and the bullet or the knife when that suits them. Underestimating the infidels is a grave mistake. They are in league with the Devil, as you know.”

  “I have given my soul to jihad,” al-Taji said forcefully, “and Paradise awaits. I am at peace. Inshallah.”

  They sat there the rest of the afternoon discussing the secret army that hunted them, and its leader, Jake Grafton. Discussed and planned and plotted revenge, which, as every man of the desert knew to the depths of his soul, is life’s sweetest experience.

  As he contemplated the prospect, Sheikh Mahmoud al-Taji smiled.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “She says he knows all the names, including yours, and he plans to kill all of you.”

  I was talking on the encrypted satellite phone to Jake Grafton, who was somewhere in America, I thought; he flitted around like a moth on crack. He was silent after I gave him Marisa’s message. He was silent so long that I thought maybe we had lost the connection. “You still there?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Gimme a moment to think.”

  More silence.

  Finally I said, “Looks like your crystal ball is giving you good dope.”

  “I have to see some people here. I’ll call you tomorrow about noon your time. Okay?” Sure.

  I was staying in a cheap hotel on the Left Bank — the bedroom was so small that I had to crawl over the bed to get to the bathroom — and eating in cheap restaurants. The steady decline of the dollar hadn’t been reflected in the per diem rates. If it got much worse, I was going to be living under an overpass and pushing my stuff around in a stolen shopping cart.

  Since Per and another guy from the embassy had the night watch on the Petrou chateau if Marisa decided to sally forth — or if someone tried to get in to do the Petrou women — that evening I played tourist, strolling the sidewalks along the Seine and wishing the season were summer. It wasn’t. Still, Paris was full of lovers, bundled up and strolling arm in arm, looking at the lights.

  I like Paris. You can have Chicago if you wish; Paris is my kind of town.

  An hour before dawn Oleg Tchernychenko awoke and looked out the window into the Scottish night. The wind was rattling the pane, and raindrops were spattering themselves against the window. He dressed quickly and went downstairs to brew a pot of tea.

  As the kettle warmed, he wandered through the old house looking at his books. He had thousands, which filled shelves in various rooms from the floor to the ceiling. Books. They were the great discovery when he left Russia fifteen years ago. Books. The Communists didn’t like books, except politically correct tomes by Russian authors, which weren’t, to Tchernychenko’s mind, real books at all. He made this momentous discovery in Great Britain, in the bookshops and libraries that dotted the streets and neighborhoods.

  He had been lucky. One of the first books he found was Winston Churchill’s History ofthe English-Speaking Peoples, in four volumes. Inside he found civilization. Churchill told of conquests and kings, religious passions and wars and the differing visions that led the world forward, in fits and starts. Churchill’s six volumes on the Second World War were a revelation; one almost wondered if that were the same war the Communists had ta
lked about all those years.

  He read Charles Darwin, William Shakespeare, the Brownings, and Alfred Lord Tennyson. And everything else he could get his hands on, from Robert Louis Stevenson, H. G. Wells, H. Rider Haggard and J. R. R. Tolkien to Tom Clancy, Dan Brown and J. K. Rowling.

  Tchernychenko walked along, fingering the books on his shelves. He smiled when he reached the little paperback mysteries by Agatha Christie. He had them all — every one.

  When the tea was ready, he poured himself a cup and stood at the kitchen door watching the dawn. The sky began to gray. As the light improved he could see the clouds scudding swiftly over the grass-covered hills, churning endlessly, driven by the wild wind.

  He glanced at his watch. On Saturday the limo was coming from London to pick him up, him and his two bodyguards, who were still upstairs in bed. He certainly didn’t need to be in London to work. Still, he had a few hours before he needed to start making telephone calls and taking care of business.

  He had leased this house in the Highlands because he loved Scotland— loved the hills and waving grass and rocks and sky, loved the weather in all four seasons. Five miles west was the coast, steep, rocky cliffs hammered since time began by the restless sea, with sheep making a precarious living on the headlands. Here and there were little cottages, hunkered down, a part of the earth. Scotland was wild, visual and sensual; when he was in London or Europe and thought of it, he always smiled, as one does thinking of an old lover fondly remembered.

  When he finished his tea, Oleg Tchernychenko donned his rain gear and Wellingtons and prepared for a hike. He paused at the door. Putin was sending fatal messages to people who displeased him— Tchernychenko had few friends in high places in Moscow — and Abu Qasim and his fanatics wanted him dead. When he heard Jake Grafton’s message, he had known the admiral spoke the truth.