by Tom Clancy
“What about medical attention? What if there’s an ambulance just across the street?”
“Rick says it won’t matter unless he’s in an operating room with doctors standing right at his side.”
“Fair enough.” Brian picked up the photo of their first target, looking at it, but really seeing young David Prentiss. “Tough luck, buddy.”
“I SEE our friend had a nice weekend,” Jack was saying to his computer. This day’s report included a photo of a Miss Mandy Davis, along with a transcript of her interview with the Metropolitan Police Special Branch. “She’s a looker.”
“Not cheap, either,” Wills observed from his workstation.
“How much longer has Sali got?” Jack asked him.
“Jack, it’s better not to speculate on that,” Wills warned.
“Because the two hitters—hell, Tony, they’re cousins of mine.”
“I do not know much about that, and I do not want to find out. The less we know, the less problems we can have. Period,” he emphasized.
“You say so, man,” Jack responded. “But whatever sympathy I might have had for this prick died when he started cheerleading and funding people with guns. There are lines you can’t cross.”
“Yeah, Jack, there are. Be careful that you don’t step too far yourself.”
Jack Ryan, Jr., thought about that for a second. Did he want to be an assassin? Probably not, but there were people who needed killing, and Uda bin Sali had crossed over into that category. If his cousins were going to take him down, they were just doing the Lord’s work—or his country’s work, which, to the way he’d been brought up, was pretty much the same thing.
“THAT FAST, Doc?” Dominic asked.
Pasternak nodded. “That fast.”
“That reliable?” Brian inquired next.
“Five milligrams is enough. This pen delivers seven. If anyone survives, it would have to be a miracle. Unfortunately, it will be a very unpleasant death, but that can’t be helped. I mean, we could use botulism toxin—it’s a very fast-acting neurotoxin—but that leaves residue in the blood that would come out in a postmortem toxicology scan. Succinylcholine metabolizes very nicely. Detecting it would take another miracle, unless the pathologist knows exactly what to look for, and that is unlikely.”
“How fast again?”
“Twenty to thirty seconds, depending on how close you get to a major blood vessel, then the agent will cause total paralysis. Won’t even be able to blink his eyes. He will not be able to move his diaphragm, so no breathing, no oxygen through the lungs. His heart will continue to beat, but since it will be the organ using the most oxygen, the heart will go ischemic in a matter of seconds—that means that without oxygen, the heart tissue will start to die from lack of oxygen. The pain will be massive. Ordinarily, the body has a reserve supply of oxygen. How much depends on physical condition—the obese have less oxygen reserves than the slender among us. Anyway, the heart will be the first. It will try to continue beating, but that only makes the pain worse. Brain death will occur in three to six minutes. Until then, he’ll be able to hear but not see—”
“Why not?” Brian asked.
“The eyelids probably will close. We’re talking total paralysis here. So, he’ll be lying there, in enormous pain, unable to move at all, with his heart trying to pump unoxygenated blood until his brain cells expire from anoxia. After that, it’s theoretically possible to keep the body alive—muscle cells last the longest without oxygen—but the brain will be gone. Okay, it’s not as sure as a bullet in the brain, but it makes no noise, and leaves virtually no evidence. When the heart cells die, they generate enzymes that we look for in a probable heart attack. So, whatever pathologist gets the body to post will think ‘heart attack,’ or ‘neurological seizure’—a brain tumor can cause that—and maybe he’ll carve the brain up to look for one. But as soon as the blood work comes back, the enzyme test will say ‘heart attack,’ and that should settle matters right then and there. The blood work will not show the succinylcholine because it metabolizes even after death. They will have an unexpected massive heart attack on their hands, and those happen every day. They’ll run his blood for cholesterol and some other risk factors, but nothing will change the fact that he’s dead from a cause they’ll never figure out.”
“Jesus,” Dominic breathed. “Doc, how the hell did you get into this business?”
“My little brother was a vice president at Cantor Fitzgerald,” was all he had to say.
“So we want to be careful with these pens, eh?” Brian asked. The doc’s reason was good enough for him.
“I would,” Pasternak advised them.
CHAPTER 17
AND THE LITTLE REDFOX, AND THE FIRST FENCE
THEY FLEW out of Dulles International Airport on a British Airways flight, which turned out to be a 747 whose control surfaces their own father had designed twenty-seven years earlier. It occurred to Dominic that he’d been in diapers then, and that the world had turned over quite a few times from that day to this.
Both had brand-new passports in their own names. All other relevant documents were in their laptops, fully encrypted, along with modems and communications software, also fully encrypted. Aside from that, they were casually dressed, like most others in the first-class section. The stewardesses fluttered about efficiently, giving everyone munchies, along with white wine for both of the brothers. As they got to altitude, the food was decent—about the best thing that can be said about airline food—and so was the movie selection: Brian picked Independence Day while Dominic settled for The Matrix. Both had enjoyed science fiction since childhood. In the coat pockets of both were their gold pens. The reload cartridges were in their shaving kits, packed away in their regular luggage somewhere below. It would be about six hours to Heathrow, and both hoped to get some sleep on the way.
“Any second thoughts, Enzo?” Brian asked quietly.
“No,” Dominic replied. “Just so it all works out.” The prison cells in England lacked plumbing, he didn’t add, and, no matter how embarrassing it might be for a Marine officer, it would be positively humiliating for a sworn special agent of the FBI.
“Fair enough. ’Night-night, bro.”
“Roger that, jarhead.” And both played with the complex seat controls to settle back to a nearly flat surface. And so the Atlantic passed beneath them for three thousand miles.
BACK IN his apartment, Jack Jr. knew that his cousins were gone overseas, and though he hadn’t exactly been told why, their mission didn’t require a spectacular leap of imagination. Surely Uda bin Sali would not live out the week. He’d learn about it from the morning message traffic out of Thames House, and he found himself wondering what the Brits would be saying, how excited and/or regretful they might be. Certainly, he’d learn a lot about how the job had been done. That excited his curiosity. He’d spent enough time in London to know that guns were not done over there, unless it was a government-sanctioned killing. In such a case—if the Special Air Service dispatched someone especially disliked by No. 10 Downing Street, for example—the police knew not to press too deeply into the case. Maybe just some pro forma interviews, enough to establish a case file before slipping it into the UNSOLVED cabinet to gather dust and little interest. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure those things out.
But this would be an American hit on British soil, and that, he was sure, would not be pleasing to Her Majesty’s Government. It was a matter of propriety. Besides, this was not an action by the American government. As a matter of law, it was a premeditated murder, upon which all governments frowned rather severely. So, whatever happened, he hoped they’d be careful. Even his father couldn’t run much interference for this.
“ OH , UDA, you are a beast!” Rosalie Parker exclaimed as he finally rolled off her body. She checked her watch. He’d gone late, and she had an appointment just after lunch the next day with an oil executive from Dubai. He was a rather dear old fellow, and a good tipper, even if he had
told her once that she reminded him of one of his favorite daughters, the nasty old bugger.
“Stay the night,” Uda urged.
“I can’t, love. I have to pick up my mum for lunch and then take her shopping at Harrods. Good Lord, I must be off,” she said with well-feigned excitement, springing to an upright position.
“No.” Uda reached for her shoulder and pulled it back.
“Oh, you devil!” A chuckle and a warm smile.
“He is called ‘Shahateen,’” Uda corrected. “And he is not part of my family.”
“Well, you can wear a girl out, Uda.” Not that it was a bad thing, but she had things to do. So she stood and got her clothes off the floor, where he tended to throw them.
“Rosalie, my love, there is only you,” he moaned. And she knew that was a lie. It was she who had introduced him to Mandy, after all.
“Is that so?” she asked.
“Oh, that one. She is far too skinny. She doesn’t eat. She’s not like you, my princess.”
“You’re so nice.” Bend over, kiss, then put the bra on. “Uda, you are the best, the very best,” she said. It was always good for the male ego to be stroked, and his ego was bigger than most.
“You just say that to make me feel good,” Sali accused her.
“Do you think I’m an actress? Uda, you make my eyeballs pop out. But I have to go, love.”
“As you say.” He yawned. He’d buy her some shoes the next day, Uda decided. There was a new Jimmy Choo store close to his office that he’d been meaning to check out, and her feet were a spot-on size 6. He rather liked her feet, in fact.
Rosalie made a quick dart into the bathroom to check the mirror. Her hair was a fright—Uda kept messing it up, as though to mark his property. A few seconds with a brush made it almost presentable.
“I must be off, love.” She bent down to kiss him again. “Don’t get up. I know where the door is.” And a final kiss, lingering and inviting ... for the next time. Uda was as regular as regular could be. And she’d be back here. Mandy was good, and a friend, but she knew how to treat these wogs, and, best of all, she didn’t have to starve herself like a bloody runway model. Mandy had too many American and European regulars to eat normally.
Outside, she hailed a cab.
“Where to, dear?” the cabby asked.
“New Scotland Yard, please.”
IT’S ALWAYS disorienting to wake up on an airplane, even in good seats. The window shades went up and the cabin lights came on, and the earphones played news that might or might not be new—since it was British, it wasn’t easy to tell. Breakfast was served—plenty of fat, along with no-shit Starbucks coffee that was about a six on a one-to-ten scale. Maybe a seven. Through the windows to his right, Brian saw the green fields of England instead of the slate black of the stormy ocean that had passed during his thankfully dreamless sleep. Both twins were afraid of dreams right now, for the past they contained, and the future they feared, despite their commitment to it. Twenty more minutes and the 747 touched down gently at Heathrow. Immigration was a gentle formality—the Brits did it much better than the Americans, Brian thought. Baggage was on the carousel quickly enough, and then they walked out to the cabs.
“Where to, gentlemen?”
“Mayfair Hotel on Stratton Street.”
The driver took this information with a nod and headed off east toward the city. The drive took about thirty minutes with the start of the morning rush hour. It was the first time in England for Brian, though not for Dominic. The sights were pleasant for the latter, and both new and adventurous for the former. It seemed like home, Brian thought, except that people drove on the wrong side of the road. On first inspection, drivers also seemed more courteous, but that was hard to gauge. There was at least one golf course with emerald green grass, but aside from that, rush hour here wasn’t all that different from the one in Seattle.
Half an hour later, they were looking at Green Park, which was, indeed, itself beautifully green, then the cab turned left, two more blocks, and right, and there was the hotel. Just on the other side of the street was a dealership for Aston Martin cars, looking as shiny as the diamonds in the window of Tiffany’s in New York City. Clearly an upscale neighborhood. Though Dominic had been to London before, he hadn’t stayed here. European hotels could teach lessons to any American establishment in terms of service and hospitality. Six more minutes had them in their connecting rooms. The bathtubs were large enough to exercise a shark, and the towels hung on a steam-heated rack. The minibar was generous in its selection, if not in its prices. Both twins took the time to shower. A check of the time made it a quarter to nine, and since Berkeley Square was only a hundred yards away, they took the moment to leave the hotel and head left for the landmark where nightingales sang.
Dominic elbowed his brother and pointed left. “Supposedly MI5 used to have a building that way, up Curzon Street. For the embassy, you go to the top of the hill, go left, two more blocks, then right, and left to Grosvenor Square. Ugly building, but that’s the government for you. And our friend lives right about—there, on the other side of the park, half a block from the Westminster Bank. That’s the one with the horse on the sign.”
“Looks pricey here,” Brian observed.
“Believe it,” Dominic confirmed. “These houses go for a ton of money. Most of ’em are broken up into three apartments, but our friend Uda keeps the whole thing for himself, a Disneyland for sex and dissipation. Hmm,” he observed, seeing a British Telecom van parked about twenty yards ahead of them. “I bet that’s the surveillance team . . . kinda obvious.” There were no people visible in the truck, but that was because the windows were plastic-treated to keep the light inside. It was the only inexpensive vehicle on the street—in this neighborhood, everything was at least a Jaguar. But the king of the hill, auto-wise, was the black Vanquish on the other side of the park.
“Damn, that’s one bad-ass automobile,” Brian observed. And indeed it looked as though it were doing a hundred miles per hour just sitting in front of the house.
“The real champ is the McLaren F1. Million bucks, but it only seats one up front, I think. Fast as a fighter plane. The one you’re looking at is quarter-mil’ worth of car, bro.”
“Fuck ...” Brian reacted. “That much?”
“They’re handmade, Aldo, by guys who work on the Sistine Chapel in their off-hours. Yeah, it’s a lot of wheels. Wish I could afford it. You could probably put the engine in a Spitfire and shoot down some Germans, y’know?”
“Probably gets lousy mileage,” Brian observed.
“Oh, well...Everything has its little price—shit. There’s our boy.”
And just then the door to the house opened, and a young man walked out. The suit he wore was three-piece, and Johnny Reb gray in color. He stood in the middle of the four stone steps and looked at his watch. As though on cue, a black London cab came down the hill and he walked down the steps to hop in.
Five-ten, 155 to 160 pounds, Dominic thought. Black beard down the line of his jaw, like from a pirate movie. Sucker ought to wear a sword... but he doesn’t.
“Younger than us,” Brian observed, as they continued to walk. Then, on Dominic’s initiative, they crossed over the park and headed back the other way, slowing for a covetous look at the Aston Martin before heading on their way. The hotel had a coffee shop, where they got some coffee and a light breakfast of croissants and marmalade.
“I don’t like the idea of having coverage on our bird,” Brian said.
“Can’t be helped. The Brits must think he’s a little hinky, too. But he’s just going to have a heart attack, remember. It’s not like we’re going to pop him, even with a suppressed weapon. No marks, no noise.”
“Okay, fine, we check him out downtown, but if it doesn’t look good we blow it off and step back to think it over, okay?”
“Agreed.” Dominic nodded. They’d have to be clever about it. He’d probably take the lead, because it would be his job to spot the guy’s p
olice tail. But there was no sense in waiting too long, either. They’d looked at Berkeley Square just to get a feel for it, and hoping to eyeball the target. It would not be a good place to make a hit, not with a surveillance team camped out thirty yards away. “The good news is that his tail is supposed to be a rookie. If I can ID the guy, then, when I get ready, you just bump into him and—hell, I’ll ask directions to something or other. You’ll only need a second to make the pop. Then we both keep on going like nothing happened. Even if people yell for an ambulance, nothing more than a casual turn, and you keep on going.”
Brian thought his way through that. “We have to check out the neighborhood first.”
“Agreed.” They finished breakfast without another word.
SAM GRANGER was already in his office. It was 3:15 A.M. when he got in and lit up his own computer. The twins had gotten to London at about 1:00 A.M. his time, and something in the back of his head told him that they would not dally on their mission. This first mission would validate—or not—The Campus’s idea of a virtual office. If things went according to plan, he’d get notification of the operation’s progress even faster than Rick Bell’s news over the intelligence network’s wire service. Now came the part he always knew he’d hate: waiting for others to effect the mission he’d drawn up in his own mind, here at his own desk. Coffee helped. A cigar would have helped even better, but he didn’t have a cigar. That’s when his door opened.
It was Gerry Hendley.
“You, too?” Sam asked, with both surprise and amusement.
Hendley smiled. “Well, first time, right? I couldn’t sleep at home.”
“I hear you. Got a deck of cards?” he wondered aloud.
“I wish.” Hendley was actually pretty good with a deck of cards. “Any word from the twins?”
“Not a peep. They got in on time, probably at the hotel by now. I imagine they got in, freshened up, and went out for a look-see. The hotel is only a block or so from Uda’s house. Hell, for all I know they might have popped him in the ass already. The timing’s about right. He’d be going to work about now, if the locals have his routine figured out, and I think we can depend on that.”