by Ward Larsen
Sorensen arrived at midmorning, although precisely when Slaton couldn’t say—there wasn’t a clock anywhere in the house. They sat on a burnt-tile terrace out back in the shade of a towering eucalyptus, a fresh pot of coffee between them.
“The crown prince of Saudi Arabia asked me to express his appreciation,” she said.
Slaton sipped from his mug before saying, “Thanks for getting me out so quickly. He wanted to meet with me while I was in custody, but I explained that it might not be a good idea.”
“Afraid someone might commemorate the event with a photograph? That could prove awkward for both of you.”
“That’s the least of it. Anton would be furious.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry, I covered for you. I told the Saudis you were a very important asset. I said we wanted to get you back as quietly as possible.” Sorensen had stopped for sweet rolls at a nearby bakery, and she plucked one from a box.
Slaton said, “I haven’t been watching much news, but as far as I can tell this whole thing is being swept under the rug pretty effectively.”
“And why wouldn’t it be? The nerve agent was never dispersed. Other than one very screwed up dedication ceremony for Jeddah Tower, and a murder in a nearby apartment, there wasn’t anything particularly newsworthy. The Saudis realize they’ve had a severe security lapse. The man you found dead in the apartment—he was the one who installed the hardware on the airplane.”
“Who was he?”
“A mechanic in the Saudi Hawk squadron.”
“Really? An inside job?”
“Essentially. But he wasn’t a Saudi national.” Sorensen explained Nazir’s background.
“His father died in an oil field accident?”
“Yes. And once we began looking at Nazir, it led to something else.” She licked sugar glaze off her fingers, and said, “Let me grab my iPad.” Sorensen went inside.
Slaton looked out into the still morning, the rows of olive trees stately and enduring. This house, this place, seemed innately simple. More and more, he appreciated simplicity.
If there was any recompense for being Anna Sorensen’s secret assassin, it was that he didn’t have to fill out after-action reports. By design, there could never be any record of his actions downrange. Slaton knew that The Farm, the agency’s school for clandestine training, would never invite him as a guest speaker or analyze his op for teachable moments. Better yet, the CIA’s army of lawyers would never scrutinize his tactical decisions for possible violations of conduct. It was a freedom, he supposed, no other state-sponsored operator in the world enjoyed.
Sorensen returned with her tablet and pulled her chair nearer his. She set the iPad screen-down in her lap, and said, “We’ve learned a lot in the last few days. Your instinct was right—this was a false flag attack. The primary intent was to start a war between Saudi Arabia and Iran.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And who was behind it? Petrov?”
“We think he was involved, but only tangentially. By supplying the nerve agent, Petrov enabled the true culprits. As the recording you recovered suggested, he wanted very much to cover his tracks.”
“Now that you have the recording, couldn’t you hammer him with it?”
“We could try. And in return, he would say it’s all a fabrication. Director Coltrane has decided to let Petrov stew. We have the recording, he knows it. It’s leverage, but in the big scheme of things, not much more.”
“So, who was he working with?”
With the tablet still in her lap, Sorensen began a lengthy briefing—one that Slaton had the impression she’d been rehearsing on her inbound flight. She explained that a resurgent Iraqi Ba’ath Party was spreading its tentacles throughout the Middle East. They were renewing ties with militias and governments. With a detective in Syria named Hadad. She told him about a boyhood friend of Sergeant Nazir’s, a man whose name Slaton had never heard. The title to which he aspired, however, was one of legend.
“A Fifth Rashidun?” he asked incredulously.
“Right now, there are only rumblings. But if this attack had succeeded, if a full-blown war had broken out between the Gulf Arabs and Iran? This man would have been ideally placed to take advantage.”
“Okay. But what makes this guy so special?”
Sorensen lifted the tablet and showed him a photograph. It appeared to have been taken from a security camera, probably at an airport. The image had all the hallmarks of having been digitally enhanced, and as such was remarkably clear. Dark olive skin, black hair, push-broom mustache. Perhaps a slight crookedness in the gait as the man passed through a corridor.
Slaton looked at Sorensen, saw she was holding something back. “What?” he asked.
Sorensen told him the rest. Told him about the lineage of Ahmed Sultan al-Majid al-Tikriti.
* * *
An hour later Slaton was walking through the grove alone. This had been Sorensen’s suggestion—she’d wanted to give him space, and of course he knew why. He took in the smells and sights, and once again could not deny the familiarity. Distant remembrances of the Jezreel Valley came flooding in. Was that why Sorensen had chosen this place?
If his surroundings were serene, his thoughts were less so. Climbing the first hill away from the cottage, he found himself thinking of home. After so many years, Slaton had found a family, and all the love and warmth that came with it. Yet he’d long had a sense that something was missing. Something lacking since the day he’d turned his back on Mossad.
For a time he’d tried to ignore the emptiness. Later he’d tried to overpower it with hard, physical work. As a mason, he’d repaired ancient aqueducts in Malta, built retaining walls in Virginia backyards. Carved churches from coral in the South Seas. Still the hollowness was not made whole, and only now did he realize why. What did he have during his time with Mossad that he didn’t have now? The answer, quite obviously, was a mission. Slaton was a soldier. Nothing more. And certainly nothing less.
He knew the world needed men like him. That much had been proved this week. Evil, like beauty, was in the eye of the beholder, yet from Slaton’s point of view the events of recent days had set a new paradigm. He felt anger at what had befallen Ludmilla, not to mention her Syrian counterpart, Sofia Aryan. Salma, Naji, and even Achmed had had their lives turned upside down. All put at risk by men lusting for power.
He paused in the grove and spun a slow circle. He saw nothing but old-growth trees in any direction. Then he looked up through the canopy of foliage and saw clear blue sky. Slaton suddenly felt freer than he had in years. Felt more certain of the right course.
The question that had been in the back of his mind for a week returned to the forefront. Why had he accepted this mission? All at once, he knew. He had gotten involved because it was the right thing to do. Because, for all America’s faults, he believed in its ideals. He was a convert, a believer. And if he could use his skills to make the world safer for Davy and Christine, and so many like them … so be it. Having settled that, Slaton knew what he had to do.
He set out back toward the cottage.
EIGHTY
For two weeks the Ba’ath Party loyalists waited. They sat glued to their television screens in Tikrit waiting for breaking news of a terrorist plot in Saudi Arabia. Curiously, none came. Their envisioned attack on the Saudi monarchy and Gulf Arabs, so near the shrines of Islam, had not gone to plan. They knew the plot had been uncovered, yet from the Saudi foreign ministry: crickets.
Sultan had taken up residence in a new palace, a reconditioned mansion on the western outskirts of Tikrit. Standing at the edge of the broad patio, he looked over the perimeter wall into a clear night. A half-moon shone down embracingly, washing the terrace and surrounding landscape in its warmth.
“The drones were a mistake,” a familiar voice said.
Sultan turned to see Ibrahim approaching. He was carrying a tray with a bucket of ice, decanter of Scotch, and two tumblers. He set the tray on a high-boy wicker table near the patio�
�s edge.
“Perhaps,” Sultan replied. “But at the time it seemed a necessary contingency.”
It had been a matter of some discussion in the weeks before the attack. They knew they were walking a fine line. By leaving so many traces that linked Iran to the nerve agent, they ran the risk of the target being identified prematurely. It was Sultan who’d suggested they devise an alternate delivery method, something obvious to take the heat off Nazir’s insider sabotage of the Saudi Hawks.
“I tried to contact Petrov again,” said Sultan.
“And?”
“He doesn’t return my calls.”
Ibrahim dropped ice cubes into the tumblers, made two generous pours. He held one out to Sultan, and said, “Petrov would not be where he is without being a cautious man. He’ll come around.”
“Will he?” Sultan took the drink, put it to his lips and tipped back. His eyes closed for an appreciative moment. “I’ve been told many of our contacts are drying up. Egypt, Syria, Oman.”
“They will be back.”
“Is there anything about Hadad?” Sultan asked.
A hesitation. “He has not been heard from. Apparently he remains in Saudi custody.”
“That’s not good. He knows a great deal. I fear the crown prince will take out his bone saw again.”
“None of that matters!” insisted Ibrahim. “You are the Fifth Rashidun. In time these difficulties will pass, and another opportunity will arise. We must have faith.” He held out his tumbler for a toast, smiling for the first time in days. “To faith, my friend.”
Sultan grinned humorlessly, and said, “Of course … to faith.”
Sultan reached out to complete the tribute, yet as the two glasses neared one another, his arm jerked violently. The two glasses crashed together, both breaking. At first, Ibrahim didn’t know what had happened. He only knew there was Scotch on his face, ice cubes and shards of glass raining around his feet. Sultan seemed to fly backward toward a lounge chair. He ended up splayed across it, a massive splotch of red centered on his white shirt.
As a teenager, Ibrahim had served in Saddam’s army during the Iran-Iraq War. It was a long time ago, but lessons forged in battle were never forgotten. He threw himself to the ground and began screaming for help.
* * *
To their credit, the Ba’athist security men surrounding the compound reacted swiftly. Moments after Sultan collapsed onto the lounge chair, with a beer-can-sized hole in his chest, an alert went out over the tactical frequency. The twenty-six men sprang into action.
The first trace of what they were up against came from an astute man on watch. From his perch high in a minaret, he scanned the horizon with his magnified night optics, and quickly caught sight of a black-clad figure rappelling down the side of a distant mobile phone tower.
As he called in the threat on his radio, his eyes never wavered. The speed and agility with which the attacker was descending implied a high level of proficiency. The moment his feet hit the ground, he began sprinting toward the far side of the tower. Less than thirty seconds after the arrival of his bullet, he was on a motorcycle, the rear tire spewing stones into the air.
The response crystallized quickly. Two separate units bundled into vehicles. The first group made a beeline for the nearest major road, the direction in which the motorcycle had been heading, intending to give chase. The second unit headed for the tower.
The vehicles dispatched to the tower were the first to arrive. Nine men with heavy weapons poured out and began sweeping the area. Once the all clear was given, the commander tapped a young enlisted man on the shoulder and began scaling the ladder. He’d chosen the young corporal for good reason: he was the only man in the unit who’d had any sniper training.
They found the shooter’s hide easily on a maintenance platform, slightly below the apex of the three-hundred-foot tower. As hide sites went, it was somewhat predictable—high ground with an unobstructed view of the palace and surrounding grounds. More surprising was what the sniper left behind. The gun was still in place—according to the corporal, a McMillan TAC-50, Hornady .50 A-MAX ammunition. Four rounds remained in the five-round box magazine.
There were also three sandbags on the wire-mesh floor, carefully arranged as a shooting platform. Two empty burlap grain sacks had to be explained by the corporal. “A sniper lying in the prone position with a weapon gives a very distinctive profile. The bags served to interrupt the shape, and also mask the infrared signature of the shooter’s body.”
The commander looked at it all helplessly.
“Whoever he was,” the corporal affirmed, “he knew what he was doing.”
The commander looked out at the distant palace. “It looks awfully far away.”
“Fifteen hundred yards. Maybe a little more.”
“Almost a mile. Is that some kind of record?”
“Not even close,” said the corporal “But for the man who took the shot—it was precisely what it needed to be.”
The second unit sped down the highway in hot pursuit of the motorcycle. They’d assumed, correctly as it turned out, that the attacker would make for highway. To their surprise, they found the bike almost immediately. It was lying in the middle of the road less than three miles from the mobile tower. Judging by scars on the metal frame and skid marks on the asphalt—clear in the illumination of their headlights—the bike had gone to ground at high speed and slid to a stop. Sensing victory, the commander ordered his men to search the area. They didn’t find their man. Undeterred, an extended search was undertaken. To everyone’s bewilderment, not a single footprint or trace of blood could be found. The rider had simply disappeared.
Though he had no way of knowing it, the commander might have glimpsed the sniper in the first moments after their arrival. Had they looked high into the sky, slightly to the south and very near the half-moon, they might have glimpsed a man hanging beneath a drone who was donning a steerable parachute.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Assassin’s Strike is the seventh book in the David Slaton series. When I wrote the first book, The Perfect Assassin, it never occurred to me that Slaton might find himself so busy. That journey would never have been possible without a team of professionals behind me—men and women who are every bit as competent as Slaton himself.
Thanks to my agent, Susan Gleason, whose support never wavers. Thanks to Tom Doherty, a legend in the business and all-around nice guy. My editor, Bob Gleason, is a constant source of inspiration—some of my fondest memories as a writer have been, and will always remain, our extended “what if” conversations.
I am deeply indebted to the team at Tor. Linda Quinton, Elayne Becker, Robert Davis, Eileen Lawrence—you are all essential. So too, Deborah Friedman, for seeing what I so often can’t.
Finally, I would like to thank my family. You were there for book one, and I know you’ll be there for the next. No writer could ask for more.
BOOKS BY WARD LARSEN
The Perfect Assassin
Assassin’s Game*
Assassin’s Silence*
Assassin’s Code*
Assassin’s Run*
Assassin’s Revenge*
Cutting Edge*
Assassin’s Strike*
*Published by Forge Books
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WARD LARSEN is a USA Today bestselling author and five-time winner of the Florida Book Award. His work has been nominated for both the Edgar and Macavity Awards. A former U.S. Air Force fighter pilot, Larsen flew more than twenty missions in Operation Desert Storm. He also served as a federal law enforcement officer and is a trained aircraft accident investigator. His first thriller, The Perfect Assassin, is being adapted into a major motion picture by Amber Entertainment. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven