by Ted Dekker
He peered through the light-gathering scope, quickly found the corner window that he would punch through in just over one minute, and let the air seep from his lungs.
The hot gases blown forward by the .308 cartridge would create both sound and light. The first would be absorbed in part by the room, baffled by the glass, and then muffled by the heavy traffic below. The fire would be dimmed by the flash suppressor affixed to the end of his barrel. Unless someone was peering directly at this window, the shots would likely go unnoticed.
He would escape easily enough either way.
“One minute.”
“One minute,” he repeated.
A stray thought penetrated his consciousness. Is this just another test? And then another thought. It doesn’t matter.
Carl let his mind go where it now begged to go, into the scope. Into the tunnel. Through the dark passage toward that light. He walked his bullet’s trajectory as he had a thousand times before.
“Thirty seconds.” Kelly’s voice sounded distant.
As agreed, he did not reply now, but he wanted to. He wanted to say, “I’m in, Kelly. I’m going to kill Assim Feroz for you.”
Carl went deeper. His breathing slowed. His heart slogged through a gentle beat. Absolute peace. If called upon to do so, he thought he might be able to walk the bullet into a quarter at two thousand yards. Yes, he could do that, couldn’t he?
“Abort.”
The shade was up, but the window was still dark. At any moment the doors would swing open and reveal the dining . . .
“Carl, do you hear me? Abort the current shot. There’s been a change. There’s a new target.”
Only now did her first word penetrate his dark place. Abort.
No. No, he couldn’t have heard it correctly.
I’m inside, Kelly. I will kill Assim Feroz for you. Please let me do this one thing for you. For us.
“Carl, acknowledge! You can’t kill Assim Feroz. Do you hear me?” The urgency in her voice made his vision swim for a brief moment. “Acknowledged,” he said.
“There is a new target. Acknowledge.”
He could hear his breathing now, not a good thing. “Acknowledged.” “Your new target is the president of the United States, Robert Stenton. Acknowledge.”
Light suddenly filled the open window five blocks away. He could see through the window, through the open doorway into the dining room now. Several dozen men and women, most in dark suits, seated at round tables.
Assim Feroz sat on the right, precisely where he’d been told to sit. But this wasn’t the man Carl would kill. There was another. He hadn’t known the president would be in the room. Where was this new target of his?
“Acknowledge, Carl.”
“Where is he?” Carl asked.
“Third from the right at the long head table.”
Carl eased his aim up and over. Third from the right. The president’s torso filled the scope. Dark suit—too far for any other details. This is where he would send his bullet.
“Do you have him?”
“Yes.”
He raised the crosshairs above the man’s head, allowing for the drop of the bullet.
“Take the shot,” Kelly said.
The president leaned to Carl’s right. He was listening to the boy who sat on his left. This was his son, the one who’d purchased binoculars from the toy shop on the main floor.
Do I know this boy?
Jamie. Do I know Jamie?
Jamie looked as if he was laughing with his father.
The image froze in Carl’s mind. He stared at father and son, mesmerized by the strange and wonderful display of affection.
“Take the shot, Carl.”
His tunnel wavered, and he knew he couldn’t take the shot without reacquiring perfect peace. The first shot would be easy; it was the second that concerned him. Under no circumstances could he jeopardize the mission by compromising the second shot. Any failed attempt would result in the target’s immediate evacuation.
Carl dismissed the unique tension that had come from seeing father and son together. His body obeyed him.
He would take the shot now.
Why had they changed targets? Had they changed their minds? No. They’d known all along that the president was the target.
Then why hadn’t they told him earlier?
Because they are afraid I won’t kill the president of the United States. It was the only answer that made any sense.
“What’s going on, Carl? Do you have a shot?”
Fear spread through Carl’s body. Something about the father and son shut his muscles down. An instinctive impulse that screamed out of his dark past.
He would take the shot now. He had a clear shot. Less than an ounce of pressure and the president would be dead.
But this wasn’t just the president of the United States. This was the boy’s father. How could he possibly kill Jamie’s father?
“Listen to me, Carl.” Kelly’s voice came gently, calming his confusion. “Whatever’s going through your mind right now, let it go and send your bullets. For me. For us. They won’t allow us to live if you fail.”
She was right. He had to shoot.
“My heart is pounding, Kelly,” he said. The realization that his tunnel was breaking down only made the matter worse. “I don’t know if I have the shot.”
She didn’t respond.
“Kelly?”
Silence in his headset.
Now the fear that he’d hurt Kelly joined his confusion and sent a visible tremble through his fingers.
I’m breaking down!
For the first time in many months, Carl began to panic.
“Kelly!”
“Shh. Shh . . .” Her voice fell over him, milky soft.
“What’s happening to me, Kelly?”
“It’s okay, Carl.”
But it wasn’t okay, he knew that. The doors had been open for more than a minute already—at any moment the lapse in security would be identified and the opportunity for his shot would be closed.
Who is your father, Carl? You can’t shoot this father.
A figure stepped into the doorway, peered out, then crossed to the window and pulled the shade closed.
Carl closed his eyes.
“They’ve pulled the shade,” he said.
There was no response.
A terrible remorse swallowed him. He held his rifle tightly, feeling the familiar surfaces on his cheek and shoulder and in his hands. This gave him some comfort. He could have taken the shot. He could have killed the president for Kelly.
You can’t shoot this father.
“Come home, Carl.”
Her voice was like an angel’s to him, calling him from the valley of death.
“Repair the glass, scrub the room, and come home. I’m here for you.”
18
The New York Dragon was located a block west of the East River, where the small boat that would depart Manhattan Island waited in hiding. The authorities would undoubtedly shut down both bridges and tunnels as soon as they learned of any assassination attempt, thereby trapping all suspects on the island.
A withdrawal under cover of darkness was preferable, but the point was now moot. There was no need for a withdrawal.
Kelly watched Carl pace over the worn brown carpet. He’d returned at eleven, one hour earlier, after gluing the circles of glass back into the window, wiping down all surfaces, and packing his tools into the golf bag.
She felt ambivalent about his failure. A part of her ached with him. He was struggling to control his emotions, which threw him into a terrible funk. Confusion raced through his eyes. Her own feelings for him had grown far deeper than she had expected over the last month. Not only could she feel his pain; she found herself wanting to lighten it.
But she now suspected that she was supposed to feel this way. Her own feelings were part of the design. Surely they knew she would come to respect, perhaps even love Carl.
“Do you mind if
I tell you what I think happened?” she asked.
Carl slid into the metal chair at the table and formed a teepee over the bridge of his nose, eyes lost on the wall.
“I think you’ve progressed exactly how Agotha expected you would. She told me that you’d fail the first attempt. She told me that you were meant to.”
His eyes darted toward her. “That makes no sense.”
“Neither did any of your training at first. But look at you now.”
“Why was the target switched? They want me to kill the president—”
“Does that matter to you? Or does it matter more that you trust me? You’ve always believed in me, and nothing’s changed now.”
“I failed now.”
She took a deep breath and told him what she’d been waiting to say. “You failed by design, to strengthen your resolve.”
He didn’t look her way.
Kelly walked over to the table and sat down across from him. “Listen to me, Carl. Look into my eyes.”
His round brown eyes turned to her.
“I’m about to tell you something that might confuse you, but I want you to resist that confusion. For my sake. It’s very important that you trust me now, like you’ve never trusted me before.”
“I’ve always trusted you.”
“I know you have. But you have to dig even deeper. Can you do that?”
“I love you,” he said.
“I know you do. And I love you. We trust each other, even when the worst happens.”
Kelly reached across the table’s Formica top and offered him her hand. He took it.
“Do you remember your last treatment in the hospital?”
He thought for a moment. “No.”
“No. You always put them behind you, don’t you? But you were treated with drugs and shock therapy on the hospital bed the day before we left Hungary. During that treatment, you were led to believe that you could never take the life of Robert Stenton because he’s the father of Jamie, a son. You, too, want—need—to be a son. That’s why you hesitated. Only because Agotha wanted you to hesitate.”
“Why?”
“Because this is your first real mission for the X Group. You may not think you can differentiate between real missions and the training, but your subconscious mind can. It’s important that you understand that even in the field, you will feel only what Agotha wants you to feel.”
“She wanted me to feel confusion.”
“Yes.”
“But I still failed.”
“Yes, you did. But the next time you feel any hesitation or confusion, you’ll remember that those feelings can’t be trusted. You didn’t really have any feelings for the son or the father, did you? The feelings were planted by Agotha.”
A light grew in his eyes.
“The next time you feel anything in the field, you’ll know. Even the feelings that break through aren’t to be trusted. You’ll know that they are simply tests from Agotha and you’ll have the strength to set them aside.”
“I’m not sure I understand. I don’t want or need a father?”
“No. Why would you? You’re twenty-five years old.”
He grunted, then frowned at his own failure to recognize this.
“Agotha’s methods are strange, but only because they are so advanced. I think you hold a special place in her heart. For all practical purposes, she’s your mother. You can trust her with your life.”
He grunted again. Shook his head and grinned sheepishly. “So it was all planned. I haven’t failed, then.”
Kelly stood and walked behind him. She placed her hands on his neck and messaged lightly. “Not really, no. You’re as strong as ever. Even stronger.”
She bent over and spoke gently behind his right ear. “How do you feel?”
“Foolish.”
“Can you set this feeling aside?”
“Yes.”
“Then please do it. How can the man I love feel foolish if he knows that I love him?”
Carl turned his head and looked into her eyes.
“If you’re foolish, is your love for me also foolish?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then you’re not a fool.”
“No.”
She leaned around him and kissed him on the lips. “I didn’t think so,” she breathed. Carl’s breathing thickened.
The idea that I can generate this response from him is without question the most satisfying part of loving him, she thought. And she did love him.
She was meant to.
Kelly straightened, unable to hide the coy smile on her face. She returned to her chair and sat slowly. “The president is scheduled to speak from the same stage that Assim Feroz will use tomorrow. One hour earlier.”
“Then I should get into position,” Carl said, standing. He walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, evidently saw nothing of interest, and turned to face her.
“If you fail tomorrow, they will kill us both,” Kelly said. “You know that, right?”
“Why would I fail?”
“You won’t. The only reason they haven’t triggered the implant yet is because they expected you to fail. If you want proof that all of this is by design, there’s your proof. You’re still alive.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll kill the president of the United States tomorrow as planned.”
“And then we can go home.”
Carl pulled back the curtain again. “I like it here,” he said. “The city is a good place to hide.”
“So is the desert,” Kelly said. “Nevada isn’t so far from here. When all this is over, maybe we can go to the desert where no one will bother us.”
“When what is over?”
“A figure of speech. We both know this will end only if we fail.”
“I won’t let that happen,” Carl said. “I will never let them hurt you.”
19
The garbage trucks picked up trash along Avenue of the Americas every two days. Today was not one of those days.
Night still darkened Manhattan when Carl pushed the steel manhole cover off its seating. Unlike the first hit from the hotel, this one required far more direct coordination between Kelly and him.
Carl slid the heavy steel lid aside. He lit the portable acetylene torch, adjusted the flame until it was a bright blue, and began his cut into the bottom of the large garbage bin that Kelly had rolled over the hole.
The sound of wheels peeling along the street on his left muted the soft crackle of cutting steel. Kelly had pulled the bin into the alley and taped a rubber skirt around the bottom before pushing it into place. She was now playing the role of a janitor from the adjacent towers on Thirty-eighth Street, loading the bin with spent rags and rearranging the garbage already inside to make his entry possible.
It took Carl less than a minute to cut the two-foot hole and remove the hot steel plate from the bottom of the bin.
It took him a full three minutes to push his equipment through the hole and climb in after it, only because even with Kelly’s efforts, he was forced to make room by shoving the bags around.
Once in the bin, he reached down to the sidewalk, slid the cover back into place, and rapped on the side of the bin.
Within seconds, the metal box was rolling. Twenty feet before it came to rest at the corner of the alley as planned, he heard the rubber skirt pull free. For several minutes Carl waited in the darkness.
The half-filled container smelled like spoiled milk, but he’d expected worse. He placed his feet against the wall he expected to work through and crammed the garbage to his rear.
Kelly’s voice spoke quietly into his headset. “You copy?”
“Copy.”
“You’re clear.”
Carl lit the torch and cut a seven-inch hole from the sidewall, leaving a half-inch section connected at the top. Using a screwdriver, he pried the lid that he’d cut in and up. The alley gaped in darkness, empty.
Satisfied, he pushed the metal plate back down into place.
“Ready,” he said.
“Copy.”
Thirty seconds later he heard a scraping sound around the hole he’d cut. She was filling the crack with putty and spraying it green.
“All clear,” she finally said. “You’re good?”
“Good.”
“Still clear.”
Kelly would watch the box from a dozen surveillance vantages, some of which they’d already selected, others she would find as the day passed.
Carl pushed the torch under the garbage behind him and extracted his rifle from the golf bag. He rested the gun on the metal floor, careful not to jar the scope. There was only one way to position himself for the shot—on his belly with his legs bent up and his rifle inside his elbow, resting on its bipod. He maneuvered slowly, shoving and rearranging bags as he moved. The hole he’d cut in the floor of the bin clipped his left forearm—unavoidable. He would have to reposition himself just before shooting. Once in place, he pulled the bags of rags over his head, shaping a clearing around the scope as he did so.
He snugged the weapon to his shoulder and peered into blackness. Kelly would move the bin into position and open the hole he’d cut for his shot thirty seconds before the kill.
Once again, the level of information that the X Group had secured to facilitate this opportunity was beyond his ability to comprehend. Feroz would be standing on the stage they’d erected just inside Central Park South, on Avenue of the Americas. He knew now that it would be the president of the United States, not Assim Feroz, but nothing else about the kill had changed.
The street would be closed to both pedestrian through-traffic and cars at Thirty-eighth Street three hours prior to the press conference. The unprecedented security measures would require an enormous effort on the part of the NYPD. But any security envelope could be penetrated by the right person.
In this case, Carl was that person.
Their effort might remove most conceivable threats to those who took the stage, but it would also clear a corridor down Avenue of the Americas for an improbable shot. Perhaps impossible.
To all but him.
“I’m in position,” he said.
“It’s 4:36 a.m.,” Kelly said. “You have just over ten hours before the press conference. I’ll check in every hour unless we have a problem.”