Saint

by Ted Dekker

  Carl’s mind is so fried that he can hardly hold a conviction for an hour, she thought.

  “You’ve failed to finish the job twice now, both times because you associated the target with a father figure. None of this will change.”

  “But I know why now,” Carl said. “Agotha put the desire in me.”

  “That knowledge didn’t help you execute the hit today.”

  He didn’t respond to her obvious point. It didn’t matter. Her psychological manipulation had failed to affect him as she’d hoped. Perhaps the truth would work better.

  “I have a confession to make,” she said. “I lied to you yesterday. Agotha didn’t plant the thoughts of your father. I needed you to feel strong about today’s attempt, so I gave you a plausible reason for your failure. It seems that this father business is coming from your own mind on its own terms.”

  Carl looked lost. Stunned.

  “Maybe it’s my fault you feel so conflicted. I was trying to help you.”

  “And I would have done the same for you,” he said. “It must have been horrible to have to lie. Yet you did it to protect me. Thank you.”

  She couldn’t bear this manipulation. What had they done to him? The mental stripping was one thing in the compound, but here in the middle of New York, it seemed inhumane.

  “Can you do it?”

  “Send the boy back with a message for the president?”

  “Unwittingly armed with a toxic canister,” she finished. “It would kill everyone in the room.”

  “Of course I can do it. It’s what I’ve been trained to do.”

  “You were also trained to put a bullet in a target’s heart, yet you willfully missed.”

  “I don’t remember willfully—”

  “There he is!”

  The laptop showed a short boy standing inside their room at the Peking, looking around.

  Carl walked up to the desk, studied the image for a few moments, then slammed the laptop closed.

  “Let’s go,” he said and strode toward the door.

  THE PEKING Grand Hotel was a five-minute walk. With any luck the boy would find Carl’s note instructing him to wait ten minutes.

  They walked quickly, silently.

  He was less sure of what he was doing now than at any time in his memory. His response to the confusion was to retreat. There were many times when survival depended on retreat. It was how he defeated the heat in his pit. The hornets on the shooting range. The hospital bed under Agotha’s care. There was always a safe place in his mind somewhere. He just had to find it.

  At this moment, that safe place was probably execution without thought. They had until midnight to undo the mess he’d made. Poison was the preferred weapon of many assassins, and tonight Carl would remember why.

  If his plan failed, he would be left with only one alternative. He would find a few more-familiar weapons and go after the president in the hospital. His chances of survival were minimal, but he would be dead at midnight anyway. If he was going to die, he would die fighting for Kelly’s survival. He owed her his life.

  They entered the Peking through a rear door that required a plastic key card to open. Second floor. First door on the right, room 202.

  The small device that Kelly carried in her purse consisted of a remote triggering device and a small canister of colorless, odorless hydrogen cyanide gas, potent enough to kill any living creature in a ten-by-ten room within five minutes. The boy’s mission would be a simple one: in the president’s hospital room, he would call a given telephone number and then verbally relay a message intended only for the president. In this way, they could reasonably believe that the boy was talking to the president, not a third party.

  There would be no message, of course. As soon as the boy confirmed the president’s presence, they would trigger the canister hidden on the boy’s person with a certain degree of confidence that both were in the same room. A similar method using explosives rather than gas had been used successfully among drug cartels in South America. Certainly not infallible, but with nothing to lose, Carl was willing to assume the odds before he attempted anything more direct.

  The door was still cracked open. He entered the room, followed by Kelly.

  It was empty. David Abraham’s son had left?

  “Hello, Johnny.”

  Carl turned to face a blond-headed boy standing in the bathroom doorway. He looked to be thirteen or fourteen. A sheepish smile curved below bright blue eyes.

  “My name is Samuel,” the boy said. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Should I?”

  Carl had no intention of remembering anything. Memory only brought confusion and contributed to his failure.

  “They’ve stripped you of your identity,” Samuel said. “You really don’t know who you are anymore. Amazing. We knew . . .” His eyes shifted to Kelly, then returned to Carl. He carried himself with surprising confidence for such a small boy.

  “We knew you couldn’t do it. The truth runs too deep in you, Johnny. We always knew that you could only go so far.”

  A ringing bothered Carl’s ears. “Why do you keep calling me Johnny?”

  “Johnny Drake. That’s your real name. You were a chaplain in the army when the X Group took you. You were on leave in Egypt.”

  “A chaplain?”

  “You’re mistaken,” Kelly said. “You’re confusing him with some-one else.”

  “Don’t let my appearance deceive you,” Samuel said. “I’m much older than I look. And I can prove all of this if you give me the chance.”

  The ringing in Carl’s ears had become a soft roar. He’d been a chaplain who was now called Saint? How would the boy know? Why would the boy lie?

  He tried to think of himself as Johnny. The name sounded odd.

  “Do you mind excusing us for a moment?” Kelly asked Samuel.

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Could you step outside? Just for a moment.”

  “Okay.”

  The boy stepped out into the hall, and Kelly closed the door behind him. She returned, motioning silence.

  “Do you know this boy?” she whispered.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “It’s Kalman. I can smell it on him.”

  “I don’t understand. How could Kalman know—”

  “The old man knew you. Who’s to say that he’s not with Kalman?”

  Carl’s mind spun. He’d faced and accepted more confusion in the last twenty-four hours than he’d allowed himself in many months. The nausea he’d felt earlier made a comeback.

  “It’s like Kalman to put redundancies in place to deal with the possibility that you will fail to assassinate the president. Why not the old man and the boy?”

  “Why two people instead of just one? And why would he use a boy?”

  “What better way to gain your trust and lead us to a place where Englishman can kill us both? The one thing that Kalman fears more than anything else is his own assassins.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve seen this before, in Indonesia once. If I’m right, the boy will suggest you go somewhere.”

  “I don’t understand why—”

  “Then trust me! I lied to you once, but I won’t lie to you again. Kalman knows your weakness for a father figure and he’s exploiting it.”

  “Kalman doesn’t need the boy. He could kill me with the implant.”

  She nodded and paced. “True. But I don’t like it. Kalman is a suspicious snake. This would be like him. I think the boy is lying!”

  “What are you suggesting?” he asked.

  “That we walk away from this boy. We can’t believe his lies, and we can’t use him the way we planned. If he’s connected to Kalman, there’ll be a trap waiting for us.”

  Carl nodded. It made sense in a twisted way. He’d never considered betraying Kalman, but at the moment he was desperate for any sense at all. He accepted her truth and felt his nausea ease.

  “Then we’ll dismiss him and I’ll go after the president on my o
wn.”

  “It’s the only way we can prove ourselves to Kalman without risking being caught in a trap,” she said.

  Kelly let the boy back into the room.

  “You don’t trust me, do you?” the boy said. “I came because my father and I know what you did, Johnny. You shot a bullet through the president’s chest in a way that wouldn’t kill him. They found the garbage bin that you shot from. Hitting a man at two thousand yards is very difficult. Sending a bullet through a precise point at that distance is impossible. Yet you did it.”

  The boy knew all of this? Carl glanced at Kelly. She was as confused as he.

  Samuel continued. “You may think there’s some kind of scientific explanation for your abilities, but the truth is not so simple. Your real power is much greater than anything you’ve seen. In fact, you were more powerful before they took you. By messing with your mind, they messed with your power.”

  “How do you know this?” Kelly demanded.

  “Because I’ve been watching Johnny ever since he left Paradise.”

  A strobe ignited in the back of Carl’s mind. Paradise. It was familiar. Terribly familiar. But he couldn’t place it.

  “Do you remember?” Samuel asked. “I’m here because I want you to go to Paradise, Johnny. Your mother still lives there. Her name is Sally, and she’s been sick about your disappearance.”

  Samuel’s words fell into his mind like bright flashes along a line of lost history. Sally. Paradise. Colorado. Chaplain.

  Johnny.

  Johnny.

  My name is Johnny.

  But he couldn’t remember any of it!

  “If I were Kalman, I would tell you to say all these things,” Kelly said. “Be careful, Carl.”

  “His name is Johnny,” the boy said. “Not Carl.”

  “And why are you speaking as if you know more than any boy should?” Kelly demanded.

  “Because I am no ordinary boy,” Samuel said. “And now I have to go.”

  He turned and walked to the door. “Remember, Johnny,” he said, turning back. “Go to Paradise. It’ll all become clear in Paradise. Project Showdown still lives.”

  And then the boy was gone.

  23

  The president wants to see you.”

  “Thank you.”

  David Abraham brushed past the nurse and hurried toward the guards posted outside Robert’s room. The president had been out of surgery for forty-five minutes, and David knew that the local anesthetics hadn’t dimmed his mind in the least. If he knew what David had for him, he’d have told the nurse to let him through sooner.

  He dipped his head at the guards, one of whom opened the door for him. “Thank you.”

  “David!” The president grinned from his hospital bed as David crossed the room.

  “Miracles never cease,” Robert said.

  “Clearly. How are you feeling?”

  “Sore but otherwise surprisingly well. They’re using local anesthetic at my request, but I’m not sure how well it’s working.”

  “Your mind’s clear, then. That’s good. Your prognosis?”

  “I’ll be up in two days, they say.”

  David glanced at two aides who sat by the window. “I need to speak to you privately.”

  “Give us a moment.”

  David waited for the aides to leave before he spoke again.

  “Do they have any leads?”

  “You’re asking if I told anyone about this man you recognized?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve only been conscious for an hour, half of that time on a table with bright lights overhead. The game’s changed, I’m sure you understand that. Someone just put a bullet through me. An attempt was made on the life of the president of the United States—this is far bigger than either of us.”

  David knew that what he had to say wouldn’t be easy. Knew that Robert might very well reject it. Most sane men would.

  “Robert, please. What I am about to tell you may offend you at the deepest level. God knows that I am culpable in matters you know nothing about, and I’m willing to suffer any fitting consequences when this is all over. But I’m begging you to open your mind.”

  The president studied him for a moment, then looked at the ceiling. “God willing, this is over. Whoever’s behind this will be dealt with in a manner expected by both the office and the nation.”

  “Of course. But you’re wrong—it’s not over. In some ways it’s just beginning.”

  “I’m a reasonable man, David. But you’ve caught me in a down moment. Please don’t patronize me.”

  “Down but not dead. That’s the point, isn’t it? Why are you down but not dead? You know the details of the shooting?”

  “I was shot. The bullet missed my internal organs. Evidently somebody up there still wants me around.”

  “You were shot from a garbage bin at over two thousand yards. There are only a handful of shooters in the world who could accomplish such a feat. Do you know what a bullet’s trajectory looks like after it’s traveled a mile and a half?”

  “I didn’t realize you were so interested in shooting.”

  “I’ve become interested as of late. I’m sure that the FBI will get around to filling you in on this, but let me put it in layman’s terms. When a bullet leaves a barrel, it’s spinning. That spinning motion eventually forces the bullet to move off its axis and rotate in circles. They call it parabolic rotation.”

  David moved his finger through the air like a corkscrew.

  “At two thousand yards, the diameter of the bullet’s parabolic rotation is about a foot. There’s no way the shooter can know which part of the rotation the bullet will be in when it strikes a body, only that if it’s perfectly aimed, it will strike somewhere in a twelveinch circle. Did you know this?”

  “No. Go on.”

  “Since the bullet is moving in a circular pattern, it will enter the body at a slight angle and tear the flesh in that direction. Like a corkscrew. Lateral tear.”

  “Okay, so what’s the point?”

  “The point is that I’ve seen the images of your wound. The path of the bullet was perfectly straight. It entered and exited your body in a perfectly straight line. And that straight line happened to be through one of the only paths a bullet could travel without causing significant injury.”

  “Like I said, a miracle.”

  “The lack of damage was intentional, Robert!”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Of course it is. Which is why you have to listen to me.”

  David had pushed Robert to the edges of his reasoning many times, and he knew the look of a man being stretched. Robert was being stretched.

  The president sighed. “I’m listening.”

  David stood and walked to the end of the bed, dragging his hand on the bed rail. “You’re alive because the shooter is a man named Johnny Drake. Do you recognize the name?”

  “That’s the name of the man you recognized in the footage of Assim Feroz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’s in custody? You thought he was after Feroz!”

  “No, he’s not in custody. And I was wrong about Feroz being the target. In hindsight, I realize I should have known. Samuel didn’t know who would be killed, only that a very powerful man would be assassinated, resulting in Israel’s disarmament and downfall. Either way, this doesn’t change the fact that the killer made an impossible shot. I believe that the only man alive who could do this is named Johnny Drake.”

  “This has to do with Project Showdown.”

  “Johnny was one of the children in Paradise, yes.”

  Robert closed his eyes, brought both hands to his forehead, and swept his hair back, sighing. “David . . .”

  “I’m not finished. Please, you know about Project Showdown. You of all people should consider what I’m telling you. Without reservation!”

  “I thought the children were all placed in homes with strict confidence so that they couldn’t be tracked.”
r />   “They were, all but a few who were special cases.”

  “It’s one thing to believe that dragons once existed. It’s another to actually go hunting for one because someone believes they still exist!”

  “You won’t have that problem long, my friend. You’ll believe soon enough. I have a feeling that you’re going to meet more than a dragon before this is over.”

  “It is over!”

  “Not until you die, if you go after the only man who can save you. Johnny Drake must be allowed to follow the path he is on. No charges, no media leaks, not a word.”

  He’d said it. Prematurely, perhaps. Not as part of a carefully constructed argument that had the president eating out of his hand, but there it was.

  “I should let the man who tried to kill me walk? Please, David, you’re—”

  “You’re alive because Johnny Drake wants you alive. If he wanted you dead, believe me, you would be dead. He’s capable of far more than even he knows. Take him out of the equation, and another man will shoot you. That man will shoot to kill. You will die.”

  “This . . .” Robert stalled. “You’re making an assassin out to be some kind of hero.”

  “Call him what you like. He’s the only thing standing between you and death.”

  “Based on a vision—”

  “Based on what I know!”

  A knock sounded. One of the guards opened the door. “Is everything okay?”

  “Unless you hear a scream, assume I’m fine,” the president said.

  The man bowed out.

  “Forgive me for raising my voice, but I can’t overemphasize my conviction on this matter. I’ll explain everything when we have more time, but for your sake I’m begging you to do everything in your power to thwart any investigation that leads to Johnny as the shooter.”

  Robert closed his eyes again. He wondered if David knew what kind of stress he had just put Robert under.

  “What else are you not telling me, David?”

  “Only what makes no difference to you.”

  “You’re right, you are culpable. What makes you think Johnny has this supposed power?”

  “Besides what he just pulled off? Read the report again. We didn’t pick up on it until three years ago, but it makes sense. He has . . . a gift.”

  He couldn’t read the president’s reaction to this.