Soul of the Assassin (36 page)

He looked at Hamilton. Neither of the MI6 agents was armed.

“Figures,” said Rankin.

“I say we go,” responded Hamilton.

“Thanks.” Rankin turned to Guns. “I’ll take the point if you want.”

“No, it’s OK. I’m a better shot.”

Rankin didn’t think so, but he let it pass.

Hamilton had Jared Lloyd stay behind. The three men climbed into the cruiser’s small rigid-hulled inflatable and sped over to the fishing boat, which was still moving at a slow but steady pace. Rankin took the boat up against the port side of the fishing craft; Guns leapt aboard and moved swiftly toward the smokestack, ducking behind it as he tried to peer through the open doorway in front of it. As Rankin started to follow Hamilton out of the boat, he saw an emergency kit at the side. He opened it, and took the flare gun, figuring it was better than nothing.

The door to the rear of the fishing boat’s small superstructure was open. Guns and Rankin crouched on either side as Hamilton moved around toward the front. Neither man could see what was going on.

The Beretta felt tiny in Guns’ hand. In a perfect world, he’d have something considerably bigger—a shotgun would have been nice.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered to Rankin as he stepped into the gray space. He had both hands on the Beretta, his finger pressed against the trigger—anything that appeared was getting blasted.

The space was divided by a narrow corridor, with a cabin on each side and the bridge at the front. Guns moved to the left, ducking into the first space, trying to stay out of the direct line of fire from the front and search the cabin at the same time. It held lockers and a pair of benches, bolted to the floor, an assortment of gear and boxes piled randomly at both sides. It took him several seconds to scan them all, to make sure that the lines he saw were straight and unmoving.

“Come on,” hissed Rankin, who’d checked a similar space on the opposite side. Rather than waiting for Guns, he moved forward, through a small hallway, then ran forward, looking for the bridge.

Guns ran to keep up. He saw Rankin run forward, shouting something. Guns plunged into the space after him, throwing himself to the right, sure that they would both come under a hail of bullets.

But the vessel’s bridge was empty, the wheel tied by a rope into position.

“Shit,” said Rankin.

Guns moved his Beretta around the space twice, using it to direct his gaze. Then he went back to the cabins they’d bypassed. A figure lay on the deck in the cabin at the port side. Guns slid over to him on his knee, weapon ready; the man was dead.

“Guns!”

“Dead guy,” said Guns, back on his feet.

The door to the other cabin was locked. Guns heard someone talking inside, the voices still muffled.

“Come out,” he yelled. “Hands high.”

There was no answer.

Guns put his hand on the lever that worked the door. “
Viennee quee
,” he said, phonetically sounding the Italian words for “come here.”

No one stirred.

Rankin stepped between Guns and the door. “Let’s try this,” he said. Then without explaining he put his foot on the door lever and kicked it open, firing a flare into the cabin.

The small missile ignited with a low
thwapp,
and the room burst yellow and red. The scent of burning metal filled the corridor, and dusty smoke began curling upward. Guns started to push around Rankin to get in, but the fire flared; he heard the sound of a dull explosion, as if they were miles, not feet, away.

Rankin pulled the fire extinguisher off the nearby wall and began shooting the canister’s contents while he was still in the corridor. He pushed the nozzle inside the cabin, spraying blindly but choking the fire.

The cabin appeared to be an office; above the desk was a radio, which must have been what they heard. The place was empty.

“I need air,” Guns said, coughing. He grabbed Rankin, pulling him with him through the boat to the deck.

Hamilton looked down on them from the roof of the superstructure.

“No one?” he asked.

Guns managed to shake his head, still catching his breath.

“Bloody hell,” said the Englishman, taking out his sat phone.

~ * ~

~ * ~

1

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Practically since the day he graduated from college, Jonathon McCarthy liked to start his mornings by sitting at his kitchen table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. He had continued that routine as a senator, and saw no reason to drop the habit as President.

The fact that his kitchen was not exactly what one would call “cozy” never entered into his consideration. And while staff members had often volunteered to start their day early enough to fix a proper breakfast, McCarthy had gently turned them down—and issued standing orders directing that no member of the domestic staff arrive at the White House, kitchen included, before six a.m. The Secret Service delivered his newspapers and a special briefing booklet at five, leaving it on the small wooden counter at the center of the room; the agent would flip on the coffeemaker and retreat. McCarthy typically arrived a few minutes later—except on the odd mornings he decided to sleep in, when he would make his appearance promptly at 5:30.

Rarely did McCarthy allow his sessions with the Fourth Estate’s work product to be interrupted, and rarer still were the times he invited someone to join him.

But today was one of those occasions.

“Are you sure now, dear, that you won’t have a bit of sugar in your coffee?” he asked Corrine Alston as he fussed over the pot. “You know that I make this
very
strong in the morning.”

“No, Mr. President. It will help perk me up.”

“I thought maybe my charming presence would be enough for that.” McCarthy’s wry voice echoed against the high ceiling. He set down her cup and took his seat. “Give me the bad news, please. No varnish, miss.”

Corrine told the President what the First Team had discovered— it appeared that material from a Russian biological warfare program had been obtained by the Iranian agent. The Italians, called in to assist, were asking questions about exactly what was going on. So far, Daniel Slott had given them very vague answers.

“I’m sure the Secretary of State will appreciate that,” said McCarthy. He wasn’t being sarcastic—-the Italians were not known for keeping secrets, and Steele would undoubtedly feel that any news about this would scuttle the nuclear treaty.

Then again, perhaps it deserved to be scuttled. McCarthy sipped his coffee pensively

“The Russian agent who told us about the material,” said McCarthy. “This is the same woman who has been identified as the assassin, T Rex?”

“Our man there doesn’t think that’s right. He doesn’t think she’s T Rex at all.”

“Why not?”

“He says the evidence doesn’t add up.”

“If she is, she might be saying something like this to throw him off the scent,” said the President. “The fox leaving an old sock for a hound in the tree on the other side of the hollow.”

“The Iranian did get something from the locker in Naples,” said Corrine.

McCarthy sorted through the newspapers on the table. The executive news summary in the binder included all of the important articles, but he liked to go through the papers anyway; it was part old-fashioned gesture, and part a way of seeing what other people thought was important.

“That puts this briefing in a different light,” said McCarthy, retrieving the latest assessment on the Iran situation from the State Department.

“I’ve read it.”

The assessment included an intercept from the National Security Agency of a speech by Parsa Moshen being circulated among high-ranking Revolutionary Guard members. In the speech, Moshen promised “a radical new weapon to devastate the West” and promised that it would be used if the treaty was signed. “After a demonstration of our power,” Moshen added, “we will resume our rightful place in society. Or we will struggle on alone.”

“We’d best get the bacteria back,” said McCarthy dryly, his understatement eloquently underlining his order’s urgency.

~ * ~

2

THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

The captain had not wanted to go into the water, but after Atha heard the radio calls from the coast guard and saw the mast of a vessel he knew must be following them, he managed to persuade the man that it would be their only chance of escape. Once they were in the water, the reason for the captain’s reluctance became obvious—he was a terrible swimmer, and could barely stay afloat. Thus Atha had been forced to inflate the rafts much sooner than he had planned; as he clambered into his he thought he saw the boat that had been following them looming on the horizon. But that had proven to be a false alarm; aided by the wind and current, they were able to paddle to the rendezvous without being seen.

A small boat met them after they had been in the water for only a half hour. The tiny craft doglegged north before circling to the southwest, its roundabout route taking it away from the two Italian patrol vessels stopping and searching boats in the area.

Partly because of all this maneuvering, the ride to the cargo ship took nearly six hours. It would have been uncomfortable in any event, but a storm was moving in, and the waters became increasingly choppier. Atha found himself leaning over the side for the last two hours. When he was finally brought aboard the ship, with his precious luggage double-wrapped in two giant trash bags, he went right to his cabin.

He was lying in the bunk when he remembered that he had not called the Russian scientist as he’d promised. He debated whether this was necessary at all—now that he had the material, he didn’t believe he would need ever to speak to Rostislawitch. But never was a long time; it was conceivable that there would be some business need in the future.

In which case he should make the payment. It was not a minor sum, and he would much prefer keeping it in his pocket, even though he had not intended to.

Perhaps he should call just to keep Rostislawitch in the dark. Or had the scientist been the one to tip off the authorities?

Atha debated back and forth what to do. Perhaps he could get information from the scientist about who was following him. Perhaps he would only be giving information to them. Finally, he decided to call the scientist and see what he might retrieve from a conversation. He got up and turned on his satellite phone. But the phone, damaged by the sea’s salt water, refused to work.

There was a knock on his cabin door.

“What?” grumbled Atha.

The sailor on the other side of the door knocked again.

“What is it?” Atha demanded, pulling open the door.