The Mark of the Assassin (27 page)
“I believe Mr. Osbourne may present us with a bit of a problem, Mr. Elliott. He had an interesting conversation with a man from the Intelligence Service last night, which we monitored with a directional microphone from the street. This morning he met with one Ivan Drozdov, a KGB defector who once supervised the activities of our assassin.”
Elliott sighed heavily on the other end of the line.
The Director said, “Suffice it to say he knows a good deal, and he probably suspects a good deal more. He is a very worthy opponent, our Mr. Osbourne. In my opinion, to take him lightly would be a serious miscalculation.”
“I don’t take him lightly, Director. You can be certain of that.”
“What’s happening at your end?”
“Osbourne and his wife discovered a computer disk containing Susanna Dayton’s notes and a copy of her story. They apparently were able to unlock her encryption code. They’ve given all the material to the editors at the
Washington Post.
”
Washington Post.
”
“An unfortunate development,” the Director said, coughing gently. “It would seem to me that Mrs. Osbourne is also in a position to do serious damage.”
“I’ve placed her under watch.”
“I hope your men conduct themselves in a more professional manner this time. The last thing we need at this stage of the game is for Susanna Dayton’s best friend to end up dead also. Her husband is another story. He’s made his share of enemies during his career. It might be fortuitous if one of those enemies would surface and exact his revenge.”
“I’m certain that could be arranged.”
“You have the Society’s blessing, Mr. Elliott.”
“Thank you, Director.”
“As long as this remains an issue of campaign finance, I suspect you’ll weather the storm. Oh, it will be embarrassing and messy. There might be a heavy fine, some uncomfortable media speculation, but your project will survive. If, however, Mr. Osbourne uncovers something approaching the truth. . . . Well, I suppose I needn’t explain the consequences to you.”
“Of course not, Director. What about the defector, Ivan Drozdov? Does he present us with a problem?”
“I’m not certain, but I’m not willing to take that chance. Mr. Drozdov is being dealt with at this moment.”
“A wise move.”
“I thought so. Good afternoon, Mr. Elliott.”
In Aston Magna, Ivan Drozdov was sitting next to the fire, reading by the weak light from the French doors, when he heard the knocking. The corgis bounced out of their basket and bounded to the front door of the cottage, barking wildly. Drozdov followed after them slowly, legs stiff from sitting. He opened the door to find a young man in a blue coverall, face like an altar boy.
“What can I do for you?” Drozdov asked.
The boy pulled out a silenced gun. “Say your prayers.”
Drozdov stiffened. “I’m an atheist,” he said calmly.
“Pity,” said the boy.
He raised the gun and shot Drozdov twice through the heart.
23
HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON
The gunman nearest Michael was firing wildly into the crowd. He spotted Michael charging, leveled the automatic, and opened fire. Michael dived behind a
bureau de change
kiosk as rounds ricocheted on the floor next to him. Two people huddled next to him, a woman screaming in German and a French priest murmuring the Lord’s Prayer.
bureau de change
kiosk as rounds ricocheted on the floor next to him. Two people huddled next to him, a woman screaming in German and a French priest murmuring the Lord’s Prayer.
The gunman lost interest in Michael and once again turned his gun on the helpless passengers. Michael leaned out and looked. The attack had lasted less than fifteen seconds, but to Michael, crouched behind the kiosk, it seemed like an eternity. The floor was covered with the dead and dying and with terrified people vainly trying to protect themselves behind luggage and ticket counters.
Michael thought, Goddammit! Where are the security forces?>
One of the attackers paused to reload. He reached inside his grip, pulled the pin from another grenade, and lobbed it behind the TransAtlantic counter. The building shook with the concussion. Michael saw a pair of bodies hurled into the air, limbs blown away. The air stank of smoke and blood. The screams of the victims nearly masked the rattle of the automatic weapons.
Michael wished he had a gun. He looked to his right. Four British antiterrorist police were moving into firing position behind another ticket counter. Two rose, took aim, and fired. The head of one gunman exploded in a pink flash of blood and brain. The two surviving gunmen returned fire, hitting one of the police officers. The policemen rose from behind their barrier, guns blazing. A second gunman fell, body riddled with rounds.
The last terrorist gave up the fight. He backpedaled toward the doorway, firing wildly as he went. He crashed through the automatic door, safety glass shattering around him.
Michael could see a fourth member of the team sitting behind the wheel of the escape vehicle, a silver Audi. He rose, went through a set of parallel doors, and ran along the departure-level walkway, leaping over travelers and airport employees lying on the ground.
The terrorist behind the wheel gunned the engine nervously. A half dozen security men were running across the terminal, guns drawn. Michael pounded his feet savagely on the pavement, hands out.
The last gunman was twenty meters from him, about to climb into the car. The driver threw open the rear door. The gunman was about to climb inside when he looked up and saw Michael rushing toward him. He turned and tried to raise the automatic.
Michael lowered his shoulder and drove the gunman to the ground.
The blow broke the attacker’s hold on his weapon.
Michael grabbed the man by the throat and delivered two brutal blows to his face. The first crushed his nose, the second shattered his cheekbone and rendered him unconscious.
The terrorist behind the wheel threw open his door and was climbing out, automatic pistol in gloved hand. Michael reached out frantically and grabbed for the fallen machine gun. He took hold of it and fired through the Audi’s windshield. The gunman managed to get off two wild shots before he collapsed onto the pavement, dead.
Michael, heart racing, saw a flash of dark color and what he thought was a gun. He pivoted on his knee and leveled the gun at one of the British security forces.
“Put the gun down, nice and easy, mate,” the officer said calmly. “It’s all over. Just put the gun down.”
Wheaton, the CIA’s London Station Chief, collected Michael from Heathrow Airport and took him into the city in the back of a chauffeured government sedan. Michael leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. He had endured an hour of questioning by a senior British police official and two men from MI5. For a time Michael stayed with his cover—an American businessman returning to New York after a brief meeting in London. Finally, someone from the embassy arrived. Michael asked to speak to Wheaton, and Wheaton called the police and MI5 and told them the truth.
Michael had never killed before, and he was unprepared for his reaction. In the moments after the fight he felt a wild exhilaration, a strange thrill approaching blood lust. The terrorists were evil men who had slaughtered innocent people; they deserved to die a violent, painful death. He was glad he had blown one away and smashed the other’s face. He had spent a career pursuing terrorists using only his intellect and his wits for weaponry. For once he had been able to use his fists and a gun—indeed, the gun that had been used to massacre innocent people—and it felt good.
Now, exhaustion overtook him. It pressed on his chest, squeezed his head. His hands no longer trembled; adrenaline dissipated from his veins. Nausea came and went. He closed his eyes and saw blood flying, heads exploding, screams, and the rattle of automatics. He saw the getaway driver blown backward, felt the gun surging in his grasp. He had taken a life, an evil life but a life regardless. It didn’t feel good anymore. He felt dirty.
Michael was rubbing his right hand. “Perhaps you should have that looked at,” Wheaton said, as if Michael were suffering from a recurring flare-up of tennis elbow.
Michael ignored him. “What was the count?”
“Thirty-six dead, more than fifty wounded, some of them quite seriously. The Brits expect the death toll to go higher.”
“Americans?”
“At least twenty of the dead are Americans. Most of the people waiting at the check-in line were boarding the New York flight. The rest of the dead are British. We’ve spoken to your wife, by the way. She knows you’re all right.”
Michael remembered how he had left her. One second they were talking, the next he had dropped the telephone and was shouting. He wondered what Elizabeth had heard over the line. Had she heard the whole thing—the explosions, the gunfire, the screams—or had the line mercifully gone dead? He pictured her at the office, worried sick, and he felt awful. He desperately wanted to talk to her but not in front of Wheaton.
They had entered London and were driving east on the Cromwell Road. Wheaton said, “Obviously, the baying hounds of the media are desperate to talk to you. Witnesses have told them about the hero in the blue business suit who killed one of the terrorists and subdued another. The police are telling them that the man wishes to remain anonymous because he fears the Sword of Gaza will retaliate. They’re buying it for now, but God knows how many London police officers know the truth. All it takes is one leaker, and we’re going to have a serious problem.”
“Did the Sword of Gaza claim responsibility yet?”
“They sent a fax to the
Times
a few minutes ago. The Brits are having a go at it, and we’ve sent a copy to the CTC in Langley. Smells authentic. Should be released to the media soon.”
Times
a few minutes ago. The Brits are having a go at it, and we’ve sent a copy to the CTC in Langley. Smells authentic. Should be released to the media soon.”
“Revenge for the air strikes on the training bases?”
“But of course.”
They headed north on Park Lane, then into Mayfair toward Grosvenor Square. The car went to the front entrance of the U.S. embassy. Michael wished they could use the underground entrance, but it probably made little difference now. He climbed out of the car. He was light-headed and his knee hurt terribly. He must have injured it in the fight, but the adrenaline had masked the pain until now. The Marine guards snapped to attention and saluted as Michael entered the embassy complex, Wheaton at his side. The ambassador and his senior staff were waiting, the rest of the large embassy staff standing behind them. The ambassador broke into applause, and the others followed suit. Michael had worked in the shadows for his entire career. His commendations were awarded in secret. When he had a good day at the office, he could tell no one about it, not even Elizabeth. Now, the applause of the embassy staff washed over him, and he felt a chill at the back of his neck.
The ambassador stepped forward and put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “I know you probably don’t feel like celebrating at a time like this, but I just wanted to let you know how proud we all are of you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. It means a great deal to me.”
“There’s someone else who wants to talk to you. Follow me, please.”
When Michael entered the communications room, sandwiched between Wheaton and the ambassador, the presidential seal was on the large monitor. The ambassador picked up a telephone, murmured a few words into the receiver, and hung up. A few seconds later the presidential seal dissolved and James Beckwith appeared, seated in a white wing chair next to a dying fire in the Oval Office, wearing an open-neck shirt and cardigan sweater.
“Michael, words cannot convey how grateful and how proud you’ve made us all,” the President began. “At considerable risk to your own safety, you single-handedly overpowered one Sword of Gaza terrorist and killed another. Your actions may have saved countless lives, and they have dealt a serious blow to a band of ruthless cowards. I will insist that you be awarded the highest decoration possible for your actions. I only wish I could pin it on your chest
personally
in front of the entire nation, because your country would be very proud of you today.”
personally
in front of the entire nation, because your country would be very proud of you today.”
Michael managed a smile. “I’m used to working in secret, Mr. President, and if it’s all right with you I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
Beckwith smiled broadly. “I didn’t think you’d have it any other way. Besides, you’re too valuable to waste on some photo opportunity. We have enough of those as it is, thanks to my chief of staff.”
The camera pulled out wider, revealing the rest of the men seated around the President: Chief of Staff Vandenberg, CIA Director Clark, National Security Adviser Bristol. On the edge of the screen sat a small man in an ill-fitting designer suit, hands folded in his lap, face obscured, like a good spy. Michael knew at once that it was Adrian Carter.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. President,” Michael said. “Could the camera pan a little to the left? I can’t see the tiny man on the couch there.”
The camera moved, revealing Carter’s face. As usual he looked sleepy and bored, even though he was sitting in the Oval Office surrounded by the President and his senior national security team.
Michael said, “Well, well, how did they let a knuckle-dragger like Adrian Carter into the Oval Office? Be careful, Mr. President. He steals hotel towels and ashtrays. I’d put a Secret Service detail on him.”
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