The Mark of the Assassin Page 20

  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.

  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.”

  “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.”

  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.”

  “He’s already taken a dozen boxes of presidential M and Ms,” Beckwith said, clearly enjoying himself.

  Carter finally smiled. “If you’re going to start acting like some kind of American hero, I’m going to be sick. Remember, I was with you from the beginning, Michael. I know where the bodies are buried, literally. I’d be careful, if I were you.”

  When the laughter died away, Beckwith said, “Michael, there’s something else we need to discuss with you. I’m going to let Adrian and Director Clark brief you on the details.”

  “Michael, I won’t beat around the bush,” Clark began.

  The CIA director was a politician, a patrician former senator from New Hampshire who prided himself on the fact that he spoke like a common man. As a result, the lexicon of intelligence work forever baffled him. He was tall and thin, with undisciplined gray locks and a bow tie. He looked better suited to a well-endowed chair at Dartmouth than to the executive suite of Langley.

  “As crazy as this might sound, the Sword of Gaza would like to meet with us.” Clark gently cleared his throat. “Let me be more specific. The Sword of Gaza doesn’t want to meet with us—they want to meet with you.”

  “How did they make the request?”

  “Through our embassy in Damascus, about an hour ago.”

  “Why me?”

  “They apparently know exactly who you are and what your job is. They say they want to meet with the man who knows the most about their group, and they know that’s you.”

  “How’s the meeting supposed to go down?”

  “Tomorrow morning on the first Dover-to-Calais car ferry. They want you to wait on the port deck, midship, and their man will make the approach. No watchers, no recording devices, no cameras. If they see anything they don’t like, the meeting is blown.”

  “Who’s their man going to be?”

  “Muhammad Awad.”

  “Awad is the second-highest ranking member of the organization. The fact that they want to put him on a ferry and meet face-to-face with an officer of the CIA is remarkable.”

  “Therefore it’s probably too good to be true,” Carter said, the camera panning to capture his image. “I don’t like it. It violates all our rules for meetings like this. We control the site. We set the terms. You of all people should know that.”

  Michael said, “I take it you’re against going forward with it.”

  “One hundred and ten percent.”

  Beckwith said, “I’m interested in hearing your reaction, Michael.”

  “Adrian is right, Mr. President. Usually, we don’t meet with known terrorists under situations like these. Agency doctrine says we control the meeting—the time, the place, the ground rules. Having said that, I think we should seriously consider tearing up the rule book in this case.”

  Clark said, “What if their intention is to assassinate you?”

  “If the Sword of Gaza wants me dead, there are much easier ways than arranging an elaborate meeting aboard the Dover-to-Calais car ferry. I’m afraid all they would have to do is send a gunman to Washington and wait outside headquarters.”

  “Point well taken,” Clark said.

  “I think they want to talk,” Michael said. “And I think we’d be fools not to listen to what they have to say.”

  Carter said, “I disagree, Michael. This is one of the most vicious terrorist groups in the business. They speak with their actions every day. Frankly, I don’t give a good goddamn what they might have to say.” Carter looked at Beckwith and said, “My apologies for the rough language, Mr. President.”

  Michael said, “I told you he wasn’t fit for polite company, Mr. President.”

  National Security Adviser William Bristol waited for the laughter to die away and then said, “I think I’m going to side with Michael on this one, Mr. President. True, Muhammad Awad is a dangerous terrorist who should not be granted an audience simply because he asks for one. But quite frankly, I’d like to hear what he has to say. The meeting might pay dividends. Surely, it might provide the CIA with some valuable insight into the group’s personnel and mind-set. I agree with Michael on another point—if the Sword of Gaza wants him dead, there are easier ways to go about it.”

  The President turned to Vandenberg. “What do you think, Paul?”

  “I hate to disagree with you, Bill, since foreign policy is your area of expertise and not mine, but I think we have nothing to gain by meeting with the leader of a bunch of bloodthirsty thugs like the Sword of Gaza. Adrian is right: The Sword of Gaza speaks with actions, not words. There’s something else to consider. I wouldn’t want to be the one to explain to the American people why we met with Muhammad Awad at a time like this. Your handling of this crisis has been exemplary, and the American people have rewarded you for it. I wouldn’t want to see all that goodwill go to waste because a terrorist like Muhammad Awad wanted to have a little chat.”

  Beckwith fell into a long speculative silence. Michael knew it was not a good sign. He had never been in the President’s presence, but he had heard stories of Paul Vandenberg’s power. If Vandenberg didn’t want the meeting to go forward, the meeting probably wouldn’t go forward.

  Finally, Beckwith looked up into the camera, addressing Michael in London rather than the men seated around him. “Michael, if you’re willing to go through with this, I’m interested in hearing what Muhammad Awad has to say. I know this is not without risk, and I know you have a wife.”

  “I’ll do it,” Michael said simply.

  “Very well,” Beckwith said. “I wish you the best of luck. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Then the image from Washington turned to black.

  24

  LONDON

  The ambassador allowed Michael to use his office to telephone Elizabeth i
n Washington. Michael dialed her private line, but it was Max, her secretary, who answered. Max expressed relief at hearing Michael’s voice; then he explained that Elizabeth had left for New York already and could be reached later at her father’s Fifth Avenue apartment. Michael felt a momentary flash of anger—how could she leave her office without waiting to hear his voice?—but then he felt like a complete fool. She had left work early because in the morning she was having her eggs extracted and fertilized at Cornell Medical Center in New York. In the turmoil of the attack at Heathrow, Michael had completely forgotten. And he had agreed to meet Muhammad Awad in the middle of the English Channel, which would delay his arrival in New York by another two days. Elizabeth would be furious, and rightly so. Michael told Max he would call her in New York later, then hung up.

  Actually, Michael was relieved not to have reached her. The last thing he wanted was to hold a conversation like this over a monitored embassy line. He went to Wheaton’s office and found him sitting at his desk, squeezing his tennis ball, a Dunhill between bloodless lips.

  “I lost my bag at Heathrow,” Michael said. “I need to do some shopping before the stores close.”

  “Actually, you can’t,” Wheaton said disdainfully. Wheaton didn’t like Michael operating on his turf to begin with; the fact that Michael was now flavor of the day didn’t help. “Carter wants you on ice somewhere nice and secure. We have a safe flat near Paddington Station. I’m sure you’ll find it comfortable.”

  Michael groaned inwardly. Agency safe flats were the intelligence equivalent of an Econo Lodge. He knew the flat near Paddington Station all too well; he had used it to hide several frightened penetration agents over the years. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night there as a guest instead of a babysitter. Michael knew there was no fighting it. He was making the meeting with Muhammad Awad against Carter’s wishes, and he didn’t want to alienate him further by bitching about spending a night in the Paddington safe flat.