The Mark of the Assassin Read online

  “One must take precautions in a business such as this.”

  “You’ve never impressed me as the suicidal type.”

  Awad smiled and blew smoke from his sculpted nostrils. “I’ve always believed I was more useful to Allah alive than dead. Besides, we have no shortage of volunteers for missions of martyrdom. I believe you spent some time in Lebanon as a child. You know the conditions in which our people live. Oppression can breed madness, Mr. Osbourne. Some boys would rather die than spend a lifetime in chains.”

  Michael looked to his left and saw the woman from the train, leaning against the rail twenty feet away, smoking, eyes flickering over the ferry.

  “I thought you believed a woman’s place was in the home, shrouded by a chador,” Michael said, looking at the girl.

  “It is unfortunate, but sometimes this business requires the services of a talented woman. For the purposes of this conversation, her name is Odette. She is Palestinian, and she is very good with her gun. The old West German security service issued orders to shoot the women first. In Odette’s case that would be very good advice indeed.”

  “Now that we’re all acquainted,” Michael said, “why don’t we get down to business? Why did you want to talk?”

  “The attack at Heathrow yesterday was the work of the Sword of Gaza. We staged the attack to avenge your ridiculous air strikes against our friends in Libya, Syria, and Iran. You were quite the hero yesterday, Mr. Osbourne. Your presence was coincidence, I assure you. Frankly, I wish you had killed them both. Men in custody always make me a bit nervous.”

  “Actually, the interrogation is going very well,” Michael said, unable to resist the opportunity to toy with Awad. “I understand he’s providing a tremendous amount of information on your organizational structure and tactics.”

  “Nice try, Mr. Osbourne,” Awad said. “Our organization is highly compartmentalized, so he can do little damage.”

  “You just keep on believing that, Ibrahim. It will help you sleep at night. So you asked to see me so you can claim responsibility for the terror attack at Heathrow?”

  “We prefer to use the term military action.”

  “There’s nothing military about killing unarmed civilians. That’s terrorism, pure and simple.”

  “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, but let’s not get into that silly debate now. There isn’t time. Your air strikes on our bases were ridiculous because there was no justification for them. The Sword of Gaza did not fire the missile that brought down Flight Double-oh-two.”

  Michael suspected the same, but he was not about to let that show in front of Muhammad Awad. “The body of Hassan Mahmoud, one of your most accomplished action agents, was found on the boat from which the missile was fired,” Michael said, voice low but edgy with emotion. “The launch tube was next to his body. A valid claim of responsibility was received in Brussels.”

  Awad’s face tightened. He took a long pull at his Dunhill and tossed the butt into the water. Michael looked away from Awad and saw a motor yacht shadowing the ferry, behind a veil of mist.

  “Hassan Mahmoud has not been a member of the Sword of Gaza for nearly a year. He was a fucking psychopath who would not accept the discipline of an organization such as ours. We discovered he was secretly plotting to assassinate Arafat, so we threw him out. He’s lucky we didn’t kill him. In hindsight we should have.”

  Awad lit another cigarette.

  “Mahmoud moved to Cairo and fell in with the Egyptian fundamentalists, al-Gama’at Ismalyya.” Awad reached into his pocket once again, this time removing an envelope. He opened the envelope, removed three photographs, and handed them to Michael. “These were provided to us by a friend inside the Egyptian security service. That man is Hassan Mahmoud. If you run this photograph through your files you will discover the second man is Eric Stoltenberg. I trust you recognize the name.”

  Michael did, indeed. Eric Stoltenberg used to work for the East German Ministry of State Security, better known as the Stasi. He worked for Department XXII, which ran Stasi support operations for national liberation movements around the world. His portfolio included notorious terrorists like Abu Nidal and Carlos the Jackal and groups such as the IRA and Spain’s ETA. Michael examined the photographs: two men seated at a chrome-topped table at Groppi’s café, one dark-haired and dark-skinned, the other blond and fair, both wearing sunglasses.

  Michael held out the photographs to Awad.

  “Keep them,” Awad said. “My treat.”

  “These prove nothing.”

  “As you probably know, Eric Stoltenberg has had to find work elsewhere,” Awad said, ignoring Michael’s remark. “After the Wall came down, the Germans wanted his head because he helped the Libyans bomb the La-Belle nightclub in West Berlin in 1986. Stoltenberg has been living abroad ever since, using his old Stasi contacts to make money any way he can—security, smuggling, that sort of thing. Recently he came into a fair amount of money, and he’s not done a very good job concealing it.”

  The motor yacht had moved closer to the ferry. Michael looked at Awad and said, “Mahmoud carried out the attack, and Stoltenberg helped with the logistics—the Stinger, the boats, the escape route.” Michael waved the photographs. “This is all a lie, because you’re afraid we’re going to strike back again.”

  Awad smiled with considerable charm. “Nice try, Mr. Osbourne, but you know the Sword of Gaza better. You know we have no cause to blow up an American jetliner, and you know someone else did. You don’t have the proof, though. If I were you, I’d look closer to home.”

  “Are you saying you know who did?”

  “No, I’m just saying you should ask yourself a few simple questions. Who gained the most? Who would have reason to do such a thing but keep their real identity secret? The men who did this have a great deal of money and enormous resources at their fingertips. I swear to you that we did not do this. If the United States does not retaliate for Heathrow it ends now. But if you hit us again we will have no recourse but to hit back. Such is the nature of the game.”

  The motor yacht had closed to within fifty yards of the ferry’s port side. Michael could see two men atop the flying bridge and a third near the prow. He looked to his left, toward the woman, and found her wide-eyed, pulling a small automatic weapon from her handbag. He spun round and looked past Awad, down the port railing, and saw a squat, powerfully built man, gun drawn, head shrouded by a balaclava.

  Michael grabbed Awad by the shoulders and screamed, “Get down!”

  Two rounds burst through Awad’s chest and embedded themselves in Michael’s bulletproof vest. Awad collapsed onto the deck. Michael reached inside his coat for the Browning, but the Palestinian girl was ready first, gun leveled in outstretched hands, feet apart. She fired twice quickly, blowing the hooded gunman off his feet.

  Awad lay on the deck, glaring at Michael, blood in his mouth. He held up his right hand, showing Michael the bomb trigger. Michael dived through a doorway into the passenger lounge. Graham Seymour was there, weapon drawn. Michael grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him to the floor as the bomb exploded and glass shattered overhead. For a few seconds there was almost complete silence; then the wounded began to moan and scream.

  Michael scrambled to his feet, shoes slipping on shattered glass, and charged onto the deck. The force of the explosion had obliterated Awad. Odette, the Palestinian girl, lay on the deck, blood streaming from a head wound. The hooded gunman must have been wearing a vest because he had managed to jump over the rail, and the motor yacht was making its way toward him. One man stood on the flying bridge, two on the aft deck. Michael raised his Browning and opened fire on the craft. The two men on the aft deck produced automatic weapons and returned fire. Michael dived for cover.

  Odette had pulled herself upright and was sitting with her back to the rail. She held a gun in her outstretched hand, leveled at Michael, her face very calm. Michael rolled away as she squeezed off the first shot. The round struck the deck, m
issing him. She fired twice more as Michael scrambled helplessly for cover. Suddenly, her body shuddered violently and she slumped forward. Graham Seymour stepped out onto the deck, gun in hand, and knelt down beside her. He looked at Michael and shook his head.

  Michael got to his feet and ran to the rail. The motor yacht was idling in the choppy seas. The two men aft were pulling the gunman from the sea. Michael raised his gun, but it was an impossible shot; the ferry’s forward progress had carried it about a hundred yards past the stationary yacht. When the gunman was safely on board, the yacht turned away and disappeared behind a curtain of fog.

  27

  NEW YORK

  The in vitro fertilization program at Cornell Medical Center had an assembly-line quality that reminded Elizabeth of the criminal courts in any big city. She sat on the scratched wooden bench in the hall outside the procedure room, surrounded by other patients, as technicians moved silently about, gowned and masked. Only Elizabeth was alone. The other four women had husbands clutching their hands, and they eyed Elizabeth as if she were some spinster who had decided to have a child with the borrowed sperm of her best friend’s husband. She consciously held her left hand beneath her chin to reveal her wedding band and two-carat diamond engagement ring. She wondered what the other women were thinking. Was her husband late? Was she recently separated? Was he too busy to be with her at a time like this?

  Elizabeth felt her eyes begin to tear. She was using every ounce of self-control in her possession to keep from crying. The double doors of the procedure room opened. Two technicians wheeled out a sedated woman on a gurney. Another was wheeled inside from the changing room nearby to take her place on the table. Her husband was dispatched to a small dark room with plastic cups and Playboy magazines.

  A small television hung on the wall, silently tuned to CNN. The screen showed a live shot of a smoking ferry in the English Channel. No, Elizabeth thought, it’s not possible. She stood up, walked over to the television, and increased the volume.

  “. . . Seven people killed. . . . Appears to be the work of the Islamic terror group known as the Sword of Gaza. . . . Second attack in two days. . . . Believed responsible for yesterday’s deadly terror attack at London’s Heathrow Airport. . . .”

  She thought, My God, this can’t be happening!

  She went back to her spot on the bench and dug inside her handbag for her cell phone and her telephone book. Michael had given her a special number to be used only in extreme emergencies. She tore through the pages, feeling the stares of the other patients, and found the number.

  She dialed, punching the keypad of the phone violently, as she walked to a private spot on the stairwell. After one ring a calm male voice said, “May I help you?”

  “My name is Elizabeth Osbourne. My husband is Michael Osbourne.”

  She could hear the rattle of a computer keyboard over the line.

  “How did you get this number?” the voice asked.

  “Michael gave it to me.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I want to speak to my husband.”

  “Your telephone number, please.”

  Elizabeth gave him the number for the cell phone, and she could hear the keyboard rattling again.

  “Someone will be calling you.”

  One of the technicians appeared in the stairwell and said, “You’re next, Mrs. Osbourne. We need you inside now.”

  Elizabeth said to the man on the phone, “I want to know if he was on that ferry in the Channel.”

  “Someone will be calling you,” the voice said again, maddening in its lack of emotion. It was like talking to a machine.

  “Dammit, answer me! Was he on that boat?”

  “Someone will be calling you,” he repeated.

  The technician said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Osbourne, but you really need to come inside now.”

  “Are you saying he’s on that boat?”

  “Please hang up now and keep this telephone free.”

  Then the line went dead.

  A nurse showed Elizabeth to a small changing room and gave her a sterile gown. Elizabeth was clutching the cell phone in her hand. The nurse said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave that here.”

  “I can’t,” Elizabeth said. “I’m expecting a very important call.”

  The nurse looked at her incredulously. “I’ve seen a lot of Type-A women in this program, Mrs. Osbourne, but you certainly take the cake. You’re having surgery in there. It’s not a time for making business calls.”

  “It’s not a business call. It’s an emergency.”

  “It doesn’t matter. In three minutes you’re going to be sleeping like a baby.”

  Elizabeth changed into the gown. Ring, dammit. Ring!

  She climbed onto the gurney, and the nurse wheeled her into the operating room. The surgical team was waiting. Her doctor’s mask was lowered and he was smiling pleasantly.

  “You look a little nervous, Elizabeth. Everything all right?”

  “I’m fine, Dr. Melman.”

  “Good. Why don’t we get started then?”

  He nodded at the anesthesiologist, and a few seconds later Elizabeth felt herself drifting into a pleasant sleep.

  28

  CALAIS, FRANCE

  The port burned with blue and red emergency lights as the ferry approached the French coast. Michael stood on the bridge, surrounded by the captain and his senior officers, smoking one cigarette after the next, watching the coastline draw nearer. He was alternately freezing cold and sweltering hot. His chest hurt like hell, as though someone very strong had punched him twice. Graham Seymour was on the other side of the bridge, surrounded by his own group of crew members. They were vaguely in custody. Michael had told the captain he and Graham were from U.S. and British law enforcement and that someone from London would meet the ferry in Calais and explain everything. The captain was dubious, as Michael would be in his place.

  Michael closed his eyes, and the whole thing played out again. He saw it as news footage, with himself as an actor on a stage. He saw the gunman approaching and Odette scrambling for her weapon, eyes wild. The man with the balaclava and the gun was not from the Sword of Gaza, and Muhammad Awad had not been the target. Michael was the target. Awad was just in the way.

  He closed his eyes once more and pictured the two men on the motor yacht. Slowly, their faces grew clearer, as if he were focusing on them with the long-range lens of a surveillance camera. He saw the men firing at him from the stern deck. He had the annoying feeling he had seen them in passing somewhere before—a restaurant or a cocktail party or the chemist shop in Oxford Street. Or was it a petrol station on the M40 in Oxfordshire, pretending to put air in the rear tire of a white Ford minivan?>

  The ferry landed at Calais. Michael and Seymour were shepherded past the news crews and shouting reporters to an office inside the terminal. Wheaton and a dozen Agency and diplomatic officers were waiting. They had flown from London by helicopter, courtesy of the Royal Navy.

  “Who in God’s name is this?” Wheaton asked, looking at Graham, who had forsaken his guitar case but still looked like an aging student in his jeans and Venice Beach sweatshirt.

  Seymour smiled and stuck out his hand. “Graham Seymour, SIS.”

  “Graham who and what?” Wheaton asked incredulously.

  “You heard him right,” Michael said. “He’s a friend of mine. By coincidence he was on the ferry.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Well, it was worth a try, Michael,” Graham said.

  “Start talking, now!”

  “Fuck you,” Michael said, pulling off his sweater to reveal the pair of rounds embedded in his vest. “Why don’t we go back to London and do the debrief there?” he said, calmer now.

  “Because the French want a go at you first.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Graham said. “I can’t talk to the bloody Frogs.”

  “Well, since you’ve just landed in their jurisdiction, I suppose you’ll have to.”
r />   Michael said, “What are we going to tell them?”

  “The truth,” Wheaton said. “And we’ll just pray that they have the good sense to keep their fucking mouths shut.”

  In New York Elizabeth lay sleeping in the recovery room when her cellular phone chirped softly. A nurse stepped forward and was about to shut off the power when Elizabeth awakened and said, “No, wait.”

  She pressed it to her ear, eyes closed, and said, “Hello.”

  “Elizabeth?” the voice said. “Is this Elizabeth Osbourne?”

  “Yes,” she croaked, voice thick with anesthesia.

  “It’s Adrian Carter.”

  “Adrian, where is he?”

  “He’s fine. He’s on his way back to London now.”

  “Back to London? Where has he been?”

  There was only silence on the line. Elizabeth was fully awake now.

  She said, “Goddammit, Adrian, was he on that ferry?”

  Carter hesitated, then said, “Yes, Elizabeth. He was there on a job, and something went wrong. We’ll know more when he gets back to the London embassy.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I’ll call you when I know more.”

  The chopper touched down at dusk on a Thameside helipad in East London. Two embassy cars were waiting. Wheaton and Michael rode in the first, Wheaton’s drones in the second. They turned onto the Vauxhall Bridge, past the ugly modern building that served as the headquarters for MI6. Michael thought, So much for George Smiley’s veiled redbrick lair at Cambridge Circus. Now, headquarters of the Service had actually made a cameo appearance in a James Bond movie.

  “Your friend Graham Seymour is going to get a rough reception in that building in a few minutes,” Wheaton said. “I spoke to the Director-General from Calais. Needless to say, he’s not pleased. He also gave me a piece of news that will have to wait until we’re behind closed doors.”