Noble Sanction

by William Miller

  Height: Unknown

  Weight: Unknown

  Sex: Female

  County of Origin: Unknown

  Ethnicity: Unknown

  Family Background: Unknown

  “That’s a lot of unknowns,” Noble remarked.

  Wizard agreed with a grunt. “My team of analysts has spent the last three days putting together a profile and tracking her movements. We now know she works out of South Africa and we’ve got a line on her cutout. I’ll let the analysts fill you in on the rest.”

  The car stopped on seven. Wizard, trailing smoke, led the way to a situation room. He used his laminated ID card on the door. It unlocked with an electronic chirp and the deadbolt released.

  Noble recognized the pair of analysts from a run-in they’d had down in Mexico City and, judging by their expressions, they remembered him as well.

  “This is Gwendolyn Witwicky and Ezra Cook,” Wizard was saying.

  The computer nerds froze like a pair of mice who had just spotted a cat.

  Wizard took in their expressions and said, “Looks like you three already know each other?”

  “We’ve crossed paths,” Noble said.

  “Good,” Wizard said. “You’re going to be working together.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Gwen felt like she had just stepped into a cage with a hungry lion. Jake Noble had been a dangerous fugitive the last time they had met. Gwen and Ezra had been sent to Mexico to apprehend him. It was their first real field assignment, and it didn’t end well. Noble had taken away their guns with the ease of a man reaching for toilet paper and left them stranded. Gwen and Ezra had spent the next six months in the Company doghouse, debugging lines of code.

  They both managed awkward nods in his direction.

  Noble acknowledged them with the barest thrust of his chin. “Give me the short version,” he said. “What do we know about her?”

  Gwen turned to her computer and started rattling off information. “She’s responsible for six deaths that we know of and we suspect her in twelve more. She’s not your run-of-the-mill trigger for hire. She makes all her kills look like accidents. That’s sort of her specialty.”

  “Anything I can’t get from her jacket?” Noble asked and slapped the file down on a nearby desk.

  “We’re working to collate info on her now.” Ezra rapped keys and brought up a number of surveillance photos. “We scoured the streets around the hotel where P. Arthur Fellows was killed and came up with a number of surveillance photos. We showed these images to our guys—”

  “And girls,” Gwen interjected.

  “And girls,” Ezra added, “down in imgint. Based on height, weight, and bone structure, they believe she’s Eastern European.”

  “That narrows it right down,” Noble muttered.

  “She’s also got an ankle tattoo,” Gwen said. She brought up an enlargement on her screen and pointed with her pinkie. “You can just make out the dark mark on her left ankle in this shot.”

  Noble leaned over her shoulder and Gwen edged away. Her heart began a rapid tap dance in her chest. It was like having a jungle cat crouched on her shoulder. “The imgint techs assure us the red hair is a wig,” Gwen managed to say. “You can tell by the—”

  “I’ll take their word for it,” Noble said. He stood up and crossed his arms. “What else can you tell me?”

  “Age anywhere between twenty-six and thirty-three,” Ezra supplied. “Weight approximately one-twenty. Height five-ten. We think she might—”

  Noble cut him off. “I just need to know where to find her.”

  “You start in South Africa,” Wizard rasped. He took a bottle of pills from his coat pocket, shook a pair into his open palm and dry-swallowed. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he went on talking. “I spoke to the Chief of Station down in JoBurg—woman by the name of Hadley—she’s been working that desk for a decade now. Nothing happens down there without her knowing about it. Her intel suggests Angel operates out of Johannesburg, but that’s about all we have.”

  “Johannesburg is a big place,” Noble remarked.

  “We’ve collected surveillance footage from all the major airports along the East Coast,” Wizard said. “Cook and Witwicky are going to walk back the cat, see if they can’t find out when and where the assassin entered the country and then retrace her movements. Hopefully, they’ll have something by the time you land.

  “The boys downstairs in the Alibi Shop are putting together a legend for you as we speak. You’re an American businessman living in Australia. You’ve got a rival you need out of the picture. Think you can handle it?”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard,” Noble said. “Have we reached out to the Secret Service? Found out if P. Arthur Fellows was working on anything that might have gotten him killed?”

  “They’re not cooperating,” Wizard said. “Head of the Secret Service is busy trying to sweep the whole thing under the rug. He doesn’t want the press finding out one of his investigators was a pervert.”

  “Not even if helping us would clear Fellows’s name?” Gwen asked.

  “This is DC,” Wizard said. “No one remembers the retraction, only the headline. I’ll keep trying, but I doubt the Secret Service is going to hand over Fellows’s case files.”

  Gwen shook her head in frustration.

  Wizard handed one of the new surveillance photos to Noble. “Take a good look. That’s your target.”

  Noble held the photo up to the light and chewed the inside of one cheek.

  “And remember, this operation is eyes only,” Wizard said.

  “What’s the op name?” Gwen wanted to know.

  “mousetrap,” Wizard supplied. It was impossible to know if he had already run it through the database that assigns random code words or came up with it on the spot. He turned to Noble. “You’re wheels-up in ninety minutes. Head downstairs to the Alibi Shop to collect your ID and pocket litter.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Hadley has arranged everything. There’ll be a package waiting for you at the hotel in Joburg.”

  Noble nodded and let himself out of the room. When he had gone, Wizard turned to Ezra and Gwen. “Keep a close eye on him.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eliška Cermákova stood under a hot shower, letting the warm water relax her aching muscles. She arched her back and ran her head under the spray. It was good to be out of the wig. When she had used up every bit of hot water, she twisted the knobs and reached for a towel. She had flown out of Dulles International before P. Arthur Fellows’s death had even hit the morning edition and hopscotched around the globe until she made her way back to Johannesburg.

  She lived in a modest farmhouse northeast of the city on a few acres of mostly undeveloped land. It was a rugged affair, with flagstone floors and exposed beams. The furniture was all secondhand and, except for the kitchen, in a generally sad state. An assortment of wigs, makeup, and a few prosthetics filled a spare bedroom. Eliška had a card that listed her as a member in good standing with the South African film industry. The few neighbors within visiting distance were under the impression that she worked in wardrobe design, which explained her odd hours and long absences.

  A wolf dog provided security. When Eliška wasn’t home, he lived on field mice and jackrabbits. She hadn’t bothered naming the beast, knowing one day she would leave and not come back. But the dog was always happy to see her and it was nice having someone to come home to.

  Eliška dried her hair, wrapped the towel around herself and walked into the living room, where patio doors looked out over rugged scrubland. The sun was a bright-orange disk in the west. Dust motes danced in the spill of warm sunlight. The wolf dog trotted past the doors with his tail in the air and his nose down, on the trail of a curious scent.

  She did a cursory check of the mail. The house was owned by one of her fake identities and rented out to another, so it was mostly junk and circulars. She tossed the whole pile into the bin, opened the refrigerator, and poured herself
a glass of dark-red wine.

  Her first instinct had been to fly to Prague directly and check on Papa, but her employer probably had eyes on the old man. He would expect her to do just that. Instead, Eliška had returned home while she worked out a plan. She needed to keep the American off-balance.

  She carried her glass into the living room and covered the ratty sofa with her towel before sinking into the soft leather. She had spent the whole flight considering her next move. Now she went over the plan in her head. It wasn’t perfect. There were a lot of moving parts—a lot could go wrong—but it was the best she had. She put her glass down on the coffee table, reached for the burner phone and dialed the preset number.

  Bob picked up after a dozen rings. “I was wondering when you’d be calling. I saw the papers. Good work, as usual.”

  “I want the rest of the money and then I’m out.”

  “A deal’s a deal,” the American told her. “Meet me at the café. I’ll be there in two hours with the rest of your wages.”

  “Tonight is no good,” Eliška told him. “I’ll be there tomorrow at noon.”

  He hesitated only a fraction of a second. “That works for me.”

  Eliška hung up without saying goodbye.

  A laptop sat on the scarred oak coffee table. Eliška booted the machine, opened a web browser, and brought up a series of websites. She was searching for something very specific.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lucas Randall sat beneath the shade of an umbrella, sipping coffee loaded with cream and sugar from a ceramic mug. The South African sun beat down, turning the sidewalks into shimmering white mirages that played tricks on the eyes. April is a fall month in Johannesburg, when the heat of summer gives way to milder temperatures and cool nights, but the elevation and a subtropical climate keep the UV index high.

  Randall wore a linen suit, hat, and shades to protect his skin from the brutal sunlight. A phone lay on the table next to his coffee cup. He scanned a newspaper article about redistribution of farmland as reparation for apartheid being proposed by the South African government, while keeping one eye on the street. A gleaming black Cadillac backed into a parallel spot and the driver’s side door hinged open. Randall brought the paper up to cover his face and peered over the top. A tall blonde in a short red skirt, thick denim jacket, and Jackie O. sunglasses climbed out. She was hard to miss, even from half a football field away. Randall lifted the phone and dialed. He heard the connection and said, “Blonde hair. Red miniskirt.”

  Cermákova looked both ways before starting across the boulevard. She was in the middle of the street when a Ford Explorer swung out into traffic and gunned the engine. The assassin glanced over her shoulder in time to see the SUV barreling down on her. She disappeared under the front grille with a muffled thump that got lost in the high-pitch scream of terrified onlookers. The Explorer hurtled through the intersection, mowing down two more pedestrians. An unlucky bicyclist went sailing over the hood, limbs splayed out like an aerial acrobat before crash-landing in a heap on the asphalt.

  The crowd at the outdoor café stood up with a collective gasp. Several people had their phones out, dialing emergency services. One woman broke down in hysterical sobs. Traffic backed up as motorists got out to administer first aid.

  The blonde in the red miniskirt lay in a tangle of shattered limbs with her head turned the wrong way on a broken neck. The Jackie O. sunglasses had landed in the gutter. Blood pooled around her mangled body and her face was fixed in a frozen scream.

  Randall lit a cigarette as he strolled away from the café. That took care of Cermákova. He didn’t feel particularly good about the death of Fellows, or the assassin for that matter, but you have to set the world on fire if you want to reshape it. And that’s exactly what Randall meant to do—set the world on fire so he could remold it closer to the heart’s desire. Fellows and Cermákova were simply the first two dominoes in complex effort to lead humanity into a better tomorrow. Sacrifices had to be made.

  Randall left the shopping arcade and cut across two blocks to a waiting Jeep Cherokee. Eric Veers was in the driver’s seat with his jaw set and his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He was a former Bundesmarine Captain with short-cut hair slowly turning to grey and deeply tanned skin. He waited for Randall to shut the passenger door before motoring away from the curb.

  Sirens were blasting in the distance.

  Eric spoke German. “It’s done?”

  “It’s done,” Randall told him.

  “And the driver of the van?” Eric asked.

  “A two-bit hood,” Randall said. “Can’t be traced back to us, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “That’s not what’s bothering me,” Veers said. “I didn’t sign on for murder.”

  “She was a cold-blooded killer,” Randall told him. “The world is a better place without her.”

  “And the American policeman?” Veers asked.

  “Secret Service agent,” Randall corrected him and then said, “Collateral damage.”

  Veers shook his head as he piloted the Jeep through traffic. “I hope we’re doing the right thing.”

  Randall rolled down his window, stuck his cigarette out and flicked ash. “Don’t go soft on me, Eric. Not now. We’re at the five-yard line, man. In a few days, the world is going to be a very different place.”

  “You know I’m on board,” Veers said. “Just promise me no more law enforcement. We’re supposed to be the good guys, remember?”

  “It’s all over now,” Randall told him. “The wheels are in motion.”

  “We still have a lot of cargo to move,” Eric reminded him.

  Randall shrugged. “The hard part is done.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jaqueline Armstrong was in the back seat of a black Lincoln Towncar headed west across the Potomac toward Langley. The rain had finally let up and the sun poked through banks of iron-grey clouds. Armstrong had her hair up and held in place by a plastic clip. A pencil-stripe skirt revealed a pair of toned thighs. She was somewhere over forty, under fifty, and looked younger than her age, but crow’s feet were starting around her eyes.

  She had just finished briefing the president on a possible defector inside the Iranian regime. The commander in chief was enthusiastic about the potential intelligence coup but hesitant to greenlight a crossing. In the end, they had decided to run the agent in place as long as possible, which wouldn’t be too long. The radical factions running Iran were paranoid about security, but Armstrong had promised to do her best.

  A stack of newspapers lay on the leather seat next to her. The head of her personal security detail, Duc Hwang, had picked them up while she was in the Oval Office. The New York Times was running a story about a Secret Service officer who had accidentally hanged himself. Armstrong tossed that aside. Underneath, she found an Investor’s Business Daily with the headline, “billionaire investment banker shorting the us dollar.” She folded the paper over and scanned the article.

  “He must know something I don’t,” she muttered.

  Duc glanced in the rearview. He was a squat Korean with jet-black hair and a beard that stuck out like a steel bristle brush. Massive shoulders strained the seams of his black suit jacket. A former Navy SEAL, Duc had made the leap to CIA and ended up on Armstrong’s protective detail. He said, “What’s that?”

  Armstrong shook her head. “I was talking to myself.”

  Duc nodded and returned his attention to the road.

  Armstrong made a mental note to have a talk with her investment advisor. The economy was roaring along and the dollar wasn’t showing any signs of weakness, but economic realities can change faster than the weather. The likelihood the dollar would crash was slim, but stranger things had happened. Armstrong didn’t want her retirement to evaporate if the US dollar tanked.

  Ten minutes later, they passed through the security checkpoints at Langley and Duc piloted the Towncar down the ramp to the garage. He parked and Armstrong folded the IBD under
her arm before riding her private elevator up to seven.

  Her secretary, a legacy named Ginny Farnham, held out a stack of folders marked with a red slash and eyesonly. Farnham’s hair was pulled back in a strict bun and her mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. She greeted Armstrong with the barest of nods.

  Armstrong accepted the stack without a word on her way past. Their relationship was one of polite hostility. Armstrong didn’t like Farnham very much. Farnham liked Armstrong even less, but they were both professionals.

  Armstrong pushed the door to her office open with her hip. The DCI’s private space was lined with leather-bound books lit by track lighting. Double-paned windows looked out over the parking lot and a pair of sofas flanked a low table. A smoke-eater hummed in one corner. Armstrong dropped the pile of folders on her desk, kicked off her shoes, and started at the bottom of the stack. She had been doing this long enough to know Farnham would shuffle the most pressing business to the bottom just to make life difficult. Sure enough, she found two urgent communiqués from agents in North Korea and a sticky note about Cook and Witwicky.

  Leaning back in her seat, she gazed up at the ceiling and tried to place the names. She had over five thousand employees under her command at Langley and twice that number overseas. Then it struck her—the Sacha Duval affair. Cook and Witwicky had blown the case wide open. They would both be up for intelligence commendation medals if they hadn’t also broken into the CIA mainframe in the process.

  Armstrong made a few calls and learned that Wizard had personally requested the analysts for an intelligence-gathering operation codenamed mousetrap. She buzzed Dulles’s interior line and waited for him to pick up. “Al? Can I see you a minute?”

  He arrived in her office seconds later, a five-foot-seven smoking vulture in a black suit with stooped shoulders.

  She didn’t bother to mention the cigarette. Armstrong was a smoker and kept the machine running to clean the air. She waved him to a seat. “Got a notice from Moberly says you poached Cook and Witwicky for a new project?”