by Daniel Silva
He fired all eight shots before Delaroche could make the turn onto the bridge.
Seven tore through the trunk and embedded in the rear seat.
The eighth hit the fuel tank, and the Saab exploded.
Delaroche heard the explosion and instantly felt the heat of the burning gasoline. Cars screeched to a halt around him. A young man in a Redskins sweatshirt ran to Delaroche's aid. Delaroche aimed the Beretta at his head, and the man in the sweatshirt fled toward Francis Scott Key Park.
Delaroche leaped out of the car and saw Michael Osbourne running toward him.
He raised the Beretta and fired three times.
Michael Osbourne dived behind a parked car.
Delaroche started toward Key Bridge, but a car, seemingly oblivious of the burning vehicle in the center of the intersection, sped toward him. Delaroche leaped just before impact and tumbled over the windshield.
He lost his grip on the Beretta, and it clattered into the path of the oncoming traffic.
Delaroche looked up and saw Michael Osbourne running toward him. He stood and tried to run, but his right ankle buckled, and he collapsed onto the asphalt.
He struggled to his feet and willed himself forward. His ankle felt as though there were broken glass just beneath the skin. He managed to reach the sidewalk of Key Bridge.
A man stood there, watching the spectacle, holding the handlebars of a poor-quality mountain bike.
Delaroche punched the man in the throat and took the bike.
He climbed onto the saddle and tried to pedal, but when he exerted force with his right foot the pain made him scream. He pedaled with one leg, his left leg, while his right simply rode up and down with the rotation of the cranks.
He turned and looked over his shoulder. Michael Osbourne was running toward him. Delaroche pedaled faster, but between his broken ankle and the poor quality of the bike, Osbourne was gaining on him. Delaroche felt utterly defenseless. He had no weapon and a rattletrap bicycle for transport. To make matters worse, he was injured.
More than anything else, Delaroche suddenly felt rage—rage at his father and Vladimir and everyone else at the KGB who had condemned him to a life of killing. Rage at himself for allowing the Director to force him into this assignment. Rage at himself for failing once again to kill Osbourne. He wondered how Osbourne had known it was him behind the wheel of the Saab. Had Maurice Leroux betrayed him before he killed him that night in Paris? Had the Director betrayed him? Or had he once again underestimated the intelligence and ingenuity of the man from the CIA, the man who had sworn to destroy him? That it would all end like this—with Delaroche on a creaking bike and Osbourne chasing him on foot—was almost laughable. He realized that even if he managed to get away from Osbourne now, his chances of going very far were growing slimmer by the minute.
He turned and looked once more and saw that Osbourne had gained more ground. He forced himself to pedal with both legs, ignoring the pain in his ankle, while he decided what he was willing to do to get off the bridge alive.
Michael slipped the Browning back into the shoulder holster and sprinted across the bridge, pumping hard with his arms. For an instant he was transported back to the Virginia state finals of the mile. Michael had made a brilliant tactical move in the final lap to place himself in perfect position to overtake the leader in the final hundred yards, but when they reached the homestretch he had not had the courage to endure the pain necessary to win. He had become virtually hypnotized by the other boy's back— the fluttering of his jersey in the wind, the lean muscles of his shoulders—as he pulled farther and farther away and broke the tape. And he remembered his father, so furious that Michael had lost that he wouldn't even console him after the race.
He had closed to within ten yards of October.
He had run nearly a mile since dashing from the house. His legs were heavy, his muscles tight from the prolonged sprint. His arms burned, and his throat tasted of rust and blood from gasping for air. He had been pursuing October for years, using all the resources and technical services the Agency had to offer, but it all came down to this, a mind-bending sprint across Key Bridge. This time he was not going to shy away from the pain. This time he was not going to be hypnotized by his opponent's back, pulling farther and farther away. His head leaned back, and he roared like a wounded animal, thrashing at the air with his hands as if trying to pull himself forward.
October was now just a few feet away.
Michael leaped and rode him to the ground with a heavy crash.
October landed on his back, Michael on top of him, sitting on his abdomen.
Michael punched him twice in the face, the second blow splitting the flesh high on Delaroche's cheekbone, then grabbed his throat with both hands and began to strangle him.
He had lost all sense of reason and sanity. He was squeezing October's throat, crushing his windpipe, screaming at him savagely, yet a strange calmness had come over the assassin's face. His blue eyes flickered over Michael, and a vague half smile appeared on his lips.
Michael realized October was deciding how best to kill him. He squeezed harder.
October reached up suddenly and seized Michael's hair with his left hand. He pulled Michael's head toward him and drove the thumb of his right hand into Michael's eye socket.
Michael screamed in agony and released his grip on October's throat. The assassin turned his hands to hatchets and struck Michael simultaneously twice on the temples.
Michael nearly lost consciousness. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, then realized that he was on his back, and the assassin had slipped away from him.
Michael struggled to his feet. October was already standing, feet apart, hands near his face, eyes fastened on Michael's. He spun and delivered a vicious roundhouse kick to the side of Michael's head.
Michael stumbled from the sidewalk onto the roadbed of the bridge, directly into the path of a speeding Metro bus. The driver leaned on the horn. Michael leaped out of the way, into the arms of October.
The assassin crouched and, using Michael's momentum, lifted him over the railing.
Delaroche waited for the sound of Michael's body hitting the water more than a hundred feet below, but there was nothing. He stepped forward and looked down. Michael had managed to grab hold of the base of the railing with one hand on his way down, and now he was dangling over the water. Michael looked up, blood in his mouth, and stared at Delaroche.
The easiest thing to do would be to stomp on his hand until he lost his grip, but for some reason the idea was abhorrent to Delaroche. He had always killed silently and swiftly, appearing from nowhere and vanishing again. Killing a man in this manner seemed somehow barbaric to him.
He leaned down and said, "Let me go, and I will help you."
"Fuck you," Michael said, grimacing.
"That's not terribly wise on your part." Delaroche reached down through the railing and took hold of Michael's left wrist. "Reach up and take my hand."
Michael was beginning to lose his grip on the railing.
"You just killed my father-in-law," he said. "You tried to kill me and my wife. You killed Sarah."
"I didn't kill them, Michael. Other people killed them. I was just the weapon. I'm not responsible for their deaths any more than you are responsible for the death of Astrid Vogel."
"Who hired you?" Michael rasped.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me! Who hired you?"
But Michael's grip was beginning to weaken.
Delaroche took hold of his left arm with both hands.
Michael reached into his jacket with his right hand, withdrew the Browning, and aimed it at Delaroche's head. Delaroche held on to Michael's hand, staring at the gun. Then he smiled and said, "Do you know the story of the frog and the scorpion crossing the Nile?"
Michael knew the parable; anyone who had ever lived or worked in the Middle East knew it. A frog and a scorpion are standing on the banks of the Nile, and the scorpion asks the frog
to ferry him to the other side. The frog refuses, because he is afraid the scorpion will sting him. The scorpion assures the frog he will not sting him; to do so would be foolish, because then both of them would drown. The frog sees the logic of this statement and agrees to take the scorpion to the other side. When they reach middle of the river, the scorpion stings the frog. "Now we both will drown," the frog cries as his body goes numb with the scorpion's venom. "Why did you do that?" The scorpion smiles and says, "Because this is the Middle East."
"I know the story," Michael said.
"We have been locked in this conflict for too many years. Perhaps we can help each other. Revenge is for savages, after all. I understand you were in Northern Ireland recently. Look at what revenge has done for that place."
"What do you want?"
"I will tell you what you want to know most—who hired me to kill Douglas Cannon, who hired me to kill the conspirators in the TransAtlantic affair, who hired me to kill you because you knew too much." He paused. "I will also tell you about the person in your organization who is involved with these people. In exchange, you will provide me with protection and allow me access to my bank accounts."
"I don't have the authority to make a deal like that."
"Perhaps not the authority, but you have the ability."
Michael remained silent.
Delaroche said, "You don't want to die without knowing the truth, do you, Michael?"
"Fuck you!"
"Do we have a deal?"
"How do you know I won't have you arrested the minute you pull me up?"
"Because unfortunately, you are an honorable man, which makes you strangely ill-suited to a business like this." Delaroche shook Michael and said, "Do we have a deal?"
"We have a deal, you fucking bastard."
"All right then. Drop the gun into the river and take my hand before you get us both killed."
40
WASHINGTON * DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
"THE BULLET BROKE SEVERAL OF AMBASSADOR CANNON'S RIBS AND collapsed his left lung," said the doctor at George Washington University Hospital, an absurdly young-looking surgeon named Carlisle. "But unless he suffers some serious complications, I think he's going to be all right."
"Can I see him?" Elizabeth said.
Carlisle shook his head. "He's in recovery now, and frankly he doesn't look great. Why don't you stay here and try to make yourself comfortable. We'll let you see him as soon as he's awake."
The doctor went out. Elizabeth tried to sit down, but after a few minutes she was once again pacing the small private waiting room. Two Metropolitan Police officers stood guard outside the door. She wore a set of light-blue hospital scrubs, because her dress had been stained with the blood of her father and the DSS agent. Maggie and the children were in a separate room. Maggie was remarkable, Elizabeth thought. She had been threatened by an assassin and bound with packing tape, but she refused to let the nurses look after Liza and Jake. Now, Elizabeth needed just one thing. She needed to hear her husband's voice.
It had been more than an hour since Elizabeth's nightmarish escape from N Street. The police had told her what they knew. When the first units arrived, the terrorists had fled, and Michael was alive. Then he disappeared across the back garden, and no one had seen him since. Two minutes later there was gunfire on the Georgetown side of Key Bridge, and a car exploded. The car, a light-gray Saab, had been stolen a moment earlier by a man with a silenced handgun. There were also reports of two men fighting on the bridge. One man dangling over the water. . . . Elizabeth closed her eyes and shivered. She thought, Michael, if you're alive, please tell me.
It was eleven o'clock. She switched on the television and flipped through the channels. The story was everywhere—the local stations and all the cable news channels. No one had any news about Michael. She dug a cigarette from her purse and lit it, smoking while she paced.
A nurse came by and stuck her head in the door.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's no smoking in here."
Elizabeth looked for a place to put the cigarette.
"Let me take that, Mrs. Osbourne," the nurse said gently. "Is there anything I can get you?"
Elizabeth shook her head.
As the nurse went out, her cellular phone rang.
She pulled the phone from her bag and switched it on.
"Hello."
"It's me, Elizabeth. Don't say a word, just listen."
"Michael," she whispered.
"I'm fine," he said. "I haven't been hurt."
"Thank God," she said.
"How's Douglas?"
"He's out of surgery. The doctor thinks he's going to be all right."
"Where are the children?"
"They're here at the hospital," Elizabeth said. "When am I going to see you?"
"Maybe tomorrow. I have something I need to do first. I love you, Elizabeth."
"Michael, where are you?" she asked, but the line had already gone dead.
Rebecca Wells left the Volvo in the long-term lot at Dulles Airport and took a shuttle bus to the terminal. She dropped the keys into a trash can and went into a rest room. She entered a stall and changed clothes, trading her two-piece suit for faded jeans, a sweater, and suede cowboy boots. Finally, she pinned her hair against her head and put on a blond wig. She looked at herself in the mirror; the transformation had taken less than five minutes. She was now Sally Burke of Los Angeles, with a passport and a California driver's license to prove it.
She walked through the terminal to the Air Mexico counter and checked in for the late flight to Mexico City. The next seventy-two hours were going to be difficult. From Mexico, she would travel through Central and South America, changing passports and identities each day. Then she would board a plane in Buenos Aires and go back to Europe.
She sat down in the lounge at the gate and waited for the flight to be called. She tried to close her eyes, but each time she did, she saw the head of the DSS agent explode in a flash of blood.
The CNN Airport Channel was running a news bulletin on the assassination attempt.
The Ulster Freedom Brigade has just claimed responsibility for the attempted murder of Ambassador Douglas Cannon. His two assailants, a man and a woman, are still at large. Doctors at George Washington University Hospital in Washington say Cannon is in critical condition but his wounds are not life-threatening. . . .
Rebecca looked away. She thought, Where in God's name are you, Jean-Paul? She removed the letter he had given her four hours earlier and read it once more. Go to this place. I'll come for you if I can.
The flight was called. She tossed the letter into a trash can and walked to the gate.
41
WASHINGTON
"What should I call you?"
"I use many names, but I was called Jean-Paul Delaroche for the longest, and so I think of myself as him."
"So I'm to call you Delaroche?"
"If you wish," Delaroche said, and pulled his lips down into a frown that was very French.
Despite the late hour, there still was a good deal of traffic on the Capital Beltway, the remnants of Washington's eternal evening rush. Michael turned onto Interstate 95 and headed north toward Baltimore. The car was a rented Ford, which Michael had collected from National Airport after fleeing Key Bridge in a taxi-cab. At first the driver had refused to open the door to a pair of men in suits who looked as though someone had just beaten the daylights out of them. Then Delaroche flashed a stack of twenties, and the driver said that if they wanted to go to the moon, he would get them there by morning.
Delaroche was seated in the front passenger seat, foot propped on the dash. He was rubbing his ankle and scowling at it, as if it had betrayed him. He carelessly lit yet another cigarette. If he was anxious or afraid, he showed no signs of it. He cracked the window to release the cloud of smoke. The inside of the car suddenly stank of wet farmland.
For years after Sarah's murder, Michael had tried to picture her killer in his mind. He supposed
he had imagined that he was bigger than he actually was. Indeed, Delaroche was rather small and compact, with the tightly wound muscles of a welterweight. Michael had heard his voice once before—at Cannon Point, the night he had tried to kill him—but listening to him speak now, Michael understood that he was not one man but many. His accent drifted about the map of Europe. Sometimes it was French, sometimes German, sometimes Dutch or Greek. He never spoke like a Russian; Michael wondered if at this point he could even speak his native language.
"By the way, the gun was empty."
Delaroche sighed heavily, as if he were bored by a tedious television program.
"The standard-issue handgun for CIA officers is a high-powered Browning automatic with a fifteen-shot clip," he said. "After reloading, you fired three shots at me through the front door, four through the windshield, and eight into the back of the Saab."
"If you knew the gun was empty, why didn't you just drop me from the bridge?"
"Because even if I had killed you I had almost no chance of escape. I was wounded. I had no gun, no vehicle, and no communications. You were the only weapon I had left."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I have something you want, and you have something I want.
You want to know who hired me to kill you, and I want protection from my enemies so I can live in peace."
"What makes you think I intend to live up to that bargain?"
"Men don't quit the CIA unless they have principles. And men don't come back to the CIA when their president asks them unless they believe in honor. Your honor is your weak point. Why did you choose this life anyway, Michael? Was it your father who drove you to it?"
So, Michael thought. Delaroche has spent as much time analyzing me as I have him.
"I don't think I would have made the same decision if the roles were reversed," Michael said. "I think I would have let you fall from the bridge and enjoyed the sight of your body floating down the river."
"That's not something to boast about. You are virtuous, but you are also highly emotional, and that makes you easily manipulated. The KGB understood that when they placed Sarah Randolph in your path, and when they ordered me to kill her in front of your eyes."
