by Daniel Silva
He had a curious desire for Astrid’s approval, but when he went below and tried to wake her, she just mumbled that her name was Eva Tebbe, and she was a graphic artist from Berlin, and to please stop slapping her.
He left her in the early afternoon, pedaling her bicycle through Amsterdam with his laptop computer slung over his back. He locked the bike outside a telephone center near the Rijksmuseum and went inside. He entered a booth, hooked up his computer, and worked the keys for a few moments. He had one piece of electronic mail. He opened the mail, and it came onto the screen as gibberish. He entered his code name, and the message appeared in clear text.
CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SUCCESSFUL COMPLETION OF YOUR MISSION IN CAIRO. PAYMENT HAS BEEN WIRED INTO YOUR NUMBERED ACCOUNT. WE HAVE ONE ADDITIONAL ASSIGNMENT FOR YOU. IF YOU ACCEPT YOU WILL BE PAID ONE AND A HALF MILLION DOLLARS, HALF IN ADVANCE. TO ACCEPT, PRESS THE ENTER KEY. PAYMENT WILL AUTOMATICALLY BE FORWARDED TO YOUR ACCOUNT AND A DOSSIER AND OPERATIONAL DETAILS WILL BE DOWNLOADED ONTO YOUR COMPUTER. THE FILE WILL BE ENCRYPTED, OF COURSE, AND YOUR CODE NAME WILL UNLOCK IT. IF YOU WISH TO DECLINE, PRESS ESCAPE.
Delaroche looked away from the screen and thought for a moment. With that fee, he would have an extraordinary amount of money, more than enough to guarantee comfort and security the rest of his life. He knew it was not without risk, though. The assassinations would grow more difficult—Eric Stoltenberg was proof of that—and now he was being asked to carry out another killing. He wondered too whether Astrid could go on; the confrontation in Cairo with Stoltenberg had taken a heavy toll on her. Delaroche realized, however, that Astrid’s life was now tied inexorably to his. She would do what he wanted her to do.
He pushed the ENTER key. The file downloaded onto his laptop over the high-speed modem. He glanced at the dossier and shut down the computer. He knew the man; he had confronted him once before.
He put away the computer and dialed his bank in Zurich. Herr Becker came on the line. Yes, two deposits had been made to the account: one for a million dollars, a second for three-quarters of a million moments ago. Delaroche instructed Becker to wire the money to the Bahamian accounts.
He left the telephone center and went out to collect Astrid’s bicycle. A thief was working the lock. Delaroche politely informed him that the bicycle was his. The thief told Delaroche to fuck off. Delaroche drove a foot into his kidney. As he rode off on the bicycle, the thief still lay on the ground, writhing silently.
Astrid slept until after sunset. They had coffee in a café near the Krista and walked the canals until dinner. Astrid inhaled the cold clear air of Amsterdam, trying to cleanse her lungs of the dust and smoke of Cairo. Her nerves were brittle from sleeping pills and coffee. A man with gray-blond hair bumped into her. Astrid was reaching inside her bag for her gun before Delaroche put a hand on her arm and whispered that it was nothing, just a stranger in a hurry.
They ate like spent lovers in the restaurant on the Herengracht where Delaroche had taken her the first night. She had eaten nothing in Cairo, so she devoured her own food and most of Delaroche’s. Her complexion, bone white with exhaustion and nerves, took on color with the food and the wine and the night air. He told her over dessert. Her face registered nothing more than mild annoyance, as if Delaroche had informed her he would be working late at the office that evening.
“You don’t have to do it,” he said.
“I don’t want to be without you.”
They made love beneath Krista’s skylight to the screams of skaters on the Prinsengracht. Afterward, Delaroche confessed he had shot down the airliner off New York, along with a Palestinian boy whom he had killed. He told her he believed the men they had killed were involved in the attack as well, or that they somehow knew the truth.
“Who are the men that hired you?” she asked, touching his lips.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You must know they will kill you, Jean-Paul. When you finish the contract they’ll come after you. And me, too.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Where will we go?”
“To our house on the beach.”
“Will it be safe there?”
“It will be as safe as anywhere else.”
She lit a cigarette and blew a slender stream of smoke at the skylight. He reached for his laptop, turned on the power, and punched a few keys. The hard drive whirred, then the image of a dark-haired man appeared on the screen.
“Why does this man have to die?”
“I suspect he knows too much.”
Another image appeared, Elizabeth Osbourne.
“His wife is beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“A pity.”
“Yes,” Delaroche said, and he closed the laptop.
33
SHELTER ISLAND, NEW YORK
Michael made the last ferry of the night. For a few moments he stood at the rail in the cold air, but the wind and sea spray drove him back inside the rented Buick from JFK. He had called Adrian Carter from the Long Island Expressway and told him he was back in the country. Carter wanted to know where the hell he had been. Michael said he would come to headquarters tomorrow afternoon and explain everything. When Carter demanded an explanation now, Michael lied and said the cellular connection was bad and hung up. The last thing he heard was Adrian Carter uncharacteristically screaming obscenities as he replaced the phone in its cradle.
Rollers broke over the prow, dousing the windshield. Michael flicked the wipers. The lights of Cannon Point burned across Shelter Island Sound. The images of the last weeks played out in his mind—Flight 002, Colin Yardley, Heathrow, Drozdov, Muhammad Awad, Eric Stoltenberg, Astrid Vogel, October. They were like pieces of a melody he could not complete. He was certain the Sword of Gaza had not carried out the attack. He believed it was the work of another group, or individual, which did it in the name of the Sword of Gaza. But who? And why? October was a contract killer only; if he were involved it would be at the behest of others. The same was true of Astrid Vogel; the Red Army Faction had neither the resources nor the motive for staging the attack. Michael suspected he knew the truth, or at least part of it: The man called October had been hired to eliminate the team that carried out the attack.
The ferry docked at Shelter Island. Michael turned over the engine and drove off. Shelter Island Heights was deserted, shops and Victorian cottages dark. He sped along Winthrop Road, through a tunnel of leafless trees, and skirted the edge of Dering Harbor. In the summer the harbor was filled with sailboats; now it was deserted except for the Athena, bobbing at her mooring in the whitecaps off Cannon Point.
Michael also suspected he had been the target on the Channel ferry, not Muhammad Awad. Who was the man beneath the balaclava? Was it October? He had seen October use his gun, in person on the Chelsea Embankment and on videotape, and it didn’t appear to be the same man. He had to assume he was still a target, and he had to consider the possibility they now would send October, one of the world’s best assassins, to do the job. He would have to tell Carter and Monica Tyler everything; he needed their protection. He would tell Elizabeth everything too, but for very different reasons. He loved her more than anything else and he desperately wanted to regain her trust.
Cannon Point appeared before him. Michael stopped at the security gate, lowered his window, and entered the code. The gate rolled open, and lights came on in the caretaker’s cottage. Michael drove slowly up the long gravel drive. A clan of white-tailed deer, snacking on the dead grass of Cannon’s broad lawn, looked up and eyed Michael warily. He saw a shaft of light and heard dogs barking. It was only Charlie, the caretaker, walking toward him, retrievers yapping at his heels.
Michael shut down the engine and got out. Lights came on in the main house, and the door swung open. He saw Elizabeth framed in the light, shrouded in one of the senator’s old coats. She stepped outside, watching him, arms folded beneath her breasts. Wind blew hair across her face. Then she came to him in a few careful steps and hurled herself a
gainst his body.
“Don’t ever leave me again, Michael.”
“I won’t,” he said. “God, I’m so sorry.”
“I want to talk. I want you to tell me everything.”
“I’ll tell you everything, Elizabeth. There are things you need to know.”
They talked for hours. Elizabeth sat on the bed, knees beneath her chin, fidgeting with an unlit Benson & Hedges. Michael roamed and paced, now sitting at her side, now staring out the window at the waters of the Sound. True to his word, he told her everything. He felt the tension release with the unburdening of each secret. He wished he had never kept things from her in the first place. He always told himself it was for Elizabeth’s protection, but he realized now that was only part of the truth. He had lived a life of secrets and lies so long he knew no other way. Secrecy was like a disease, an affliction. His father had caught it, and it had driven his mother mad. Michael should have avoided the same mistakes.
She was silent for a long time after he finished. Finally she said, “What do you want from me?”
“Forgiveness,” he said. “Forgiveness and understanding.”
“You have that, Michael.” She put the unlit cigarette back in the pack. “What’s going to happen tomorrow at Langley?”
“They’re probably going to put a loaded forty-five in front of me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to be in serious trouble. I may not survive it.”
“Don’t toy with me, Michael.”
“There isn’t a lot of work out there for disgraced spooks.”
“We don’t need the money. You can take some time off and do something normal for the rest of your life.” She saw the impact of her words on his face and said, “God, Michael, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“There’s just one thing I want to do before I go. I want to know what really happened to that jetliner. I want the truth.”
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set ye free, eh, Michael?”
“Something like that.”
“Is she gone?”
“Is who gone?”
“Sarah. Is she gone?”
“She was never there to begin with.”
“That’s clever, Michael, but answer my question.”
“Sometimes, I’ll think about what happened to her. But I don’t love her, Elizabeth, and I don’t wish she were lying there instead of you.”
A tear rolled down her face. She punched it away and said, “Come here, Michael. Come to bed.”
She lay in his arms for a long time, crying. He held her until the shaking stopped. She looked up at him, face damp, and said, “Mind if I tell you a little about my day now, darling?”
“I’d love to hear about your day.”
“Four of the eggs fertilized. They implanted them this morning. I’m supposed to take it easy for a couple of days. They’ll do a pregnancy test and see if it worked.”
He laid the palm of his hand on her stomach. She kissed his mouth.
“Michael Osbourne, that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in weeks.”
“It’s the first good news I’ve had in weeks.”
She trailed a finger through his hair. “Will they come for you?”
“I don’t know. If I’m out, I’m no threat to them anymore.”
“Will you quit tomorrow? For me?”
“I don’t think I’m going to be given a choice.”
“And the truth shall set ye free,” she said.
“Amen.”
34
CYPRUS
The small Gulfstream jet sat on the isolated runway, engines whining in the darkness. The pilot was named Roger Stephens, a former officer of the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm who was decorated in the Falklands War. He now worked for the Transport Section of the Society. As he mechanically went through the preflight checks, Stephens was missing one crucial piece of information: a flight plan. The passengers, a man and a woman, were supposed to supply that on boarding. He assumed it would be a long flight, though; he had been ordered to take on a full complement of fuel.
Thirty minutes later a black Range Rover turned onto the runway and headed toward the Gulfstream at high speed, headlights dark. It stopped at the foot of the stairway, deposited two people, and sped quickly away. Stephens had flown several missions for the Society, for which he was well compensated, and he knew the rules. He was not to look at the faces of the passengers, nor was he to speak to them. The arrangement suited Stephens fine. The Society and the men they employed were a rough lot, and he wanted as little to do with them as possible.
The passengers boarded the plane and took their seats. A black nylon duffel bag had been left on board for them, and the refrigerator was well stocked with food and wine. Stephens heard the rip of a zipper, the metallic crack of an experienced gunman checking the action of an automatic weapon, the pop of a champagne cork, the murmur of a woman speaking German-accented French.
A moment later the man entered the cockpit and stood behind Stephens.
“The flight plan,” he said simply.
The language was English with a vague accent Stephens could not quite place. The flight plan was thrust before his face, along with a silenced Beretta handgun.
Stephens took the flight plan.
Delaroche said, “Stay in the cockpit, and don’t look at either one of us. If you look at us, I’ll kill you and land the plane myself. Do you hear me?”
Stephens nodded. A chill ran down the back of his neck. Delaroche left the cockpit and took his seat in the passenger compartment. Stephens reached back, without turning around, and closed the cockpit door.
A moment later the engines fired and the Gulfstream lifted into the Mediterranean night.
35
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Michael always thought environmentalists would have a field day with Monica Tyler’s office. Perched on the seventh floor, it was large and airy and overlooked the trees along the river. Monica had scoffed at the idea of decorating her lair with government furniture and had brought her own from her New York office instead: a large mahogany desk, mahogany file cabinets, mahogany bookshelves, and a mahogany conference table surrounded by cozy leather chairs. Trinkets of ivory and silver were scattered about, and fine Persian rugs covered much of the ugly gray-blue government carpeting. One wall was dedicated entirely to photographs of Monica with famous people: Monica with James Beckwith, Monica with Director Ronald Clark, Monica with a famous actor, Monica with Princess Diana. In the notoriously camera-shy world of intelligence, Monica was a veritable cover girl.
Entering the room, Michael smelled cofffee brewing—a rich dark Italian or French roast—and from somewhere he could hear quiet orchestral music. Adrian Carter arrived next, looking very hung over. He sniffed at the air, smelled the coffee, and frowned. Monica arrived last, five minutes late as usual, followed by Tweedledee and Tweedledum, each clutching a leather folder.
They sat at the conference table, Monica at the head, the factotums at her right hand, Michael and Carter at her left. A secretary brought a tray of coffee and cream and a plate of dainty cookies. Monica gaveled the proceedings to order by tapping the tip of her stiletto gold pen on the polished surface of the table.
“Where’s McManus?” Carter asked.
“He had to go downtown to the Hoover Building on an urgent matter,” Monica said tonelessly.
“Don’t you think the FBI’s representative to the Counterterrorism Center should be sitting in on this meeting?”
“Anything the FBI is required to know will be passed on to them in due course,” she said. “This is an Agency matter and will be dealt with as such.”
Carter, unable to hide his anger, gnawed on the nail of his forefinger.
Monica looked at Michael. “After the incident on the ferry you were ordered to return from London immediately and report to headquarters. You disobeyed that order and went to Cairo instead. Why?”
“Don’t be a smartass. You’re in enough trouble as it is. What did you learn in Cairo?”
Michael placed the photographs given to him by Muhammad Awad on the table and turned them so Monica could see. “Here’s Hassan Mahmoud, the man found dead in the Whaler, meeting with a man named Eric Stoltenberg in Cairo a few weeks before the attack on the jetliner. Stoltenberg is former Stasi. He worked in the department that supported national liberation and guerrilla groups around the world. He’s freelance now. Muhammad Awad, before he was shot on the ferry, said Mahmoud had joined forces with Stoltenberg.”
“Two men having coffee in a Cairo café is hardly proof of a conspiracy, Michael.”
Michael held his temper. Somewhere during her ascent to the top, Monica had mastered the art of derailing her opponent in mid-thought with a barb or a shallow contradiction.
“I went to Cairo because I wanted to talk to Stoltenberg.”
“Why didn’t you pass on the information to Carter at the Center and let someone from Cairo Station handle it?”
“Because I wanted to handle it myself.”
“At least that’s honest. Continue.”
“By the time I got to Cairo, Stoltenberg was dead.” Michael dropped a photograph of Stoltenberg’s ruined face on the table. Carter looked away and winced. Monica’s face remained placid. “He was shot three times in the face, just like Hassan Mahmoud, just like Colin Yardley.”
