Ice Cold Kill

by Dana Haynes

  Daria knelt, fists pressed against her thighs, eyes hot with tears, a pool of the doctor’s blood spreading around her bare right knee.

  “It’s Asher,” she said, her voice tight with rage. “He’s the God of Mischief’s most ardent acolyte. Fuck his soul. Of course it’s possible.”

  Twenty-one

  It was well after 3:00 A.M. French time. Owen Cain Thorson and the CIA strike team code-named Swing Band had reported the information regarding the assault on the French factory, the official identification of Daria Gibron at the scene, and the discovery of a biological weapons program inside the factory.

  The consensus at Langley was that the Group of Eight Summit in Avignon was elevated to Likely Target Number One. Heads of state were expected from the United States as well as the United Kingdom, France (this year’s host), Spain, Japan, Germany, Russia, and Italy. The European Union would be represented but was prohibited from hosting. The participants represented the world’s eight greatest economies—except, of course, they didn’t, since neither China nor Brazil was invited. Politics by definition isn’t fair.

  All summits like this one have preplanned beta sites and gamma sites: Plan B and Plan C.

  The call went from Swing Band to Nanette Sylvestri, and from her to Stanley Cohen, and from him to the White House Chief of Staff, and from her to the United Nations. And within thirty minutes of Thorson’s first call, summit organizers began to upstake and move the whole event to Majorca, the third, or gamma, site. The media was not yet informed, and most of the world leaders would hear about the new venue while en route.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Céline Trinh’s people had maneuvered the arachnoid robot with its long, flexible gooseneck cameras into the factory. They transmitted low-light images of medical equipment, body bags, and a sophisticated metal canister and cooling element. Numbers and letters on the tank were written in Tagalog, one of the primary languages of the Philippines.

  The Pegasus-B superflu became the primary focus of every law enforcement, military, and intelligence agency in Europe. And all of it began to vector on the international conference on the Mediterranean island of Majorca.

  France, The Countryside

  Belhadj drove them to a farmhouse and reconnoitered while Daria knelt in the back of the DCRI van, next to the dead pathologist, hands on her thighs. She fell asleep vertical; a trick she had learned in urban foxholes in Gaza and Beirut.

  When Belhadj returned to the van, Daria awoke fully a second before he touched the door; the auto in her fist before the door opened.

  She still looked like death on a tough day.

  Belhadj studied her, kneeling by the cadaver. He jerked his head. “Come.”

  The farm was barely visible from the highway and isolated from all other homes. A two-car garage sat empty and there were no lights on. Belhadj led her into the farmhouse, carrying his messenger bag.

  “Where are we?”

  “South. We passed a cutoff to Dijon twenty minutes ago. I looked around while you slept.”

  Belhadj had reconnoitered and determined that the family was on vacation, caravanning around North Africa. The house was cluttered but clean. The family had a PC on a side table in the dining room with an ancient, pin-feed printer tucked beneath it. The Syrian plugged in the French intelligence flash drive and began printing out the data from the command vehicle.

  Daria stood, still half asleep. Her left leg was tacky with the pathologist’s blood. She found the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stared into the mirror until it fogged over. She couldn’t remember ever being so tired, not in boot camp, or even during her time undercover. She stripped and stepped into the shower. The pathologist’s blood ran pink off her legs, followed by the grit and dust of the factory and the mud of the railroad culvert. She leaned into the stream, letting the hot water pour off her hair.

  She lathered up, rinsed off, and repeated the process. She still felt dirty.

  Asher Sahar had an influenza virus that targeted the Ashkenazi: Western Jews.

  Growing up in Israel, Daria had taken the requisite “Who Are the Jews” classes. She was no expert, but she roughly remembered that the Ashkenazi of Central Europe were culturally different from other groups, such as the Mizhari Jews of North Africa and the Middle East, or the Sephardic Jews of Spain and Portugal. And, she dimly remembered, each group had differing genetics, too. How much different? This, she couldn’t remember. Enough that Asher’s flu could pick out one from the other? Maybe.

  Daria thought she had plumbed the depths of his mania. She thought she had seen him at his worst. Asher, whom she had once loved as a brother, had new levels of perversity she had yet to discover.

  That left her trusting … who? Certainly neither the CIA nor French intelligence. The alphabet soup of agencies she had assisted—FBI, DEA, ATF? The Manhattan imbroglio with the CIA clouded all of those relationships, at least for now.

  Khalid Belhadj?

  At some molecular level, Daria assumed stranger things had happened. Just none she had ever heard of. Belhadj was a Syrian soldier and spy. He was an avowed enemy of Israel and the West. He was the avowed enemy of Daria. Plus, she had shot him. And electrocuted him. Neither of which lends itself as a firm foundation for friendships.

  All true.

  But he also had bested Daria in unarmed combat—the list of people who had done that was short. And he’d brought down an attack helicopter with nothing but a rifle. Not unimpressive.

  He’d fired a tight cluster of shots at the factory roof to warn Daria about the imminent French assault. And he’d stolen a French intelligence command vehicle and had come back to save her.

  He hadn’t needed to do those latter things.

  She stood, watching her own fatigued reflection, mind running in circles.

  My enemy, my ally? Nonsense. It didn’t work like that in the real world.

  She rummaged through drawers and found an old-fashioned straight razor, which scissored into a steel handle. The handle was embossed with a symbol and the word Sevilla. Spanish steel, she thought. She tested it on a washrag and the cotton slit easily. It was sharp.

  Her collection of stolen clothes was filthy. She dried off and padded naked outside to dump them in a garbage can, the straight razor in her right hand. She stood naked, blade in her hand, and stared up at the stars. The crystalline hoarfrost crunched under her bare feet and the stinging, icy cold air in her lungs revived her.

  She reentered the farmhouse. She rummaged about and found a boy’s denim shirt. She set down the razor to button it on. Her hands cramped so badly from lifting the spanners and hauling the pathologist that she barely managed one button and gave up.

  She returned to the kitchen and dining room. The computer desk was empty but the printer basket beneath it was full. She crouched and thumbed through the pin-fed pages sideways—they were connected top to bottom as one long scroll. She saw the DCRI letterhead over and over, along with the faux stenciled TOP SECRET—English had slipped into the French lexicon in such strange ways.

  Daria stood and poured the last of the coffee, holding the coffee cup more for the heat on her palms than for the additional caffeine. She tucked the straight razor behind the coffeepot. She padded silently into the living room. It was dark and quiet.

  She moved to the master bedroom. Belhadj lay atop the blanket, on his back, in his canvas trousers. His gun rested by his thigh. He woke immediately as she entered and blinked at her, but his fatigued brain registered her as nonhostile and he was asleep again in seconds.

  Nonhostile? Daria marveled at the concept. What’s a girl gotta do?

  He’d removed his boots and socks, his sapper jacket and shirt. His upper body was taut, muscled, and well scarred. Her own contributions—an entry wound under his pectoral, two angry red pinpricks near his shoulder—were hardly the only images of violence on the canvas of his torso.

  His breathing deepened. He began to snore gently, mouth open. Daria wondered how many days had passed since Belhad
j had gotten any decent sleep.

  He lay on the right-hand side of the bed. Daria climbed onto the left-hand side and sat on the pillows, knees up, ankles crossed, hands holding the cup that radiated healing heat. She watched him sleep.

  His breathing grew even and deep. The farmhouse gave out the kinds of midnight creaks and moans that older houses will. Daria heard the sounds of a train far in the distance.

  She whispered in Arabic. “Why did you come back for me?”

  His breathing remained deep and sonorous.

  She waited.

  “Thought I lost you…”

  Daria blinked in surprise.

  Belhadj’s breath stopped and his eyes popped open. His fist found the handle of his gun. He rose on one elbow, scanning the dark, confused. He saw Daria sitting on the pillows. “What?”

  Daria gathered her thoughts by pretending to blow cool air over the coffee. “You were asleep. I asked: ‘Why did you come back for me?’ And you said—”

  “Sahar. I thought I lost Sahar.”

  Oh, he remembered all right. He quickly brushed a hand through his already mussed hair. He lay back down, stared up at the ceiling but otherwise didn’t move.

  “You could have gone after him. I’d cut his team considerably. He was on foot.”

  “He had too much of a lead.”

  “You don’t give up easily.”

  “He’s smarter than me.”

  Daria smiled in the dark. “Most foes are smarter than you.”

  He shrugged, accepting the comment on the face of it.

  Daria set the coffee cup on an end table and scrunched herself down the length of the bed. She lay on her back.

  “I don’t—”

  “Shut up,” she ordered. “Sleep.”

  Daria’s head barely hit the pillow before she felt herself drift off. It was a centuries-old soldier’s trick, her body responding to a lifetime’s training. Abandoned orphans learn the same.

  If you get a chance to sleep, sleep. It may be your last.

  Same with food. If you get a chance to eat, eat. It may be your last.

  Both of them were asleep in seconds.

  Maryland

  It was 9:00 P.M. by the time John Broom and Major Theo James got to the major’s house. James introduced him to his wife and two of his children—his eldest daughter was enrolled at Brown, majoring in math. James almost levitated when he told John this, showing photos of his daughter adhered to the refrigerator.

  “We’ve no idea where she gets it,” James’s wife, Ciara, said. She had a lovely Irish accent. Dublin, John thought.

  They excused themselves and went to Theo’s office. There, the major had a computer pre-cleared for access to the mainframe at the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases.

  “Okay.” He shoved up the sleeves of his Notre Dame sweatshirt.

  Ciara O’Brian-James entered, bringing them both glasses of white wine, plus one for herself. “May I…?”

  “Hell, yes!” her husband gestured toward a third chair. He turned to John. “Ciara is the brains of the outfit. I’m the pretty one.”

  John laughed. The couple kissed, holding the kiss a moment, then she sat and smoothed her flower print skirt. “You’re a spy then, John?”

  “I’m an analyst. I have, honest to God, never held a gun in my life. But I am hell on wheels when it comes to deposing people.”

  Ciara hooted a laugh. “That explains it, then. Theo never brings people back here, unless he likes ’em.”

  John sipped his wine. “I have a confession. I did a little research before I met your husband. You teach physics. Your husband was board certified in pediatrics before switching to epidemiology. Your daughter’s majoring in math isn’t really that much of a mystery.”

  Theo James finished logging on and chuckled. “That’s because you weren’t there when we found her beer bongs. She was a bit of a hell-raiser in high school. And who do we have to blame for that?”

  Ciara smiled but copped to nothing.

  Theo slipped on his cheater glasses. “Okay, here we go.… We’re looking up a Soviet biologist, hon. His name came up in something John is investigating.”

  John and Ciara moved their chairs so they could see the computer screen. This was a breach in security, but John didn’t say anything.

  “János Tuychiev. Biologist from Tajikistan. He…”

  The major’s voice faded away.

  John said, “What?”

  “Hmm. He … I don’t know. He disappeared after Putin took power. I’m not seeing where he ended up.”

  The major scrolled down. John pointed at the screen, careful not to actually touch it. He hated when people left fingerprints on his own computer screen. “AISI.”

  “What’s that?”

  John sipped his wine. “Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Interna.”

  Ciara studied him, her green eyes serious. “Sorry?”

  “Italian security.”

  “And you knew that, then, without looking it up?”

  John blushed. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a total nerd.”

  She turned to her husband. “He’s one of your people, love.”

  Twenty-two

  The Middle East

  Almost Twenty-four Years Ago

  The Swellat Bedouin’s Volvo wound through the back streets of the north side of Rafah, past signs of recent aerial bombardment. The girl sat in the back on the torn vinyl seats, straight black hair held back by a rubber band. Her eyes were very dark and very round. She never made a sound.

  The Swellat did not speak to her. She did not think to ask him any questions. She did not know him. She did not think he was here to help her.

  After a time—she had no idea how long, but maybe hours—the Volvo pulled into a dusty alley. They were well away from the watchful eyes of the Palestinian authorities and the Israeli Defense Forces. No building windows looked out on this particular alley. The only observer was a boy, maybe ten, who sat on a low brick wall and used his fingers to eat koshary out of a cracked bowl.

  The Volvo pulled in, nose first. A Renault, also ancient and rusted out, drew into the alley very slowly, moving the opposite direction. The cars drew nose to nose, and then both drivers killed their engines.

  The girl sat in the back. She turned her head and watched the ten-year-old boy who watched them. His fingers moved mechanically from his bowl to his mouth.

  The driver of the Renault stepped out, a puff of dust—part sand, part concrete from a week’s old bomb crater—rose around his boots. He carried a paper bag, the top folded down many times and twisted tightly.

  The Swellat in the Volvo stepped out. The men met between the grilles of their cars. The boy watched. The girl watched, but she also watched the boy. He was whip-thin and sinewy, and wore ancient Chuck Taylor sneakers and jeans and a once-white Adidas T-shirt.

  His eyes stayed locked on the transaction.

  The Swellat took the folded-over bag and unclenched the top, opening it. He peered in, reached in. His fingertip, when it emerged, was white. The girl thought it looked like the dried, bomb-damaged cement at their feet.

  The Swellat Bedouin sniffed the white powder off his finger. He reacted as if he’d received a slight shock. He nodded. He carefully scrunched down the paper bag again.

  He returned to the car and opened the rear door.

  As the black-haired girl stepped down, she heard the crackle of pottery shattering. She glanced around. The boy hadn’t moved. But his bowl was missing.

  The Bedouin pinched the girl’s stick-thin shoulder and directed her forward. The dust puffed under her grubby sneakers. He positioned her in front of the Renault driver.

  The Swellat said, “Good material, cousin. Yes?” They were the first words he had spoken in the girl’s presence. She understood the Arabic but struggled with his accent.

  The Renault man smiled thinly under an even-thinner mustache. His face was pocked with the results of a caustic explosion, his skin as shi
ny as rubber. “And you wouldn’t cheat me? Cousin?”

  His accent also was foreign to the girl’s ear but different from that of the Bedouin.

  He laughed. “I against my brother, yes? My brothers and me against my cousins. Then my cousins and I against strangers. Are you not my brother today?”

  Renault man laughed. He nodded.

  The Bedouin pinched the girl’s shoulder and pushed her forward two steps. She stared up at the new man, who stared down.

  The Bedouin Swellat returned to the Volvo, slammed the door as he climbed in. He revved the engine and backed away.

  The girl and the new man stood by the Renault. The man with the shiny red skin smiled down at her. She did not smile up.

  The boy stepped into her line of sight. He addressed the driver. The driver sneered down at him.

  “All praise to God,” the boy said, stepping closer, his left hand extended, palm up.

  “Fuck off, beggar,” the man said. He pulled his arm up as if to backhand the boy.

  “Sir, have you—” The boy continued, then jumped forward, whipped his right hand around from behind his back. He jammed a pie-wedge shard of bowl through the man’s shiny cheek.

  The little girl shrieked.

  The driver screamed and stumbled back against the hood of his car. Blood flowed. It was strangely, artificially red against the white dust of the alley. The boy grabbed the girl and ran. The girl weighed nothing and the boy was strong and fleet. He guided her quickly down the alley, hooked a left into another, narrower alley, dashed through a nest of vendors, down yet another alley, to a hiding place behind a tobacconist.

  The little girl shuddered. Her eyes were huge and black.

  “Are you okay?” the boy tried in Arabic. The girl stared at him.

  “Are you okay?” This time in Hebrew.

  She nodded.

  “My name is”—the boy hesitated—“not important.”

  “Why did you help me?”

  The boy glowered. “I know his kind. I know what they sell children for. Look, there are tunnels to Egypt. I know them. Better than anyone. There’s a man on that side. He used to be a librarian. When there were libraries. He can keep you safe.”