by Dale Brown
“Breathe, please.”
He took a deep breath and held it.
“Again… one more time.”
“Enough with the damn breathing!” he yelled, slapping the doctor’s stethoscope away. “Give me the shots!”
The doctor stepped back, surprised, frightened.
Where did the bastard keep the drugs? He could get them himself.
He needed the serum, and the pills. The pills were for every day; the injections lasted longer.
There were other doctors who would supply him; he knew there were. It was only because of the perverse machinations of the Directors that he had to come to Nudstrumov.
A reminder of who was in control. As if he needed one.
Dr. Nudstrumov stepped over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He placed a metal case on the top of his desk and opened it. There were three hypodermic needles inside.
“Roll up your sleeve, please,” he said, taking one of the needles.
There was a knock on the door.
“Everything is fine,” said the doctor. “Please see to the patients.”
“Doctor?” said one of the nurses.
“It’s fine. Please see to the patients.”
The doctor took a small antiseptic wipe and cleaned a spot on his arm. A second later the long, thick needle plunged through his skin.
Warmth began spreading through his body immediately. By the time the third shot had been administered, he was back to his old self.
Not his old, old self, whatever that was. Back to what passed for normal now.
The doctor said nothing for a few minutes, returning the needles to the box, then tossing his gloves into a waste can at the side of the room.
“Do you think about the changes?” the doctor asked, sitting down.
“I don’t think at all.”
“The progression. It’s a downward slope. There’s going to come a point…”
Dr. Nudstrumov’s voice trailed off. He stared at the man he knew by many names, though he called him only Herr Schmidt.
“Do you shake when you take the pills?” the doctor asked finally.
“They have no effect.”
“I’m going to give you something to calm the shakes, and the pain.” Dr. Nudstrumov pulled over his prescription pad. “It’s not—it won’t have the effect on your metabolism that the shots have. It won’t restore you. But when you feel things getting bad, you can have some relief. It’s a sedative. You should be careful driving.”
He took the prescription without comment.
“I remember that first week,” said the doctor, his voice tinged with nostalgia and pride. “How we had to fight to keep you alive.”
“I don’t appreciate your sentimentality,” said the Black Wolf, rising and striding toward the door.
12
Fuggire, Italy
Nuri had barely enough time to pull out the mace as the dog charged into the room, saliva lathering from its mouth. His fingers were misaligned and much of the spray shot sideways. The dog’s teeth clamped around his left arm.
Nuri sprayed again, then smacked the dog in the snout. The animal let go, howling.
Off balance, he grabbed at the animal and fell to the side, tumbling against an upholstered chair. He reached into the fanny pack for one of the syringes. The dog tried to push itself away, snarling and shaking its head, crying, disoriented, and hurting at the same time.
It was a large mastiff. More pet than watchdog, it lacked a true killer’s instinct—fortunately for him. He grabbed a syringe, pulled the plastic guard off with his teeth and plunged the needle into the animal’s rump.
It whimpered, then crumpled over on its side.
Nuri swung his legs under him and grabbed for his pistol, sure the commotion would bring one of the mafia don’s guards in any second. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat.
He heard something squeaking behind him. He spun quickly before realizing the noise was coming from the earphone, which had fallen out.
No one was coming, or if they were, they were taking their time.
“What’s going on?” hissed Flash.
“I’m OK,” said Nuri.
“What happened? I heard you grunting.”
“There was a dog.”
“MY-PID didn’t say anything about it.”
“Are you looking at the image?”
“This screen is so small—I can see it now.”
“Tell the computer it has to scan for dogs—for anything living,” said Nuri, realizing he’d been too precise when he gave it the earlier instructions. “It’s only looking for people.”
“Shit.”
Nuri looked down. As powerful as the gear aboard the Reaper was, it had its limits.
This was why you always got someone else to do the dirty work, he reminded himself. He got down on his hands and knees, searching for the cap to the syringe. He found it under a marble table. He stuffed it back into his fanny pack, then pulled the dog under the table.
The scent of mace was pretty heavy on the animal, and undoubtedly in the room. There was nothing he could do about it now, he told himself.
Change your plan. Grab the computer and get the hell out. Now!
Nuri got to his feet and walked quickly to the door, pausing near the opening. The music was loud enough to vibrate the floor slightly—a good thing, he thought, slipping down the hall.
The hall led to an outside patio above the pool. Along the way there were two rooms on the right; the office was farther down on the left.
Neither of the doors on the right were closed. Nuri leaned in, glancing around. Both were richly furnished bedrooms. No computers, no people, and most importantly, no dogs.
The office was on the left. The door was locked.
A good sign, he thought.
Until Flash warned him that someone was coming from the pool toward the door.
He slipped back to the first open room on the right, just ducking out of the way as the outside door opened. It was one of the girls; he heard her humming to herself as she walked past him down the hall.
“Coast is clear,” said Flash.
Nuri started out of the room, then stopped as he heard the humming get louder. He slipped back, waiting for the girl to pass. She seemed to take forever, changing her song three times before finally coming past.
He waited another two or three minutes before easing toward the door again. Once more he had to stop mid stride as MY-PID alerted him that another girl was coming in. He stepped back against the wall a few feet from the threshold, holding his breath until she passed—then holding it again as she came back and went outside.
The long day had started to wear on him. He crossed the corridor, mentally cursing everyone—the Italians, the bureaucracy, Gregor, Moreno, even himself. Damned if he wouldn’t have been better just shooting his stinking way inside the compound. The hell with the goddamn Italians and their corrupt justice system, the hell with Reid telling him to work with the FBI, the hell with everything and everybody.
The office lock was easily manipulated with his small pick and spring. He opened the door and slipped inside, ducking down to avoid the window, which was visible from the pool area.
A leather couch divided the room roughly in half. A desk sat on the opposite side, at the very back of the house. Filing cabinets lined the left wall of the office; an open bottle of wine sat on a small bar next to the window on the far side.
A computer screen sat on a low table to the right of the desk. It was attached to an HP computer below the table.
Nuri crawled over on his hands and knees. When he reached the computer, he took out the USB thumb drive with the virus program and pulled the machine out to locate the USB port. He plugged it in, then turned the power on.
If Moreno found the dog drugged, he’d realize there was a break-in. At that point he would most likely assume the office and computers were bugged and tear them apart. Most experts would miss the virus that he was install
ing, but there was a chance they wouldn’t. And besides, Moreno might easily decide to take no chances and simply trash the entire computer.
Which meant he would have to start the upload now.
He got back on his hands and knees and looked for the phone line, aiming to tap in and avoid Moreno’s router, which could slow down the transfer. He found the line, and realized the office was wired with an optical line—something he hadn’t expected, but not a problem. He found the small connection box and went to work, carefully unscrewing the cover and pulling the jack out to expose the wiring. He hooked his own in, then ran it up to the computer’s Ethernet port.
A cursor blinked steadily on the screen. Nuri tapped the six digit access code and the rogue program went to work, flexing the computer’s hard drive at a few hundred megabytes a minute.
He considered the dog problem while the hard drive churned. If he could make it look as if the dog had been poisoned, then the mess in the other room and the dog’s sleeping would seem natural.
Not poisoned, but inebriated.
The bottle of wine. The smell might dissipate the scent of the mace as well.
Nuri glanced at the computer screen. The virus needed another twelve minutes to finish.
He went over and grabbed the wine. The bottle was only about a quarter full, but that would do; the dog was already drugged, after all.
Crouching down next to the desk, watching the computer count down, his anger dissipated. He held the bottle of wine to his nose. It was earthy, a fresh red—probably grown and bottled right here.
Nuri felt himself relaxing, just a little. Things were going well. He’d been right about the mafia don letting his guard down. The party complicated things, but only barely. And the dog—the dog was a chance to show his ingenuity.
The computer beeped. The program was done, and sooner than he’d expected.
Leaning to his right over the desk, Nuri looked through the window toward the pool. Moreno was still floating in the middle of the water, a girl hanging on either side of him.
Not a bad life, Nuri thought. Smuggle some dope into the country from time to time, hire international killers to avenge your grandfather, then float the nights away drinking wine and getting laid.
Nuri pulled over the keyboard and typed a new set of letters and numbers: stndby334*.* The hard drive churned again, implanting the virus deep into the operating system. It would send out fresh information each time the computer was booted. Assuming, of course, that Moreno didn’t realize he’d been bugged.
Curious about what had been uploaded, Nuri followed the command with one for a listing of programs on the hard drive. There were dozens, including a shareware encryption program that he had encountered before. He paged through to the e-mail program and fired it up. It wasn’t even protected with a password.
Then again, how many home computer e-mails were?
Nuri flipped through the most recent bunch. They seemed to concern business, but the details were vague—a ship that would leave port, an airplane flight number, nothing of immediate help. There was also a surprising amount of spam—ads for working at home, better erection pills, and invitations to join dating services.
Spam? Or messages disguised as spam? MY-PID would have to sort it all out.
Nuri closed the program and looked at the Internet cache, examining the list of recent sites Moreno had surveyed. For a guy who could pay for whatever real pleasures he wanted, Moreno sure liked his porn. The cache was filled with images.
“How’s it going?” asked Flash.
“Almost done.”
He paged through, looking for bank account screens. He didn’t see any. But he did find a range of search queries on banks and post offices in Moldova.
Did Moreno have business there?
If so, it wasn’t obvious. The pages left in the queue looked almost random, as if Moreno had been thinking about visiting and was just looking for information.
“Guards are moving around in the little building,” warned Flash. “I think we’re up against a shift change.”
Nuri flipped off the computer. He resisted the impulse to look inside the desk or file cabinets and began crouch-walking toward the door.
He was three-fourths of the way there when he realized he’d forgotten the wine bottle. As he went back for it, he looked through the window and saw one of the girls pulling herself out of the pool.
She wasn’t wearing a top.
She was also heading for the house, as Flash warned a few moments later.
He scooped up the wine bottle and went back to the door to wait for her to pass. But instead of going up the hall as the other girls had, she stopped at the office door and tried the knob.
“Fredo, Fredo,” she called. “La porta—the door is locked.”
She tried the door again.
“MY-PID, locate Alfredo Moreno,” said Nuri.
“Subject is in the pool.”
“Tell me if he moves.”
“Subject is swimming to the western side of the pool.”
Shit.
Nuri reached over to the lock and undid it.
Try it again, he willed the woman outside. But she didn’t.
“Subject is approaching the house,” said MY-PID.
Nuri took out his pistol. The hell with subtlety. He’d just shoot the damn son of a bitch and be done with it all.
“Nuri?” whispered Flash.
“Stand by,” whispered Nuri.
“C’e cosa?” said Moreno, coming into the hallway. The music was blaring behind him. What’s wrong?
“I want more wine,” said the woman.
“You’ve had enough I’m sure.”
“Don’t be a prude.”
Nuri raised the gun. He heard a loud slap outside the door.
Then the woman laughed. Moreno laughed. The woman giggled.
The door opened. Nuri stood against the wall, holding his breath as the pair came into the room. He could smell the chlorine fresh on their bodies.
They went straight for the couch, tumbling over the back.
The girl giggled. Moreno told her that she was beautiful and needed to be made love to. She asked for more wine. He told her first he would fill her up with something more intoxicating. He pulled off her bikini bottom and went to work.
Gun pointed in their direction, Nuri squeezed out from behind the door and backed into the hallway.
The dog was snoring beneath the table where he’d left him. It jerked upward as he poured the wine over its muzzle, but then slipped back down to sleep.
He paused when he reached the French door to leave.
Wouldn’t he be doing everyone a favor going back and plugging the son of a bitch and his whore?
Maybe not the woman, but definitely the mafioso. Who the hell would care?
Only Reid, really. Maybe not even him. The Italians certainly wouldn’t raise a fuss.
The dog stirred.
Time to go, Nuri told himself, and he slipped outside.
13
Washington, D.C.
Zen and Breanna Stockard were one of Washington’s power couples, and while few people would literally trade places with them—Zen, after all, had spent two decades in a wheelchair—they were still envied by many, not least of all because they seemed to have an excellent, even perfect marriage. They supported each other’s careers and worked together to take care of their daughter Teri. While they were only sporadically seen on the political cocktail-dinner circuit, they did get around—Zen had box seats for the Nationals, and Breanna’s position on the board of directors of the Washington Modern Dance Company meant they often attended shows there.
Not a few of which Zen was reputed to sleep through, though no videos of him snoring had yet been posted on the Internet.
But even so-called power couples still took out the garbage: a task Zen assigned himself tonight while Breanna was working on homework with their daughter. Teri’s English Language Arts class was studying Shakespeare, specifical
ly The Merchant of Venice. The language had been scaled back and the theme watered down to make it appropriate for third graders, but it was still an ambitious project.
Teri had won the role of Portia. Two other girls were sharing the part, and to really shine, she needed a judge’s costume to die for. Breanna had many talents, but sewing wasn’t one of them. Still, she was giving it a good try, and not cursing too much, at least not loud enough for her daughter to hear.
Zen wheeled himself outside with the garbage. He loved his daughter dearly, but there were plenty of times when he wished he had a son as well. He could have made a cool sword for Basanio.
Zen wrestled with the plastic top of the can. It never seemed to want to unlatch when he needed it to. That would be an asset, undoubtedly, in a rural area where there were raccoons or even bears prowling for midnight snacks, but in the wilds of the Washington suburbs, it was more than a little annoying. When he finally got it open, he felt as if it was yet another triumph on the day—nearly on par with the passage of his legislation.
Breanna was waiting in the kitchen when he returned.
“How now, fair queen?” Zen asked. “How goeth the princess?”
“The princess is off to bed, awaiting your kiss.”
“Her costume is done?”
“Such as it is.”
“You know we could—”
“Zen, we are not going to hire a seamstress to make it.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” said Zen. He was fudging: he’d been thinking of Anthony, his tailor.
“You spoil her,” added Breanna.
“That’s my job,” said Zen, rolling down the hall to Teri’s bedroom.
Most senators had two homes, one near Washington, D.C., and one back in their home state. Since he represented Virginia, Zen was lucky enough to need only one—though he saw the value in a ready excuse to leave town.
“Hey, Portia, you done for the night?” he asked his daughter as he rolled into her room.
“Uh-huh,” she murmured. “It’s a good uniform.”
“I think they call them judges’ robes.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever,” he mimicked, bending over and kissing her. “Say your prayers?”
