Uncommon Assassins

by F. Paul Wilson

  7:15 P.M.

  Ciudad del Este

  Paraguay

  “Boss, we’ve got a gray Volvo inbound from the north.” It was Zakiri, standing well within the shadow of the apartment’s window. Harry moved to his side, taking the binoculars from him.

  The crowds had dispersed from the street with the setting of the sun—leaving behind the detritus of the red-light district, the neon lights of a distant bar flashing in the gathering darkness. Harry’s binoculars picked out the shivering form of a half-naked young prostitute standing beneath the harsh glow of a streetlight. She was doing her best to look seductive, but it came across as desperation. Couldn’t have been more than thirteen.

  He looked away, re-focusing on his target. Sooner or later, you had to realize you couldn’t save the world.

  He switched on the night-vision, zoomed in on the Volvo as it pulled into a parking space in front of the target building.

  The passenger door opened and a short, balding white man exited, holding a briefcase in his hand. His light jacket did nothing to conceal his growing paunch.

  “I have VISDENT on SKYWALKER,” Harry announced, more for Langley’s benefit than their own. Visual identification.

  The Libyan muscle moved from the shadows, advancing on the white man. Not bad, Harry thought, watching them as the big man flattened SKYWALKER against the hood of his car, frisking him.

  Head to toe, and back again. James Bond movies aside, there just weren’t that many places on the human body from which you could comfortably and quickly draw a weapon. His partner turned his attention to the briefcase, ostensibly checking it for explosives.

  Harry aimed the binoculars at SKYWALKER as they hauled him to his feet, adjusting the focus until he could see the sweat on the businessman’s cheeks. Stay calm, Harry breathed. Stay calm.

  Stay calm, the man called SKYWALKER told himself. It’s what he’d been telling himself ever since this hellish ordeal got started.

  He took a look around as they pulled him to his feet. The street was deserted, except for a few drunks and the hooker. She looked familiar—then again, all Asian girls looked alike to him.

  Anyone but the Arabs. That’s what he’d told them when they’d read him in. He’d do business with anybody but these psycho ragheads. That’s what he’d kept telling them—until the leader of the CIA team had laid his choices on the table.

  Convey the money to Ramzi bin Abdullah, or be outed as a U.S. government informant. In a city like Ciudad del Este, that would have cut his life expectancy to hours. Three or four of them.

  So here he was, working as a courier again. The money was supposed to be from some two-bit Saudi prince—what was his name? Crap.

  The little one pushed open the door of the apartment building and waved the Kimber, motioning him inside. He glanced back to see the big guard still standing by the Volvo. Good choice. There were four more identical briefcases in the trunk of the Volvo. A million each.

  Enough money to have set him free. Leave, go somewhere in Europe, Eastern Europe preferably, out of reach of the blasted CIA. Eastern Europe, a cash economy with women almost as cheap and desperate as Southeast Asia. To start anew.

  Freedom. He licked his lips nervously. It wouldn’t work. The Agency was tracking the bills. How, they wouldn’t tell him.

  Metal on metal behind him, a pistol slide being racked. His heart almost stopped at the sound.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered, instinctively raising his hands. “Please God, don’t.”

  7:23 P.M.

  There was no warning. No time to react. The explosion hammered their eardrums, the sound of a pistol being discharged only inches from the microphone. Han ripped off his headset with a curse, throwing it against the wall. “What’s going on?”

  A second pistol shot followed the first. They could hear SKYWALKER struggling to breathe, hear him cough, a rough, hacking sound. The sound of a man dying.

  Harry’s face hardened, watching the second sentry, by the Volvo. He hadn’t moved, despite the gunshots. He had been expecting them.

  And in that moment, Harry knew—a disconcerting flash of certainty. A sixth sense, warning of danger. “Scratch this,” he announced, “we’ve been played.”

  He saw the look of shock on Han’s face. “Leave the long gun where it is, it’s sterile—nothing to connect it with us. Carter, are you getting this?”

  “What’s your sitrep, EAGLE SIX?”

  “SKYWALKER’s dead and I’m calling an abort on NIGHTSHADE. My authority. They have to know we’re here.”

  “Wait one, EAGLE SIX.” There was no time. Harry moved to the apartment’s dresser, wedging his fingers around the bowed wood, jerking the drawer outward. A small leather attaché case lay inside and he pulled it out, dumping the contents onto the bed. Three envelopes. “Clean passports, Belgian. The entry/exit stamps will be verified by our people if you’re questioned. Standard E&E protocols apply.” Escape and evade. Last resort.

  “Sammy?” The former SEAL looked up from his envelope, his features calm, unruffled.

  “Land. Take the Ponte da Amizada across the border to Brazil.” The Bridge of Friendship. In the Tri-Border Area, the name seemed more ironic than anything.

  Hamid had already disposed of the envelope, shoving the passport into his back pocket. “Sea,” he said without being asked. “Go to ground until daylight, then take the ferry across the Rio Igacu to Argentina.”

  That left him, and he knew without looking. Air, Guarani Airport. He’d fly to São Paulo, and then catch a flight for the Caymans. No trail.

  Han placed a hand on his arm as they moved toward the door. “If anything goes wrong ...”

  He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. The SEAL was the only married man on the team. Married, with twins.

  “You know it,” Harry replied, meeting his friend’s eyes. “Sherri and the boys—they’ll be okay.”

  Police sirens sounded in the distance, confirming his worst fears. They’d been set up.

  “Don’t stay together, whatever you do,” he admonished, tucking his Colt into the inside of his jacket. “And remember—the cops may be dirty—they’re also off-limits. Let’s roll!”

  8:48 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Two months. Two months and three days to be exact. He’d been detached to the Clandestine Service for the duration of NIGHTSHADE. In reality, the fun was only starting—the fun of figuring out what had gone wrong. It seemed disturbingly anticlimactic, Ron thought, leaning back in his office chair.

  “Nothing like the movies, is it?” He looked up to find Kranemeyer standing behind him, staring at the LCD display of his workstation.

  He shook his head. “Has the President been told yet?”

  “That’s happening now—has the money been moved?”

  “That’s a negative,” Carter replied, bringing up an active window. “There you go. All the trackers are online and stationary.”

  “Any chance that Abdullah will be able to detect or disable them?”

  The analyst shrugged. “Not according to the boys at S&T,” he said, referencing the Agency’s Directorate of Science & Technology. “The trackers cost almost as much as the cash they’re supposed to keep tabs on.”

  That got a snort from Kranemeyer. “They were meant for the short term—Abdullah’s going to get them banked and electronic before too much water goes under the bridge. Kiss the bills goodbye.”

  “Another five mil in the al-Qaeda war chest, courtesy of the American taxpayer. Of course, any one of our senators on the Hill would see that as a rounding error.” Carter was feeling sarcastic, and it showed.

  There was silence between the two men for several minutes, and then Kranemeyer cleared his throat. “I know it’s tempting, Ron, but never allow yourself to second-guess the man in the field. Leaving three bodies on Paraguayan soil wouldn’t have accomplished squat.”

  At that moment, Kr
anemeyer’s phone rang with the familiar sound of Jon Bon Jovi’s Wanted Dead or Alive and he stepped away, leaving Carter lost in thought.

  Movement on the screen caught his eye and he focused his attention on the trackers. They were moving. He pulled up the streaming feed from the KH-13 on his second monitor, focusing in on the doorway of the apartment.

  It was the Libyans, the two heavies from before plus three more. Each of them carrying one of the briefcases. Weapons drawn as they moved out into the street.

  Then, behind them. It looked like a woman, the traditional hijab draped over her head and shoulders. Carter tapped a command into his keyboard and the resolution cleared up. Two little boys clung to her hands as they followed the armed men toward one of the parked vehicles.

  No question about it. Ramzi bin Abdullah’s wife Noori was known to them as well. And their sons.

  The sight was strangely unnerving—to see the family of the man they’d been tasked with killing.

  And they were on the move.

  Kranemeyer swept back into the cubicle without so much as a greeting, grabbing up a communications headset off the desk. “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve been overruled,” the DCS announced, his face tense and drawn. “NIGHTSHADE is to proceed at ’all costs’.”

  Carter shook his head. “Who gave that order?”

  “The President himself.” Kranemeyer sighed. “Not that the man has any clue what ’all costs’ means. Probably got it out of some stupid movie. Get me a line to Nichols.”

  8:07 P.M. Local Time

  Westbound on Route 7

  Paraguay

  The Nissan was at least eighteen years old, more proof the CIA had been neglecting its South American operations for far too long. Harry glanced carefully in the rearview mirror of the Agency vehicle, checking for a tail. Nothing.

  He shook his head in disbelief, knowing he was going to have to come up with an answer. Sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath and keyed his headset mike.

  “Seems like I remember a day when there was a gentleman’s agreement with the White House about not micromanaging field ops.”

  “Different administration, Nichols.” Kranemeyer sounded tired, even from four thousand miles away. World weary. “The times they are a-changing. We’ve located a Saudi-flagged Gulfstream IV on the tarmac at Guarani. Got a flight plan filed for the Windward Islands. Odds on, HARROW’s family is headed to meet him there before leaving the country.”

  “What do you want me to do?” It was perfectly obvious, but protocol demanded that he hear the order. No misunderstandings.

  “Collect your team. We’ll do everything we can from here to keep that Gulfstream on the ground until you can mobilize.” There was no indecision in Kranemeyer’s voice. Just a cold, calculating certainty. “Once you’re in position, eliminate HARROW.”

  HARROW. It didn’t even sound like a man’s name. Dehumanize your target. That was always the first rule. Made it easier to carry out the mission.

  “It’ll need to be close in, there won’t be time to set a long-range shot—if they were tipped off, they’ll be expecting a team—protocol, not a single man.” Harry paused, as if weighing his decision. “I’ll do this myself, Han and Zakiri will have enough to do getting out of the country. Have Carter send everything to my phone. I’ll need satellite imagery of the Gulfstream and the surrounding area, security arrangements. The works.”

  There was a long moment before Kranemeyer responded. “We’ll do this your way. Just remember—don’t get caught.”

  That went without saying. It was always the way: if he succeeded, no one would ever know. If he failed, no one was coming for him. No glory in this. He closed the phone without saying goodbye.

  8:23 P.M.

  Guarani International Airport

  Paraguay

  Ciudad del Este was one place where the Golden Rule was still firmly in effect: If you have the gold, you make the rules.

  It had been Carter’s advice. Go straight in, through the front gate. It saved time, if not money.

  Fifteen hundred dollars had gotten him through the security fence, around the metal detector and the scanners. Bribery was a way of life on the triple border. From the look in his eyes, it hadn’t been the first bribe that guard had accepted. But it might be the last.

  There was a Fokker 1000 bearing the logo of Sol de Paraguay taxiing on the runway as Harry strode through the concourse. Probably the biggest plane that could land—Guarani wasn’t more than a mid-sized airport. Most any other part of the world, it wouldn’t have even been dignified with the international designation.

  “What’s my sitrep?” he asked, turning on his headset. The advent of Bluetooth had made the life of an intelligence officer so much easier. People with electronics attached to their ear no longer raised eyebrows. Or invited questions.

  “ETA on HARROW’s family is five minutes,” Carter replied. “Everything is in readiness for your departure. Once HARROW has been eliminated, give me the code Firefly. I’ll release the virus.”

  Harry often wondered if Carter had been a hacker in a previous life. Either way, the Agency was in place to release a computer virus into the Ciudad del Este power grid, focusing on a substation three miles to the south of Guarani. Within ninety seconds of the go-code, the sector would be plunged into darkness.

  We own the night. “Be advised, the satellite window closes in fifteen. We’ll no longer be able to provide real-time updates when that happens.”

  “Fine.” He’d worked without them before. He could do so again. Three storage containers were lined up near the security fence, a Komatsu forklift parked beside them.

  Harry knelt down beside the rear wheel of the forklift, pulling his back-up weapon from its holster. A Kahr PM9, the subcompact semiautomatic was chambered in 9mm Luger. Six shots. Better not be getting into any firefights.

  He tucked the pistol back into the left pocket of his jeans after a moment’s thought, opting to leave it where it was. It was going to be awkward, a weak-hand draw, but he was counting on surprise. It would be his only ally.

  From his crouching position, he could see the Gulfstream parked in front of the hangar. The stairs were pulled up into the fuselage—he could hear the whine of the Rolls-Royce turbofans. This was going to be close—was HARROW going to wait for his family? Was he even onboard?

  The uncertainty of field ops. He stayed where he was, staring out toward where the Gulfstream sat beneath the glare of the airport’s lights.

  Two minutes. Nothing. Harry glanced up to see a pair of cars moving down the access road toward the hangar, with the familiar gray Volvo in the lead. A calm, slow approach—they weren’t looking to draw attention to themselves.

  “You should have eyes on the package, EAGLE SIX,” the voice in his ear intoned.

  “Yeah,” Harry replied, staying his crouch. “I can see that.”

  Forty meters of open ground to cross. No cover. “All you need to do is take out HARROW, do not—I repeat, do not—try to recover the money.”

  He hadn’t intended to. What he didn’t expect were the next words out of Carter’s mouth. “The Paraguayan police have been alerted to the presence of HARROW and the money—he needs to be dead when they arrive.”

  Harry slammed the palm of his hand against the forklift’s tire. “How much time do I have?”

  “Probably ten minutes out. Fifteen, tops.”

  “And you were planning to tell me this when?” he demanded, taking another cautious look around the tire. A bearded man was descending the steps of the Gulfstream, a smile on his face as he approached his family. Ramzi bin Abdullah.

  “No choice, EAGLE SIX. There’s no way you could retrieve the cash, no way were we going to leave it in the hands of terrorists.”

  The desk jockeys always knew better. Always. “Time for me to go.”

  A sound struck his ears—the delighted shriek of a child hoisted in the air by his father. He watched as Abdullah hugged first his sons,
then his wife, the black cloth of her hijab fluttering in the turbulence of the jet engines.

  To kill a man in front of his family ... he’d never done it before. Not like this.

  Focus. Dehumanize. He’s not a man, he’s a target. Just a target. That lie never got old, no matter how many times you told it to yourself.

  He felt the weight of the Colt in its holster on his right hip, the ice-cold bulge of the Kahr in his pants pocket. To kill a man ... no, not a man. Not a father. A target.

  Bile rose in his throat and he choked it back, forcing himself to remember.

  Standing in a Paris morgue a year before, staring down at the stripped, mutilated body of a young woman, a girl really. Aleena, a beautiful name for a once-beautiful girl. Silk of heaven, it meant in the Islamic tradition. They’d found her in the Seine, her body covered with stab wounds, already decomposing.

  She’d been raped—by at least five men, according to DNA results. Including her father.

  Ramzi bin Abdullah.

  Harry ran a hand over his eyes, shuddering at the memory of it. It was like looking into the abyss.

  Time to move. Focus. Think. He was going to need a diversion if he was to have a prayer of escaping. The blackout wasn’t going to be enough, not by itself. He rose from his crouch, spying an oily rag lying on the driver’s seat of the forklift. A T-shirt, actually.

  Acting on a sudden impulse, he ripped it lengthwise, twisting the soiled fabric into a single long strip. He took another look around the forklift and screwed open the cap of the forklift’s gas tank, feeding one end of the rag into the opening.

  His target was still in place, in front of the Gulfstream, one of his little boys in his arms, but it was clear. Time was running short.

  Kneeling there in the darkness, he pulled his Bic lighter from his pocket and depressed the button. He’d never smoked, but you never knew when you might need a good fire.

  A spark and then flame sprang from the tip of the lighter, igniting the cloth. Lighting the fuse.