The storm clouds had been stacking up in the west all afternoon, even before the executive jet touched down at Barnstable Municipal Airport in Hyannis. Two passengers had gotten off the plane. They wore the standard tourist outfit: shorts, sneakers, high white socks and Hawaiian-shirts. The baseball caps pulled down over their platinum-hued hair and sun-glasses shading their intense blue eyes made it practically impossible to detect the fact that they were identical twins.
Instead of bathing suits and sun tan lotion, each man carried a Finnish-made Jatimatic machine gun and extra ammo magazines in his travel bag. The compact automatic weapon weighed slightly more than four pounds and was designed for close combat. They threw the bags in the back seat of their rental car. The pilot was told they would return in a few hours and instructed to keep his cell phone on.
Forty-five minutes later Mihovil Marzak drove the car along Water Street past the brick buildings of the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. His brother Mirko kept an eye on the GPS and map. Not a word passed between them, but they functioned like two pistons in a twin-cylinder engine.
The Marzaks were Serbian by birth and had come of age during the Bosnian war. As teenagers they had been recruited into the army by their father, an army officer under Ratko Mladic, and instructed in the art of wholesale homicide during the Sbrenica massacre. Until silenced by a NATO bomb, the elder Marzak bragged about the military prowess of his young sons, particularly Mirko, the eldest of the twins by three minutes. The age difference had created an unusual dynamic. Mirko was impulsive, almost rash, and he considered murder both his job and his hobby. Mihovil was equally as deadly, but more contemplative, a reader of poetry.
Despite the personality difference, they worked smoothly together as an efficient killing machine. After they left Bosnia, they capitalized on their skill at inflicting mass casualties, working as killers for hire until Mihovil suggested that they form a firm of their own, Gemini, which specialized in high body counts. For Gemini, a single assassination like this night’s assignment was like stepping on an ant.
At a word from his brother, Mihovil turned onto a residential street and drove past a two-story Victorian style house. The name on the mailbox was Hawkins. A red pick-up truck was parked in the driveway. He turned around and went by the house again, picking a good spot for a stake-out. Then he and his brother drove around the village sizing up escape routes.
The first drops of rain from the fast-moving storm began to splat against the van’s windshield. Thunder rolled in the distance and the rainfall became heavier. The inclement weather sent tourists scurrying for cover, but the twins agreed without saying that the storm was a happy coincidence. The atmospheric fireworks would cover the noise of their work.
They parked diagonally across the street from the Victorian house. A light glowed in the second floor picture window. When the lightning and thunder were at their fiercest, they got out of the car, walked quickly through the slanting rain to the front porch and climbed the steps, tensing when they saw a dark shape approach. Quisset had heard the visitors and came through the doggy door to say hello, his tail wagging.
Mirko pulled a telescoping steel spring baton from his jacket pocket.
“Come here, puppy,” he said, his lips curved in a friendly smile.
“No,” his brother warned. Attacking the dog was not part of his carefully-laid plan.
It was too late. There was a metallic blur, a wet thump, and the dog crumpled to the ground.
Hawkins looked up from his work, wondering where Quisset was. He guessed that his dog was hiding under a bed with her paws over her head. The kettle drum atmospherics had grown louder as the thunder storm crept spider-like across Vineyard Sound on long jagged legs of pure electricity. Flashes of lightning reflected eerily off the diving helmets and a drumbeat of raindrops thrummed the rooftop.
Hawkins had been working under an adjustable halogen desk lamp that cast a puddle of light around the desk. The rest of the study was in shadow. When the lightning flashed again, Hawkins glanced up instinctively and saw the otherworldly blue light illuminate the pale faces and hair of two men, one on either side of the door.
Each man held a short-barreled weapon in his hand.
The room went completely dark again, but the image engraved itself in the retinas of Hawkins’ eyes. He dove for the floor and crouched behind his desk.
White-hot flowers blossomed from one gun muzzle, then the other. The thunder that followed the lightning merged with that of the bullets as they ripped into the thick wood of the desk and shot the lamp out. The computer monitor exploded in the hail of hot lead.
The gunfire stopped suddenly.
Hawkins figured the intruders were waiting for him to make a move. He thought of throwing his overturned chair off to the side as a diversion, but it would only buy him a second or two. He still had to get to the door between the gunmen.
The old wooden floor creaked. They were moving in on both sides.
He tensed every muscle in his body and prepared to vault over the desk. He thought he could maybe grab a weapon from one of the attackers, although he knew it was a frail hope. He gulped in a lungful of air and coiled his legs. A desperate plan popped into his head. Luckily there was a lull in the thunder.
He yelled, “Beer!”
He heard the sudden hum of his motorized beer cooler. He imagined the robotic diver plodding across the room like a miniature walking jukebox. There was an ear-shattering rattle of gunfire and the study was lit up by a stroboscopic effect from the muzzle flashes.
Hawkins reached a hand over the top of his desk and groped among the fragments of glass, plastic and metal. The shards cut his fingers, but he ignored the pain. His clawing hand closed on the scabbard of the Siebe-Gorman anti-magnetic knife he used as a letter opener. He pulled the scabbard off the desktop, slipped the knife out and held the tip of the blade in a pinching grip. He pushed himself up with his free hand and sprang ungracefully to his feet, snapping off the knife in a stiff-wrist throw aimed above the nearest muzzle flash.
There was as scream of pain and a gun went silent. Then a single gun began to fire. The aim was high, and the spray of bullets struck the display case. Hawkins was belly-down, hands over his head. Bullets ricocheted off the helmets in showers of sparks and the picture window disintegrated.
The firing stopped. Hawkins heard the click of a hammer on an empty chamber and then came the clink of the spent clip hitting the floor.
Hawkins was already sprinting, bent over at the waist, toward the shattered window.
He heard the racking sound of a full magazine.
He dove through the window frame head-first, leaping high to avoid the jagged points of glass. He landed on the porch roof, arms extended, and did a tumbler’s roll that absorbed some of the shock of his body hitting the shingles.
He almost rolled right off the roof, but managed to twist around and grab onto the gutter, ignoring the pain in his lacerated palms. He hung there for a moment, then he dropped off onto the grass near the porch steps. Light streamed from the first-floor window and he saw a dark object on the porch. He climbed the porch stairs and discovered Quisset.
The dog’s head was sticky with blood. He lifted Quisset in his arms and lurched toward the pick-up truck. He grabbed the spare set of keys he kept under the seat and started the engine. As he was backing out of the driveway, he saw movement on the front porch. A figure silhouetted in the window light dragged something out of the house, down the stairs and across the lawn, moving in the direction of a side street.
Hawkins put the truck into low gear and nailed the accelerator so hard that the spinning wheels dug a trench in the crushed shell driveway.
Minutes later he parked in front of a sign that said Emergency Veterinary services. He carried Quisset inside and told the veterinarian on duty that she had wandered off during the storm and been struck in a hit and run accident.
The vet X-rayed Quisset and said, “She’s going to need surgery. There appear to be some bone fragments that could affect her cerebral cortex. We’ll just have to see after we take a look. There’s no guarantee Quisset will recover. She’s hurt pretty bad.”
Hawkins towered over the vet, but his voice was soft-spoken as he said, “Quisset and I have been through some tough times together. I’d appreciate anything you can do, including surgery.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s good enough for me. Here’s my problem, Doc. In about an hour I’ve got to catch a plane. I’m going to be away an indefinite time. I will sign any papers you need to go ahead with the surgery, and I will give you the name of someone who will be in touch with me if you have to put her to sleep.”
Without waiting for an answer, Hawkins gave the vet a business card along with Snowy’s name and number. He left a credit card. The doctor bent to go over the information and when he looked up again, Hawkins was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mirko Marzak, the man who had slugged the friendly retriever with the steel baton, was beyond medical care.
Hawkins’ aim had been true. The sharp blade of the dive knife had penetrated Mirko’s rib cage as neatly as a dart thrown at a target board. Mihovil had rolled his twin’s warm corpse in a rug and stuffed it into the trunk of his car. Although he was anxious to get out of town, he drove with amazing control, keeping his speed exactly at the legal limit.
His brother’s attack on the dog should have telegraphed Mirko’s impatience and it was not surprising that he had detoured from the plan a second time, with fatal consequences. The plan had been to take Hawkins away from his house to a remote location where he could be killed and his body disposed of. But when the lightning flashed and Hawkins looked up, Mirko had started shooting, and Mihovil had to join in.
He had been puzzled at the sudden call for beer, more so at the deadly diversion when the mechanical thing hummed to life. Hawkins had reacted in an instant, altering the equation. Now he would have to follow suit, coming up with a plan to deal with his altered circumstances.
His first task was to get rid of the body in the trunk. He drove toward the Cape Cod Canal and turned onto a highway that paralleled the wide waterway. A number of turn-offs and parking lots offered access to the canal, and he chose a narrow dirt road and drove to the end. He pulled the knife from his brother’s chest, then hauled the body from the car, removed everything from the pockets, dragged the corpse over the stone revetment that sloped down to the water, and threw his brother’s body in to be carried away by the fast-moving current. The rug and knife splashed into the canal a second later.
Back in the car, he drove back onto the main road and headed to the airport. On the way he placed a call on his cell phone.
“The mission has failed,” he said.
“What happened?” responded the computer-altered voice.
“My brother was killed. Hawkins was more than expected.”
“And what does that make you?” the gravel voice said, dripping with sardonic contempt that even the computer couldn’t disguise.
“We should have been warned that Hawkins was dangerous.”
“You should have acted like highly-paid professionals instead of like amateurs. Every adversary should be considered dangerous. Not every person you encounter will let you kill them.”
The voice was right. He and his brother had been sloppy.
“What do you want me to do?”
“You must dispose of all the evidence.”
“I’ve started that process.”
“Good. As soon as you do that, proceed as planned.”
“Even without my brother?”
“It seems that he was not much help when he was alive,” the voice said.
“I can handle it alone,” Marzak said. “I have a score to settle with Hawkins when I see him again.”
“That’s not likely. Forget Hawkins. You’ve had your chance. I already have a backup plan in place.”
“What—?”
The line went dead.
Marzak muttered an oath, then punched out another number on his phone. A man answered. “Yes.”
“This is Gemini jewelers,” Marzak said. “I designed the necklace for your wife.”
“We’ve been expecting your call.”
“Sorry. I had a last minute job. I have some questions regarding the clasp. I would like to discuss them in person with you.”
“Never mind the necklace for now. We’re more interested in the estate items we talked about. We’ve learned that there is another buyer interested in the collection. When can we get together?”
“I can leave as soon as you make arrangements.”
Pause. “I’ll get back to you.”
Marzak called the chartered jet pilot and said he would be at the airport in ten minutes.
As he drove along, he reminisced about Mirko. He and his brother had operated as a single organism, bringing death and misery to hundreds of people since going into the business of mass murder. The killing of his brother was not only a personal affront, it was an insult to his professionalism. And if word of their carelessness got out, it would be bad for business.
It could have been worse. He and his brother had put the final touches on the Prophet’s Necklace plan only days before. They had been working for months on the scheme. Finding a source of sarin had been the most difficult part, and transporting the deadly poison into the U.S. almost as hard. It had given them time, though, to design the dirty bombs that would spread the toxin and figure out where and how to place them.
They had placed the bombs in six major cities stretching across the country from New York to San Francisco. Each city was a jewel in the necklace. They had picked subways, shopping malls, municipal buildings and other close quarters frequented by many people, where the effects of the toxin would be maximized. When the word was given, they would trigger the bombs remotely, one at a time as the sun moved across the country, building a wave of terror and confusion.
The whole thing depended on him now. As he considered the avalanche of challenges that would come down on him as the result of his brother’s death, he could feel the growing rage in his chest. Hawkins. He was angry at his brother for not following the plan. They had underestimated the man, thinking that the 2-1 advantage and the element of surprise would doom their target.
He looked to his right. Like a phantom that is sometimes conjured up by the brain to replace a missing arm, he saw his brother sitting next to him.
The figure he saw in his fevered imagination had substance and sound.
“We’ll know what to expect the next time around,” the phantom said with a smile on its pale face.
Marzak nodded in agreement. He thought of a quote from his favorite poet, William Blake, who had said it was better to murder an infant in its cradle than nurse an unacted desire.
Marzak had murdered infants in their cradles as part of his job, and he had no intention of nursing his desire for revenge, no matter what the computer altered voice had told him about his new assignment.
Marzak would make sure he and Hawkins met again. And when they did, Hawkins would be a dead man.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marjah, Afghanistan
Terrance Aloysius Murphy probably wouldn’t have set out to kill someone that morning if he hadn’t happened to do some personal banking on his Blackberry just before the call from the States came in with the offer of a big money job.
Although the holdings in his Swiss bank accounts were in the seven figures, Murphy figured that with his transfer home looming he was going to have to do something soon to fill the hole that his losing investments in Florida real estate had dug in the original amount.
Murphy was the leader of a two-man team from the Drug Enforcement Agency’s Kabul Country Office Strike For
ce. After the call, he had hastily pulled the operation together, saying he had a tip that a drug kingpin suspected of Taliban connections was about to leave town.
The target was already on the hit list, waiting for a go-ahead from Murphy. He had compiled the intel on the compound in preparation for a raid, but he had always managed to divert the DEA’s attention to more promising targets.
The DEA agents and a unit of Marines that included a drug-detection dog and his handler joined up with a six-man team of heavily-armed agents from the Counter Narcotics Police of Afghanistan.
The DEA agents were part of a F.A.S.T team, government shorthand for Foreign Deployed Assistance and Support. With sixty percent of heroin profits going to support the Taliban, and a government riddled with drug-related corruption, the DEA had tried going after poppy growers, but that only angered the farmers and didn’t stop the heroin trade. So the agency had begun to interdict the heroin traffickers using para-military agents like Murphy.
The raiding party set out from the forward patrol base before dawn and took up positions near the compound the drug commander used as his headquarters. The intel file contained the exact lay-out of the compound. Informants had infiltrated the enclosure and identified the placement of IEDs, or improvised explosive devices, buried around the perimeter. Assuming that the booby traps would stop any intruder, the drug traffickers had grown complacent and no one was guarding the gate.
Murphy lay on his belly behind a low ridge. He was still brooding about his diminishing cash cache when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the platoon sergeant, a twenty-six-year-old Texas kid named Chavez.
“Five minute warning,” Chavez whispered.
Murphy reached down to the speed holster at his waist and tapped the butt of his Smith and Wesson compact 9 mm. Then he wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip of his Benelli M3 shotgun, making sure the lever was in semi-automatic position.
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