Primary Target

by Jack Mars

  * * *

  A bottle of vodka came, along with a bottle of champagne.

  Rita always spent money like water.

  Ahmet poured drinks for everyone, including, most of all, for himself. Ahmet needed alcohol to calm his nerves. As soon as he had the glass of vodka and ice in his fist, he took a large gulp of it. The fire roared down his throat and into his belly. He took another gulp. Instantly, it sent its fingers into his brain, unlocking the machinery that had seized up. He became dizzy for a moment, and then he became himself.

  It was against his parents’ religion, and against every tenet of how he was raised, of course. But those things didn’t matter when you were sent abroad. Westerners drank alcohol. Westerners partied. So to fit in, that’s what you did.

  And Ahmet liked alcohol. It made him feel relaxed. It made him feel more like Ahmet, if that was possible. It was as if he had been trying to be Ahmet his whole life, but never quite succeeding. And then voila! Just like that, some alcohol would hit his bloodstream, and suddenly:

  Here’s Ahmet! The one we’ve been missing.

  Witty, confident, handsome, compelling, a very good conversationalist, and an excellent dancer. Ahmet came into his own when he drank. And just a little was enough to perform the trick.

  Waiting in the line outside, he had found himself gasping for air. He had almost become desperate for a drink—he should have taken one before he left the flat. This night… it was the culmination of a year of effort, a year of lies. It was the culmination of a year of training before that. It was the moment he had been born for—all of his potential was to be realized now, tonight. He could not let it slip through his fingers.

  The daughter of the President of the United States was sitting three feet away from him. And almost no one knew she was here.

  She was pretty, maybe even beautiful, in the big, well-fed, perfect-teeth blonde way of the United States. But her looks did not matter to him. He did not love her. He did not want to marry her or date her. He might try to kiss her, but only to put her at her ease, and lull her into a sense of security.

  But he had to act fast! She and Rita had slipped away from the security protecting her. How long could that last? Another hour? Another five minutes?

  When the security discovered her missing, they were going to come with the full weight of the imperialists. The entire country would be locked down. The city would be closed. The borders would be closed. There would be no way out, and then the house-to-house searches would begin.

  If necessary, the bloodbath would begin.

  Now. He had to move on this now. Everything depended on it.

  When he had poured her glass of champagne, he had slipped a little something extra into it. He had practiced just such a move his entire time here in Geneva, and it went effortlessly. It was just a tiny pill—it fell out of his sleeve, into his hand, and then into her champagne flute. It wouldn’t make her sleep, or pass out. It would simply multiply the effects of the drink, make her feel spaced out, and help her enjoy herself a little more. She might become a little confused. She might become more trusting than she otherwise would be.

  He tapped her shoulder, very lightly. It was the first time he had touched her. She turned to him as if she had been waiting for this all along. He leaned close to her, but did not touch her. She took a sip from the flute of champagne.

  “Do you want to dance?” he said, not shouting, but loud enough for her to hear over the thump of the music and the chatter of the crowd.

  She nodded.

  “Yes.”

  He held a hand out to her and she took it. Her skin was white and her hand was soft in his. He stood and led her away from the table.

  He waded into the crowd of strangers toward the dance floor, the President’s daughter holding his hand.

  * * *

  The champagne had gone to her head.

  It was just a few sips, half a glass, but she was not a drinker. It hit her like BOOM. She kind of liked the feeling it gave her. She still had the glass in her hand. She took another sip.

  They went out to the dance floor, where the crowd was thickest. People crowded in on all sides, some dancing with drinks and entire bottles of champagne in their hands. It could be New Year’s Eve. The bass pumped, making the shimmering purple dance floor tremble. She and Ahmet began to dance, moving just a little, still more than a foot apart.

  Ha! The feeling was getting stronger. It surprised her. She was flying. She had never felt like this before.

  Ahmet moved gracefully for a man. He started to break it open, arms and legs moving. He could dance! He was a show-off!

  She laughed. Maybe he would twirl her.

  Suddenly, a black light began to strobe, and people would seem to stop in a freeze frame, then disappear. Dancing, dancing, STOP, then disappear again.

  Women in the crowd screamed and raised their drinks in the air each time it happened.

  Elizabeth was about to do the same. But then she looked at Ahmet.

  Something about him had changed.

  The crowd moved around and behind him, STOPPED, then disappeared into the dark. Another scream went up, and a second later, the people materialized out of nowhere again.

  Ahmet was holding his head. His handsome face seemed anguished, in pain.

  He STOPPED, then disappeared.

  The screams were louder this time. The music was becoming more frenzied.

  When Ahmet reappeared, he was stumbling away toward the back of the club. His drink was gone. He was leaning over and holding his head. He went down a back hallway toward the bathrooms. He turned and spotted her. He waved her over.

  Elizabeth followed. Was he sick? Was he having some kind of health problem? He looked like he was about to throw up.

  She had just met him a few moments ago. They had hardly even talked. They had only just started dancing. Everything was going great. Now this.

  What was wrong?

  Ahead of him in the dark hallway was a lit up exit sign. It was red, showing a male figure going through a doorway.

  SORTIE D’URGENCE

  Emergency exit.

  Was he having an emergency?

  Elizabeth put her drink down on a wooden railing and went after him. She moved down the narrow hall. She caught up to him.

  His face was stricken.

  “Ahmet! What’s going on?”

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “Should I call someone?”

  He shook his head. “I need fresh air, that’s all. Please join me outside, just for a few moments.”

  He pushed his way out the emergency exit and stumbled off to his right.

  No alarm sounded.

  Elizabeth looked back at the dance floor. The people bobbed and moved, packed into the small space. She still felt high as a kite. She wanted to dance. But a new feeling was washing over her. She suddenly felt confident, and larger than life, like she was Ahmet’s protector. He shouldn’t be out in the alleyway, sick, by himself.

  She would be the strong one. She followed him out into the night.

  Behind her, the exit door slammed shut. There was no knob or handle on the outside. The door simply closed flush with the wall of the building. Maybe she could pry it back open with her nails, maybe she couldn’t. There was no time to worry about that. Ahmet was still ahead, stumbling down the alley, holding himself up by using the walls around him.

  There were garbage cans and dumpsters back here. It was a long, windowless alley between buildings, and it smelled like rotting food. Circular fans blew steam out the back of restaurants.

  “Ahmet?” Elizabeth shouted. “Are you all right?”

  He raised a hand to her.

  She came closer.

  “Ahmet?”

  He stood upright and turned to face her. He seemed to be crying. His eyes were red. His mouth hung slack.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I get migraines. Do you know what this is?”

  She nodded. She kind of knew what a migraine
was, she kind of didn’t.

  “Headaches?” she said.

  He nodded and took a deep breath. “Yes. Severe. They can last for hours. I get dizzy. Sometimes I throw up. Pain pills do nothing. The black light… I wasn’t expecting it.” He shook his head. “I’m very sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “As long as you’re all right.”

  “I can’t go back in there. I will walk you around to the front again. We can send a message in to Rita. She will make sure you are readmitted.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Okay.” It was a bizarre and disappointing end to her little date with Ahmet, she must admit. But maybe something good could still happen.

  “Maybe you will feel better in a little while,” she said.

  He nodded. He seemed weakened, and drained of all energy. “Maybe. I don’t know. It usually lasts for some time. Come. Let’s walk. Let’s get out of this alleyway and back onto the street. It’s better.”

  “Okay. But I think in a few minutes, you’re going to start feeling better.”

  If nothing else, the one thing Elizabeth had gotten from her dad, and her entire family, was optimism. She could picture Ahmet coming back around in no time. She felt a momentary pang when she considered her family. Had they realized she was gone yet? Man, there was going to be hell to pay.

  “I think we can get this night started again,” she said anyway.

  Ahmet half-smiled. “I hope so.”

  He gestured to her. “This way.”

  She had taken several steps before it occurred to her that he was moving deeper into the alley, and not back toward the street. The alley was dark back here—several of the lights seemed to be out.

  “Is this the right way?” she said. She couldn’t tell where the entrance to the club had been. They had gone through the entire club and into the VIP section. Then they had come back to the dance floor, and then down a hallway…

  “Yes. The street’s up ahead.”

  Suddenly a man stepped out of an alcove to her right. He was a tall man, and dark. He looked very strong. He reached for her. Ahmet was several feet away, and didn’t seem to notice. He was still a little hunched over.

  “Ahmet!”

  Ahmet turned, his eyes wide.

  Now there was another man, this one behind her. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his hands. He tried to put a cloth to her face. She ducked away and squirmed out of their grasp. A third man came from an opening on the left. He was dressed in black pants and a black long-sleeve shirt. All three of the men were dressed in black.

  She was tangled up with them, kicking at them.

  “Ahmet!” she screamed.

  She caught a glimpse of him, staring at her, his face a grimace—of pain, of fear, of sickness, she couldn’t tell.

  Why didn’t he help her?

  Now she punched and kicked. She scratched at them. She tore at them.

  She had taken women’s self-defense for an entire year. Her dad had insisted on it. She was good at it, one of the best in the class. She went for the men’s weak spots—their eyes, their throats, their balls.

  She and her three attackers moved down the alley as one, arms and legs flailing like a giant octopus.

  “Help! Help! HELP!”

  It occurred to her suddenly the thing you were supposed to scream when you truly needed help. Passersby often ignored cries for help, but they never ignored this one word. She hoped someone was around to hear it.

  “FIRE!”

  The man tried to put the foul-smelling rag to her face again. She ducked again, but she was running out of strength. Where was Ahmet? Now she couldn’t see him at all—maybe he was behind them.

  She put in one final burst—her last, desperate gasp…

  …and somehow broke away.

  Now she was running down the alley, three big men just behind her. Her shoes had come off in the struggle—that was good. She ran over the rough ground in stockinged feet. She could hear the men, their heavy breathing practically in her ear. She could hear their footfalls on the pavement.

  “FIRE!” she screamed again.

  Up ahead, a dark car pulled across the mouth of the alley.

  Oh, thank God!

  She ran for it. The men ran after her, hands grasping at her.

  The car door opened.

  It was coming fast. Now the men were all around her again. They seized her arms. They moved with her momentum, letting it carry the whole group along. They were running her straight toward that open door.

  Wait!

  They all crashed as one into the car. She tumbled onto the seat, one man with her. He was the one with the rag. He lay on top of her, using his size to imprison her, suffocate her, weigh her down. Still she fought him.

  A man in the front seat was yelling something in a language she could not understand. She barely noticed. She scratched and clawed at the man on top of her.

  The man pressed the rag to her face. It smelled foul, and sweet. She tried to turn away, but couldn’t. Now the rag was across her face like a mask. She breathed it in. Darkness crept in from the corners of her vision.

  She was losing the ability to struggle. Her limbs felt heavy.

  The man on top of her cooed something to her in that strange language, gently now, as if he was a mother putting a baby to sleep.

  She could barely see him anymore.

  She tried to push him away, but he was fading. He pressed the rag to her face again.

  Everything went black.

  * * *

  “Ah, holy hell!”

  “Go, man! Can’t you go any faster?”

  “It’s the curves. Just take it easy.”

  His name was Stephen Mostel, and his career was on the line. Sixteen years in the Secret Service, all of it going down the drain right before his eyes. Seven years on First Family assignments, and nothing remotely like this had ever happened before.

  He punched the steering wheel.

  “Dammit!”

  He had gotten lulled to sleep on this job. Elizabeth Barrett was a girl who stayed home. She went from her dorm room to her classes, to the dining room, sometimes to the movie theater, and then back to the dorm. Sometimes she went shopping in Geneva on the weekends. He would never have dreamed—not in one million years—that she would pull something like this.

  “It’s all right,” his partner, Glenn, said. “It’s all right. We know who she’s with, we know where they went. The driver said the Chadwick girl always goes to the same place, practically every weekend. The local cops and the other agents are converging there as we speak. This is going to be a big nothing. It’s going to be okay.”

  The Secret Service agents worked eight-hour shifts, two men per shift. When they weren’t on duty, they all had apartments in Geneva. Every one of them—eight other men—would be at the Baroque Club in minutes, if they weren’t already there.

  “It’s not your neck on the line,” Mostel said.

  “It is my neck,” Glenn said. “I was on door duty. I should have been listening. I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I was on grounds, man! They’re going to crucify me for this. I’m supposed to see anything that happens outside her window. Somehow she got past me.”

  “Can’t you go any faster?” Glenn said.

  Mostel shook his head.

  “It’s the car.”

  The car was a Volkswagen, built for the European market. It hugged the curves of the mountain roads just fine, and it was zippy, but it had no zoom.

  “Floor it.”

  Mostel floored the accelerator pedal and the car picked up a little steam. They raced downhill and through a red light. A car coming from the right laid on the horn. They were passing into the outskirts of the city. He had to be careful. Even though it was late, this was where traffic picked up.

  His jaw was tight. He was so angry. He was angry at himself for being slow-witted and checked out. He was angry at himself for kicking back and relying on the school’s security system. He was angry at
the other agents for treating this assignment like a low-key vacation.

  But mostly he was angry at Elizabeth. How had she done this to him? He had been assigned to her for over two years. She seemed like a good kid. He was even somewhat friendly with her, as friendly as the job would allow.

  Now this.

  She had decided to have Elizabeth’s Big Adventure at his expense.

  “I could just kill her,” he said.

  * * *

  It didn’t matter what the man’s name was. It didn’t matter where he came from, or where he was going next.

  He was no one, from nowhere.

  He moved through the nightclub, crazy pink and purple lights pulsing all around him. The music pumped and thumped. Behind him, on the dance floor, people cheered and shouted. He was headed toward the VIP section.

  He was young, he dressed well, he was tall and blond. He looked like a big, healthy, rich northern European, a man who liked to ski in the winters and spend the summers on the beach. He wasn’t that, but it didn’t matter what he was.

  He was here for only one reason.

  The girl Elizabeth had been taken. She was gone. The operation was a success. Now his job was to sever the last tie between Elizabeth and the rest of the world. That tie was straight ahead of him.

  She was a young woman named Rita Chadwick, a very rich and spoiled girl. She had a made a terrible mistake and sent her friend to certain death. She didn’t even know this yet. Look at her! She was sitting at a table in the VIP area, pouring champagne and laughing with a group of her admirers.

  She was pretty, with long black hair, but the way she opened her mouth when she laughed made the man think of a shark.

  As he walked, he removed from his pocket a ten-gram syringe, pre-loaded with sodium pentobarbital in liquid form. It was a high dose, and would kill her in moments, either from paralysis of the diaphragm or from cardiac arrhythmia. He pulled the paper wrapper from it.

  His intention was to simply walk up to the railing behind her, pop the syringe into her neck, and depress the plunger as far as it would go. He had administered injections many times in the past, and he didn’t need to deliver the entire ten grams to kill her. She was small. Ten grams would kill her several times over.