“Everybody wants something,” the Rezident said.
Minotaur stared through him. “I’m not everybody.”
“You were supposed to pick up the BK-16 and use that. What’s the matter?”
Now Minotaur was not happy. He wasn’t angry, but he wasn’t happy. “It wasn’t there. And now I need your support. Didn’t the Center tell you to support me?”
The Rezident opened his mouth as if about to say something, but his brain couldn’t quite keep up. “Yes.”
“I’m asking for your support—five pellets of ricin and a compressed air gun disguised as a camera to fire the pellets.”
“We don’t have that here.”
Minotaur’s body heat rose. “So get it.”
“I’m not your lackey,” Rezident said.
Minotaur strained to produce a smile. “Please.”
Rezident folded his arms. He clung to the delusion that he had operational authority over Minotaur, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
The younger man in the chair sat stiff as a wooden fence.
Minotaur pulled a sound suppressor out of his pocket with one hand and a pistol from his holster with the other. Then he screwed the suppressor onto the barrel.
Rezident stared at him dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t believe—or refused to believe—what he was witnessing.
“There are two kinds of Russians in this world,” Minotaur said. “Those who achieve the Center’s goals, and those who die.”
Rezident jerked open his desk drawer, probably to grab a pistol, but Minotaur aimed and pulled the trigger, hitting him in the neck. His head flopped forward, and he gurgled and gagged. He convulsed, and blood leaked onto his desk calendar and spread to his pen set and phone.
The young officer jumped from his seat and nearly fell over the back of his chair.
Bear swung out his shotgun and aimed at the young man, but Minotaur motioned for him to hold his fire.
“Who are you?” Minotaur asked.
“Me?” the young man asked.
The Rezident continued his noisy death throes.
“You see anyone else in the room?” Minotaur asked.
The younger man’s voice was shaky: “I’m not important. I’m simply the Assistant Rezident.” There was a pause. “Are you going to kill me, too?”
Minotaur looked him straight in the eye and smiled. “That depends. Can you get me four to five pellets of ricin and a compressed air gun disguised as a camera to shoot the ricin?”
“Yes.”
“As soon as possible—fly it here from Moscow if you have to.”
“Yes, right away, Minotaur.”
Minotaur gestured for the Assistant Rezident to hurry off.
The Assistant Rezident hastened out the door.
Minotaur turned to Bear and said, “Tomorrow, we will do surveillance in Saint Peter’s Square so we have a better idea of the layout, security, and avenues of escape. Next week, we should have the ricin and the camera. When Pope Francis gives his weekly speech, we’ll administer the ricin.”
Bear nodded in agreement.
“Are you sure the pope won’t know he’s been shot?” Bear asked.
“Georgi Markov didn’t,” Minotaur said, referring to the dissident writer assassinated in 1978 with a ricin shot from a delivery weapon disguised as an umbrella.
Bear smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Likewise.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chris and Sonny met in the waiting room, hoping to hear that Max and Tom had survived the BK-16 virus. Chris braced himself for the worst—both of them dead—but he hoped for the best.
“Taking them long enough,” Sonny said.
Chris looked at his watch—it was 5:13 PM. Times like this he’d rather be shot at than wait; at least he could do something about getting shot at.
A doctor arrived. She wasn’t smiling. Chris straightened up, and Sonny directed his attention to her.
“Mr. Johnson?” the doctor called out.
Chris was disappointed not to be called but judging from the doctor’s unhappy face, she had bad news, and it would be better to wait for the good news.
The doctor approached Chris and Sonny. “Mr. Johnson?”
Sonny thumped Chris on the thigh and said, “Dude.”
Then Chris remembered his alias: Johnson. He stood. “Yes?”
The doctor took a breath. “Your friends are okay. Their vitals are improving rapidly. They’re still in a weakened state, but if they improve at this rate, we should be able to release them tomorrow.”
Chris was overwhelmed with relief. “Can we go see them?”
“Sure. Follow me, please.” The doctor escorted Chris and Sonny through the halls and into one of the patient rooms. “I have some other patients to attend to,” the doctor said as they walked in, “but the nurse will be here in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Chris said.
Sonny grunted.
Both Max and Tom were lying awake in their beds.
Seeing the two of them alive made Chris smile. Sonny smiled, too. It was contagious because Max and Tom grinned, too.
“Where’s Angelo?” Max asked.
“He brought the boat here to Naples,” Sonny said.
“He’s waiting for us at the pier,” Chris said.
Max used his arms to help him sit up. “You’ve got to break us out of here.”
“Seriously?” Chris asked.
“I hate hospitals,” Max replied.
Chris looked at Tom and waited to see if he had an opinion on the matter.
“Ditto,” Tom said.
Sonny chuckled. “The hospital staff is going to be pissed.”
“Hopefully we’re out of here before then,” Chris said. He picked up Max’s civilian clothes and laid them next to him on the bed.
Max went commando, putting his pants on without undershorts. His movements were wobbly and sluggish.
Chris helped Max untie his gown, and Sonny assisted Tom, but even with their help, the going was sluggish, and the nurse was due to arrive any minute. Breaking out of the hospital seemed like a simple, trivial mission, but Chris’s heart beat rapidly, and he felt the anxiousness of a schoolboy up to mischief.
Max and Tom finished dressing, but they were still shaky on their feet, so Chris and Sonny acted as their crutches. When they neared the door, Chris peeked outside to see if the coast was clear. A handful of people—visitors, patients, and nurses—milled about the hallway, but no nurses seemed headed in their direction. “Go,” Chris said.
Instead of a high-speed getaway, Max and Tom made a low-speed hobble.
“Can’t you move your ass?” Sonny asked.
“Going as fast as I can,” Tom said. He ran out of breath trying to walk and talk at the same time.
It was like helping Forrest Gump escape the bullies in the truck, except that Gump was still in his cumbersome leg braces.
They exited the hospital and hopped in the car with Sonny and Max in front and Chris and Tom in back. Chris’s heart continued to race until Sonny drove them out of the parking lot, and he could breathe easy.
“Hooah!” Sonny cheered.
The four of them basked in juvenile giddiness at the stunt they’d just pulled off.
It was still raining, and Max asked, “Where’s the rest of the antidote?”
It was a happy topic. “CIA boys came up from Rome and picked it up,” Chris said brightly. But it was related to a sad topic. “They took Hannah, too.” His eyes watered, and the more he remembered, the more the tears built up. He didn’t want Tom or anyone else to see him cry, but he didn’t want to forget. Silently he looked out the side window and wept.
When they arrived at the pier, Chris dried his eyes.
Angelo met them on the stern of the muscle yacht. “Sonny told me about Hannah,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Chris said. It wasn’t okay. In fact, it was damn far from okay, but Chris didn’t say th
at. Angelo was a good guy, and he had nothing to apologize for.
They sat together in the private area of the upper deck, cleaned their weapons, and topped off their ammo. Angelo broke out food, but Chris wasn’t hungry. Still, he forced himself to eat, but his sense of smell and taste was dead.
Chris’s phone rang. It was from Willy. Chris answered, “Hello?”
“I’m on the pier now,” Willy said, “and I’m coming aboard. Don’t nobody shoot me.”
Chris told the others.
Willy came across the gangway, and Angelo rushed out to greet him. “Welcome aboard, sir. Please, have a seat.”
Willy sat in the pilot’s chair as if to assert his authority; at least, that’s how it seemed to Chris.
“Hannah was one of the best,” Willy said. “One of a kind. I’m going to miss her.”
Max and Tom nodded in agreement, but Chris and Sonny continued to prep their weapons.
Willy turned to the brothers and asked, “How you boys feeling?”
“Better,” Max said.
“Better and better,” Tom said.
“Good,” Willy said. He studied the four of them for a moment. Then he cut to the chase: “Crackerjack work. You accomplished the mission. Now I’m here to take you all home.” He seemed to attempt some humor: “Except for you, Angelo; you’re already home.”
No one laughed; instead, there was an awkward silence.
“Why did Minotaur want the BK-16?” Max asked. “Who was it for?”
Willy seemed at a loss for words, but all eyes were on him and waiting. “Minotaur is a codename for one of Russia’s top assassins. Langley believes he was assigned to use BK-16 to assassinate Pope Francis.”
The four operators looked at each other incredulously, stunned by the significance of what they’d just heard. “What?” Max finally said.
“Moscow is upset about the pope’s opposition to Russia trying to take over Ukraine,” Willy said.
Seemingly out of the blue, Sonny asked, “Have you ever worked directly with Hannah?”
Willy seemed surprised by the sudden shift in topic. “Directly, this is the first mission we’ve had together. Indirectly, I’ve worked with her before.”
Sonny grumbled: “I took my marching orders from her, not you. You’re Max and Tom’s buddy, not mine.”
Chris agreed, but he didn’t say it. “I want Minotaur.”
“I understand how you feel,” Willy said, “but getting Minotaur is not our mission.”
“Have you asked Langley about going after Minotaur and his crew?” Max asked.
“I did,” Willy said.
“What’d they say?” Tom asked.
“Nothing,” Willy said. “Still waiting for an answer.”
Chris persisted: “Minotaur is here in Rome now. If we’re ever going to get him, now is the time.”
Willy spoke patiently: “Rendering him is not our mission. At least not yet.”
“I understand it’s not your mission,” Chris said. “You’ve made that clear.” He looked around the table. “Who wants to get Minotaur—dead or alive?”
Thunder rumbled.
Willy leaned forward and returned fire. “Not with Company equipment—that means no weapons, no ammo, no comms, no fancy yacht—none of it.” He looked at Angelo and added, “No assets or support personnel, either.”
Angelo avoided eye contact with Willy.
Sonny glared at Willy and said, “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
Willy glared at Sonny. “I’m trying to deescalate this, and you’re throwing gas on the fire.”
“Hannah saved my life in that shootout with Minotaur’s men,” Max said.
Willy looked to Tom, as if soliciting his support.
“She helped us get the antidote and saved Max and me,” Tom said.
Willy shook his head. “I can’t have you four running vigilante around Italy and causing an international incident.”
“It’ll be an international incident if Pope Francis is assassinated,” Chris said.
Willy rubbed the back of his head. “You know what I mean.”
“How long do we have before we have to return to the States?” Max asked.
Willy raised his voice, and his pitch got higher, too: “This ain’t open for discussion or debate. I’m telling you to get your asses on the plane and go home!”
“And we’re telling you to screw yourself!” Sonny shouted.
Willy took it down a notch and used a careful, controlled tone: “Solomon Cohen, you’ve got a reputation in CIA as being difficult to work with. It was Hannah who took you off the blacklist. You don’t want to be on that list again, and you sure as hell don’t want to be on my list.”
“Willy, you don’t listen so well,” Chris said. “It isn’t only Sonny telling you to screw yourself. All four of us are telling you to screw yourself.”
Willy bared his teeth, and his eyes protruded. “Christopher Paladin, when you left Team Six and became a preacher, the world forgot about you—except for Hannah. You’re not a Tier One operator anymore. You’re not even CIA. You’re just a temp.”
Max didn’t seem the diplomatic type, but Willy was his buddy, and Max was patient with him. “Hannah was good to us; now it’s time for us to be good to her.”
“She wouldn’t want this,” Willy said. “Not like this.”
Chris slammed his fist on the table with a mighty boom. “You don’t know what she’d want!”
“An eye for an eye,” Sonny said.
Willy looked at Tom as if hoping he wouldn’t be part of this mutiny.
Tom shrugged his shoulders. “What they said.”
Willy narrowed his eyes at Tom before he shook his head and stood. “This won’t end well, boys. Mark my words, this won’t end well.” His eyes drifted off into that thousand-yard stare, and he stormed off the yacht without another word.
The sky rumbled again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Under the cover of night, they sailed from Naples to the municipality of Rome and moored the yacht in the Ostia marina. That morning, Willy’s words knifed Chris in the gut—this won’t end well—but the next morning did begin well, with hot beverages and pastries, courtesy of Angelo. Chris was mad as hell, and his appetite returned.
Tom examined his smartphone. “Every Wednesday, Pope Francis addresses a general audience in Saint Peter’s Square. Tomorrow is Wednesday.”
Chris drank a hot cup of caffé d’orzo—an espresso-style roasted barley drink without caffeine. It tasted nutty. “If the pope shows up tomorrow, I’m sure Minotaur will, too, whether it be to do surveillance or the actual assassination.”
“We should be there, too,” Max said.
“Do we need tickets?” Chris asked.
Tom sipped a caffé d’orzo. “Yes, but they’re free. Today we can pick some up at Saint Peter’s Square.”
“We better get tickets before they run out,” Sonny said.
Max had a caffé latte. In Italy, if someone ordered a latte, all they got was milk; if they wanted espresso with their milk, they had to order caffé latte. “Whoever picks up the tickets will likely need to pass through security and x-ray machines without his pistolet and knife collection.”
Sonny held his cup of espresso and stared at Tom. “We only need one person to pick up the tickets, don’t we?”
The others stared at Tom, too.
Angelo stayed out of it, eating strudel di mele, apple strudel.
“What about Angelo?” Tom asked. “Can’t he get the tickets?”
“He could,” Chris said, “but we don’t need anyone screwing with the boat while we’re gone. And if we have to get out of Dodge fast, we may want Angelo already on the boat with the engine running.”
Sonny stuffed his mouth with cornetto, a smaller, less buttery, lighter version of a croissant.
Tom seemed surprised that everyone had suddenly ganged up on him, but he was the youngest member of the group, and it was an unwritten code that al
l the crap jobs went to the junior guy. “What if I run into Minotaur or one of his men while I’m getting tickets?”
“I’ll be armed and standing nearby if you get in trouble,” Sonny said. “Just outside of Vatican City. If you call for help, I’ll hop the barricade and come runnin’.”
Tom surrendered quietly. “Okay.” He nibbled on an apricot crostata, an Italian tart.
Chris glanced at Max and then Tom. “You two sure you’re up for this? You were flat on your backs yesterday.”
Max grunted with a mouthful of crostata.
“We’re at about seventy-five percent strength now,” Tom said.
Chris had the crostata, too. “Super.”
“We still don’t know what Minotaur looks like,” Sonny said, “and according to Willy, no Agency resources will be coming our way—that means no intel.”
“We can work out some alternatives of who we’re looking for,” Chris said.
Max swallowed his crostata. “Slavic features.”
“Could be wearing a disguise,” Tom said.
“Everyone makes a tactical mistake,” Max said. “And when Minotaur does, we’ll catch it.”
“Unless he plays a perfect game,” Sonny said.
There was an uncomfortable silence until Chris broke it: “I know we’re desperate, and the odds are against us, but the stakes are high, and it’s all we’ve got.”
CHRIS, MAX, SONNY, and Tom finished breakfast, swiftly geared up, and drove from Ostia to just northwest of the Colosseum, where they crossed the Tiber River. They parked on the third floor of Terminal Gianicolo, a five-story parking garage and food court for tourists. Except for Sonny, they stashed their pistols in concealed compartments in the doors before they exited the vehicle—when they returned to the vehicle, they would rearm themselves.
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