The Prometheus Deception

by Robert Ludlum

  “She’s down!” Layla gasped as she rolled to her side. “The blonde—I saw her go down.”

  The gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but the shouts, the horrified clamor, continued to rise.

  Two of Bryson’s would-be assassins were down, perhaps permanently so; but at least one certainly remained standing: Paolo, the assassin from Cividale. And surely there were others as well; Paolo’s brother was almost certainly in the vicinity.

  Running feet kicked at them, others tripped over them, stumbled. Once again a crowd had become a stampede, and as they plunged into the middle of the chaos, Bryson and Layla managed to get to their feet, rushing headlong with the others, disappearing into the maddened crowd.

  Weaving in and out of the onrushers, Bryson saw a narrow cobblestone street, almost a lane, coming off the praza. It was little more than a lane, barely big enough for one car to pass through it. He ran toward it, weaving around human obstacles, determined to follow it as far as he could until they lost the Italian brothers or whoever else was chasing him. It appeared likely that there would be small, ancient houses on this street, perhaps small courtyards, alleys leading to other alleys. Mazes in which to lose themselves.

  His shoulder wound was once again throbbing, blood oozing thick and hot; what had begun to heal had been wrenched open. The pain had become incredible. Yet he forced himself to run faster. Layla kept up easily. Their footsteps echoed in the empty street. As he ran, he was searching the narrow, shadowed street, searching for a courtyard, a shop, any place into which they could duck. There was a small, Romanesque church tucked between a couple of even older stone buildings, but it was locked; a handwritten sign pasted on one heavy wooden door declared that it was closed for repairs. In this town of churches and cathedrals, the smaller houses of worship, which did not attract tourists, probably got little attention and less funding.

  Approaching the church, he stopped short, grabbing a massive iron door handle and rattling it.

  “What are you doing?” Layla asked, alarmed. “The noise—come on, let’s keep going!” She was breathing hard, her chest heaving, her face flushed. Footsteps echoed in the street, approaching.

  Bryson did not reply. He gave the door handle one last, mighty tug. The padlock was small and rusted, and it looped through an even rustier hasp, which easily came off the door with a splintering sound. People did not break into churches as a rule; the lock was mostly symbolic, all that was required in this town of the devout.

  He yanked the door open and entered the dark central portal. Layla, giving a small grunt of frustration, followed, shutting the door behind them. Now the only light in the dim narthex came from small, dusty quatrefoil windows high above. There was a dank, mildewy smell here, and the air was chilly. Bryson looked around briefly, then leaned back against a cold stone wall. His heart was pounding from the exertion, and he felt weak from the searing pain of his wounded shoulder, and from loss of blood. Layla was pacing the length of the nave, presumably looking for exits or hiding places.

  After a few minutes he had caught his breath, and he returned to the entrance doors. The broken lock would draw the attention of anyone who knew the town; either it should be reassembled so that it looked intact, or it should simply be removed entirely. As he reached for the handle to pull the door open, he listened for any approaching footsteps.

  There was the sound of running feet, and then a voice, a shout in a strange language that was neither Spanish nor Gallego. He froze, glancing at the floor, at the narrow bands of light that came in through a small louver at the bottom of the door. Kneeling, he put his ear against the slats and listened.

  The language was oddly familiar.

  “Niccolò, o crodevi di velu viodût! Jù par che strade cà. Cumò o controli, tu continue a cjalà la ‘plaza’!”

  He recognized it, understood the words. I thought I saw him, Niccolo! the voice was saying. Down the street. You watch the plaza!

  It was an obscure, dying language called Friuliano, a tongue he had not heard in years. Some said it was an ancient dialect of Italian; others believed it was a language in its own right. It was spoken only in the northeast corner of Italy near the Slovenian border, by a dwindling number of peasants.

  Bryson, whose facility with languages had often proved as useful a survival mechanism as his ability with firearms, had taught himself Friuliano a decade or so ago, when he had hired two young peasants from the remote mountains above Cividale, remarkable hunters, assassins. Brothers. When he had hired Paolo and Niccolo Sangiovanni, he had made it a point to learn their strange tongue, largely so that he could keep close tabs on the brothers, listen to what they said to one another, though he never let on that he understood what they were saying.

  Yes. It was Paolo, who had indeed survived the shootout in the Praza do Obradoiro, shouting to his brother, Niccolo. The two Italians were superb hunters and had never failed him in any assignment he had given them. They would not be easy to evade, but Bryson did not intend to evade them.

  He heard Layla approach, and he looked up. “I need you to find us some rope or cable,” he whispered.

  “Rope?”

  “Quickly! There must be a door off the chancel, maybe leading to a rectory, a supply closet, something. Please, right away!”

  She nodded and ran back down the nave toward the sanctuary.

  He stood quickly, opened the door a crack, and called out a few words in Friuliano. Since Bryson’s ear for languages was almost pitch-perfect, he knew the accent would closely approximate that of a native. But more than that, he pitched his voice higher, tightening his throat to match Paolo’s timbre. His mimicry was uncanny, he knew; it was one of his most useful talents. A few snatches of muffled, shouted phrases, heard at a distance and distorted by echoes, would sound to Paolo like his own brother. “Ou! Paulo, pessèe! Lu ai, al è jù!” Hey! Paolo, come quick! I’ve got him—he’s down!

  The response came rapidly. “La setu?” Where are you?

  “Ca! Lì da vecje glesie—cu le sieradure rote!” This old church—the broken lock!

  Bryson got to his feet quickly, spun to one side of the portico, flattening himself against the doorframe, the Beretta gripped in his left hand.

  The footsteps accelerated, slowed, then approached. Paolo’s voice now came from just outside the church door. “Niccolo?”

  “Ca!” Bryson shouted, muffling his voice in the cloth of his shirt. “Moviti!”

  A brief hesitation, then the door was flung open. In the sudden flood of light, Bryson saw the swarthy skin, the lean, sinewy build, the tight black curls of the close-cropped hair. Paolo squinted his eyes, his expression fierce. He entered warily, looking from side to side, his weapon down at his side.

  Bryson sprung forward, slamming into Paolo with the full force of his body. His right hand was a rigid claw, smashing against the cartilage of the Italian’s throat, twisting the larynx enough to disable, not to kill. Paolo let out a loud scream of pain and surprise. Simultaneously, with his left hand, Bryson cracked the Beretta against the back of Paolo’s head, aiming with precision.

  Paolo slumped to the floor, unconscious. Bryson knew the concussion was minor, that Paolo would be out no more than a few minutes. He grabbed the Italian’s weapon, a Lugo, and quickly searched his body for any concealed weapons. Since Bryson had trained the Sangiovannis in field tactics, he knew there would be another weapon, and he knew where to find it: strapped to the left calf, under loose-fitting slacks. Bryson took that, too, and then removed a jagged fishing knife from a scabbard on the Italian’s belt.

  Layla was watching, stunned, but now she understood. She threw Bryson a large spindle of insulated electrical wire. Not ideal, but it was strong, and in any case it would have to do. Working quickly, the two of them bound the Italian’s hands and feet so that the more he struggled, the tighter the knots would become. The design was of Layla’s invention, and it was a clever one. Bryson tugged at the knots, satisfied that they would hold, and then he and La
yla carried the assassin into a sacristy off the north transept. Here it was even dimmer, but their eyes had by now become accustomed to the low light.

  “He’s an impressive specimen,” Layla said dispassionately. “Powerful—almost like a coiled spring.”

  “Both he and his brother were supremely gifted natural athletes. Hunters, both of them, with the innate skills, the instincts, of mountain lions. And just as ruthless.”

  “He once worked for you?”

  “In a past life. He and his brother. A few brief assignments and one major one, in Russia.” She looked at him questioningly; he saw no reason to hold out. Not now, not after everything she had put herself through for him. “There’s a Russian institute known as Vector, in Koltsovo, Novosibirsk. In the mid- to late 1980s, rumors circulated in American intelligence circles that Vector was no mere research institute, but was involved in the research and production of agents of biological warfare.”

  She nodded. “Weaponized anthrax, smallpox, even plague. There were rumors…”

  “According to a defector who came over in the late eighties—the former deputy chief of the Soviet biological warfare program—the Russians were targeting major U.S. cities for a biological first strike. Technical intelligence told us very little. A compound of low-rise buildings surrounded by high electrified fences and patrolled by armed guards. That was all the conventional U.S. intelligence agencies had, CIA or NSA. Without concrete evidence, neither the U.S. nor any other NATO government was willing to act.” He shook his head. “Typically passive response on the part of the intelligence bureaucrats. So I was sent in to do a high-risk, dangerous penetration no other intelligence agency would ever dare. I assembled my own team of black-bag specialists and muscle, which included these boys. My employers had a shopping list—high-res photographs of containment facilities, air locks, fermentation vats for growing viruses and vaccines. And most of all, they wanted actual samples of the bugs—Petri dishes.”

  “My God … Your employers—but you said ‘no other intelligence agency’ would ever attempt such a thing.… Did CIA…”

  He shrugged. “Leave it at that.” He thought, But what’s the point of withholding anything, anymore? “These fellows, the Sangiovanni brothers, were there to overpower night sentries, take out armed guards swiftly and silently. So they were muscle, of a rarefied sort.” He smiled grimly.

  “How’d they do?”

  “We got the goods.”

  While they waited for Paolo to come to, Layla went to the church’s front door and reassembled the broken hasp and padlock so that it appeared unbroken. Meanwhile, Bryson stood watch over the Italian assassin. In about twenty minutes, Paolo began to stir, his eyes shifting beneath his closed lids. He groaned slightly, and then his eyes came open, unfocused.

  “Al è pasât tant timp di quand che jerin insieme a Novosibirsk,” Bryson said. It’s been a long time since Novosibirsk. “I always knew you were devoid of any allegiances. Where’s your brother?”

  Paolo’s eyes widened. “Coleridge, you bastard.” He tried to pull his hands up, grimaced as the thin wires cut into his wrists. He snarled through bloody teeth, “Bastard, tu mi fasis pensà a che vecje storie dal purcìt, lo tratin come un siôr, a viodin di lui, i dan dut chel che a voe di vè, e dopo lu copin.” Bryson smiled and translated for Layla’s benefit. “He says there’s an old Friulian peasant proverb about the hog. They treat it like a prince, cater to it, serve its every need—until the day they slaughter it for meat.”

  “Who’s the hog supposed to be?” asked Layla. “You or him?”

  Bryson turned back to Paolo, speaking in Friuliano. “We’re going to play a little game here called truth or consequences. You tell me the truth, or you face the consequences. Let’s start with a simple question: Where’s your brother?”

  “Never!”

  “Well, you’ve just answered one of my questions—that Niccolo came here with you. You almost killed me back in the square. What kind of gratitude is that to show your old boss?”

  “No soi ancjmò freât dal dut!” Paolo bellowed. I’m not done yet! He struggled against the restraints, wincing.

  “No,” Bryson said with a smile. “Neither am I. Who hired you?”

  The Italian spit a gobbet of saliva, which hit Bryson’s face. “Fuck you!” he shouted in English, one of the few phrases he knew.

  Bryson wiped at the spittle with his sleeve. “I’ll ask you one more time, and if I don’t get a truthful answer—the operative word being truthful—I’ll be forced to use this.” He held up the Beretta for display.

  Layla approached, spoke quickly in a low voice. “I’m going to keep watch at the door. All this shouting may attract some unwanted attention.”

  Bryson nodded. “Good idea.”

  “Go ahead and kill me,” the assassin taunted in his native language. “It makes no difference to me. There are others, many others. My brother may have the pleasure of killing you himself—it would be my dying gift to him.”

  “Oh, I have no intention of killing you,” said Bryson coolly. “You’re a brave fellow; I’ve seen you face down death fearlessly. Death doesn’t frighten you, which is one of the things that make you so good at what you do.”

  The Italian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he attempted to puzzle out the meaning. Bryson could see him shifting his ankles, his wrists, testing the restraints for weaknesses. But there were none.

  “No,” Bryson continued, “instead, I would rather take away the only thing that means anything to you: your ability to hunt, whether it’s cinghiale, your beloved wild boar, or human beings placed ‘beyond salvage’ by the liars who control the secret arms of government.” He paused, aimed the Beretta at the assassin’s kneecap. “The loss of one knee, of course, won’t keep you from walking—not with all the advanced prosthetic joints that are available these days—but you certainly won’t be able to run very well. The loss of both of your knees—well, that will certainly deprive you of your livelihood, don’t you think?”

  The assassin’s face went ashen. “You goddamned sellout,” he hissed.

  “Is that what they tell you? And who do they say I sold out to?”

  Paolo stared defiantly, but his lower lip quivered.

  “So I ask you one more time, and consider very carefully before you either refuse to answer or attempt to lie to me: Who hired you?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Bryson fired the Beretta. The Italian screamed, and blood drenched his pants at the knee. Most if not all of the kneecap was probably gone. He would not likely hunt prey, human or animal, again. Paolo writhed in pain. At the top of his lungs he shouted a string of curses in Friuliano.

  Suddenly there came a crash at the church door, followed by a male voice shouting and a throaty cry in Layla’s voice. Bryson whirled around to see what had happened—had she been struck? He rushed to the entrance just in time to see two silhouetted figures struggling in the darkness. One of them had to be Layla; who was the other? He leveled his gun and shouted, “Stop or you’re dead!”

  “It’s all right,” came Layla’s voice. He felt a surge of relief. “Bastard put up a nasty fight.”

  It was Paolo’s brother, Niccolo, his arms trussed behind his back. A wire that hung loosely around his neck was all that remained of a garrote she had evidently used to pull tight around his throat the second he burst in. A thin, crimson line at the base of his neck was the telltale evidence of his near-strangulation. She had had the advantage of surprise, and had utilized it well; she had fashioned the restraint ingeniously so that the harder Niccolo pulled his arms, the harder the wire cut into his throat. His legs, however, were unbound, and though he sprawled on the floor, he kept kicking, wheeling around to try to gain his footing.

  Bryson leaped atop Niccolo’s chest, slamming his feet down to knock the wind out of him, and at the same time holding him down, enabling Layla to toss a loop of wire around his knees and ankles and bind them tightly. Niccolo bellowed like a gored ox, joining the blood
curdling screams of his brother from the sacristy fifty feet away.

  “Enough,” Bryson said disgustedly. He ripped a length of cloth from Niccolo’s khaki shirt, and, bunching it up, jammed it into Niccolo’s mouth to muffle the bellowing. Layla produced a roll of strong packing tape she had located somewhere, probably in the supply closet where she had found the electrical wire, and she used it to secure the gag over Niccolo’s mouth. Bryson ripped off another piece of Niccolo’s shirt, handed it to Layla, and asked her to gag the brother as well.

  While she did that, he dragged Niccolo down the nave to another alcove, shoving him into a confessional booth. “Your brother’s just been shot, badly,” Bryson told him, waving the Beretta. “But as you can hear, he’s still alive. He won’t be walking again.”

  Niccolo whipped his head back and forth, roaring through the gag. He bucked his legs up and down against the stone floor in a mute, animal-like display of defiance and anger.

  “Now, I’m going to make this as simple for you as I can, my old friend. I want you to tell me who hired you. I want the complete verbal dossier, the codes, the contact names and procedures. Everything. As soon as I remove your gag, I expect you to begin talking. And don’t even contemplate fabricating anything, because your brother has already told me a good deal, and if anything you say doesn’t jibe with what he said, I’m going to assume that he’s the one who’s lying. And I will kill him. Because I really don’t like liars. Are we clear?”

  Niccolo, who had stopped bucking his legs, nodded frantically, his eyes wide, searching Bryson’s face. The threat was obviously effective; Bryson had located the killer’s single area of vulnerability.

  From the other side of the church, Bryson could hear Paolo whimpering and groaning, muffled by the gag Layla had put in his mouth.

  “My partner is across the aisle with Paolo. All I have to do is give her the signal, and she’ll fire one single round into his forehead. Are we clear?”