Assassin's Code

by Jonathan Maberry

  A nuclear bomb.

  “It is a Teller-Ulam design hydrogen bomb,” said Rasouli quietly. “It has a yield of fifty megatons, which is equivalent to fourteen hundred times the combined power of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Or, if you look at it another way, it has ten times the combined power of all the explosives used in WWII.”

  “Where is it?” I snarled, causing Rasouli to recoil from me.

  “Please,” he said soothingly, “this device is not on U.S. soil.”

  “Then why the hell are you showing me this?”

  “Because I need you to know that this is something larger than the political struggles between our countries.”

  “Your country has been trying to build this for years, asshole—” I began, but he cut me off, and again had to wave back his guard.

  “You don’t understand,” said Rasouli in an urgent whisper, “this is not ours.”

  I stared at him. “Then whose is it?”

  “I … do not know,” he said. “That is one of the reasons I wanted your help. It’s likely the device is one of many that have gone ‘missing’ since the end of the Cold War and the collapse of the Russian economy.”

  “Just so we’re clear,” I said, “you—Iran—you’re afraid of terrorists with a bomb?”

  “Yes.” His mouth was a tight line, “and I’ll thank you not to smirk. This is a very real threat that could cause untold damage.”

  “You have any suspects?”

  Rasouli shrugged. “We are not a popular country, Captain Ledger. It is the price of being powerful, as you Americans well know,”

  “Yeah. Seems like every five minutes there’s a fundamentalist nut job coming at us with a vest of C-4 and the name of God on his lips. Ain’t that a bitch?”

  All that earned me was a contemptuous sneer. “This is hardly on the level of car bombings, Captain. Whoever is behind this is organized, extraordinarily well-financed, and subtle. I have reliable sources within Hezbollah, al Qaeda, and the Taliban and I am convinced they are not involved.”

  “They aren’t the only players.”

  “No, but they are the ones most likely to consider such a radical plan; and the smaller cells and splinter groups could never make one of these.”

  “They could buy one,” I said.

  “Of course, but it would be very expensive. Prohibitively so. Most organizations do not have that much money.”

  “Hugo Vox could buy one of those with his beer money.”

  “Why would he? His day is over.”

  “Why? Because the Seven Kings are off the board?”

  “No,” said Rasouli. “My sources tell me that Vox is ill.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rasouli’s green eyes glittered. “He has cancer, didn’t you know?”

  “Shit.”

  It was good and bad news at the same time. Good news because it was nice to think about Vox rotting away. Bad because that was a much easier exit strategy than he deserved.

  “Could be his last blast,” I said, meaning it the way it sounded.

  I thought about what I said but then dismissed it. Vox is many things, but he has never struck me as vindictive. Murderous, to be sure, and merciless, but not petty. To detonate a bomb in frustration for dying of cancer…? No, that would be cheap, no matter what the death toll.

  I tried to build a case for it in my mind, but gave it up. It didn’t fit Vox’s pattern at all. For him, killing was only ever a pathway to profit. Even so, I’d want to run this past Mr. Church, Rudy Sanchez, and Circe O’Tree. They built the profile on him that was being used by every law enforcement agency in the world.

  “If it’s not Vox,” I said, “then we’re looking at someone who has as big a bank account.”

  “Would you like me to recite a list of nations who would love to see Iran reduced to scorched earth?”

  “Not really, because you’d start your list with the U.S., Israel, and Great Britain, and they don’t need to buy black-market bombs.”

  He shrugged. “That is not entirely true. A case can be made for why such countries would want to have bombs that could in no way be traced back to them. Bombs from former Soviet countries, perhaps.”

  “Fair enough. But is that your pitch? Are you saying that it’s America or one of its allies?”

  “No,” he said tiredly. “If I thought that, then this discussion would be held in the world press, backed by all of the considerable outrage which it is possible for our propaganda department to muster. The Ayatollahs would probably enjoy that.”

  “Bottom line,” I said, “can you tell me where this thing can be found?”

  “Much worse,” he said. “I know where four of these things can be found.”

  The whole world froze around me.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said.

  “Worse still,” Rasouli said in a voice that sucked the last shreds of peace from the morning, “there are at least three more that we have not been able to locate. And one of the others might even be on U.S. soil.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Kingdom of Shadows

  One Year Ago

  He was the King of Thorns.

  The King of Blood and Shadows.

  He lived in a world of darkness, and that darkness was so beautiful. So subtle. It hid so many things from those who lacked the power to see. It was his mother, his ally, his weapon. It was the ocean in which he swam, the sky through which he flew, the dream in which he walked.

  Darkness did not blind him. Even down here in the endless shadows. Buried beneath a billion tons of rock and sand.

  Darkness held no surprises for him; he knew its secrets. They had been handed down to him, generation upon generation, and he had shared those secrets with the other pale bodies that moved and writhed and burrowed beneath the earth.

  A single candle burned, its flame hidden behind a pillar of rock so that only the faintest of yellow light painted the edges of walls and glimmered on the golden thread of ancient tapestries. A single candle was all the light he needed. More than he needed.

  He rose from a bed of fur and silk and broken bones. Ribs cracked beneath his feet. Cobwebs licked at his face as he moved from chamber to chamber. Water dripped in the distance, and the sound of wretched weeping echoed to him from down one of the many corridors his people had carved from the living rock. He paused to listen to the sobs. A female voice, of course. A babble of nonsense words and bits of prayers which combined to make sense only to the mad. There was so much pain there, so much hurt and loss.

  It made him smile. It made his loins throb with a deep and ancient ache.

  He closed his eyes and leaned against the closest wall. The limestone was cool and damp as he pressed his cheek against it, savoring the rough texture. A tongue tip the color of a worm wriggled out from between his teeth and curled along the thin contours of his lips.

  It was as if he could taste the pain, and he craved it, wanting more of it, wanting the freshest and choicest bits.

  He was there for a long time, lost in memory and expectation.

  “Grigor,” murmured a voice, and with regret he opened his eyes and pushed himself away from the wall. He turned to see Thaddeus, his eighth son, standing a few yards away. The boy had made no sound at all. Excellent. He was learning, he would be ready soon.

  “What is it?” asked Grigor.

  “He is here.”

  Grigor smiled again. “Good.”

  And it was good. In the distance the weeping continued unabated, and that was good too. Soon, Grigor knew, there would be more weeping. So much more.

  How delicious that would be.

  And how soon.

  It was almost time to make the whole world scream.

  Chapter Ten

  Starbox Coffee

  Tehran, Iran

  June 15, 8:05 a.m.

  I almost came out of my chair and went for Rasouli.

  “Where?” I snarled. Feyd was halfway across the room before Rasouli held u
p his hand to freeze the moment.

  “I don’t know,” he fired back, cold and hard. “Listen to me, Captain, I am here as a friend—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “As an ally then. In this matter, we are both in danger. Now please, listen for a moment.”

  I stayed in my chair. Feyd gave me a hard look and slouched back to his post. Rasouli let out a weary breath.

  “You said that there was a device in the States,” I said very quietly. “Where?”

  “I don’t know where. I’m not even positive there is one in America. Please, let me tell you what I do know.” He gestured to the phone that I still held. “We believe that this device is somewhere inside the Aghajari oil refinery.”

  “That’s yours,” I said. “That’s in Iran.”

  He nodded. “We don’t know exactly where they’ve placed it. However, I have managed to get some degree of verification through an operative with a radiation detector. I have not risked a full-blown investigation yet for fear that if we started looking it would alert whoever planted the devices that we know about them. That might be a fatal misstep.”

  “You think there’s a mole inside your government?”

  “There are many moles inside my government, and not all of them are yours, Captain. It is in the nature of what we do that there are spies, and I have very good reason to believe that some of those spies work for whoever has these bombs.” Before I could interrupt him he held up a finger. “What little information I have came to me in a way that has effectively shut the door to investigation. My agent was found dead, the victim of a savage beating. Many of his bones were broken and his internal organs ruptured. My pathologist says that the injuries were apparently delivered with hands and feet. Whoever did it made it last and that suggests either someone with a taste for it or someone who wanted information that my agent was unwilling or unable to provide. However, during the autopsy the surgeon found this.” Rasouli reached into his pocket and produced a flash drive. “He had apparently swallowed it.”

  “And didn’t give it up during the beating?” I remarked. “Tough man.”

  “Very. One of my best agents. You … would have admired him, I’m sure, but disliked him.” He paused. “The beating is not what killed him, however.”

  “What did? A bullet in the back of the head?”

  “His throat was torn out,” Rasouli said.

  I paused. “When you say ‘torn out’—”

  “My people did a thorough post mortem, including all of the appropriate tests for trace particles. Blades leave microscopic metallic residue, and even with plastic knives there are signature markings. There was nothing like that. The pathologist did a reconstruction of the man’s throat and determined that the flesh was torn out by teeth.”

  “What kind? Dog?”

  Rasouli studied me for a moment. “I don’t know. There were traces of saliva in the wounds that my physician could not immediately identify. I would like to have had DNA testing done on it, but that would raise too many flags.” He fished in his pocket and produced a small metal container the size of a Zippo lighter. “This contains a skin sample packed in CO2. Your employer has access to more sophisticated equipment than I do. The body has since been cremated, so that is the only remaining sample. I’m trusting you, Captain, and I ask only that you share your findings with me.”

  “How?”

  He produced his notebook again and wrote a second number; however, he did not give me that sheet of paper. Instead he held it up for me to look at. “That is my private cell. Memorize the number. If you have to call, let it ring once and then hang up. I’ll return your call when I can do so safely.”

  I nodded and he produced a pack of matches and burned the page in an ashtray. I glanced at Feyd, but either he didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  I pocketed the metal sample case.

  “When my agent’s body was found, the police investigators concluded that he had been murdered elsewhere and then dumped where the remains could be found. They reached that conclusion because there was very little blood found at the scene, and such a terrible wound would have bled profusely.”

  “So?”

  “I believe the police drew the wrong conclusion. I believe that he was killed where he was found.”

  “And the blood?”

  “This is not the first time there has been a murder of this kind, Captain Ledger. There have been others. Many others, if the reports I collected are correct. Here in Iran, and elsewhere. Syria and Lebanon, Palestine and Jordan. I had to dig deeply and quietly to learn that much, but my sources are reliable. In each case the throat was mutilated and the bodies exsanguinated by unknown means. All of the deaths have some political or religious connection, even if tangentially so.” He gave me a strange look. “What do you think of that?”

  I sipped my coffee, which was getting cold. “If it’s not a serial killer, then you have a freak. A contract hitter or rogue special operator who has a screw loose. Someone who has created a very specific style for his kills.”

  “Why would someone do that?” he asked. “What would be the gain from so grotesque a form of execution? There is no political or religious significance to it, and therefore no message which can be conveyed to an opposition party through it. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “All too well.”

  We sat there, a pair of gunslingers, fully aware of the graveyards of enemies we’d each buried. Like me, he knew all sorts of killers, from those who pulled the trigger for God and country to those who killed for the sheer joy of it. More than a few of those were drawn to military service or covert wetworks because of the opportunities provided to kill while being afforded the umbrella of official sanction. Not most, of course, but enough so that military psychs and screeners were always on the prowl for them. Either to weed them out or to recruit them. I’d like to say that “we don’t do that sort of thing,” but that would be a lie.

  I had my own inner demon who liked to roll around in the enemy’s blood. Mine was on a leash most of the time, but once in a while he got out. If the public at large ever saw that side of me, I’d be labeled a monster and locked up. Looking into Rasouli’s eyes, it was clear that he was thinking the same things about himself.

  We were sitting there, a couple of monsters contemplating something worse than either of us.

  I cleared my throat. “Bombs,” I said.

  He set the flash drive on the table between us. “Because the man swallowed the drive, there has been some moisture damage. I was able to salvage about ten percent of the information. Enough to scare me to death. Enough to make me want to risk this encounter we are having.”

  “You said there were seven of them? One in America?”

  “I believe there is one in America. One of the documents on the drive gave a list of potential targets in your country. The file was corrupted and there is nothing to indicate that a bomb has definitely reached your shores. That is, as you well know, a difficult thing to accomplish.”

  “Don’t look so sad about it.”

  He sighed again. “Captain, we may be on different sides of many issues, not the least of which is nuclear power and arms, but I doubt either of us is a fool or an absolute bloody-minded madman. We are entering into a new Cold War, a new arms race, but just as neither America nor Russia launched bombs at each other, no matter how badly they wanted to or how many they had to spare, neither do we. What we want is to be safe, and if having weapons of mass destruction insures that we will never be invaded by a conquering army, then that is only fair. And … more to the point, there is nothing to be gained by mutual extermination. Nothing. Even the most extreme ayatollahs know that, no matter what comprises their public rhetoric. Besides … surely you, a soldier of some reputation, understand the difference between being only able to shout loud and shake a fist and to speak quietly and shake a spear.”

  “Walk softly and carry a big stick,” I said.

  “Yes. Theodore Roosevelt. The smarter of your
two Roosevelts. He understood that one must have power before one can effectively enter into war or peace.”

  I studied the picture. The picture showed a bomb the size of a central air conditioning unit for a medium-sized suburban house. The walls around it looked like bare rock; the floor was poured concrete. There were no other details visible. Not on a phone image a couple of inches square. “This is a big unit. It’s not built into a warhead, or at least this one’s not. How are they planning on transporting these devices?”

  “I doubt they are,” said Rasouli. “The fragments of information on the drive suggest that as many as four devices are already in place. The ones here in the Middle East. The last time I spoke to my agent, shortly before he was killed, he said that he did not think that any bombs were currently inside the borders of the United States. That was, alas, all that he said on that topic. I ordered him to bring me all of his findings, but he was apparently abducted on the way to my home. Another fragment of a file obliquely mentions America, but there are no other details. Merely the hint that America may be a target.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly in Iraq, or India. It’s conjecture though, based solely on similarly cryptic references. One message fragment makes reference to ‘the seven devices.’ That’s all we could recover.”

  “Shit,” I said, and if I wasn’t scared enough before I was really starting to sweat now. Given a choice of knowing for sure that there was a bomb in the U.S. and not knowing, I’d prefer certain knowledge. At least then we could start some kind of proper search. “What’s the endgame for all this?” I asked. “What does this accomplish?”

  “I don’t know. From a practical stance, I believe they are planning to destroy a significant amount of the oil reserves in the Middle East. Not just what is in the refineries, but in the actual oil fields. Underground devices could ignite much of it—wherever there is sufficient venting for oxygen, and what isn’t burned would be contaminated. Not to mention the destruction of everything that lives and moves on the sands above.”

  I shook my head. “Four nukes couldn’t do that. Not sure if seven of them could.”