Assassin (42 page)

R
ON
G
IDWITZ AND
I
AN
W
AGSTAFF, THE SQUAD’S RADIOMAN,
had escaped from the remains of
Phantom
by sheer luck and good design. She’d sheared off both wings in the crash landing; the weight of the snow had simply ripped them away from the fuselage. But then the monocoque egg-shaped cockpit had detached, as it had been engineered to do, hit a buried slope and gone airborne. It hit the snow once more and skidded directly towards Hawke and Patterson, snow parting in front of the nose skid like a bow wake thrown to either side.

“Jump!” Hawke screamed and he and Patterson dove out of its path. The oblong black egg bounced once again and soared directly over the head of Alexander Hawke, who stared up in amazement as the carbon fiber module containing two good men disappeared over a sheer rock face.

“Good God,” Hawke said.

“Designed that way,” Patterson shouted over his shoulder, making his way up to the edge of the cliff face. “Modular. Lose the plane, keep the pilots. That’s the idea, anyway. We’ll soon see.”

Hawke, slogging as fast as he could through knee-deep snow, rushed up to join Patterson on the rocky ledge. He was expecting the worst, splintered black shards and broken bodies on the rocks far below. Arriving at the top, he found himself perched, not on the edge of nowhere, but on a simple ledge. Thirty feet below him, down an angled black ice incline, another, larger, snow-covered ledge projected out into thin air. There, he and Patterson first saw the upturned canopy dish lying in the snow about ten feet from the cockpit. The black plastic pod looked as if it had been split open with a hammer. Hawke’s face flooded with relief.

Gidwitz and Wagstaff were rolling in the snow, wrestling, and laughing like a pair of punch-drunk palookas. They weren’t dead, just drunk, victims of altitude sickness.

“Hypoxia,” Hawke said. “You were right.”

Phantom
’s internal systems had malfunctioned. Oxygen deprivation in the cockpit had sent the two DSS rangers into disoriented euphoria that no doubt caused the crash. But, thanks to the Widow’s reinforced cockpit module, they were still alive.

Hawke leapt off the edge, landed hard on his butt, and slid easily feet-first down the black-ice face to the bottom. Patterson followed seconds later. Tex removed two gold foil survival suits from his backpack and managed to convince the two giddy men to climb inside. Wagstaff, the communications specialist known traditionally as Sparky, kept trying to tell him a joke about a Texan who owned a pickle factory. Tex finally shut him up and managed to strap emergency oxygen masks over both their faces. He turned to Hawke.

“It’ll take at least half an hour before they’re in any condition to move around. At least.”

“We don’t have that long, Pards,” Hawke said, flicking his HK machine gun to full auto. Both men turned to see what was making all the noise.

Emerging from a wide crack in the mountain was a Hagglund BV 206 all-terrain tracked vehicle. As it rumbled into the open, Hawke saw that it was towing a tracked troop carrier. The military ATV was built in the UK for NATO’s Rapid Reaction Force, but that wasn’t any NATO insignia painted on the door of the all-white vehicle. It was a symbol Hawke had seen before. An upraised sword in a bloody hand. On the roof, a man behind a swivel-mounted .50-cal. machine gun. Without warning, the man atop the vehicle opened up, stitching the snow, kicking up powder, stopping just short of Alex Hawke.

He and Patterson lowered their weapons.

The double doors at the rear of the troop carrier flew open and ten armed guards poured out, leaping to the ground. Two guards immediately opened fire, squeezing off long, high bursts over their heads; the rounds splintered rock and ice on the cliff face above, showering it down on Hawke, Patterson and the two sick men on the ground. In seconds, the guards had formed a semicircle around them.

“Got the drop on us, Pards,” said Tex out of the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, but here’s the good news,” Hawke said.

“I’m waiting, Hawkeye.”

“They take us prisoner in that thing, we don’t have to worry about how to blast our way inside an impregnable fortress anymore. Classic Trojan Horse. Works every time.”

“Yup. Good point, Sunshine. I was kinda hoping we’d catch a break just like this.”

A grinning guard suddenly stepped forward and jabbed the muzzle of his Kalashnikov into Hawke’s belly. Hawke staggered backwards against the ice face, collapsing to the snow, feigning pain. Patterson lunged for the man who’d done it, but nine AKs swung in his direction. Hawke had seen the blow coming in the man’s eyes and so was ready for it. He’d also caught a glint of light from the cliff above out of the corner of his eye. Now it was gone. With any luck at all, the rest of the team above had not been spotted.

The same guard with the loopy grin came over and kicked Hawke brutally in the ribs with his steel-toed boot. Then stood over him, smiling. Hawke twisted away in the snow, rolling to avoid the next blow to his ribs, gaining precious seconds, talking softly into his lipmike as he moved. He no longer had to feign any pain. His left side was on fire.

“Hey, Tommy,” Hawke whispered, “You up there?”

“Got you covered, Skipper,” the sniper Tom Quick replied. “In the rocks above and behind, on your left, sir.”

The guard advanced and kicked Hawke again, even more viciously. The pain was searing and it took his breath away. This guy was starting to seriously piss him off.

“Got a shot, Tommy?” Hawke managed.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Take it.”

A neat red hole instantly appeared between the eyes of the grinning man standing over Hawke.

“Old pals of Mr. bin Wazir,” Hawke said smiling up at the guard who was dead on his feet but didn’t realize it yet. “We understand he lives nearby. Thought we’d drop in.”

Before anyone else could react, Tom Quick took out the tango with the .50 cal on the roof of the Hagglund, and then dropped two more on the ground with clean head shots. Hawke got to his feet, bringing up the HK as he did, moving to give Patterson a clear field of fire as well.

Hawke heard a burst from a weapon on his left, swung instantly that way and fired. His rounds caught the man in the throat. He dropped his weapon and raised both hands to the wound, unable to stop the geyser of bright arterial blood which erupted. The man collapsed in a heap in the blood-soaked snow.

Five of the six remaining guards, unaccustomed to armed resistance, turned to run for their vehicle. All five died on their feet in less than ten seconds, victims of Hawke, Patterson, and the silent but deadly sniper above. Quick had acquired the new lightweight HK 7.62 sniper rifle for the mission. So far, he had no complaints. The sixth guard, spotting Quick on the edge of the overhang, raised his automatic to return fire. Before he could squeeze off a burst, Hawke hit him low, across the knees, and sent him sprawling in the snow. In an instant Hawke was all over him, ignoring his own pain, the snout of his weapon jammed up under the guard’s chin.

He looked into the terrified boy’s eyes and asked, “Do you want to live? Nod yes if you speak English.”

“Yes—”

“Name!”

“Rashid—”

“Get on your feet, Rashid. I’m requisitioning your vehicle. Sorry. Force majeure. You’re driving.”

“Good work, Pards,” Patterson said, “Your friend Mr. Quick up there makes a fine addition to the squad.”

“Still, we do appear to have lost the element of surprise—
Widowmaker, FlyBaby,
you guys get down here on the double. We’re taking this ATV inside the Pasha’s palazzo. Copy?”

“On our way, skipper.”

They loaded Gidwitz and Wagstaff into the troop transport. The two men were still groggy, but coming around courtesy of the oxygen. Mendoza and the rest of the team climbed inside the carrier as well, except for Hawke and Patterson, who would ride up front with the kid driving the snow-cab. Quick would be riding up on the roof, manning the .50-cal.

Hawke looked at his watch. Christ. It would be a very close thing. He had less than eighty minutes to find Kelly, extract vital information from bin Wazir, and get the hell out of there before the B-52s showed up and the big bunker-buster bombs started falling. And the Tomahawks came cruising.

J
OHNNY
A
DARE STARED AT THE MAN CALLED
P
OISON
I
VY IN
amazement. They were toe-to-toe in the sitting room aboard the Pasha’s 747-400, special edition. The little cretin I.V. Soong was standing before him waving a wad of U.S. dollars in his face. One hundred thousand of them, to be exact. First the guy says he wants to test the aircraft’s emergency oxygen system, and then asks, by the way, is the cockpit sealed? Adare immediately grabbed the intercom phone to call Khalid up in the cockpit.

Johnny had started to punch in the cockpit code, but the wiry little fellow grabbed his wrist.

“No!” Soong shouted. “Put it down. You will ruin everything. Just listen for one moment. If you don’t like what you hear, then call the cockpit. Okay? Please!”

That’s when he opened up the smaller of the two shiny black suitcases he’d stowed under the Pasha’s fancy leather sofa. The big one, now empty, had held all the replacement oxygen canisters. This smaller one was full of cash. Johnny eyeballed it carefully. If each wad was U.S. fifty grand, there had to be a million quid in there. A little less than one and a half million dollars. Just the bloody sight of so much cash in one place was enough to make Johnny quietly replace the receiver.

The sun came out on Dr. Soong’s face once more.

“Let’s have a drink, shall we?” Soong said. “Another whiskey? I may join you. My nerves, you see. Rough flight. Shaky.”

Johnny collapsed into the big leather armchair the Pasha used when he was on the phone. Soong went to the bar and poured them each a tumbler of Jameson’s. He handed one to Johnny, took a healthy swig of his own, and sat carefully on the edge of the sofa.

“Good, good,” he exclaimed in his high-pitched voice. “A toast! To your new life as a rich man, Captain Adare.”

“Tell me what’s in the canisters, Doc.”

“It is an—experiment—I am conducting, sir. A test.”

“I ain’t a fucking test pilot, Doc. And I don’t do fucking experiments. Eight miles up, anyway.”

“Ah! Is a good one! No, you don’t have to do anything. You know about what you were originally supposed to be carrying aboard this plane? Something called a Pigskin?”

“Got a rough idea. I don’t want to know.”

“There was a problem with them. Very unstable. Be glad I did not allow them to be loaded on your airplane, believe me, Johnny. Very lucky. My god.”

“I’m a lucky man,” Adare said, deciding to let the “Johnny” pass for now. “What’s in the bloody canisters?”

“I am coming to this. Please. How much is the Pasha paying you for this trip?”

“Two hundred fifty grand. Free and clear.”

“Tsk-tsk. So unfair.”

“What?”

“Khalid is getting one million.”

“What? You’re bloody lying!”

“Shh! Calm yourself, Johnny. It’s not a problem.”

“The bastard’s getting a million?” Johnny said, swallowing his whiskey. “But he tells me he’s getting a quarter of that. Son of a bitch! Ten years we’re flying together and our last job for that fat bastard bin Wazir, he thinks he can screw me over?”

“Grossly unjust! This is why I picked you, Johnny. To have this little chat back here. I pretended fear back in the cockpit so Khalid would not suspect. See?”

“Yeah? Keep talking. So this—experiment—why not just tell Khalid about it? Why pick me?”

“Because I know Khalid’s reputation. By the book. Always by the book. Veddy, veddy British. So that’s why I asked for a private word with you. You are a most reasonable and intelligent man with whom I can do business.”

“And if I said no?”

“I did my research, Johnny. A wife. A sick daughter. No pension. So. A million dollars cash? You saying no never occurred to me. You ask what is in my canisters, I will tell you. It is like I said, an experiment. I am trying out a new drug.”

“A drug.”

“Yes,” Soong said, lying smoothly, and unceasingly amazed at the easy dexterity of his mind. “A mind-control substance. A hypnotic. It will enable me to have the power of autosuggestion over the subjects of my experiment. I am just trying it out. Bin Wazir has generously allowed me to conduct this test on your airplane to America.”

“Mind control, eh? Autosuggestion? Christ. I could see the possibilities in that.”

“Yes, yes! Very exciting. I know what you mean! Of course, what the Pasha has in mind for these young women is something much more—serious.”

Adare went to the bar and returned with the half-full liter of whiskey. He refilled both their glasses—visions of an army of beautiful zombies wandering around America blowing up nuclear power stations—splashing some on the table. He was staring at the contents of the opened suitcase.

“A million dollars. You’re serious?”

“All yours. Count it out for yourself. I trust you.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Adare said, kneeling beside the opened suitcase. “What do I have to do, Doc?”

“Very simple, Johnny. We return now to the cockpit. All you say about our conversation is that there is no problem. Much ado about nothing. The stupid little airsick wog, whatever. At some point, certainly in the next hour or so, Khalid will need to leave the cockpit to relieve himself. When he does, you and I put our cockpit masks on. Then you seal the cockpit and activate the emergency oxygen in the main cabin. The masks all drop down. Go on the intercom and say there has been a sudden loss of cabin pressure. Inform everyone to stay calm, fit the masks over their faces, and breathe normally.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What about Khalid? Comes out of the head and sees all those goddamn masks hanging down? He’ll fucking kill me.”

“Khalid? He is no problem, Johnny, trust me. I have planned this operation in great detail. Yes, I had a little last-minute problem with the end product to be delivered but it’s nothing you cannot handle. You are my man. So simple. We have our scheduled rendezvous over the Pacific and—boom—and Johnny lands in L.A. and Johnny walks away with one million dollars.”

Johnny let out a long, low whistle. A bloody millionaire. He could see it, the whole thing. He’d never take any more crap from bin Wazir, his ex-buddy Khalid, anybody. He could even see himself walking away with a lot more than a million. There was almost two million in Soong’s black case. What was he going to do if Johnny just picked it up and walked off the plane? Call the cops? He’d be checking into the Beverly Hills Hotel tonight, not that cheesy dump on La Cienega!

He looked at his new best friend Soong and grinned, already tasting his first martinis in the Polo Lounge.

“Locked up with four hundred women on autopilot?” he said. “I’m not sure I wouldn’t want to trade places with Khalid.”

Poison Ivy laughed so hard Johnny thought he was going to pee in his britches. He stood up and polished off the Jameson’s remaining in his glass. There was an old overnight bag of the Pasha’s in the head. Vintage Louis Vuitton, cost more than his current salary. He retrieved it and stuffed it with the money, throwing in a couple of extra wads, what the hell. It was all his now anyway.

Cherry scootched her knees over so the hottie-tottie could climb over her and slide his cute little bootie into his seat by the window.

Whatever was so “urgent” had taken old Brown Eyes over half an hour. She’d started to wonder if he’d gotten sucked down the toilet. Laugh. She’d heard it happened to pets and babies all the time. Oops! Sorry, Junior! Bombs away! Anyway, her philosophy on the whole airplane bathroom issue could be explained in three little letters. NPR. No. Public. Restrooms. Except in extreme situations, thank you very much.

They had finally started the movie, which was good.
Clueless,
one of her all-time faves. Leave it to British Airways to show a zillion-year-old movie that everyone on the entire planet had seen a thousand times. Everybody had lowered their shades and the lights were down. She’d been kinda half-watching, half-listening to her headphones (like she didn’t know this whole movie by heart) and half-hoping the brown-eyed wonder would be just a teensie bit—friendlier—now that he was back from doing his, you’ll pardon the expression, business.

Dream on, Cherry.

“Hi. Everything come out okay?” Omigod, had she really said that? Didn’t matter. He hadn’t even heard her. You could talk to a tree or a dog and have a far more interesting conversation.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

Nada.

“I said, hi. Whassup?”

Didn’t even look at her. Hey, don’t wanna talk, that’s cool. He had his cheeseball Taiwanese shaving kit perched on his knees. She thought the MP3 player was coming out again and the earphones, but, uh-uh, he just sat there staring straight ahead holding his stupid dopp kit with both hands.

“Hey. You. Foreign person. What ya got in there? A bomb?”

Nothing. What a nutball.

Staring into space. Like she didn’t even exist. Asshole. After a while she just spaced. He was talking now; not to her but to himself. Whispering like, repeating something she couldn’t hear over and over. She put her seat all the way back and scrunched the crappy cardboard pillow into a little ball under her head.

She must have zonked out because when she opened her eyes,
Clueless
was over, and they were now showing an old episode of
Friends.
Gameboy, right in front of her, was now standing up in his seat, facing her, smiling, with his thumb in his mouth. Cute kid, actually. Curly blond bangs on his forehead, big blue eyes. Sparkly. She was sorry she’d kicked his seatback earlier. Larry of Arabia by the window was still at it, whispering to himself. Only now he’d put his shade up and was staring out at something. Like there was really something to see up here. Like, how do you say ‘lame’ in your language?

What the hell was he looking for? That hole in the ozone maybe.

“You are so
whack,
” she said to his back and then she floated back to la-la land and dreamed of her sweet boo baby back in deepest darkest Connecticut.

Hey, she thought just before she fell asleep, what if she
was
pregnant? Would that be so bad? Maybe she’d have a kid cute as Gameboy.