Enemy Agents (33 page)

“And you’ll just happen to run this new agency? You kill Americans to get the big chair and the high pay grade?” Swift reached behind her back to touch something that was sticking out of her belt. “You say you’re protecting your kids, but you’re just another power-hungry asshole trying to manipulate everyone else, just like I’ve been dealing with my entire life.”

“My daughters will grow up safe,” said Boswell. “They won’t be street trash that steal for a living.”

There was a quiet thump inside the large air ducts that hung over the warehouse. It wasn’t much, barely perceptible above the sound of Boswell’s voice, but it was enough to catch her attention. Boswell turned, studied the vent that ran toward bay twenty. “Oh, is that Saleb?” she asked causally before turning to face the warehouse, raising her gun, and firing five shots into the vent in a zigzag pattern.

A second later, several of the bullet holes in the vent started to drool strings of thick red blood. Boswell turned back to Swift, and Swift prayed that she hadn’t noticed the object Swift pulled out of her pocket while Boswell’s back was turned. “Looks like Khalid won’t get his payback. I told you I never miss.”

The blood from inside the vent was hitting the floor in sporadic drops, and gradually formed a small puddle before the bleeding stopped. Swift tried not to stare at the vent, but her hands were shaking now.

“Oh, you don’t like blood, right? See, I read your file too.” Boswell stepped into the trailer and moved toward Swift. “And you seem to break down when people around you die. Like Saleb up there just did.” Boswell pointed the gun at Julia. “Step aside or I’ll kill the crippled hag. I barely need her anymore, anyway.”

Boswell walked right up to Julia and pressed the tip of her handgun to Julia’s temple. Swift heard footsteps and saw that the two other guards were running down from the offices, each holding a handgun. Boswell stared into Swift’s eyes, and Swift saw an insane calm. Boswell was a true believer. She thought that Mercier’s plan was the morally right thing to do, and she’d do anything, including shooting Julia in the head, if it helped her accomplish that goal.

“I’m gonna kill this woman,” said Boswell. “And I’m gonna warn Shark that you know about the Teacup so he’ll be ready when your pal Quarrel shows up. And then he’ll die, too. And when that thing goes off, some random oil workers in Texas are gonna die, too. And you know what? You could have stopped it if you had just brought a real gun. You think not killing people makes you noble? This is kill or be killed. Every one of those deaths is on you.” Boswell aimed the gun at Swift again. “So would you like me to make you live through it, or would you prefer to die?”

Swift stared right back into Boswell’s crazed eyes and felt something wonderful. It was the same crazy calm of when her training took over, but she was still in control. She knew exactly what she was doing. “I’d prefer to be smarter than you.”

Swift nodded her head to the side, urging Boswell to look over her shoulder, to the end of the semi, where the two replacement guards suddenly collapsed and fell face-first to the ground.

“What? . . . ” muttered Boswell, and just as Swift was about to say something clever, Julia Thorpe lunged forward and sank her teeth into Boswell’s forearm. Boswell screamed and tried to pull away, but Julia grabbed at her with her one good arm, and Boswell lost her grip on the handgun before she managed to pull away.

And then Swift was on her. With punches and kicks practiced for years at The Academy, Jessica Swift let loose on Boswell, letting her fury power the punches. She backed Boswell into the wall and prepared for a judo throw takedown, but Boswell grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head to the side. Swift screamed and was pulled off balance, which was all that Boswell needed to take over the fight. Boswell wasn’t emotional like Swift. She was a perfectly trained, efficient killer and she set to work chopping pressure points and elbowing Swift repeatedly in the jaw. Swift felt herself fading, knew that one or two more solid hits would knock her out cold, and that’s when she opened her hand and let her thumb find the trigger button on her laser pointer.

Just as Boswell pulled back for a knockout punch, Swift clicked on the cutting blade and the light burned a jagged line on Boswell’s forehead. Boswell screamed and flailed, stumbling backward. The smell of burnt hair hit Swift’s nostrils as she pushed off the wall, raised a foot and booted Boswell backward, hoping to kick her right out the side door of the truck. But Boswell found her footing before the door, and stood up straight again in front of Julia, grinning with a look of grudging admiration. Boswell must have liked a good fight. Swift raised the laser cutter, ready for another rush from Boswell, but before they could clash again a gunshot rang out.

Boswell’s pistol had landed in Julia’s lap, and the older woman had managed to turn it around so it pointed straight at Boswell, and pulled the trigger. Boswell took the bullet in the thigh where it shattered on her femur. She doubled over in pain, barely standing, and muttered something that Swift couldn’t make out. Swift later imagined that maybe Boswell had said, “So that’s what it feels like.”

And while Boswell was leaning forward, off-balance and in brutal pain, Swift stepped forward and threw a straight jab at Boswell’s chin. The most dangerous woman in CIA history was knocked backward, out the door, and hit the pavement several feet below.

Swift and Julia looked at each other for a moment before Julia shoved the gun to the floor. Swift offered a handshake. “Jessica,” she said.

“Ool-ya.” Julia moved a shaky hand toward Swift, but when Swift shook the hand, she felt that Julia only really controlled the movement of a few squeezing fingers.

A moment later they heard footsteps and Swift turned to see Khalid Saleb walking up with his tranquilizer rifle raised. He walked right through the puddle of red corn syrup that had poured down from the vent that Boswell shot.

Saleb paused to cuff the unconscious guards and eventually joined Swift and Mrs. Thorpe at the side door of the semi, looking down on Boswell, who was laying helpless on the pavement, awake now but bleeding badly.

“I killed you,” she said when she saw Saleb.

“You killed a toy car with a bag of fake blood on it,” Swift said.

“But I never miss . . . ” she said, her voice trailing off now as the pain and loss of blood were sending her into shock.

“We really taking her alive?” asked Saleb.

Swift patted him on the shoulder. “She left you alive to get arrested for treason. You get to return the favour.”

Swift and Saleb hugged, and when they pulled apart, Boswell was unconscious. They pulled the earpieces from their ears and then they both pulled out cellular phones. “You call for an ambulance, and MI-6,” she told him. “I’ll call Mr. Thorpe.”

She turned back to Julia as the phone dialed overseas. “Julia, it’s time we let your husband do what he does best.”

Julia might not have had much
motor control
for fine motor skills
, but her smile was absolutely gorgeous.

38

Thorpe woke inside a control room of some sort. There was a long black desk on which three computers sat side-by-side, and on the wall above them, a huge monitor displayed a fourth image. It was a satellite camera, pointed down at a body of water. Mercier sat at the desk, his rolling chair in front of the left-side computer, where he was clicking away at a screen which Thorpe couldn’t see since Mercier’s body blocked his view. Mercier was whistling. Thorpe craned his head to the sides, looking behind himself, and saw the same two guards from the penthouse had joined them in the control room. Thorpe supposed that made sense, since Mercier would only share his crimes with the smallest circle of trusted employees. It made it easier to kill the witnesses.

Thorpe was tied to a heavy chair. His arms were still cuffed together by the steel band, but now there was also a nylon rope looped around his waist several times to tie him to the simple, steel, four-legged desk chair.

“Where are we?”

“Oh, Thorpe,” Mercier said with a smile. “I thought you’d sleep through it.”

“Through what?”

“The end,” Mercier said, waving to the screens, as if their displays would mean something to Thorpe.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to use America’s weapon against them. Don’t you see the brilliance in it?”

Thorpe shrugged. “Murder’s murder.”

“A machine, built by the defence department, triggered by a control computer the army and air force intelligence agencies were supposed to be guarding. A weapon that the CIA and the CIB knew about, but didn’t destroy. A weapon bounced off a Department of Homeland Security satellite. Do you see it yet?”

“You’re going to kill all those people, just to stick it to the intelligence community? Why, because they stopped hiring you in eighty-seven?”

“To replace them. Once it all comes out, and it will, can you imagine the fallout. When the public learns that Shark Scarret—a convicted traitor who the CIA continued to let out in public, free to travel the world and plan his attack, with access to top secret files—was the one who pushed the button? Heads will roll. Entire agencies disbanded and merged together. The impractical system of dozens of agencies will end, and a new all-powerful agency will take over. And when power concentrates in a new, single intelligence service, who do you think they’ll turn to?”

“To the company that’s already running everything.”

“Globection. I have enough senators in my pocket to guarantee it will come my way. A new, single espionage service, run for private interests, running the government and turning a profit all at the same time. I’ll be America’s god.”

Thorpe snorted. “You think Shark will let you sell him out? Once his name leaks, he’ll hunt you down.”

“Don’t think so. At first I had planned on ordering my men to kill him, but now I think your pals, Hall and Quarrel, will do it for me. And if Shark survives, I always have more contractors to send after him.”

Thorpe’s cell phone, sitting on top of a filing cabinet to Mercier’s left, started to ring. Mercier held up the display for Thorpe to see. “Who’s calling? Quarrel?”

“That’s one of his old numbers.”

Mercier put the call on speakerphone.

“This is Thorpe,” he said.

“It’s Jessica Swift.”

“Oh, hello, Swift. You’re on speaker with a few analysts.”

Mercier shot him a look for that, but Thorpe only smiled.

“What have you got to report, Swift?”

“I’m in Zurich,” she said. “I found out the truth about Khalid Saleb. He’s dead now.”

“Did you do that, Swift?” Thorpe asked, shocked at what she was saying.

“I found the files Jupiter was protecting, but they contradicted Saleb. It was the details that caught him in the lie. Proved he was in on his wife’s killing after all. When he went on missions, he always gave her his wedding ring. She wore it on her necklace. But not that time. So that proves he was in on it; kept his memento since he knew he’d never see it again. You see what I mean, Thorpe?”

Thorpe nodded for a second, before realizing he needed to say something.

“Understood, Swift. I don’t know who you report to now, Harry Milton’s dead.”

“I heard.”

“I’d tell you to disappear, but I bet you’re doing that anyway. Have a better life, Swift.”

“I will. And Thorpe,” she paused, “stop whatever’s happening.”

She hung up. Mercier ended the call and smiled.

“Poor thing.
‘
Stop whatever’s happening!
’
” he mocked. “Broke her own rules about killing and Saleb wasn’t even in on it. I think when this is over I’ll track her down and let her know she killed an innocent man. In her mental state I bet she’d have a real meltdown. You think she’d kill herself or beg me to do it?” Mercier put the phone down and walked back toward his computers. “And well done, Thorpe. I like having you for a pet. You say all the right things.”

He slid the rolling chair to the center computer and brought its display up on the big screen for Thorpe to see. It was a sort of schematic of the satellite. As Mercier ordered a command, the machine began to change. Thorpe realized that this was the program that controlled the satellite, and the visual was a computer model showing what was happening to the real satellite in orbit. What looked like wings began to unfold out the sides of the module. Once they were straight out, the arms began to rotate, unfolding as they did, forming a circular ring around the front of the satellite. A giant reflective dish in space.

“It’s a Homeland Security satellite. The irony’s the best part.” Mercier waved his arm theatrically and pressed the enter key. “There. It’s locked in. Even if you got loose and killed me, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

He brought up the other image, the satellite’s camera. It had moved, no longer pointed at water, it was aiming for a dry patch of land with some kind of industrial buildings in the crosshairs.

“What are you aiming at?” asked Thorpe.

“My Russian friends put a lot of money into this. You see, we need to attack an American target to get the politicians in line, but the exact target doesn’t matter much to me. The Russians have requested that we microwave a few oil refineries. It’ll give their new pipelines some added value.”

“So you’ll get to take over the intelligence world and your pals in Moscow take over the oil business.”

“Finally, you see the beauty of the plan.”

“But your friends are killing each other. Maslov, Plunov. They’re not even in charge of those companies anymore.”

Mercier shrugged. “I still have to keep my friends friendly. The Russians know a lot more about my past than your side do.”

Mercier pointed to the refinery on the screen. “You ever put metal in the microwave? I wonder what’ll happen when we do it to an entire building. All that metal, all those flammable liquids. Should be quite a show.”

Thorpe slumped in his chair. “If it’s over, then kill me,” said Thorpe, deflated.

“Giving up so easily?” mocked Mercier. “You don’t want to stay alive while the public reacts? When they know that dozens of intelligence agencies failed them? Don’t you want to live long enough to see me crowned as America’s new intelligence czar?”

Thorpe shed a tear. “I’d like a drink.”

“You always were a drunk.”

“My briefcase,” said Thorpe, “is just a travelling bar. A testament to my weakness. It’s holding my favourite vodka and vermouth. If you don’t mind.”

“A cigarette before the firing squad, eh?” Mercier nodded to a guard and told him to get the case. The muscular guard popped open the case and held it in front of Mercier, the contents on display: vodka, vermouth, a jar of olives, two metal glasses, and two martini shakers.

“Good stuff,” said Mercier. “Is that martini shaker solid gold?”

“Of course. I took it from your old employer, Hans Midas. Although I confess I’ve never used it. I thought that the ice cubes would dent the gold, so I’ve always used the steel shaker.”

“Hans was a strange man. Gold everything. He even paid me in gold when I shot his wife.” Mercier opened the vodka and sniffed it. “But since we have no ice cubes . . . ” he pulled the gold shaker from the case and set it on the desk. As he opened the vermouth, Thorpe made a request.

“Martin, this is the last drink I’ll ever have,” he said staring his enemy in the eyes. “Don’t skimp.”

Mercier laughed and picked up a bottle in each hand, pouring both into the shaker, more than enough to fill a glass. He seemed to relish the moment. The satellite reflector open and waiting on the screens, his worst enemy begging for a last drink, the moment made even sweeter by having a few minutes to spend taunting Thorpe before the main event got started. Mercier whistled again, making exaggerated flourishes as he placed the other half of the shaker on top, twisting it to make sure it was tight.

And with just as much exaggerated gusto as he had displayed in pouring the bottles, he began to shake the golden shaker. The one that Thorpe had avoided shaking for all these years, even though he carried it with him all the time. Thorpe counted the shakes, up and down.

Up and down.

Five shakes, six, seven . . .

And Martin Mercier became a red spray that painted the walls and ceiling. The explosion from the gold shaker launched the guard with the case backward, but it completely destroyed Mercier.

As soon as the bomb went off, Thorpe was on his feet. In all the conversation, he had distracted the guards from the fact that he was using the saw in his watch to cut the rope around his waist. One guard was down from the force of the explosion, his face sliced in a few spots by golden shrapnel, and the other guard was too stunned to react when Thorpe jumped from the chair and ripped the gun from his hands. Thorpe’s wrists were still bound by the metal cuff, so he had to turn all the way around to fire three shots into the other guard, who was still on the floor, dazed by the explosion. The other guard recovered from losing his gun and grabbed Thorpe in a bear hug, forcing him to lower the gun and stopping him from turning back around.

Thorpe aimed down, between his feet, and fired a shot into the guard’s toes. He screamed and let go, and Thorpe spun away, creating enough space to raise the gun at the guard.

“Can you shut that satellite off?”

The guard was bewildered. “I don’t . . . I—”

Thorpe shot him between the eyes.

He turned back to Mercier—or the red splash that remained of him. The gold shaker had accelerometers and plastic explosives in each end. After eight good shakes in rapid succession, the bomb was triggered. Thorpe had kept the shaker around for all those years for just this occasion, disguising a last-resort weapon behind his reputation as an unrepentant drunk. Thorpe had been in tough situations before, but never so completely defeated that the enemy would pick up that tempting shaker and make him a drink. Mercier had been the first to have Thorpe so helpless, but he had also been so confident that he didn’t realize the solid gold shaker was a trap.

The explosion had completely obliterated Mercier’s forearms and much of his torso. His remains had blown backward, into the computer desk, crushing the center-most monitor. His blood covered the walls, floor, and ceiling. Most of his head was intact, but had been snapped backward so hard it was barely attached to his neck, and jagged chunks of gold shrapnel stuck out from what remained of his arms and torso.

Thorpe spat on his body. “Waste of good vodka.”

He searched the floor for his cell phone and called the number Swift had used. Even if Julia couldn’t say anything to him, he had to talk to her. He had to at least let her hear that he was OK. Once that was done, he would get to work on freeing his hands and trying to get in touch with someone who could evacuate that refinery in Texas. Even if Quarrel failed to stop the weapon, Thorpe could try to save some lives.

But hopefully, hopefully, Quarrel could shut the damn thing down.

The phone rang once and Swift answered. “Hold out the phone for Julia,” he said, the tears on his cheeks surprising him as much as the croak in his voice. “And thank you.” He finally broke down sobbing.

He heard Julia’s breath and broke down crying. “It’s alright now, hon. We made it.”