Silent Assassin (25 page)

C
HAPTER
55

 

“W
e’ve got a name,” said William Schroeder to an expectant situation room. “We’ve got a name for the bastard, and a picture to boot.”

A grainy surveillance photo appeared on the screen.

“We followed the lead of the lab in Turkey,” said Schroeder, giving a split-second thankful glance at Chapman. “The CIA traced all the heavy equipment—the HEPA filters and centrifuges and whatnot—through an elaborate paper trail. We traced the buyer to a Dutch dummy company. Ownership is broken up into a whole mess of holdings and investment groups, but we got the name on the checks. Edmund Charles. The name’s fake; there’s no record of this person existing. But the money is real, and he has to manage it somehow.”

A surveillance video played on the screen, showing a luxurious bank lobby with hardwood furniture and beautiful red carpets. A man walked in wearing a sharp navy-blue suit. He was tall, of average build, with a head of blond hair. He was greeted eagerly by a manager and escorted into a niche. The video froze.

“Now, this is an extremely slippery individual, so any and all efforts that we make at tracking him need to fly absolutely under the radar. This means we do nothing to tip our hand. We keep to electronic and remote surveillance as much as possible. Does everyone understand that?”

There was a murmur of assent.

“Good. Needless to say, gentlemen, none of this leaves this room.”

People stood up and began to scatter, slowly. Chapman walked up to Schroeder and pulled him aside.

“Listen, Bill, have you given any thought to the matter of what we’re going to do with him once we have him? I mean, that’s as big a question as how to get him, I think.”

“We’re going to do this the right way, Buck,” said Schroeder. “He’s going to be tried in a court of law.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Chapman. “You don’t think he’s working alone, do you?

“What do you suggest I do?” asked Schroeder pointedly.

“Whatever we have to,” said Chapman. “To get actionable information. To nail the people behind this and make sure they never do anything like this again.’

“He’ll be interrogated,” said Schroeder. “But there are lines I won’t cross.”

Chapman bit his lip.

 

 

“Are you afraid of taking this step, Mr. Chapman?”

Mr. Smith looked at him with some mixture of smug triumph and earnest sympathy. They were sitting across from each other in a mall food court. Ever the professional, Smith had a paper shopping bag at his feet and a plate of Chinese food in front of him that he pretended to eat. Chapman, meanwhile, was in no mood to pretend.

“It must be admitted, Mr. Chapman, that I do have some power over you,” Smith continued. “After all, you have no proof of my existence at all, and no idea of who I really am. Meanwhile, I have the evidence necessary to bury you, if I so wished.”

“Is that a threat?” said Chapman.

“It is just a fact, nothing more,” said Smith.

“I’m not scared of you,” said Chapman. “That’s the plain truth. I might have been before, but not anymore. I fully accept the consequences of my actions. That’s what makes me a man, Mr. Smith.”

“No doubt.”

“The name of the man you are looking for is Edmund Charles. He is expected to be in Boston tomorrow, and the FBI will be running an operation to capture him.”

Smith smiled smugly. “That is certainly valuable information. What made you want to share it with me?”

“It seems you know more about Novokoff and this crisis than we do. More importantly, even if we did capture Charles, I don’t think that we would have the . . . flexibility to do what we must. Our government is hampered by its own accountability to the public.” Accountability was something Chapman was proud of, normally one of his greatest ideals. Even deep as he was in the world of intelligence and spy craft, he believed that limits to executive power were all that stood against outright tyranny. But this crisis had worn him down. “I believe you have the resources to do what needs to be done.”

“Your country would call you a traitor for this.”

“As well they should,” said Chapman wryly. “I accept as much. But it’s for my country that I’m doing this.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “This goddamn crisis. It can’t continue. I can’t live like this. The world can’t live like this. I have a daughter. I don’t want this to be the world that she grows up in. I want her to be
safe
.”

“Then I am sure that you are doing right by her. Your assistance will not be forgotten, Mr. Chapman.”

“Find him, Mr. Smith. Find him and stop Novokoff before it’s too late. I’m putting everything in your hands. Don’t let me down.”

C
HAPTER
56

 

I
t was midafternoon. Morgan’s study was darkening already, but he was in a thoughtful mood and didn’t get up to turn on the lights. It was a Saturday, over a week since Jenny had been taken, and he had not been back to Zeta headquarters since. Partly, it was that they had found nothing new to act on. Tracing Novokoff ’s calls had been a bust, along with surveillance footage and every other lead that they had followed. He had taken the opportunity to spend time with his wife and daughter and think about what had happened. Weeks ago, Jenny had fought with him for putting her in danger, and he had dismissed her concerns. But it was true. She was in danger, and so was his daughter. And his being a spy had put them there.

His phone rang, pulling him out of his thoughts. He picked up.

“Morgan, this is Bloch. We’ve got something. A lead on the man behind Novokoff.”

“I’ll be right in,” he said, and hung up, but didn’t leave his chair. A few moments later, Jenny walked in and turned on the light. She was wearing a stay-at-home sweater, her glasses on her face. An ugly black bruise still peeked from under the sleeves on both her wrists where she had been tied to the crane.

“Dan? I thought I heard your voice in here. Who was it?”

“Work,” he said. “They’re calling me in.” She seemed as though she was about to say something, but he spoke first. “Listen, Jenny, I have to see this one through. I’m in deep, and this guy needs to be caught. But after that, I’m out.”

“What do you mean, you’re out?” she said, sitting down with a concerned frown on her face.

“Out. Done. I won’t put you and Alex in danger anymore. I have to own up to this and do the right thing by you two.”

There was a moment when she just stared at him in silence. Then she said, “Bull crap.”

He looked up at her, startled. Jenny was usually unwaveringly proper.

“What?”

“You heard it. You need me to say it again? Okay, here you go: bull crap.” The word still sounded uncomfortable on her lips, but she said it with definite conviction.

“What’s bull crap, Jenny?”

“This. This talk about quitting. It’s absurd.”

“What are you talking about, Jenny? I thought this is what you wanted.”

“Look, Dan, it might be what I want. I might even have thought it was right. But I don’t anymore. They came into this house and took me away to be killed. These people deserve justice, and you’re the one who can bring it to them.

“But if it weren’t for me,” he said, looking down and trailing off. “If it weren’t for me, and what I do, you wouldn’t have been targeted.”

“If it hadn’t been you, then they would have attacked someone else. And that person probably would have died, because she wouldn’t have had you to protect her.”

“Jenny . . .”

“Don’t baby me, Dan. This is who you are, this is what you can give to the world. And it’s right for you to do it. So quit moping. It’s not like you.”

He smiled.
God, that woman.
“I guess I’d better go, then,” he said, standing up. Before he could take a single step, she approached him and kissed him deeply, and passionately.

“My hero,” she said. “Go to it. Oh, and Dan? Kick his ass.”

 

 

Morgan made it down to Zeta headquarters in fifteen minutes flat. He arrived to find Bloch at the war room table with Bishop, Shepard, and Barrett.

“Come join us,” said Bloch. “We were just having a strategy meeting, but I’ll fill you in. Our contacts tell us that the FBI has located the man who is behind the attacks. Shepard.” A surveillance image of a man appeared up on the screen. “He goes by Edmund Charles. The FBI has their sights on him. He has a safe deposit box at the Regency Trust here downtown, and he’s set up an appointment for tomorrow. They intend to run an operation and catch him in the bank. But we are going to snatch him right out of their jaws in the parking garage.”

“Uh, can I just come in with the obvious here?” said Barrett. “Why
not
let the FBI take care of it?”

“No,” said Morgan. “I’m not trusting a government agency with this. This guy sent Novokoff after my family.
We
are the ones who are going to take him.”

“The FBI has its rules and regulations,” said Bloch. “They won’t have the ability or will to use him to get to Novokoff. And that’s what we desperately need right now. The plan is that we catch him. We’ll have a van at the ready in the garage, and the tac team will make a quick extraction before he goes into the bank.”

“What if he gets away?” asked Morgan.

“He won’t,” said Bishop. “He won’t be expecting us. We know the location. We know exactly what to do. We’ll have live surveillance footage so we’ll see when he comes in. He won’t slip away.”

“I’d rather I was there, acting as insurance,” said Morgan. “In my car. If for some reason you don’t succeed, I’ll get him.”

“What makes you think you’ll be able to?” asked Bishop. “He got away last time.”

“I have better wheels this time around,” he said. “This time, he won’t be so lucky.”

C
HAPTER
57

 

I
t was a clear and sunny day as Morgan waited on the street in his Shelby Cobra for Edmund Charles to arrive. He had a clear view of the exit to the garage of the building that housed the Regency Trust. It was half past seven in the morning when he saw the Audi TT Roadster approaching, and inside, Edmund Charles, still recognizable in a black wig. The car turned into the garage.

“Rabbit is in the hole,” Morgan said. “Repeat: rabbit is in the hole.” He turned the ignition key. He wasn’t going to get caught with his pants down.

“In position,” said Bishop.

There was a pause as Morgan listened for the others’ communication.

“He’s parked,” said Diesel. “Visual contact established.” A few seconds elapsed. “Why isn’t he coming out of the car?” asked Spartan.

“Something’s wrong,” said Bishop. “Look. He’s backing out. All units, move in! Don’t let him get away!”

“He’s gotten past me, moving toward the exit,” said Diesel.

“Cobra, heads up, he’s coming out!” said Spartan.

Morgan heard the rumble of the engine first, and then the Audi burst out of the entrance, breaking the barrier and squealing a tight curve at an exaggerated speed.

“Cobra,” said Spartan, “it’s all on you now. Go get ’im!”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Morgan floored the gas pedal and the Shelby took off. He heard police sirens behind him—no doubt the FBI, now having realized what had happened. Morgan pushed harder, closing in on Charles. The Shelby was bigger and heavier than the Audi, but Morgan had the more powerful engine.

That didn’t matter quite as much in the city, however. The Audi had him beat in maneuverability. Charles crisscrossed his way through the downtown streets, and Morgan followed behind him. It was clear that he was headed back to the highway, and there, Morgan would have the advantage.

“Cobra, what’s going on?” asked Bloch.

“I have him in my sights,” said Morgan. “Track me if you want to know where.”

“Good luck,” she said. “We’re counting on you.”

With Morgan hard on his tail, Charles wove through traffic and ran red lights. Morgan drifted along the curves, accelerating as much as he could in the short stretches of clear road in order to keep Charles within view. Finally, they reached the access to the highway. Charles squealed up the on-ramp, with Morgan hot on his tail.

They sped together along I-93, but there was no way that Morgan could even get close enough to use any of his car’s capabilities. At first, he planned on hooking onto the back of Charles’ car, but Charles was too evasive, and he couldn’t line up behind him properly. At the speed they were going, it was likely that one or both of them would soon get killed. Morgan didn’t give a rat’s ass about Charles’s life, except that he was their only connection to Novokoff.

So Morgan accelerated. Charles tried to force him off the road when they were alongside. In the stretch they were on, that would mean an eighty-yard drop to the streets below. But the weight of Morgan’s car had the advantage here.
You’re not getting away this time, asshole
, Morgan thought.
This time, you’re mine.

They tore down the highway for mile after mile, neither car getting the advantage. Then, all of a sudden, Charles dodged him and braked the Audi, almost instantly falling behind Morgan. Morgan responded by turning the wheel and pulling the handbrake. The car screeched as he drifted a full one-eighty and kicked it into reverse, so that he faced the Audi head-on. Morgan had pulled the handbrake before Charles could react. Charles’s car slammed right into his. Morgan winced as the front of the hood crumpled. Then, with the push of a button on his dashboard, Morgan deployed the front hooks, and then the two cars were locked together. With a push of a second button he completely fried all the Audi’s electronics. Finally, he pushed the button on his dashboard, and an acid-green fluid squirted onto the road from behind the car. Going backwards, the Shelby hit the slick first. The back tires burst, then the front, and then Charles’s followed suit. Stuck together, the two cars skidded around, the now bare wheels raised sparks and a terrible grinding noise, until both came to a halt on the shoulder of the road.

His car stuck to the other bumper to bumper. Morgan glanced at Charles, who looked dizzy and confused, and smiled. “Looks like we’ve got a caged rabbit on our hands,” he said.