Silent Assassin (3 page)

C
HAPTER
4

 

D
r. Eugenia Barrett, Zeta Division’s own engineering wiz, opened the metal crate slowly and deliberately, and a thin mist poured out from inside, like a liquid overflowing over the lip of a glass. Morgan crouched for a better look and ran his hand along the flowing mist. It felt cold to the touch. The crate itself was a reinforced metal cube that stood about waist high, sitting strapped into the back of a small refrigerated truck. Morgan looked inside, and the mist slowly dispersed to reveal four rows of metal cylinders.

“This is the real thing,” said Barrett. “A tiny whiff of this stuff will kill a grown man in forty seconds. Same if you get any on your skin. Violent convulsions, projectile vomiting.” She was speaking in a tone that was a disconcerting mixture of pride and fascination. “The good news is you probably wouldn’t be conscious for most of it.”

“Yeah, I got the CliffsNotes stateside,” said Morgan, shuddering. He looked down at the sixteen canisters, the mist from the refrigeration still playing around them. He had lost count of how many times he had been close to death in his life, but few dangers even came close to the chilling prospect of being killed by nerve gas.

“I’d say that, in this case, you could use the refresher.” She gestured toward the canisters, each of which was about as tall as a fire extinguisher, though about half as thick. They were made of polished metal, rendered cloudy by a thin layer of frozen condensation. “To remove a canister,” she said, as she put on heavy temperature-resistant gloves, “you twist, then pull.” With gloved hands, she gripped one corner canister, turned it a hundred and eighty degrees, and pulled. “Why don’t you put on your gloves and hold this, so you can see what it feels like?”

He put on the gloves she had given him, and then took it with nervous but steady hands. He could feel the cold of the metal even through the gloves, and wondered what it would feel like to touch it with bare hands. “It’s surprisingly light,” he said.

“Titanium,” she said. “We’re not taking any chances.”

He examined the canister. There was a green light on the top surface, which indicated the integrity of the container. The sides were mostly featureless, except for the locking mechanism toward the bottom, and one round hole about three quarters of the way up with a mechanism for attaching a hose.

“Put it back so you can see how it’s done,” said Barrett.

He inserted the canister in the slot as gently as possible, and then turned it until he heard a satisfying mechanical click. He then helped Barrett put the lid back on the crate.

She climbed down from the back of the truck, and Morgan followed her, being careful as he touched his right foot to the ground. He was slightly relieved not to feel any pain in his knee.

Barrett noticed. “Got yourself a gimpy leg there, do you?” she asked.

“Old battle wound.” He shrugged. “Flares up now and then.”

The two of them were in a mostly empty loading dock on the edge of Budapest. Lubarsky was waiting in a car outside with the two bodyguards from the hotel. His companion, Eugenia Barrett, was a slight woman with close-cropped hair, pretty in an unconventional, boyish sort of way. She was no older than thirty, a, clever fast-talking science prodigy with no ear for social graces. Her disregard not only for the regular niceties, but also the cautions and concerns of normality, seemed to make her particularly well-suited to clandestine work. That, along with her directness, had made Morgan like her right away.

“The one upside,” she continued, as they walked to a workstation she had set up in a corner, “is that the half-life for this baby is only about a minute in the atmosphere.” Half-life referred to the time it took for half of the gas to lose its potency. “If there’s any kind of leak, hold your breath and get the hell out of there.” She picked up a syringe in a hermetic plastic sheath that had been left out on the table. “You’ll still absorb the gas through your skin, but you just might make it if you inject yourself with this.” She held out the syringe for him.

Morgan saw the size of the needle, and his knees became suddenly unsteady. His nervousness must have shown, because Barrett asked, gently mocking, “Oh, is someone scared of needles?”

“I just don’t like them, all right?” he said, irritated at his own embarrassment.

“What is this anyway, some kind of antidote?” he said, examining the clear contents of the syringe.

“Atropine. It’ll counteract the effects of the gas. Plunge that son of a bitch right in your heart, and it could save your life.”

“My
heart
?” He stared at the three-inch-long needle. He wondered if he’d be able to do it if and when the chips were down. “Remind me, Genie,” he said, “why we’re not giving this bastard a goddamn decoy?”

She shrugged. “I wish we could. But if this Novokoff is half as competent as he’s supposed to be, he’ll make damn sure he gets what he’s paying for. And if he finds out we’ve filled these canisters with weapons-grade air, the whole operation is blown.”

“That fail-safe had better work then,” he said, still staring warily at the needle.

“Don’t worry. I designed the system myself. We tested the hell out of those incinerators. One in each canister, well-hidden inside the cooling mechanism. They’re on timer
and
remote control, and there’s enough thermite in each canister to melt a new hole in an Eskimo’s ass.”

“Just take care that it doesn’t melt mine,” he said wryly. He tucked the syringe into one of his breast pockets.

Barrett laughed. “Don’t worry, Cobes. If everything goes according to plan, you’ll be gone and he’ll be captured before long before that timer goes off.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

She shrugged.

“That’s reassuring,” he said. But the plan was as solid as it was going to get. Risk was the name of the game, and he’d been in Black Ops long enough to know how it was played.

“Looks like we’re about ready on this end. All you need now is the okay from number one.”

Barrett bent down to type at a laptop that was set up on one corner of the table. After a few seconds, there appeared on the screen the familiar face of a woman: mid-forties, with chin-length straight brown hair, steely blue eyes on a stern heart-shaped face that narrowed to a pointed chin and was lined with years of worry. Diana Bloch, supreme leader of Zeta Division, who was coordinating and heading this entire operation.

“Morgan,” came Bloch’s voice over the computer. “What’s the status?”

“It’s all in position and waiting for the go-ahead,” he said. “Lubarsky came through. He’s waiting outside, and he’ll have the location for us when we’re ready.”

“Good,” she said. “Remember, we can’t risk Novokoff catching you with any kind of radio transmitter, which means you can’t have any kind of wire or tracker. Bishop is standing by with the tactical team. They’re going to do whatever they can to keep visual contact with you at all times, and we’ll have satellite coverage as well.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Got this all during the mission brief.”

“I just wanted to remind you that you’re not alone out there.”

“Appreciated,” he said.

“We need to get this guy, Morgan. He’s the only lead we have for these events. Failure is not an option.”

“Never is. Is the mission go?”

“The mission is go,” she said. “Godspeed, Morgan. And safe return.”

The screen went blank. He heard a long beep of a horn coming from Lubarsky’s car outside.

“Your date’s getting impatient,” Barrett said.

“Screw him,” he said. Then he called out, “Ferenc? Are you ready?”

The tall, blond Hungarian with a youthful rectangular face appeared from a side door. “Are we set to go, Cobra?” he asked, twirling the keys to the truck in his hand.

“We are,” he said.

“Ready to bag us a weapons dealer?” he said, excited as he strapped on his shoulder holster.

“I’m glad you’re so chipper about this,” said Morgan, checking his own Walther. “Is Bishop ready?”

“They’re in position at a safe house a few blocks away,” said Ferenc.

Morgan climbed into the passenger side of the truck while Ferenc got in the driver’s seat. Ferenc turned the key, and after whining the engine rumbled awake. Morgan opened his window.

“You’re all set, Cobes,” said Barrett with a smirk. She then walked to the garage door control. “Try not to get killed.”

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“All right, Morgan. Break a leg.” She pulled the switch, and the garage door started rolling up. She winced as the cold air rushed in, carrying with it flurries of snow.

“I’m trying to avoid bodily injury, thank you very much.” Morgan squinted at the daylight pouring in.

C
HAPTER
5

 

T
he truck emerged from the garage. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Morgan saw Lubarsky huddled next to his bodyguards and leaning against his black town car, arms crossed and looking pissed off.

“We’re here,” called Morgan through the truck’s open window.

“Yes, I can see,” said the Georgian snippily. “About goddamn time. I am freezing my nuts off out here.” He typed into his burner cell phone.

“I thought you assholes were supposed to be used to the cold,” said Morgan. “Or at least not whine like a little girl about it.”

“Come here,” said Lubarsky, grabbing his crotch, “and I’ll show you little girl.” Lubarsky’s phone beeped, and he looked at the screen. Moran just stared at Lubarsky and thought to himself,
I’d love to rip your throat out, you fat, disgusting pig.

“Okay, I have the location of the meeting. It is a long drive. I take it you want to ride with the merchandise?”

“You take it right,” said Morgan.

“Okay,” said Lubarsky. “Follow us.”

He got into the back of the car, with the bodyguards in front. They set off, and Ferenc followed.

“So how do we do this?” asked Ferenc as he drove.

“You hang back,” said Morgan. “Near the truck—remember, you’re just the driver. Keep a close eye on the situation and your weapon at the ready. If everything goes according to plan, this should be just like a real arms deal. We make the trade, they leave with the gas, and as far as we’re concerned, that’s it for us. So for all intents and purposes, we are real arms dealers.”

“And if it doesn’t go according to plan?”

“Then you come save my ass,” said Morgan.

They drove in silence behind Lubarsky for a few minutes, passing rows and rows of suburban homes.

“Forgive me for the intrusion,” said Ferenc, breaking the silence, “but you strike me as an intelligence type, am I right?”

Morgan didn’t like the question. They weren’t supposed to know much about each other. The more the other man knew about him, the more he could give up under duress. And it went both ways: as far as Morgan knew, Ferenc wasn’t even his real name. All he knew was that Ferenc had local ties to the shadowy organization behind Zeta Division, and that was all Morgan cared to know.

“Suppose I am,” said Morgan.

“So this Novokoff—he’s ex-KGB, right? Cold War dinosaur type who never bowed out?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you know about him?”

Morgan hated talking before an op, but he didn’t want to antagonize the Hungarian. “Killed at least three Agency men back in the day, and then a few more after he retired—one of them a good friend of mine. Likes murder and tortures in cold blood. Made a fortune cashing in on weapon stockpiles after the fall of the Soviet Union.”

“Sounds like a nasty prick,” said Ferenc.

“You don’t know the half of it,” said Morgan. He didn’t say anything else, and Ferenc took the hint.

Looking out, Morgan saw that they were leaving the residential streets behind and coming up on an industrial district. After a few minutes, Lubarsky pulled into an abandoned factory complex, through a gate that had been left open. He drove toward the nearest building, and a man in combat armor holding a semiautomatic waved them in through a truck-sized door. Ferenc followed Lubarsky’s lead into a cavernous interior, crisscrossed with rusting catwalks and populated by hulking machinery that had obviously not been operated in years.

“Oh, shit,” said Morgan. “Take a look at that.” Morgan counted three more men similarly armed. At each man’s belt were two bulbous shapes. “Are those
grenades
?”

“We stick to the plan,” said Ferenc. “I don’t intend to be blown up today.”

“You and me both, buddy.”

Ferenc parked the truck behind Lubarsky’s car and the men converged on them, forming a loose perimeter.

Morgan stepped out and the men flanked him. He saw Novokoff standing in the middle of the abandoned factory floor next to a single aluminum surgical table, wearing a black turtleneck sweater with suspenders, a gun at his hip. Morgan had known him from the pictures, but there was something particularly unnerving about his personal presence, even at a distance. He was aloof, his carefully coiffed grey hair and beard giving him the aspect of a well-groomed wolf. His eyes had the quiet calm of a fearless killer. Morgan could tell that he would be a fearsome opponent.

“Bringing a gun to an introduction is no way to make friends,” said Novokoff, as Morgan approached. His voice was silky smooth, with only a trace of an accent.

“You’re one to talk,” said Morgan, looking at one of the armed guards. He stood at a healthy distance from Novokoff. “Why the army? Expecting an invasion?”

“I am not a trusting man, Cobra. Let’s just say I have had some relevant prior experience.” He signaled to his men. Two remained nearby, while two others walked off to man the wider perimeter. “And after all, we were
de facto
enemies for most of your life, were we not? The CIA agent and the arms dealer. Oh, you did not expect me to come to this meeting without finding out everything that I could about you, did you? But of course, there is so little to find out about Cobra. It’s almost as if he were a ghost.”

Morgan did not react. “It doesn’t pay to have an identity when you have so many enemies.”

“Ah, but therein lies the beauty of commerce, Mr. Cobra,” Novokoff said, smiling slyly. “It brings even mortal enemies together in the bonds of trade. It creates a connection of trust and mutual need.”

“I think even you understand the irony of those words coming out of your mouth.”

“Ah, that is true only if you believe the game at the KGB was really about socialism. Ah, it was for some, those hopeless young fanatics who readily gave their lives for this . . .
cause
. It is alien to me and most of the men of my time. We understood that it was not about socialism. It was not about Mother Russia. It was always, really, only about power.”

“So this should be right up your alley,” said Morgan.

“Very much so. And apparently yours too,” Novokoff said, shifting gears, “or you would not offer me such a rare item.”

“Exactly. So how about we get to it?”

“Very well,” Novokoff said. “I have money for you, Mr. Cobra. I trust you have product for me.”

“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” said Morgan. “In the truck.”

Novokoff motioned to his men. With Ferenc’s help, two of them opened the back of the truck and took down the crate very carefully. They carried it by the handles on the sides, slowly and grunting, and placed it down next to the table.

“Be careful with that,” said Lubarsky, who had been watching intently. “I do not intend to die today.”

Another of Novokoff’s men brought out a seamless Plexiglas cage that held five large lab rats and set it down carefully on the table. The rats, fat and white with blood-red eyes, were frantically climbing over each other, frightened by the movement and strange surroundings. Next to the cage, the guard placed a short mesh hose with complicated attachments at the ends. One of the men who had taken the metal crate from the truck opened it and removed a canister, spreading billows of smoke from the dry ice. He had his own temperature-resistant gloves, like Morgan and Barrett had used earlier. The guard held it carefully, walking slowly to the table and setting it down as gently as he could.

He took the hose and connected one end into the air nozzle on the rat cage, and the other to the canister. There was a faint hiss as colorless, odorless gas seeped into the cage. The rats were at first paralyzed, then began to seize madly, foaming at their mouths, scratching at one another involuntarily until their white fur was stained red. Slowly, the seizing tapered to stillness but for an odd twitching leg.

“It appears you are a man of your word, Mr. Morgan,” said Novokoff. He motioned toward the hose, and the nearest man moved to disconnect it. He undid the lock on the nozzle and pulled, but it didn’t come loose. He pulled harder. It gave, but the man lost his balance, knocking his leg against the canister. Morgan’s heart skipped a beat as the canister teetered uncertainly.

What happened next seemed to move in slow motion. The canister tipped over, and for a split second it seemed like it might teeter back to its standing position. But it moved an inch too far, and it dropped to the ground. The struggle ceased, and everyone froze as the canister rolled a few feet and came to a halt. Then, there was a bright flash, and a wave of hot air blew into Morgan’s face. The fail-safe had gone off.

Novokoff turned to him with snake’s eyes, and Morgan knew that he understood exactly what had happened. Novokoff drew his gun and shot, but Morgan had already anticipated this and dodged the first salvo of bullets. Novokoff ’s men, however, took the cue and fired bursts at Morgan and Lubarsky’s goons. Those two drew their own guns and shot back.

“Stop that!” yelled Lubarsky.

Novokoff shouted in Russian, and it was obvious why: the crate with the canisters was dangerously close to the line of fire. One of Lubarsky’s men was hit. Morgan saw another of Novokoff ’s men fall near him; the bullet had come from Ferenc, who had joined the fray. Novokoff retreated behind a pillar, and Morgan kicked over a table and hid behind it. He listened for the gunfire, waiting for a lull. He pictured the position of one of the shooters. His eyes met those of Ferenc, who was crouching behind the truck. He signaled for cover fire. Ferenc nodded.

Ferenc emerged, shooting. A split second later, Morgan stood, and with another split second to aim, fired. He hit the man squarely in the forehead. He crouched and looked at Ferenc but saw him sprawled on the floor, inert, blood pooling underneath him.

Damn.

He heard moans. Lubarsky was several yards away, shot in the gut.

“You’re a dead man, Cobra . . .” he said, with labored breathing.

“You are alone, Cobra!” Novokoff yelled out to him. “Come out now, you double-crossing son of a bitch, and I promise you a quick death!”

The bastard. Morgan was half-tempted to make his an ending befitting Butch Cassidy, but instead he took a deep breath. There was a burst of gunfire in his direction, hitting the table deafeningly. But the table held the bullets. He was safe until they realized he was out of ammunition.

He looked around. A few feet away from him was the crate, and next to him was the body of one of Novokoff ’s guards, the first to fall, killed by one of Lubarsky’s men. His gun, however, was several feet out of reach, in the path of enemy bullets.

What wasn’t out of reach were the man’s grenades.

He took them. There were only two; he would have to make them count. He couldn’t rely on killing both his enemies with grenades—they were too mobile, the space too open. But there was one possibility.

He took one grenade in each hand and held them to his chest. One chance, and he would probably die. But if he did, he would go out fighting. With his mouth, he pulled the pin on one grenade and sent it sailing in the direction of Novokoff. He removed the pin from the other and, in the cover of the first explosion, tossed it into the crate with the canisters. And then he ran.

The burst came along with a heat wave from the thermite, which was what he had hoped for. Almost immediately he heard Lubarsky gag and cough, and he turned to see him start convulsing. He had released the gas.

And then the tingling hit him. At his extremities, at first. He had to run, had to get out of there. He stumbled out the door the truck had come in.

He panted, his nose running. He stumbled and fell into the soft snow. Consciousness was fading; he knew he didn’t have long. He reached into his pocket and brought out the syringe Dr. Barrett had given him. He fumbled to open it. His hands were already losing their grip. With all his effort, he ripped the package and removed the needle’s cover with his mouth. He looked at it: it was one big mother of a needle. This had a slightly sobering effect. He tried to concentrate on the target of his chest. His hands were about to give out. He had one chance to do this, or he was dead.

He plunged the needle into his chest. His heart raced, and he began to black out just as he heard the sound of approaching vehicles.

The cavalry had come.