“Softly as I leave you,” he whispered, a dark smile passing across his face.
He turned and walked away into the sunrise…
Chapter 12
Suspended pending further investigation. Part of her knew it was protocol — she had been the S-A-C overseeing the worst disaster in FBI history. Another part of her couldn’t escape the notion that there was something deeper. That they’d been set up.
Her gut.
Marika Altmann sat there for a few more minutes, staring at the black screen where Director Haskel’s face had been only moments earlier.
Time to go. She rose and left the conference room, both hands thrust into her jacket, lost in her thoughts.
“Special Agent Altmann!” She turned to see a young agent walking toward her, his hand outstretched. “I’ll need you to turn in your sidearm.”
She nodded, pulling her jacket aside to remove the holstered Glock. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Vic Caruso coming down the corridor toward them, and she handed over the weapon without another word. The Italian’s right arm was bandaged and cradled in a sling.
“There’s something going on, Marika,” Caruso announced quietly, taking her by the shoulder and guiding her into a nearby alcove.
“You’ll need to talk to someone else about it.” She shrugged off his hand, turning to face him. “I’ve been suspended.”
He nodded. “So have I. Same deal with Russ. See what I mean?”
That didn’t make any sense. Caruso went on. “Everyone that walked off that mountain has been sidelined. And they’re saying that the Russians were working with Nichols.”
“Did they already take your statement?” Marika asked, glancing around to make sure their conversation was private. Another nod. “There’s no way to draw that conclusion — what do they think, that we killed those four Russians in the cabin?”
She reached up, brushing a strand of silver hair back from her forehead. “Last time I checked, land mines weren’t Bureau issue.”
“There’s something going on, something we’ve not been briefed on — a larger picture.” An agent walked by and Vic stopped talking.
Their conversation had gone on long enough. Marika reached out, touching him lightly on the arm. “Go home and get some rest, Vic.”
“What about you?”
A distant look came into her eyes. “It’s time to call in a marker…”
“Once you pick out your targets, just go through the door to the left there. I’ll ring you up on your way out.” The boy smiled. “And for pete’s sake put on your ear protection before going in.”
Alicia Workman nodded, lost in her own thoughts. A variety of targets hung on the wall — from standard round bulls-eyes to mil-spec silhouettes. There were even a few targets emblazoned with the portrait of Osama bin Laden, despite the years he had been in the ground. Or the sea, depending on which version of the story you believed.
There were none with the President’s face, and asking didn’t seem like a smart policy.
The crowd was sparse on an early Sunday afternoon, just an elderly man at the other end of the range, what looked like a Belgian-made FN-FAL in his hands. A long, snow-white ponytail hung out the back of his baseball cap as his fingers moved over the rifle with military efficiency.
Likely a Vietnam vet, judging by his age.
She attached her target to the overhead carriage and ran it out to fifteen yards, removing her pistol from its carrying case. The Bersa was a perfect fit — she’d always had small hands.
She brought the semiautomatic up in both hands, standing there, feet slightly spread. The face of the silhouette came into view through her gunsights.
Focus.
The first shot startled her, even though she was expecting it. Something to remember, she realized, emptying the magazine downrange. Three shots had pierced the head of the target. The other four weren’t even on paper.
Her lips formed a curse that would have shocked her students. She was going to have to do better…
The mall wasn’t their target, but he found himself analyzing it as though it was.
Tarik Abdul Muhammad’s eyes roved around the center of the mall as he listened to the sales clerk explain the wonders of the new Bluetooth headsets.
Only one security guard within sight — “armed” with a radio and riot baton. That might have worked in Hollywood’s licentious movies, but he’d be gunned down within minutes in real life.
The ultimate soft target. Tarik rubbed his chin, the bare skin feeling strange in place of the beard he’d worn for so many years. All of America was soft, a ripe fruit waiting to fall into the hand of the believer.
At length, he cut the clerk short. “I’ll take ten.”
A look of surprise came over the boy’s pimpled face, the reddish splotches contrasting oddly with his pale skin. Tarik smiled. “Extended family — Bluetooth seems to be the gift of choice this Christmas.”
He paid for the headsets and left the store, the clerk’s parting “happy holidays” ringing in his ears.
The negro was waiting for him by the central fountain, watching children toss pennies into the sparkling water.
“Ready to go?”
The Pakistani nodded, a mesmerizing look coming into his eyes. “Look around us, my brother, at how Americans are spending their Sunday.”
“Yes?”
“This is why we will win,” Tarik announced, gesturing with his hand. “These Americans — they are no longer people of the Book…”
Americans were amusing. At times. “I have nothing to do with your stupid Manuel,” Korsakov repeated, staring the drugrunner in the face.
The big man seemed to pale under his gaze. “Do you know their range?”
“Why?”
Without warning, Korsakov backhanded him across the face. “None of your concern. Just answer the question.”
“Easy, dude — just take it easy.” The American spat, a mixture of saliva and blood from his broken lip. “It’s a Skylane — maybe a thousand-mile range.”
“Is that all?”
A shake of the head. “No — we’d installed a couple of extra tanks — extends it by a hundred, maybe hundred and fifty miles. It’s a trade-off, but heroin don’t weigh that much, ya know?”
That explained the positioning of the tracker. They’d gotten quite a head start. “Are there any other planes here at the airport?” the assassin asked, glancing over at the smoldering remains of the Sikorsky.
Another shake of the head. The man didn’t seem to trust himself to speak.
Korsakov let out a snort of disgust, turning back toward the Suburbans. He reached inside the pocket of his jacket and extracted his phone. Six missed calls. Six voicemails.
He pressed SEND to retrieve his messages, listening to the voicemail, each of them sounding progressively more panicked. Americans had no backbone. How had they ever won the Cold War?
Then the last message. “We have to talk, Sergei. There are people inside the Bureau — they’re starting to get suspicious. We have to tie up loose ends — it may require you sending a couple of your people back to D.C. I know this will require more money, but I swear to God, if you don’t follow through on this, I’ll see you brought down. Call me.”