Chapter One
Five years ago
Asia House, Tel Aviv, Israel
He waited with his face pressed against the warm metal and
his pistol gouging the skin at his lower back. He thought
about pulling the weapon from his waistband, setting it
beside him or even holding it in his hand, but when the
time came, he'd have to move fast, and he didn't want it
getting in his way. He'd been there a long time, since
well before the first party guests started arriving. Now
it sounded as though quite a crowd had gathered on the
third floor of the big building. Their voices drifted to
him through the ventilation shaft, reverberating off its
metal walls, reaching his ears as a jumble of undulating
tones, punctuated at times by shrill laughter. He would
close his eyes for long periods and try to discern the
conversations, but whether by distortion or foreign
tongue, even single words eluded him.
Luco Scaramuzzi lifted his cheek out of a pool of
perspiration and peered for the hundredth time through the
two-foot-square grille below him. He could still see the
small spot on the marble floor where a bead of sweat had
dropped from the tip of his nose before he could stop it.
If that spot were the center point of a clock face, the
toilet was at noon, the sink and vanity at two o'clock,
and the door--just beyond Luco's view--at three. Despite
the large room's intended function as a lavatory for one,
modesty or tact had prompted the mounting of walnut
partitions on the two unwalled sides of the toilet. It was
these partitions that would allow him to descend from the
air shaft without being seen by a person standing at the
sink--by his target.
A gust of pungent wind blew past him, turning his stomach
and forcing him to gasp for air through the grille. The
building was home to several embassies, an art gallery,
and a restaurant--enough people, food, and trash to
generate some really awful effluvia. When the cooling
system was idle, the temperature in the ventilation shafts
quickly soared into summer-sun temperatures, despite the
nighttime hour, and all sorts of odors roamed the ducts
like rabid dogs. Then the air conditioner would kick in,
chasing away the smells and freezing the perspiration to
his body.
Arjan had warned him about such things. He had explained
that covert operations necessitated subjecting the body
and senses to elements sane men avoided: extreme heat and
cold; long stretches of immobility in the most
uncomfortable places and positions; contact with insects,
rodents, decay. He had advised him to focus on a single
object and think pleasant thoughts until equilibrium
returned.
Luco shifted his eyes to a perfume bottle on the vanity.
He imagined its fragrance, then thought of himself
breathing it in as his fingers lifted hair away from the
curve of an olive-skinned neck and felt the pulse with his
lips.
He heard the bathroom door open and pulled his face back
into the darkness. He held his breath, then exhaled when
he heard the click of a woman's heels. Her shoes came into
view, then her legs and body. Of course she was elegantly
dressed. Not only did the nature of the gathering demand
it, but this room was reserved for special guests--the
target, his family, and his entourage: people who were
expected to look their best. The woman stopped in front of
the vanity mirror, glanced at herself, and continued into
the stall. Turning, she yanked up her dress. Hooked by two
thumbs, her hosiery came down as she sat.
The top of the partition's door obstructed Luco's view of
her lap, and during the bathroom visits of two other
lovely ladies, he had found that no amount of craning
would change that fact. So he lay still and watched her
face. She was model-beautiful, with big green eyes,
sculpted cheekbones, and lips too full to be natural. She
finished, flushed, and walked to the sink, where she was
completely out of view. This reassured him that the plan
had been well thought through. She fiddled at the sink for
a minute after washing her hands--applying makeup, he
guessed--and left.
He waited for the click of a latch as the door settled
into its jamb. It didn't come . . . Someone was holding
the door open. Masculine shoes and pant legs stepped
silently into view. Luco's breath stopped.
Watch for a bodyguard, Arjan had told him. He'll come in
for a look. He may flush the toilet and run the water in
the sink, but he won't use anything himself. The next man
in is your guy.
He would recognize his target, of course, but getting
these few seconds of warning allowed his mind to shift
from vigilance to readiness.
He could see the bodyguard in the bathroom now, a square-
jawed brute packed into an Armani. The guard stepped up to
the vanity to examine each of the bottles and brushes in
turn. He dropped to one knee, with more grace than seemed
possible, and examined under the countertop and sink. The
bathroom had been thoroughly checked once already, earlier
in the day, but nobody liked surprises. Luco smiled at the
thought.
Standing again, the guard glanced around, his eyes
sweeping toward the grille. Luco pulled back farther,
fighting the urge to move fast, which might cause the
metal he was on to pop, or the gypsum boards that formed
the bathroom's ceiling to creak. He imagined the guard's
eyes taking in the screws that seemed to hold the grille
firmly in place. In reality, they were screw heads only,
glued in place after Luco had removed the actual screws.
Now, a solitary wire held up the grille on the unhinged
side.
The guard inspected the toilet, the padded bench opposite
the sink, and the thin closet by the door, bare but for a
few hand towels and extra tissue rolls. Every move he made
was quick and efficient. He had done this countless times
before--probably even did it in his dreams--and never
expected to find anything that would validate his
existence. He didn't this time either. After all, his boss
was the benign prime minister of a democratic country with
few enemies. A grudge would almost have to be personal,
not political.
Or preordained, thought Luco. Preordained.
The guard spoke softly to someone in the hall.
The door closed, latching firmly. Someone set the lock.
The target walked into view. He drained a crystal glass of
amber fluid, almost missed the top of the vanity as he set
down the glass, and belched loudly. He fumbled with his
pants, and Luco saw that his belly had grown too round to
let him see his own zipper, which could present a problem
with the superfluous hooks and buttons common to finely
tailored slacks. The target left the stall door open. He
stood before the toilet with his pants and boxers crumpled
around his ankles, his hips thrust forward for better aim,
the way a child pees.
A confident assassin may have done the deed right then,
just pulled back and shot through the grille into the
target's head. And, certainly, he could have hired such
professionalism. Arjan would have done it; had even
requested the assignment.
But it has to be me. If I don't do this myself, then it is
for nothing.
Given that requirement, Arjan had set about preparing his
boss for this moment, arranging transportation and alibis,
securing timetables and blueprints. Arjan had made him
train for five weeks with Incursori loyalists. They had
worked him physically and filled his mind with knowledge
of ballistics and anatomy, close-quarters combat, the arts
of vigilance and stealth--at least to the extent that time
allowed. Arjan had explained that using a sniper's rifle
and scope was infeasible, considering the deadline.
Shooting a man from three hundred yards is a skill! he had
snapped. It's not like the movies, man. It takes years of
training to guarantee a kill. And you'll have only one
chance, right?
Right.
So somewhere in Arjan's dark mind, a switch labeled "close
kill" had been thrown, sending Luco down a track that led
to this ventilation shaft and his hand on the wire that
held the grille in place. Slowly, he unwound it from an
exposed screw. Then he recalled Arjan's instructions and
relooped the wire.
The target's unabated flow told him he had at least a few
more seconds. Luco removed a moist washcloth from a Ziploc
baggy. He rubbed it over his face, removing sweat and dust
from around his eyes, letting the water refresh him. Arjan
had told him that countless missions failed because of
haste and machismo myths about warriors fighting despite
handicaps. "Perspiration in your eyes is a disadvantage
you can avoid, so do it!" he had ordered.
Luco dried himself with a washcloth from another Ziploc.
His fingers felt clammy inside the tight dishwashing
gloves he wore, but that was better than trying to handle
the wire and pistol with sweaty hands. Surgical gloves, he
had learned, were too thin to prevent leaving
fingerprints. And Arjan had been clear about wearing the
gloves from ingress to egress--so clear, in fact, that
he'd made Luco wear them the entire last week of his
training.
The target was tugging his pants up, running a hand around
to tuck in his shirt. As soon as he rounded the partition
to step in front of the sink, Luco whipped the wire off
the screw and let the grille swing down. A string that was
attached to the wire slid between his thumb and forefinger
until a knot stopped it, halting the grille inches from
the wall.
The water at the sink came on.
He used his strong arms to position himself directly above
the opening. His legs pistonned down, and he dropped to
the floor. By bending his knees as soon as the toes of his
rubber-soled boots touched the marble, he managed an
almost-silent landing. Still crouched, he pulled the
pistol from his waistband. It was a China Type 64, old but
especially suited for the job at hand. Its barrel was no
longer than any handgun's, but included a silencer; its
breech slide was lockable--and was now locked, he noted--
to prevent the noises of cartridge...