Saint (12 page)

“None of this strikes you as a bit . . . absurd? It was just a vision—”

“Not
just
. No more than you're
just
the president.”

“I wasn't in this vision of his, right? I don't understand the concern.” It couldn't possibly be a sound idea to base a policy or decision on a vision, even if it came from a source like David, even if it contained alarming details about the X Group that no ordinary person could have possibly stumbled upon.

“Assim Feroz will destroy whoever crosses his path,” David said. “You're now in his path, so yes, you were in the vision, if only by association.”

“Either way, the summit is sponsored by the United Nations. There'll be no lack of security.”

David Abraham took a deep breath and nodded, but his eyes were heavy with concern.
He isn't telling us everything,
Robert thought.

He faced Carter. “Well, Ed, now you know how the president of the United States makes decisions that change history.” He winked at David. “Sorry about that. I couldn't resist.”

David was too involved to find humor in his comment.

Robert leaned back, sighed, and regarded the director. Ed Carter was well over two hundred pounds and had a double chin that looked exaggerated below his small round spectacles.

“So would you mind telling us this plan involving the X Group, Ed?” Robert asked. He'd already told Ed Carter about his earlier conversation with the head of special operations, but this would be the first confirmation David would hear that any such plan was afoot.

David gave them both an alarmed look.

“Don't worry, I think we're past secrets here,” Robert said. “We all know about this little assassination club. According to Samuel's vision, the X Group is connected to one of my greatest enemies. I think that qualifies me to hear everything and anything, don't you?”

Carter looked as if he was still trying to figure out whether to take the whole business of this vision seriously. But then, so was Robert.

Carter cleared his throat. “Well, some ideas have been thrown around. I'm not sure you'd approve—”

“Just give it to me straight. We'll go from there.”

“Okay.” Carter spread both hands. “No plans at this point, actually. I think you'll see why.”

“Please. Just tell me.”

Carter frowned. “What if, and I really do mean
what if
, Assim Feroz were eliminated? His death could fatally undermine his initiative.”

“First of all, any such plan would be highly illegal and morally reprehensible. Second, he'd become a martyr. His death would probably energize support for his plan.”

“Unless Feroz was eliminated because he was attacking innocents. As a terrorist.”

“Terrorist? I don't follow.”

“What if Feroz was killed while attempting to assassinate one of his enemies?”

“Such as?”

“Such as you, sir.”

Robert wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. He coughed once. “You can't just tell the world that such and such a leader was planning on killing me and so we took him out. We're not at war.”

“Assassinations are provoked by policy rather than war. In this case, we're talking about a policy that would threaten the national security of our ally Israel. I'm not suggesting or defending this course of action; I'm merely explaining the rationale.” He put his palms on the table. “As for the world believing, you're right. The assassination attempt would have to be real. If it was, and we could produce definitive evidence linking Mr. Feroz to the attack, we would win world sympathy by taking him down.”

“You're actually suggesting that we stage an assassination attempt on me and blame it on Feroz? And then kill him?”

“That was the idea, sir. Not the plan, mind you. There are some problems, of course, but it does have some merit if you consider—”

“No. It would never work. And even if it did, it breaks more international laws than . . . Forget the laws—it's murder.”

“As are all assassinations. Maybe you could declare war on Iran to cover our moral quandaries and send a hundred thousand men and women to their graves instead. Forgive the sarcasm. My point is, assassinations save lives. Kill one drug lord, save the hundred men he will kill. Kill one tyrant, save a hundred thousand of his subjects. In the case of Feroz, I'm not sure I follow Dr. Abraham's reasoning, but I think we all agree that this man's life will cost the world dearly.”

“Tell me straight, Carter. You've been with the agency for what, fifteen years? Does every president hear this assassination speech?”

“Yes. And are made aware of its merits. What was the human cost of removing Hitler or Saddam Hussein by war rather—”

“Point made,” Robert said. “But Feroz isn't Saddam or Hitler.”

“Not today, no. Maybe David has some thoughts on this.”

They both looked at David Abraham, who regarded them with an ashen face. He pushed his chair back. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I'm afraid I must excuse myself from this discussion. I would say you're both right, but I'm not in a position to inform your final decision. Do you mind, Robert?”

He'd never known David to refuse a good philosophical debate. Clearly the man was plagued by more than he'd revealed. And just as clearly he wasn't going to divulge any more.

“Feel free to use my quarters to get some rest if you need it.”

“Thank you, but I think I'll be fine. Please, continue.” David left the room and closed the door behind him.

Robert turned to Carter. “What happens to the people involved in the assassinations, or fake assassinations as the case may be?”

“They would probably need to be eliminated.”

“So more innocents die.”

“Soldiers, guns for hire, not innocents.”

“And this is where the X Group comes in,” Robert said. “You're planning on hiring the X Group to take out Feroz as a matter of foiling his nonexistent assassination attempt on me.”

“It's a thought. You would need to agree, of course.”

“Exactly when were you planning on discussing this with me?”

“I believe I have a meeting scheduled with you this Friday.”

Robert pushed back his chair. “Cancel it. The answer is no. I don't care what rationale you throw my way, I won't be involved in this. If you can find a way to turn Feroz into a bumbling idiot who makes a fool of himself at the summit, I'm all ears. But I don't play politics with bullets.”

“Of course, sir. It was just an option.”

“An option you were ready to recommend.”

“Not without your endorsement. Consider it a nonstarter.”

11

B
ecause Kelly had told him that he was going to be tested and then, if he succeeded, go into the field in two weeks, Carl kept track of the days for the first time in months.

After speaking with Agotha for a long time, he went into the pit again, to fight the cold this time. And he was able to nudge the cold back each time, but not much. He could add a few degrees to the room's temperature. Maybe five, once ten, she told him. This was like someone changing the pH balance of water through meditation, she insisted, something that had been proven possible.

She was trying to help him believe, but he already did believe, so he mostly just listened. Agotha was sure that he could do more, but he couldn't.

On three different occasions, they brought him to the hospital for additional training, as they had for many months. They asked him to lie on a metal bed with his head inside the large white magnetic resonance imaging machine, put drugs into his veins, clipped electrodes to his toes and fingers, and then asked him to repeat what he knew for long periods of time. If he got the answers wrong, they turned dials and sent sharp shafts of electricity through his body.

He couldn't turn off the pain easily when they did this, because he had to focus on the right answers. In the early days, he'd passed out nearly every time. Now he rarely gave them a wrong answer. His memory was very good.

When he wasn't in the hospital or in the pit, he was with Kelly, practicing. He would often be put into a room with several objects and a fixed amount of time to create a weapon. Next to focus, improvisation was the assassin's greatest asset. He'd learned to make weapons out of almost anything that was small enough to wield:

A sharp knife that could be held and used like any blade made from an aluminum soda can in under ten seconds.

A stiletto made from a coat hanger in even less time.

A bomb with enough power to gut a man at three paces made out of chemicals available in most bathrooms.

These tasks came easily. Kelly told him that both Jenine and Dale could do the tasks as easily. In fact, they were better than he in many disciplines, particularly Englishman, who had more natural strength and speed. But Carl had the better mind, she told him. And the mind is an assassin's greatest weapon.

Whenever they were pitted against each other, Englishman always held the edge. In hand-to-hand, in knife wielding, in strategic field exercises that challenged both reaction time and decision making, Englishman was better. The only clear edge that Carl had was his ability to control his emotions and his bodily functions, which in turn made him the better sniper.

If all three were compared head-to-head in all disciplines, their rank would fall thus: Englishman, Saint, and then the Ukrainian, but not by much.

Agotha was eager for him to shoot straighter at a long range. Each day that he wasn't in the pit, he sent hundreds of bullets toward the static target at two thousand yards.

Each day he landed more than three hundred of them in the twelve-sinch circle. There was always the bad bullet that strayed because of poor construction. Carl didn't let the few wayward bother him. The rest were reliable. In the field, he would inspect each round before using it to be sure it met his standards, but on the range he didn't bother.

For some reason Kelly didn't tell him whether he was actually able to make the bullet defy its physical ballistic limits and fly straighter. There was no way for him to know, even by looking at the target. Just because a bullet landed in the bull's-eye didn't mean he'd made it go there. At two thousand yards, the bullet was wobbling in a teninch circle and could land anywhere in the target.

But a computer was tracking his every shot to see if he was beating the odds. He didn't think he was. They would be shouting about it if he was.

In all of Carl's training, a single word called to him, like a father urging him forward. Through his tunnel.

Believe. Just believe, Carl, and you will find the light at the end of
the tunnel.

When Kelly came for him in his pit on the tenth day, he knew by the fear in her eyes that the day for his final test had arrived. He'd survived the last two—the hornets, and before that the Andrassy Hotel. Today he would face the ultimate measure of his skill.

“Shower, eat, and report to the hospital,” she said.

They stood on the floor of his pit, looking at each other. Carl had always thought he'd be proud on this day, but the darkness in her eyes ruined his confidence.

“You're coming with me?” he asked.

“No, not this time, Carl.”

“Do you know what they'll ask me to do?”

“They wouldn't tell me. They insist that I remain here.”

“In my pit? Why?”

“Not down here, necessarily. Just in your bunker. They said it wouldn't be long.”

Carl put his hand on the metal chair, unsure he wanted to leave her here and cross the field to the hospital alone.

Kelly moved closer to him, eyes fixed on his. “You can do this, Carl. I know you can. You will succeed. You always have.”

She took his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “You'll succeed for me. There's nothing you can't do for me. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Kiss me, Carl.”

He leaned forward and kissed her lips. The warmth of her mouth seemed to swallow him. They lingered, hot, wet, sharing the same space deep in his mind where everything was safe.

“Go to them,” she finally said, smiling softly. “Keep my face and my smile with you.”

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

THE HOSPITAL had three floors including the basement. Carl had never been to the basement or the third floor, both of which were off-limits. The main floor had four smaller examination rooms and the main laboratory, where Agotha administered her drugs and electric shock treatments that helped her subjects forget and remember.

Carl felt well rested and full of energy. He'd eaten twenty carrots, half a bag of jerky, and a chocolate bar to give him the energy he might need for the test. Then he'd showered and dressed in black fatigues and a brown nylon pullover. The shoes he wore were also black, made of canvas with rubber soles. Agotha was in the laboratory when he entered it.

“Hello, Carl.”

“Hello.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Kelly told me to come.”

She studied him with eyes that seemed to move too quickly. Concern. “Kalman is waiting downstairs. Please follow me.”

They walked down the hall to a staircase that descended into the basement. Agotha opened the metal door that led into the lower floor, and a strong medicinal odor stung his nose. Three large picture windows lined a long white cinderblock hall. Each looked into a room. Agotha opened the door into the first room and waited for him to enter. Carl walked past her and studied the room.

Kalman sat in a brown leather chair with wooden arms, smoking a cigar, watching him. Next to him was a large metal chair with buckled straps on the arm and leg rests. A round leather bowl was suspended above the chair, and from this headpiece extended several large electrical cords.

It was an electric chair.

Three guards stood to the left of the electric chair.