The Brotherhood of the Rose (8 page)

The old priest turned from the altar, stiffening as he saw a shadow move.

From the dark of the nearest pew, a man stood, walking toward him.

The American. The priest reached through the slit in the side of his surplice, pulling the pistol from his belt, aiming it under the loose folds of his garment.

The American stopped at a careful distance. "I didn't hear you come down the aisle," the priest said. "I tried to be quiet, to respect your prayers,"

"You came to pray as well?"

"The habit dies hard. You must have been told by now that I too was a Cistercian."

"And your friend?

You feel no need for retribution?"

"He did what he had to. So did you. We know the rules."

Nodding, the priest clutched the pistol beneath his surplice. "Did you get the name of the dentist?" the American said. "Not long ago. I have it written down for you." The priest set his prayer book in a pew. With his free hand, he reached through the other slit in his surplice, pulling out a piece of paper. After setting it on the prayer book, he stepped carefully back.

The church was still. The American smiled and picked up the message. In the dark, he didn't try to read it. "The man you seek lives far away," the old priest said. "So much the better." The American smiled again. "What makes you say that?"

But the American didn't answer. Turning, he-walked silently toward the back of the church, his shadow disappearing. Father Janin heard the creak of a door being opened. He saw the gray of early dawn outside. The American's figure blocked the gray. The door abruptly closed, its rumble eerie in the stillness.

He'd been holding his breath. Exhaling, he put the pistol back in his belt, his forehead slick with sweat. Frowning, he glanced at the stained glass window beneath the peak-at the back of the church. Pale light filtered through, emphasizing the silhouette of the galvanized steel sickle moon.

The Russian, Chris thought. He didn't blame the priest. What he'd told the priest was true. The priest had only been obeying the rules. More than authorized, the priest was obligated to insure the safety of a guest, even if he had to kill another guest who attempted to violate the sanction.

The Russian, though. As Chris left the church, skirting the pools of water in the morning twilight, heading toward the rectory in back, he thought about him, seething without showing it. From habit, he seemed more relaxed the more determined he became. His pace appeared leisurely, a stroll at dawn to appreciate the stillness, admiring the birds.

The Russian, he kept thinking. He reached the back, pausing in half light, pretending to enjoy the view of the river, debating. For years, Chan had fought against the Russian, becoming so obsessed he sacrificed his life for this chance to kill him. Back in '65, Chris as well had fought the Russian, joining forces with Chan in a combined CIA-Communist Chinese operation to stop the flow of opium from Laos into South Vietnam. Following a failed attack on a Pathet Lao camp, while Chris was being tortured for information (face crushed, appendix ruptured, spine fractured), Chan had led a rescue mission, saving Chris's life. Chan had brought Chris to this safe house, caring for him, never leaving his side till the American surgeons arrived.

Now Chan was dead. In the same place Chan had nursed Chris back to life. Because of the opium. The Russian had to die. He knew the danger. He'd be an outcast, hunted by everyone. Regardless of his skill, they'd find him eventually. He'd soon be dead.

It didn't matter. Given his reason for wanting the dentist, given what he intended to do, he'd soon be dead regardless. What difference did it make? But this way, without losing anything he wasn't already prepared to lose, he could return a favor to his friend. That was paramount, more than the sanction, more than anything. Loyalty, friendship. Chan had saved his life. Obeying honor, Chris was obligated to repay his debt. If not, he'd be in disgrace.

And since the sanction had been violated twice already, the only meaning that remained was in his private code.

He squinted from the river to the graveyard. Mindful of the paper the priest had given him, he pulled it out, reading the dentist's name and address. His eyes hardened. Nodding grimly, he walked up the porch steps, entering the rectory.

In his room, he packed his small overnight bag. From a leather pouch, he removed a hypodermic and a vial of liquid. Carrying his bag, he left the room.

The hall was quiet. He knocked on the Russian's door. The voice was tense behind it. "What?" Chris answered in Russian. "You have to get out of here. Chinese had a backup man." He heard the urgent rattle of the lock. The door came open, Malenov sweating, holding a pistol, so drugged his eyes were glazed.

He never saw the web of skin between Chris's thumb and first finger streak toward him, striking his larynx, crushing his vocal cords.

The Russian wheezed, falling back. Chris stepped in, closing the door. As Malenov lay on the floor, unable to speak, struggling frantically to breathe, his body convulsed, his feet turning inward, his arms twisting toward his chest.

Chris filled the hypodermic from the vial of liquid. Pulling down the Russian's pajama pants, he injected 155 international milliunits of potassium chloride into the distal vein of the Russian's penis. The potassium would travel to the brain, the chloride to the urinary tract, causing the body's electrolytes to depolarize, resulting in a massive stroke.

Already the Russian's face was blue, turning gray, about to turn yellow.

Chris put the hypodermic and the vial inside his overnight bag. Picking up the trembling body, he leaned it against a chair so the Russian's neck was in line with the chair's wooden arm.

He tilted the chair so it fell across the Russian, making the injury to his neck seem the consequence of a fall.

For Chan, he thought. He picked up his bag and left the room. The hall was empty. Using the Russian's key to lock the door, he went downstairs, across the rectory's porch, toward the graveyard.

in the gray of dawn, he knew if he went out the front toward the street he'd be followed as a matter of course by agents from various intelligence networks, so he went down the slope toward the river. Smelling its stench, he found a boat that seemed less leaky than two others. Paddling from shore, he ignored the gaping jaws of a crocodile.

Two hours later, the priest (after knocking repeatedly on the Russian's door) instructed his servants to break it down. They stumbled in and found the body sprawled beneath the overturned chair. The priest gasped. As the guardian of this safe house, he was accountable to his guests' superiors. He could justify killing Chan, but now the Russian had died as well. Too much was happening at once.

If the KGB decides I failed...

Appalled, the priest inspected the body, praying the death was natural. He found no sign of violence, except for the bruise on the throat, but that could be explained by a fall against the chair.

He quickly calculated. Malenov had come here, distraught, in need of a rest, requesting drugs to treat his rage and hypertension. He'd nearly been assassinated. Possibly the added strain, combined with the drugs, had caused a heart attack.

But now the American had disappeared. Too much was happening. The priest rushed to a phone. He called the local KGB. The Bangkok bureau chief called his superior. An unexplained death in an Abelard safe house qualified as an emergency, requiring immediate investigation.

One hour after the priest's discovery of the body, a Soviet IL- 18 cargo plane took off from Hanoi, North Vietnam, battling a headwind to fly the 600 miles to Thailand in slightly under two hours. The KGB's investigating officer, in tandem with a team of expert physicians, studied the position of the body, taking photographs. They rushed it to the cargo plane and took off for Hanoi, this time helped by a tailwind, returning in ninety minutes.

The autopsy lasted seven hours. Though the Russian's heart had not occluded, his brain had hemorrhaged. Cause of death: a stroke. But why?

No embolisms. Blood tests showed the presence of Dilantin, which the Russian had been taking; also opium, which Malenov had been addicted to. No other unusual chemicals. After a microscopic examination of the body, the coroner discovered the needle mark in the distal vein of the Russian's penis. Though he couldn't prove it, he suspected murder. He'd seen a handful of cases like this before. Potassium chloride. The separation of the chemical into its two component parts would cause a stroke. A body normally contained potassium and chloride, so the evidence was hidden. He reported his suspicion to the investigating officer.

An hour after that, the KGB bureau chief for Bangkok was sent to the Church of the Moon. He questioned the priest at length. The priest admitted that an American, a friend of Chan, had been staying at the rectory. "His name and particulars?" the bureau chief asked.

Afraid, the old priest answered. "What did the American want?" the bureau chief asked. The old priest told him. "Where does this dentist live?" When the bureau chief heard the reply, he studied the priest across the desk. "So far away? Our coroner in Hanoi has established the time of death as 6 A.M." The bureau chief gestured toward the night beyond the office window. He pointed at his watch. "That's fifteen hours ago. Why didn't you tell us about the American right away?"

The priest poured another glass of brandy, drinking it all at once. Drops rolled down his whisker-stubbled chin. "Because I was afraid. This morning, I couldn't be sure the American was involved. If I'd killed him for precaution's sake, I'd have been forced to explain myself to the CIA. But I didn't have any evidence against him."

"So you preferred to explain yourself to us?"

"I admit I made a mistake. I should have kept closer watch on him. But he convinced me he had no intentions toward your operative. When I found the body, I hoped the cause of death was natural. What point was there in admitting my mistake if I didn't have to? You can understand my problem."

"Certainly." The bureau chief picked up the phone. After dialing and waiting for an answer, he spoke to his superior. "The Abelard sanction has been violated. Repeat: violated. Christopher Patrick Kilmoome. Cryptonym: Remus. CIA." The bureau chief repeated the description the priest had given him. "He's on his way to Guatemala." The bureau chief gave the address. "At least, he claimed he was going there, but given what's happened, I don't think he'll do the expected. Yes, I know-he's fifteen hours ahead of us."

After listening for a minute, the bureau chief set down the phone.

He turned to the priest and shot him.

"Are you sure?" the CIA director blurted into the phone. "Completely," the KGB director answered on the emergency long-distance line. He spoke in English since his counterpart did not speak Russian. "Understand-I didn't call to ask permission. Since the rogue is yours, I'm merely following protocol by informing you of my intention."

"I guarantee he wasn't acting on my orders."

"Even if he were, it wouldn't matter. I've already sent the cables. At this moment, your communications room should be receiving yours. Under the terms of the Abelard sanction, I've alerted every network. I'll read the last three sentences. "Find Remus. Universal contract. Terminate at your discretion.' I assume since your agency has been embarrassed, you'll go after him more zealously than all the other networks."

"Yes... you have my word." The CIA director swallowed, setting down the phone.

He pressed a button on his intercom, demanding the file on Christopher Patrick Kilmoonie.

Thirty minutes later, he learned that Kilmoonie was assigned to the paramilitary branch of Covert Operations, a GS-13, among the highest-ranking operatives in the agency.

The director groaned. It was bad enough to be embarrassed by a rogue, but worse when the rogue turned out to be a world class killer. Protocol-and prudence- required that to execute this man the director would have to use a team of other GS-13s.

the file on Remus told the director something else. He stood in anger, stalking from his office.

Eliot was Remus's control.

"I don't know anything about it," Eliot said.

- "Well, you're responsible for him! You find him!" the director said, completing the argument, storming from Eliot's office.

Eliot smiled at the open door. He lit a cigarette, discovered ashes on his black suit, and brushed them off. His ancient eyes gleamed with delight that the director had come to him instead of demanding that Eliot go to the director. The angry visit was one more sign of the director's weakness, of the power Eliot enjoyed.

He swung his chair toward the window, letting sunlight warm his face. Below, a massive parking lot stretched to the fence and the trees that buffered the agency from the highway at Langley, Virginia. From his perspective, he saw just a portion of the ten thousand cars surrounding the huge, tall, 14shaped building.

His smile dissolved. Already preoccupied by the hunt for Saul, he'd been troubled yesterday when told that Chris, Saul's foster brother, had arrived at the Abelard safe house in Bangkok. Eliot hadn't instructed him to go there. For the past several weeks, since Chris had abandoned his station in Rome, he hadn't been reporting in. Assumption: Chris had been killed.

But now he'd suddenly reappeared. Had he been on the run for all that time, finally able to reach asylum? Surely he could have found a way to contact Eliot before then, or at least have got in touch with him when he arrived at the Church of the Moon. It didn't make sense. To ask for a dentist not affiliated with the agency. To violate the sanction by killing the Russian. What the hell was going on? Chris knew the rule. The best assassins from every network would be hunting him. Why had he been so foolish?