The Right Hand (16 page)

“I let him press the button for nine; then I press the same so he’ll think I share his floor. We ride up in silence.

“I need more time than I would have on this elevator ride to properly convince him of the error of his ways, so I decide I will discreetly tail him to his room and then push in behind him and we’ll have a little chat.

“So the doors ding nine and we disembark and no sooner do I slide out of the elevators than the three Iranians swing in behind me and I feel this knife in my ribs.

“I act startled, which is what you’re supposed to do to maintain your cover, but the truth is I
am
startled. What the hell was I thinking, right? The one with the knife croaks at me in Arabic to move, and I pretend not to understand, but they’re not amused and they push me into Zimmermann’s room: 901. He’s got a suite the size of an apartment and they shove me rudely down into this chair in front of a small table and two of these Iranian sons of bitches pull my arm out and hold it down so that the palm of my right hand is exposed flat on the tabletop.

“Zimmermann slides across from me, looking like the spitting image of Dr. Mengele, and he asks me in perfect English who I am.

“Now, I have a cover story. I am a PhD student at MIT, studying the ramifications of Haramein’s paper on the Schwarzchild Proton or some shit I’ve completely forgotten now, and I think I’m convincing. I look the part; I sound the part.

“The doctor smirks at me, takes off his glasses, and starts wiping the lenses with the tail of his shirt, very slowly. ‘Now,’ he says to me, ‘I’m going to ask you a few questions any student at MIT should know about physics, and if you get one wrong, I’m going to nod at Salaam here and he is going to chop off your hand, understood? Once Salaam is done chopping, perhaps you will be more forthcoming about who you are and who you work for, umm-hmm. Or perhaps you would like to tell us now, while you still have your appendages, hmmm.’

“I have spent the last three months learning all I can about Zimmermann and physics, but I’m no scholar, much less an MIT graduate. What can I do, though? Blow my cover and they’ll kill me straightaway. Try to answer the questions and buy myself more time. That’s the first thing they teach you at Langley: do whatever it takes to buy yourself more time. You just never know how the game will break, and time is as precious a commodity as gold.

“So I repeat that I’m telling the truth, I am who I say I am, and I beg for him to believe me, to call MIT, to call my roommates—and again, this is an Academy Award–level performance, but Zimmermann remains unimpressed.

“The two goons have my arm pinned down, that right hand exposed, and Salaam picks up the biggest, sharpest knife you ever saw and poises it over my hand like it’s a guillotine.

“‘If you are who you say you are, you have nothing to worry about,’ says the doctor. I can’t remember what I said then, but he keeps rubbing those lenses with his shirt. They must be caked in mud the way he keeps rubbing them. ‘Ready?’ he asks. I’m sure I begged him again to stop, but he keeps on.

“‘The reason your head jerks forward when coming to a quick stop is best explained by what?’

“I look at Zimmermann, at Salaam holding that knife, at my right hand, which is about to say bye-bye. Then this answer pops into my brain; I don’t know where it came from, what textbook I had pored over in preparation for this assignment, but my mouth is quicker than my mind and I blurt out, ‘Newton’s first law. Objects in motion stay in motion unless an external force is applied. Your head wants to stay in motion.’”

Marika started laughing and clapped her hands. “You knew the answer!”

“I don’t know how, but I knew that one. It was basic physics, I guess. Really, I thought he’d try something harder, more germane to his field and why he was here speaking at this conference.”

“And so you kept your right hand!” She looked as if she wanted to point to it, but his hands were in his lap, under the table.

“I’m not done.”

Marika’s eyes lit up, delighted there was more.

“So Zimmermann frowns and Salaam looks over at him expectantly, but the good doctor shakes his head. I think it’s over, I’ve passed the test, but Zimmermann isn’t finished.

“‘One more,’ he says. ‘A fifty-fifty chance. Answer correctly, and you can leave here whole. Incorrectly and I’ll feed you your right hand myself. True or false? For any pair of surfaces, the coefficient of static friction between the surfaces is less than the correspondent coefficient of sliding friction.’”

Marika sat up on the edge of her seat.

“Now, you have to understand, I have no idea what he’s talking about. He might as well be speaking in Swahili. But I have a fifty-fifty chance of getting the answer right. And it’s not just a guess, you see, because I do know something about the man doing the asking. I know he’s the kind of man who is adept at lying. I know he’s more likely to tell a lie than the truth. If I’m going to guess, and I am, then I have to guess with the only information I have: that this man is a practiced deceiver. And so I guess…”

“False!” Marika exclaimed.

“‘False,’ I said.”

Clay paused, leaving the story dangling until Marika couldn’t stand it any longer.

“What happened? Were you right? Tell me!”

Clay looked at her gravely, his eyes as serious as she’d ever seen them. “I had guessed…” He let the pause spread, his audience of one mesmerized.

“Wrong!” he yelled, and flung his hand up from underneath the table, where he had his table knife stuck through his fingers and a copious amount of ketchup dripping from his hand.

Marika shrieked and then burst into a fit of laughter that filled the whole room like a warm fire. Clay joined her, laughing hard himself, really letting go, and it was like a steam valve letting the pressure and the tension escape, and they continued laughing, drawing stares from the old Polish woman who stood next to the kitchen door, but they didn’t care. The laughter felt good; it felt right.

He put his right hand flat on the table so the knife handle stood erect and the ketchup spread out and Marika laughed even harder.

“You…you are a terrible man,” she said through the ripples of laughter.

Clay shrugged as if to say, “I am what I am.”

The old woman next to the kitchen frowned.

T
HOUGH THE
announcement had not yet been made, Michael Adams was already enjoying one of the perks of his new position as head of EurOps; most notably, he had access to every personnel file within Central Intelligence.

He opened his laptop and performed the keystrokes necessary to pull up all of the information the Agency had about Dan Clausen, the head of District 1, headquartered in New York City. Adams hadn’t spent a lot of time with the man, an occasional Washington summoning, an occasional cyberchat, and Adams had regarded his counterpart warily by instinct—Clausen had a quick mind but a wasp’s disposition. Sting, sting, sting. Now the file on him filled in the details.

Clausen had started in the field, a rarity among the district chiefs; in fact, he was probably the only one. Field agents were tools, weapons; analysts were the schemers, the strategists, the wielders of those weapons. They saw the big picture, had greater territories at stake, focused on the macro over the micro. Field agents were on missions; analysts worked campaigns. Adams knit his brows and kept reading.

Clausen had operated in Eastern Europe and Asia, everywhere from Reykjavik to Tokyo. He was an adept killer, thief, actor, and planner, utilizing multiple covers, sometimes within the same city. He had distinguished himself on a variety of missions, and the DCI before Manning had brought him back to Langley and groomed him for a leadership position. He’d served as a deputy district head in Dallas and Seattle, and after September 11, 2001, had taken over the New York office, where he’d run District 1 for the last decade.

Adams was actually astonished by Clausen’s rise. It was little wonder Clausen would expect EurOps for himself. His work in District 1, which covered pockets of Russia, Africa, and the Middle East, had been exemplary. He represented the best of both worlds: he ran campaigns as if they were missions, all-encompassing goals realized by pinpoint operations.

Adams reviewed the top of the file once more. Clausen was a killer. Adams had ordered men’s deaths numerous times, but he had never killed anyone himself, with his bare hands, with a weapon. He wondered if he would have the nerve.

Clausen had no family, either. No wife, no kids, and the file made no mention of his sex life, which seemed an oversight. Or maybe it had been expunged.

Adams let his mind wander and return. He looked up at the clock. There were two hours until the meeting. They had reserved the conference room on the top floor of the Hotel Ambassador, overlooking Wenceslas Square.

He planned to show up five minutes late so the others would already be seated and he wouldn’t have to pick his chair. He would try not to look at Clausen, lest he give away the purpose of the meeting. There would be plenty of time to judge Clausen’s reaction when Adams had finished speaking.

His phone chirped and he looked at the number on the display. It was Laura, calling from their home line. He let it ring and go to voice mail. He wanted to keep his attention on the task at hand.

He could always talk to her later.

They arrived in Prague, tired and cramped but invigorated. The city spread before them like Oz. It was a gorgeous city, the hills, the river, the architecture. It more than made up for the stretch of abandoned warehouses, factories, and towns that littered the highway between Poland and Prague.

One thing nagged at Clay, and he knew he should turn his mind to the problem, but he was reluctant to do so. He should find the nearest bus stop and drop Marika off there. She was free, she could disappear, he could give her enough money that she could climb on a train to Berlin or Rome or Brussels. She didn’t have papers, though, wouldn’t know how to acquire them or whom to trust to do it for her, and would she be preyed upon, pretty innocent that she was? She wanted to go to Disneyland, she wanted to find a Hungarian community in Los Angeles, and he would make sure it happened. No one else would do it for her, would see it through to the end; it was up to him. At least, that was what he told himself.

They rented a room in a touristy hotel away from the bridge. Clay needed to go out, but he sat Marika down first.

“If anything happens to me and I don’t come back, if you sit here for more than twenty-four hours without seeing me, then you need to dial the number 011-020-661-3992 and ask for a man named Andrew Stedding. You tell him you are Marika Csontos, you are all alone, and you need his help….”

“Nothing will happen—”

“011-020-661-3992. Say it.”

“I didn’t—”

“011-020-661-3992. Say it.”

“Why are you being so ugly?”

“Because it’s important.”

“011-020-661-3992.”

“Again!”

“011-020-661-3992.”

“And ask for whom?”

“Andrew Stedding.”

“And tell him what?”

“That the Right Hand is dead,” she said.

He blinked once, then again, and slowly nodded. “That’s right.”

She got up, went into the bathroom, and slammed the door so it rattled on its hinges.

He bought a prepaid mobile from a cluttered electronics store and walked to the middle of the St. Charles Bridge. It seemed as good a place as any. The ability to laser in on phone calls and mobilize forces and have a predator drone in the air always played well in movies but took a bit more time in the real world. Not much, but enough. Besides, Stedding would break his own neck to cover for him, as any good handler would. At least, Clay hoped that was the case.

Stedding didn’t wait for pleasantries to be exchanged. “Where are you?”

“Prague.”

“What the fuck are you doing there?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“Dammit.”

“How fast can you make it?”

“Two hours. I’m in Paris. I thought you might run here.”

“I’m not running, Steddy. I need your help.”

“What are you caught up in?”

“What have you heard?” It was a favorite tactic of both of theirs, to answer a question with a question.

“The version going around the Agency and the State Department is that you shot up the dignitaries bringing Nelson to the exchange….”

“They weren’t dignitaries. They were FSB.”

“They’re saying you killed Nelson in the process.”

“One of them got a lucky shot off. They were torturing him long before I got there, by the looks of him.”

“They’re saying State is furious.”

“If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be doing my job correctly.”

“The Director is personally covering for you, for the program, and he’s told State to bugger off.”

“You heard that?”

“I did.”

“Two hours, then?”

“Yes. Where?”

“East end of the St. Charles Bridge.”

“In plain sight, eh?”

“The best way to hide.”

“See you then.”

“And Steddy—don’t tell anyone you’re coming. I’m serious.”

“Okay.”

The line fell silent. Clay stared down at the water as it rolled underneath him, the current picking up silt and detritus from the bottom of the river and depositing it in another location, far away.

He waited out the time by flitting in and out of various hotels, looking for the telltale signs of Agency presence—black town cars or SUVs parked near side or back doors, guys in suits near elevators, groups looking more at people entering or exiting the lobby than at each other. He covered a quarter of the city, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. It didn’t matter; mostly, he was getting the lay of the land, reacquainting himself with Prague. It had been years since he’d been there, and though he prided himself on his internal compass, it helped to scout for nooks and crannies that might come into play at an opportune time. He noted a parking lot, a hardware store, a side street that led to the train tracks. He clocked where a couple of small boats were moored on the river, where a cafe had a back door opening to a different street, where a footpath offered three different forks down three different avenues. He cleared his mind and focused on the work.

Stedding arrived at the appointed place at the appointed time. He wore his frown like a favorite accessory, put on whenever he traveled. It occurred to Clay that he knew nothing about Stedding’s family—whether he had one or not. He had never asked. He wanted to believe it was because of the Agency’s unwritten protocol; the less you know about your associates, the better it is for both of you professionally. He hoped he wasn’t so far under as to make the answer the alternative—that he just didn’t care.

“All right, Clay. Time to tell me why you’re here, why I’m here, and why you haven’t done one damn thing right since you left London.”

“This is why it’s better no one checks up on me. That way no one gets disappointed.”

“They’re checking now. Trust me.”

“Did you know the six district heads are here in Prague as we speak?”

Stedding pursed his lips, so Clay pressed forward.

“One of them, Adams, is going to get punched by Russian Intelligence working in concert with a flipped American district head code-named Snow Wolf.”

He could see Stedding’s temperature rise as easily as if he’d been looking at a thermometer.

“I need you to find out where they’re meeting, and I need guns, pistols, ammo, whatever you can get me, but none of this Czech and Russian shit. I’m lucky I actually hit anyone back at the border.”

“What happened at the bord— Never mind. The girl told you all this?”

“Yes, which reminds me, I also need papers for her and a plane ticket to Los Angeles, plus some cash, enough to get her started on a new life….”

“Anything else?” Stedding asked, his voice dripping with perturbation.

“Disneyland tickets too much? Forget that, papers, ticket, and money are fine.”

“Why don’t I just call an alert and clear everyone out of Prague? Especially Adams. Michael Adams, by the way, the head of District Two.”

“Ahh, then it
was
my old handler.”

“Why no alert?”

“Because I don’t know who Snow Wolf is. If you want to blow it up and save Adams, that’s your decision. But I think we’re better off dangling him as bait and finding out which district head has claws. Otherwise, Snow Wolf goes to ground and maybe we get another twenty years of our business being their business.”

Stedding rocked back and forth on his heels. He pulled out a handkerchief and spat into it. “I see your point.”

“If I can save him, I will.”

“I know you will. Okay. Where will you be in two hours?”

“Meet me at the train station. Track six.”

Stedding walked away. Clay thought about telling him to be careful, but what good would it do? He resolved to ask Stedding about his family the next time they were together.

It was a test, simple as that. The Director hadn’t come to personally deliver the news because he wanted to see how Adams handled it, along with whatever fallout might come. It always seemed astounding that there was as much politics in the Agency as in the executive branch. No matter, he was ready. They would find him formidable or they would find themselves retired. He would make sure of it.

Adams left his room and walked the hallway to the bank of elevators running up the spine of the hotel. He absently pressed the up arrow, his mind elsewhere. He was thinking about espresso and that admonishment from Alan Fourticq regarding Dan Clausen.

He had no way of knowing there were multiple killers already in the building.

The elevator was empty, and he stepped inside and pressed eleven. The car stopped short on the fourth floor, and the doors opened to reveal Clausen. The man’s lupine eyes sized Adams up as he stepped inside.

“Michael.”

“Dan.”

They stepped to the back of the car almost simultaneously and watched the digital numbers climb. After a moment, Clausen spoke.

“You know why we’ve been summoned to Prague?”

Adams thought about lying; he was certainly practiced in the art, but most likely Clausen already knew the answer to his question and was testing him.

“Yes.”

Clausen’s eyebrows arched. “Manning didn’t tell me a damn thing.”

“It’s the nature of the beast.”

“So what the hell is—”

The elevator car settled, the doors opened, and the conference room beckoned, interrupting his counterpart’s question. Everyone was already seated. Clausen looked as if he wanted to finish the conversation before they stepped out, but Adams was tired of this particular dance. Fuck him, he could wait like the rest of them. Adams passed the four dark-suited men guarding the door and stepped into the room.

There were two chairs vacant. Adams chose the one just to the right of Fourticq, before Clausen could beat him to it.

Stedding hadn’t shown up on time, and he was
always
on time. Clay felt his heart rate accelerate and forced it to calm. He’d give his handler ten minutes. It had been a difficult task on the shortest of notices, and maybe Steddy just needed a bit more of the clock to gather his intelligence.

Clay watched the entrance to the station but couldn’t pick out Stedding’s figure in the crowd. The place was teeming with people as trains from all over Europe arrived and departed at fifteen-minute intervals.

A Gypsy woman approached and thrust a clipboard toward his face. “Sign, please?” she said in Czech, but Clay waved her away. “Sign please, sir,” she repeated, but Clay gave her his coldest glare and wagged his finger, saying “No, no,” and the woman clucked her tongue before moving on.

His eyes found the big clock on the platform post. Five more minutes. Then where to look? He could walk toward the bridge and hope that—

The sound of an ambulance siren neared the station and echoed throughout the edifice. Pedestrians at the entrance pivoted and moved to gawk at something outside the doors, some accident. Police sirens joined the ambulance, a full choir of emergency alarms.

Oh, God,
Clay thought. He walked briskly toward the crowd, quickening his pace to just short of an out-and-out sprint.

Bright sunlight spilled from the sky and threw him off-balance; it had been overcast an hour ago. He shielded his eyes with the flat of his hand just as the ambulance reached the scene, asserting itself through the semicircle of forty people. A woman shrieked and left the crowd, covering her mouth.