Silent Assassin(23)

Except now. This Cobra had made him look like a fool. Cobra, and whoever he was working for. Novokoff had nearly died of the damn gas like the rat in the cage. He’d only narrowly escaped in the fray, out the back, where his wheelman had been waiting for him. All those worthless mercenaries killed, and left behind to be identified. But not his own body, so he knew that they’d still be looking for him. Novokoff’s hand tensed slightly on the steering wheel. It was as much of a reaction as he would permit himself. Emotions, he reminded himself, were traitors.

And now this meeting with the mysterious American. The man who had contracted the Oslo job—and who presumably had been behind Paris and Munich as well, and who had directed him to find something with more impact than a bomb. Novokoff had calculated the odds of the meeting being a pretext to kill him and eliminate the trail, but deemed the risk worth it.

So he kept the motor running, kept his hand on the gun, and waited.

It didn’t take long until the sleek silver BMW slowly came down the lane. The windows were tinted dark, and he couldn’t see inside at all. It maneuvered so that the drivers’ windows of both cars were aligned. Novokoff ’s grip on the gun tensed as the window rolled down to reveal the man.

He was bony and angular, with a completely bald head. He was not old, not looking a day over forty, and his face was almost boyish. His countenance was commanding, however, and his eyes intelligent. Novokoff saw in him someone to respect. Perhaps even fear.

“So. You failed.” His voice was arrogantly deadpan.

“I was deceived,” said Novokoff. The American’s condescension burned him, but his face betrayed no emotion at all. “It will not happen again.”

“Good,” said the American. “But someone’s still on to you.”

“Yes. This Cobra. And whoever he is working for.”

“Well, about that. I have something for you.” Novokoff’s shooting arm tensed as the American reached down to pick something up, but then he saw that it was just a manila envelope. The man held it out for Novokoff.

“What is it?” he said, taking it and looking at the yellow-brown envelope.

“Something you may be interested in. I’ll trust you to take care of it yourself. Meanwhile, I will have another assignment for you soon. We will discuss payment when the time comes. Keep yourself available, and I’ll make it worth your while. Here.” He handed Novokoff another package—this one a regular-sized envelope, but with something thick and heavy inside. The paper, Novokoff realized, was just a way to prevent leaving fingerprints. He took the package and saw that it was a simple burner phone. “Turn it on for one minute every day, at midnight GMT. I’ll contact you.”

Without another word, the American rolled up his window and drove away. Novokoff watched him carefully until he disappeared around a bend in the road, and then opened the manila envelope.

It was a short stack of papers. The first thing he noticed was a surveillance photograph of a man in sunglasses, walking in the street. On the page were an address, phone number, and a few other pieces of basic identifying information.

At the top of the page was a name. His lips formed those words as he read them.

Daniel Morgan.

A slight smile formed on his lips as he lit himself a cigarette.





CHAPTER 12


Boston, January 2





Dan Morgan walked down Charles Street in the direction of the Common, pulling his coat tight to keep the chill February air from seeping in and watching the people as he passed them. Even in winter, these few blocks were usually filled with strolling tourists and locals alike, carefree people visiting the quaint local eateries, or visitors walking with their noses buried in sightseeing maps, or college students laughing riotously. But today, all of that was conspicuously absent. People walked with their eyes downcast. Talk was muted, hushed. The occasional raucous outburst of laughter seemed completely out of place, even somewhat obscene, and drew looks of disapproval and confusion from people around. The knowledge of a world held hostage, the grief over lives lost, and the fear of the next attack loomed large over the city. Morgan felt a twinge of guilt over his failure to catch Novokoff.

Soon, he told himself. We’ll get the bastard soon.

Past the Common, Morgan spied the building that housed the Zeta Division headquarters. It was a recently completed skyscraper, all white steel and light blue glass, with gaps through which bright green foliage peeked out. It was some new environmental concept, and though it clashed with the classic architecture around it, it wasn’t exactly displeasing. Morgan went to a newspaper vendor across the street and picked up a copy of Newsweek, leafing through it as his eyes remained on the revolving glass door to the building, waiting for Diana Bloch to emerge.