Deadfall (51 page)

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 ejection and round rechambering inherent to semiautomatic pistols. With its subsonic 7.65mm bullets, it was the quietest pistol ever made.

He stepped behind the target, who was bent over the sink, splashing water on his face. Perfect.The gun's locking slide meant he had only one quick shot. The next shot would take at least five seconds to prepare—an eternity if a wounded victim was screaming and thrashing around and bodyguards were kicking in the door. His goal was instant incapacitation . . . instant death. And that meant the bullet had to sever the brain stem, which was best achieved from behind. He pointed the pistol at the approximate spot where the man's head would be when he straightened.

But, still bent, the man reached for a hand towel, knocked it to the floor, and turned to retrieve it. Catching Luco in his peripheral vision, he stood to face him. His eyes focused on the gun, and he raised his hands in surrender. His attention rose to Luco's face. Puzzlement made his eyes squint, his mouth go slack.

He knows he's seen me before,
Luco realized.

“Ti darò qualsiasi cosa oppure,”
the man pleaded.
I will give you everything.
His voice was hushed, obviously believing that cooperation would forestall his death.

“Sono sicuro che lo farai,”
Luco said.
I know you will.
Stepping forward, he touched the barrel to the indentation between the man's lips and nose—lightly, as if anointing him—and pulled the trigger. The man's head snapped back. Brain and blood and bone instantly caked the mirror behind him, as a dozen fissures snapped the glass from a central point where the bullet had struck. Miraculously, none of the shards came loose. The noise had been barely audible above the sound of the faucet. Luco caught the body as it crumpled and laid it gently on the floor.

Then the smell hit him, like meat shoved into his sinuses. He stood, tried to breathe. Something fell from the mirror and landed wetly on the countertop.Vomit rose in his throat. He slapped his palm over his mouth and willed it back down. Hand in place, he forced himself to survey the slaughter—the brain matter on the mirror and counter; the blood there, as well as spreading in a pool under the head, a rivulet breaking away and snaking toward a floor drain near the toilet; the face contorted in terror, mouth open, tongue protruding, eyes wide.

He wanted to remember.

Back below the ventilation opening, he jumped and pulled himself into the shaft. He could have used the bench for a boost up, but the idea was to slow his pursuers, even by mere seconds. It wasn't the time it would take the guards to move the bench into place that mattered, but any confusion produced by not having an obvious escape route to follow. First, they'd call for a screwdriver (or shoot away the screw heads).Then they'd tug at the grille, which the high-tensile wire would hold firm. Ultimately they'd get into the shaft, glance at the false metal wall he would place behind him, and head the other way.

Six minutes after the assassination, he clambered out of the shaft behind a stack of boxes in a storage room. Through the door, two steps down a hallway, and he was descending the narrow and dark servants' staircase, rarely used since the installation of elevators in the 1970s. He came out in a kitchen three floors below. Hands were immediately on him, pulling at his blood-spattered overalls.

“Hurry,” a young man whispered in Italian. His head moved in all directions as he peeled the clothes away.

Luco stripped off the rubber gloves, then vigorously rubbed his hands together. He opened a pocketknife and ran the blade over the laces of his boots. The young man—Antonio, Luco remembered—tugged off the boots and pushed on a pair of expensive oxfords to match his suit. Everything went into an attaché case. Antonio scrubbed at his neck, face, and hair with a wet towel.

“Ah,” Luco complained, wiping at his eye.

“Dishwasher soap. Nothing better for blood.” Antonio tossed the towel into the attaché, produced a comb, and ran it through Luco's hair. “Come.” He led Luco to a heavy fire door at the rear of the building and signaled for him to wait. He opened it and slipped through. Fifteen seconds later he was back, beckoning Luco outside.

A long alley ran away from the Asia House, cutting a canyon between two tall buildings. The only illumination appeared to be the glow of a mercury-vapor lamp on the far street where the alley ended. Everything else was submerged in blackness. Propping the door open with his foot, Antonio pointed down the alley. “The car is parked on Henriata Sold.”

Luco gripped the young man's shoulder and gave it a shake. He leaned closer.
“Grazie.”

Antonio whispered back, “Anything for you.”

Luco stepped into the dark alley, the click of his heels echoing quietly. The door closed behind him. He smiled.

It was finished.

And it had just begun.