The Assassin. Andrew Britton
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Название: The Assassin
Автор: Andrew Britton
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Шпионские детективы
isbn: 9780786022731
isbn:
But there was something more. Through Kohl, al-Umari was tied in with the highest ranks of the Syrian government, and what he was prepared to fund would be greatly profitable to many people. These people, the parties of interest, would gain nothing by killing him.
Unless, of course, they were trying to cover their tracks, but it was too soon for that. They didn’t have the money yet, and besides, Kohl had been running countersurveillance for two days, during which time nothing had piqued his interest. Which left just one alternative: a simple robbery, the worst kind of luck.
The boy was across the street now, 10 meters in front of him, stepping into the alley. Even at this sharp angle, Kohl could see that the space between the buildings was too dark and narrow to attract a shopkeeper’s stand. Having lost sight of both men, he cursed under his breath and picked up the pace, brushing past a small group of bearded students before making the sharp right turn.
“Got something,” Peterson announced.
Naomi glanced up from the folder she’d been reading. “What’s that?”
“Nineteen-point match, ninety-five probability. It’s your guy, Kharmai.”
Naomi sat up in her chair abruptly. The file she’d been looking at slipped off her lap and scattered over the floor, but she was oblivious. “No way it’s a mistake?”
“Not unless you forgot to tell me something else,” was Peterson’s sardonic reply. “This one matches all over the board. There’s just one problem.”
The younger woman groaned. “Please tell me you have the clearance….”
“It’s not that. The background file was purged from the system.”
“What?” Naomi shook her head in confusion. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would you still have the voiceprint if the record was deleted?”
“It happens more than you’d think,” Peterson confessed. “Remember, we intercept thousands of signals every week. We have a full-time staff whose only job is to compare the flagged intercepts with the records on file, but sometimes they make mistakes. It could be a clerical error. On the other hand, this record might have been deleted on purpose. If a known subject dies of causes natural or otherwise, the record is manually removed to save space in the servers, leaving only a couple of key identifiers, such as race, nationality, and languages. We don’t usually bother with the voiceprints, because they’re so small by comparison.”
“So you’re saying this guy is dead?”
“It’s a possibility. I hate to let you down, but that’s the truth.”
Naomi sighed heavily. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “That recording was made less than three months ago.”
Liz Peterson looked at her sharply. “How do you know that?”
“Because al-Umari—the known voice on the tape, I mean—wasn’t…around when we found it.” Kharmai silently chastened herself for nearly slipping up there; Peterson couldn’t know where the tape was found. “There’s no way he could have recorded it sooner, Liz.”
Peterson thought about that for a second, then reached for the phone and punched in a number. Lifting the receiver to her ear, she turned to the younger woman and said, “You’re right; none of this makes sense. We add new files to the database all the time, but extraneous files are only removed twice a year, and the last update was four months ago. If you’re right about when this tape was made, he should still be in the system.”
“So who are you calling?”
“The records section. We might have a hard copy, but they’ll have to dig for it. I hope you have some time on your hands.”
The alley was draped in shadow. Beneath his feet, damp stones worn slick by centuries of use. The smell of rotting fish rose to greet him as he moved past metal cans overflowing with garbage, past the rectangular black holes in the walls that passed for doorways. Somewhere, he heard running water. Up ahead, Kohl could see a hunched, fast-moving figure and, beyond, the familiar, rail-thin frame of Rashid al-Umari.
From there, things happened fast. Too fast. Kohl heard a voice, followed by a question—not nervous, exactly. The forced pleasantries of a man caught outside familiar terrain. A man who knows, too late, that he’s in the wrong place. A guttural command, harsh words scraping the dirty walls, and then a panicked shout. A struggle up ahead, feet sliding on dark stone. Kohl closing quickly now, reaching out as a knife came up for the first time.
Al-Umari had hesitated, just for a moment, on entering the alley. Seeing the dark and the solitude, his inner caution had nearly won out, but he’d pushed forward, tired from the long walk, eager to save time. The regret came a few steps later, when he heard ungainly feet on the path to his rear. In this narrow space, Al-Umari was keenly aware of his slight stature and his privileged childhood. His hatred for the West was born of circumstance, backed up only by his native intelligence. It was his nature to develop, to fund, but never to execute. For this reason, he could not summon up the necessary indignation, which might have saved him when the hand came down on his arm.
He pulled away slightly, but it wasn’t enough. He heard a harsh demand for money. Rashid al-Umari had a glimpse of dark eyes on the verge of panic. He felt a sudden surge of pride…Perhaps he could win this one. Before he could assert himself, though, a knife came out of nowhere. The right arm swinging around, the blade glinting in bright orange light…
The hand holding the knife was suddenly seized from behind, then snapped back at a strange angle. Rashid could only watch in disbelief as his assailant cried out in agony. In the confusion, he had not seen anyone approach. The knife clattered into the shadows, the boy’s right leg buckling forward. He hit the ground hard, but still conscious, fighting for breath, groaning in pain.
Al-Umari took a few uncertain steps back, staring at the man who had come to his aid. In all his years he had never seen such speed of movement. There had been no hesitation…He was a student of science. His belief lay in consideration before action; it was the foundation on which he had built himself. Violence attached to such utter conviction was alien to him.
That he was prepared to do much worse—and on an infinitely larger scale—was, for the moment, lost on Rashid al-Umari.
The shock, still with its hold on his senses, delayed the connection. It took him a few seconds to reconcile the face he knew with the one he now saw, as the German’s appearance had changed considerably. Hair that had once been reddish brown was now black and trimmed short, and watery blue eyes had given way to a dark shade of brown.
“What are you doing here?” Rashid demanded. “We’re not scheduled to meet for another two days.”
Kohl did not reply. Instead, he knelt by the wounded man and rapidly checked his pockets. Coming up with a thin leather billfold, he flipped it open and went through the contents: a frayed bus ticket, a few pounds in worn notes, and an expired identification card. This last item gave him a small measure of comfort. A trained intelligence officer might carry a forged card, but never an expired ID; it was the sort of thing to guarantee unwanted attention at a border checkpoint.
Rashid’s assailant was starting to come around. He was still facedown, СКАЧАТЬ