Smoke and Mirrors (25 page)

“But he came on during the height of the Cold War, and his expertise was needed. So, with the reluctant blessing of my mother, he went to Russia, on an ‘exchange’ program for language professors designed to help Russia promote the surface appearance of being more open.

“He worked there for six months before his mission was compromised by a double agent who revealed the dead drop site to the Cheks, a former splinter of the KGB. Anyway, as far as anyone has ever learned, he was interrogated, and when he revealed nothing, was terminated by the Smert Shpionam.”

“…Death to Spies.”

Brad’s head inclined once. “I was seven when C came to the estate. He ruffled my hair and told me to go play.”

I blink in dawning surprise. Could this man be the product of Brad’s father and a Russian mistress? Did C know?

I think fast.

Would this brother’s last name be Milton? No, not if he were hiding or being hidden.

A middle name of Bradley then, known only to him?

I try it in a Russian sentence that could be directed at anyone in the crowd.

My Russian is rough. “Hello, Bradley, it’s been a long time.”

He’s well trained; I’ll give him that. But those shadowy orbs deceive him; and a moment later, hand stealthily moved to a pocket where I know he holds a gun, he casts me an uneasy glance.

Returning it steadily, I note the minutest of smiles tingeing the corner of his mouth. A mouth like the one I’ve missed for so many long nights. Then he mouths one word.

“Game.”

Oh yes, I’m game.

Thoughts whirl through my mind. This man knows who I am; Brad has seen to it. Brad expects me to see his brother and give him one last chance, for he knows I am loyal to him beyond loyalty to even my country.

My Handler would not like to hear that. Not one bit.

But what would Brad expect me to conclude?

That the man beside me will attempt to assassinate the Russian president?

No, he will be seen, for the stance of a gunman triggers a sniper’s vision, pulling it instantly away from any other distraction.

Brad would not want this. This brother would not want this; at least I don’t think he appears suicidal.

It clicks. I’m to be the sniper, to ‘shoot’ this man and miss. To draw attention away for just that instant.

From what?

Cold has numbed my brain, and I think hard of box-less options.

And then, like the snowflake on my empty ring finger, it comes to me.

The mole is once again within. And it’s C. Somehow he’s up to his thick eyebrows in this mess.

Move attention to another, and the mole is free to do his dark work.

Shoot ‘Brad’ a moment too late, and who’s to say that the bullet in the dying president was not discharged from the traitor’s gun.

But bullets can be examined, my other self argues.

If an apple looks like an apple, why taste it to make certain?
I argue back.

The crowd is buzzing with anticipation. They are coming. Motorcade sounds can be heard and so too can the timbre of my Handler’s voice. Cool, always cool even when his sharp shooters have not located the would-be assassin.

“Anything?”

Two no’s.

“Agent Board?”

The motorcade stops behind a metal barrier hung with fading tapestries. During the Czarist occupation? I muse momentarily.

“Agent Board?”

The roar of the closest onlookers reverberates, and I note that ‘Brad’ is actually located in a very poor spot to shoot anyone. That’s why no one else has spotted him. That’s exactly why I have.

An introduction is being made, and I listen with one ear to the words of the announcer spouting nonsense about the wonderful future relationship that these two men and their countries will have after this important meeting. With the other I listen as ‘Brad’ moves slowly into position.

Following him at a safe distance, I realize we are within the range of Agent Bullseye’s vision.

When ‘Brad’ shoots, I’ll need to shoot him and then get through the crowd.

Not an easy thing to do despite how it seems.

Crowds are fickle.

The loudspeaker is droning on, people are leaning closer to hear better, for warmth also, and then ‘Brad’ moves quickly. Purposefully, hand into pocket, gun withdrawn. I hear the buzz before someone speaks into my earpiece.

“Target acquired. Two o’clock. Black overcoat moving north by northwest. Over.”

Agent Bullseye makes a second acknowledgement, and I smile, inwardly glad that he was the last to spot today’s quarry.

Alasdair’s voice is just a degree above freezing. “Copy. Agent Board?”

I click on the speaker. “Copy, am in position. Blackhood designation desired. Over.”

This surprises everyone. “Just what the hell is going on?” Bullseye is losing his shit, aware that I am not playing by the rules. Aware that he may not get to take Brad out.

Alasdair’s voice has resumed its composure. “Permission granted, Agent Board. You may proceed as you see necessary.”

Interesting choice of words, I contemplate, moving so I have a sideways lineup on Brad’s twin. Everything slows at this point. The snowflakes whirl noiselessly. The monotonous voices hush and meld into the thrum of my heartbeat. The cold embraces my fingers as I arrange them on the butt and trigger of my gun. Somewhere he’s watching me. They both are. Bullseye and Brad. I will my heart to steady itself. Will my aim to be good, but not good enough. Injury without death or a long recovery, I pray.

And then, time resumes. The doppelganger raises his weapon and fires what I can only assume to be a blank as I simultaneously fire into his side. I pray as he topples that it has gone through the face of the wool coat, skimming his skin so that soaking blood mimics a deathblow. The crowd is fleetingly stunned before it begins to move like a headless snake, writhing in a multitude of directions. I push my way through, counting in Russian…

Two seconds pass before I hear what I’ve been waiting for. The guards on the platform lunged, giving the mole a narrow slice of time to get his target in sight. Long enough for a good assassin, but short enough for others to assume that the man lying at my approaching feet had shot the bullet.

A silencer doesn’t mask that air-sucking sound, and I glance up to see a guard step in front of the Russian leader. Chest outstretched beneath the green, double-breasted grenadier’s coat, absorbing a bullet that packs a kick like a mad bull. It blasts him back into his charge, sending them both sprawling into the outstretched arms of several other similarly dressed sentries.

I wince, guessing that unless the bodyguard was wearing a flak jacket, his life is forfeit. But the notion is fleeting, and I’m on my knees, protecting the head of ‘Brad’s’ still-figure, shielding it from the kicks of passersby. The guards are closing in on us, ready to pull the would-be assassin from me. Ready to haul him into some God-forsaken cell where they’ll break him, body and spirit, before shooting him and tossing his body to the homeless dogs of Moscow.

I’m ready for them though, having handcuffed myself to him, I flood my eyes with mock fear, the perfect hostage if every there was one. They drag us, protected by their green-coated bodies, through the crowd to a waiting armored vehicle. They are rough, and my wrist chaffs as they half-throw, half-push us into the back seat of the truck.

And then, through the parting crowd, I see him. Bullseye, moving steadily through the panicked onlookers, dressed as a Muscovite now, not perfect, but close. Weapon nowhere in sight, but it’s there. His eyes are fury-filled. He knows I didn’t take a head shot. He knows now beyond a shadow of a doubt that the assassin lives to tell the tale of one bullet, not two.

Rage fits his face, for it is not a false emotion on him. He doesn’t know I have seen him, is deciding no doubt, how he can kill ‘Brad’ and me quickly without spreading the guilt beyond Brad.

A grenade, I think, startled by the idea.

One explosion and who’s to say that Brad didn’t blow himself and me up along with half the motorcade in a last attempt to kill the Russian leader.

I see the bulge of his fisted hand, knowing that what lies within it spells ‘wet job’ surer than anything else. Screaming won’t clear the area quickly enough, so I do the next best thing, kicking the man in front of me out of the way, as I grab the door with my free hand and slam it closed.

My maneuvering is a fraction of a second faster than Bullseye’s, leaving the startled guard to die as the grenade hits his back and splashes him against the bulletproof glass before me. I close my eyes, not to banish the gore, but to protect them from the possibility that bulletproof doesn’t necessarily mean grenade-proof.

When a second’s pause proves the glass to be the stronger, I snap into action. Unlocking the manacles, I yank the Sig Sauer from my pocket and jam it up against the driver’s ear.

“Lock the bloody doors and get us the hell out of here!”

He doesn’t seem old enough to have his license, let alone be in the military, but he finds the lock without any trouble, sealing us in and throws the vehicle into reverse with gear-crunching gusto. We smash off the similarly equipped truck behind us, bouncing forward and to the side as we skitter past the old Mercedes ahead of us.

‘Brad’s’ eyes are closed; his color grayer than I’d have liked, and I check his vitals. Weak, but there. “All right?”

His head dips once, and I unbutton his coat to look at the injury I inflicted. Unfortunately, the driver jerks the wheel and I spin sideways, letting go of the jacket and muttering a string of Russian curses.

“Son of a bitch!” the driver swears, turning the wheel again to needlessly avoid shots ringing out behind us.

I look back and notice Bullseye, running up the road behind us, firing his semi-automatic rifle. The two back tires, built to withstand such an attack, stay inflated, but the staccato drumming of bullets on metal rattles my teeth.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure the wide-eyed youth at the wheel, “they won’t pierce us.”

He shoots me an odd glance through the mirror, but drives more steadily forward. “Who are you?”

“A friend of your leader and the man beside me. Which is why you’ll bring him to someone who can help him. Someone you’d see if you were injured.” I reach into my inner pocket, and pull forth a sizeable diamond. “This is genuine, scratch the windshield with it if you like. Take it in payment for helping him.”

After a few seconds, his hand tips back and I place the ancient fragment of once-carbon into his palm. “Good. Now take the next turn fast, and I’ll jump out. If anyone asks, tell him he had it wrong. Tell them I fired the gun and he tried to stop me, that I handcuffed him to me and held a gun to your head. You brought him to a doctor in order that he recover and be able to aid in my arrest. Understand?”

The fur-hat-covered head nods once. We hit the turn at a fast clip, and I exit with a graceless roll, having first kissed the cheek of a man I might never see again.

I race into an alley and wait. Several seconds later, two matching armored vehicles speed by, and a moment after that, the old Mercedes takes the corner with unexpected agility.

Bullseye is at the wheel. Lord knows how he’s made it this far considering the number of rifles out there. I drop to my right knee, aiming at the front left tire. Two quick squeezes yield a loud pop followed by a screaming hiss of air and the squeal of tires begging not to be put under such strain. The car looses its stability, spinning toward me in an arc that brings it around 180°.

I step from my place, gun trained on the man who has landed in a crouch on the opposite side of the snowy side street. His gun is also drawn, pointed squarely at my head. We stand there, a pace apart, a Russian parody of Bonnie and Clyde.

“Drop the gun, Parker!” His words, spittle filled, fling across the cold space, echoing in my earpiece with damning authority.

“You drop it, Thomas.” I’m pissed now, furious that my initial notion, that he had inadvertently left his mic on, was inaccurate. Our Handler is supposed to hear this. After all, who’s to say that I wasn’t the rogue chased down after freeing my traitor/partner/lover when he tried to assassinate the Russian president?

Obviously, not me. I’d be too dead to talk to anyone but God.

I snap off my mic and drop the earpiece into the snow, crunching it with my booted heel.

“You shouldn’t be doing this, Parker. Drop the gun. I’ll bring you back to Headquarters safely.”

I feel like laughing as Bullseye spouts his rhetoric, convinced that Alasdair will believe I’m going off the deep end. But Alasdair knows me better than that. Columbia, Rome and London taught him that just because I can sound and act like a lunatic, I’m not actually sold on it as a full time profession.

“You stupid fuck. Do you actually think I’m going to drop my gun and let you blow my head off? How are you so sure that Headquarters won’t believe the soldier who just took Brad’s brother to the hospital?”

This last line has him. And suddenly I know. He has no idea that Brad has a brother. That Brad is somewhere other than the back of the truck out of which I just jumped.