The general took a second sip of dark coffee. The balmy air felt good coming off the sea, the smell of salt and the warmth of the eastern sun cleared his sinus.
The assassin opened a small, tinted window on the port side of the yacht. The captain, wearing wrap-around sunglasses, kept the speed at six knots on the flat morning sea. The ocean’s surface was as smooth as the blue felt on a billiard table. Through the crosshairs in the high-powered riflescope, the killer watched the general reading the paper one hundred meters away. A bikini-clad woman refilled his coffee, rubbed his chest and kissed him on the mouth. The general grinned, an erection rising in his jogging pants. He glanced toward the sea just as the yacht came in view. He used his left hand to shield the sun from his eyes.
The .30 caliber bullet hit the general in his left eye. The round shattered his sunglasses, exiting out of the back of his skull, leaving a spray of blood against the woman’s white bikini.
Paul Marcus awoke in a profuse sweat. He had fallen asleep on the couch in his living room, Buddy lying on the rug in front of him. The front door was open, a soft, cool breeze coming through the screen door, the smell of pine needles in the house, a half moon rising over the mountains. Marcus went into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Buddy followed him.
“You need to pee, Buddy?” Grabbing a hooded sweatshirt from the coat tree, Marcus walked out the screened door and onto the front porch. Buddy followed him outside, trotted off the porch to an oak tree and lifted his leg. Marcus lowered himself into a wicker chair and sat in the dark. Buddy returned and lay down beside him. They watched bats catching insects under the moonlight. Marcus heard the distant cry of a freight train winding across the mountains, a nightingale singing in the oaks, a soft drop of a single yellow leaf falling from a tree onto the porch step. He looked at the hanging baskets and thought of his wife.
“We’ll need to take Jen’s flowers into the barn in case we get a heavy frost.” Marcus scratched his dog on the head, stood and poured the remaining water into a hanging basket. “Buddy, do dogs dream? I’d trade a nightmare for a boring dream any night. Mama Davis used to talk about ‘the handwriting on the wall.’ Something she quoted from the Bible. Is there some crazy handwriting on the wall for you and me, boy? I’m told the Israeli intelligence has my bio. You know that means somebody else does, too. Is it because I said no thanks to the Nobel folks, or because a long-dead scientist allegedly wrote my name on something? If he did, is that the handwriting on the proverbial wall? If it’s there, does it say anything about the man who killed Jen and Tiffany?”
NINE
Two days later, Paul Marcus left shortly after daybreak to drive into Manassas to buy groceries, oats for the horses and paint for the barn. He stopped at the Ashton Diner, took a seat in a booth where he ordered coffee from a fifty-something, blonde waitress who had penciled eyebrows drawn high over her wide, brown eyes.
“Special this mornin’ is a country omelet with Virginia ham, diced potatoes and toast or biscuits. All for six bucks. Coffee comes with it, hon.”
Marcus smiled. “Sounds good. Biscuits, please.”
She wrote down the order, nodded and left. Marcus opened the Washington Post on the table. He scanned the headlines, stopping on page two where he read the caption:
Syrian General Assassinated at Seaside Villa
The story, the description of the man’s assassination, resurrected the dream Marcus had buried. The article indicated that it was believed General Abdul Hannan had recently returned from North Korea where he had toured that nation’s nuclear facilities. The reporter quoted anonymous sources as saying the general may have been one of those in Syria leading the efforts to build nuclear weapons.
The heavily guarded villa had kept penetration away from the front of the estate. An approach from sea wasn’t expected, especially coming from what a groundskeeper next door identified as a luxury, high-speed yacht.
Marcus finished the story and punched keys on his cell phone. Bill Gray answered on the second ring.
Marcus said, “It’s Paul. Why did you want me to meet with Secretary Hanover?”
“Did you change your mind?”
“How quickly can you set up the meeting?”
“Let me make some calls. What changed?”
“Events of late.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Maybe it’s nothing more than a gut feeling, some kind of hunch.”
“Okay, I’ll go with that. Call you later.”
Secretary of State Hanover met Paul Marcus in a small conference room adjacent to her office. Merriam Hanover was a career politician. She’d held positions as a U.S. Senator and governor before the president tapped her to become his first appointment after taking office three years ago. She was in her late fifties, dressed in a crisp, dark red suit, graying hair worn up, and eyes that beamed with vigor. A gold eagle pin with a ruby eye and a large pearl in its talon graced her lapel, giving her a rich and stately appearance.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I hope you like tuna fish,” she said as her assistant delivered two lunches of tuna on salad with sides of fresh fruit.
“I do like tuna. But I find myself eating less of it. The world is catching them quicker than they can repopulate.”
“Then, I’m sure you’d be interested to know that the president is proposing a fishing ban on numerous species that are facing extinction. Our challenge, of course, will be to get the cooperation from nations like China and Japan.”
“The president has my support, for whatever that may be worth.”
“It’s worth a lot. Paul, you’re recognized internationally for your work that resulted in a greater understanding of gene therapy in fighting heart disease. I assure you, your support will help.”
Marcus said nothing.
“I heard the reasons why you aren’t in a rush to accept the Nobel Prize for Medicine. I hope you’ll reconsider.”
“Then you understand my reasons for declining the award, Madame Secretary.”
“Please, call me Merriam. I do understand your reasons. And I am so very sorry for the loss of your wife and daughter. As you know, the president is the recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, and you are the only other American honored in an award ceremony that the entire world watches closely. It would be in the best interest of everyone if things went well.”
Marcus ate in silence for a moment. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner was wrapped in the slight whirr of warm air blowing through the vents.
“Paul, your discovery was a medical breakthrough that’s going to help people around the world. Please don’t undermine the award by refusing to accept it. If nothing else, the money you receive can go to a foundation in your daughter’s name to help other children with life threatening heart ailments. The president has asked me to convey to you our intent to offer a matching grant from the National Science Foundation. I hope you will consider the grant.”
Marcus looked out the window to traffic moving across C Street, the sky steel gray. He met the secretary’s eyes. “Although I don’t feel that I’ve earned it, I’ll give it consideration, and I appreciate the president’s offer of a grant, although I can’t accept it.”
She smiled. “Thank you for you willingness to think about it.”
“As I reconsider it, I’d like to know what you can tell me about the assassination of a Syrian general, Abdul Hannan.”
Secretary Hanover said nothing, her eyes flat.
“Do you know who was behind the assassination?”