R. Karl Largent
The Assassin
Prologue
The flight from Kiev had been uneventful, passage through customs no more than routine, and his introduction to his contact in Istanbul equally dreary. Sergi Doronkin had been in the car only a few moments when it occurred to him that he had finally met someone who appeared to be less inclined to be sociable than he. Josef Solkov had met him at the airport, made no inquiries about his health or the pleasure of his flight, seldom looked over at him as he drove, and confined his conversation to terse comments about the miserable nature of the weather.
The icy streets, first encountered when they left the airport at Ataturk Hava Limani, had worsened as they continued up Highway 100, and somehow seemed to get even worse as they negotiated the bridge over the Bosphorus. The going had improved only slightly when they turned back to the south as they headed to Kadikoy.
In all, Doronkin’s brief odyssey through the city of Istanbul had taken him the better part of an hour despite the fact that by the time the sleet storm had occurred, traffic had already thinned.
“We will soon be there,” Solkov advised. His voice was thin and dry.
“You are ready?”
“We go tonight?” Doronkin asked.
“I see no reason to delay,” Solkov said.
Doronkin merely nodded. If it was to be this night, he would focus on the matter at hand.
Finally, Solkov pulled into a narrow alley just off Kaital and pointed at a drab brick building less than fifty yards from them.
“You will find Ozal on the second floor, apartment four. No doubt the girl is with him. There is still a light in the window.
Perhaps he is the kind who chooses to make love with the light on.” Solkov glanced quickly at the man sitting beside him. There was no indication Doronkin had caught his oblique attempt at humor.
Instead Doronkin turned in the seat and reached for his cumbersome valise. He propped the case on its side, loosened the handle, and rotated it. When he did, the false bottom unhinged to reveal a compartment containing a Tokarev automatic, a gas silencer, and a clip. He attached the silencer, checked the clip, and shoved it in the pocket of his trench coat. Also in the compartment was a small black plastic packet from which he removed a short test tube and roll of electrical tape. Then he inserted a mercury thermostat in the tube, corked it, shoved two small sewing needles through the cork, and threaded the two needles with thin copper wiring. He then attached one wire lead to a tiny battery and the other to a blasting cap. Finally he produced a pouch containing an ounce and a half of plastic explosives.
When he finished, he looked at Solkov.
“The fuel is ready?” he asked.
Solkov jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the paper sack in the backseat of the aging Flat “Two liters. I used cheap wine bottles. If the fragments of the bottle are found in the investigation, it will indicate nothing.”
Doronkin busied himself emptying the valise of the rest of its contents, replaced the detonating device and plastic explosive, and got out of the car.
The sleet had turned to ice needles, stinging his face. He opened the back door of the car, stuffed the bottles in the valise, crossed the street, climbed the concrete stairs, and entered the building.
From there he worked his way to the second floor and the door with a small tarnished “4.” It was the apartment he was looking for. He waited several moments, to make certain he had not alerted anyone, and when he was satisfied, proceeded.
He taped the packet of plastic explosive at the top of the door just above the hinge plate, ran the tiny wire down to the small glass tube, and taped it to the doorknob. Twice he paused to make certain the wires were still connected before he stepped away.
The rest of his task was easily accomplished. He uncorked the first bottle and cautiously worked his way back down the flight of wooden stairs, carefully leaving a trail of the volatile fuel behind him. When he reached the foyer, he spilled out half of the contents of the second bottle, and inserted a short strand of cotton fuse. He opened the door to make certain the street was clear, took out his lighter, and lit the fuse.
Taj Ozal, lingering in the afterglow of their feverish embrace, was surprised when the woman suddenly sat up.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Tifra looked at him and scowled.
“Do you smell smoke?”
Ozal laughed.
“Only the…” he started to reply, but the young woman had already peeled back the covers, and was climbing over him.
“I tell you I smell smoke,” she insisted. She pulled on a robe and hurried into the small apartment’s still-lighted combination living room and kitchen, where she saw traces of smoke already snaking into the room from under the door.
“There is smoke,” she screamed.
Taj Ozal leaped out of bed, pulled on his trousers, raced into the room, and threw open the door.
The explosion shook the entire building.
Josef Solkov had driven the small Flat two blocks away from the site of Ozal’s apartment, turned around, and parked. Now, through an ice-glazed windshield, both men sat watching as the apartment building where Taj Ozal had once lived became an instant inferno. The blackness turned an angry orange as the flames erupted from every window. Solkov considered congratulating Doronkin, then thought better of it. It did occur to him, however, that thus far the plan had come off without a hitch. Instead he offered Doronkin a cigarette.
“From this moment on. Comrade, you will no longer be known as Sergi Doronkin. Now you are Taj Ozal.”
Chapter One
Air Force Second Lieutenant Jarvis Reed took a sip of his now-tepid coffee, grimaced, turned around in his chair, glanced at the clock, and for the second time in as many hours, began sorting and checking through the backlog of the day’s electronic F-2 reports. For Reed it was the last time-consuming chore of his shift. OP 214.1.0 stated that each day’s files had to be organized and presented to the SAsC analysis crew that came on at midnight. Jarvis Reed was simply fulfilling his duty; he had never admitted as much, but he neither knew nor cared what happened to the reports after that. He had other things on his mind.
F-2 reports were routinely received between 1800 and 2100 hours and it was his shift’s responsibility to have the files computerized and ready.
He gave each set of photos a cursory glance, scanned each report for the time-date data, gave the report a code number, downloaded the content, made hard copies, and dropped the documents in electronic sector files marked either file retain or file review The analysts would take it from there.
Jarvis Reed considered the task of filing field reports just one more “no-brainer” in a job full of “no-brainers.” After all, he was a graduate of Dartmouth, and deemed himself capable of handling far more challenging duties than the monotony and treadmill-rut the basement-based Strategic Assessment Center afforded him.
He was still scanning the most recent reports from the bases in segment P through Z when his phone rang. Delighted at the prospect of having something to do other than file reports, he snapped it up before it could ring a second time.
“Lieutenant Reed, Assessment Center.” He was pleased he had been able to project a military timbre in his voice.
The voice that came back at him sounded more sardonic than military.
“This is Major Sanders at Rockwell, Lieutenant.”
Sanders had no way of knowing it when he said it, but the words “Major” and “Rockwell” had caused Reed to turn off his radio and stiffen. Reed could count on one hand the number of important calls he had logged in his first four months at the center.