Two men dressed in black leapt from the back of the van. They marched toward Brezhnicov, thick arms held stiffly by their sides, chests puffed as if on parade. Their eyes continuously scanned the street, never resting on one object for more than a fraction of a second, but seemingly missing nothing.
No matter how long they remain in the West, Brezhnicov thought, a KGB assassination team never loses the discipline drilled into them during years of training. They were some of the best trained men in the world, capable of killing with nearly every weapon conceived as well as with their bare hands.
They stopped in front of Brezhnicov, grim-faced men with lifeless eyes.
“Search the entire building, look for anything out of place, then take up guard duties. Also check the courtyard out back. There are two derelicts there, get them out. No one enters the building until after nine in the morning. I will be the first here.” There was no reason for Brezhnicov to stay; these men were more than capable of handling any situation.
There was a slight squeak in Mercer’s miniaturized earphone before a voice came through. “Mercer, two of the baddest dudes I’ve ever seen just entered the building. Seems the bossman is heading back home.”
Mercer clicked the button on the transmitter, acknowledging the information from Hat’s son, called Cap, standing on a roof across the street.
“Get ready,” he whispered to Tish, who was lying next to him. “They should come back here first.”
A minute later, the two assassins eased out the back door of the OF&C building, pistols held competently. Their eyes searched the dark courtyard, checking the back windows of the buildings opposite, penetrating the shadows created by the single street lamp before resting on the two winos lying next to an overflowing Dumpster.
One guard came across the courtyard, hugging the shadows. Mercer, watching, knew this man was a true professional. The other man stayed hidden near the doorway, his gun covering his partner. Mercer tensed.
The first man approached a wino and, without warning, jerked the derelict to his feet.
Mercer winced as if physically struck. He could only imagine the strength it took to pull a man from the ground and onto his feet and make the action look effortless.
Hat’s decoy stood limply in the man’s grasp, babbling incoherently. The other wino, also part of Hat’s team, slowly started to waken, as if from a lifelong binge.
“Get out of here now,” the guard hissed, shaking Hat’s man in his grasp. He kicked at the other wino. “You, too. Get out of here, before I break your fucking necks.”
Mercer noted from his vantage in the Dumpster that the man’s English was thickened by a heavy accent.
“We ain’t done nothing,” the wino on the ground said as he rubbed his mouth with a filth-stained hand. “We got rights.”
“Out, now.” The assassin dropped the first of Hat’s crew and took his pistol from a holster behind his back. At the sight of the gun, the two winos retreated hastily from the courtyard, nearly falling over each other as they ran toward the alley that led to Sixth Avenue.
When Hat’s men had gone, the guard kicked at the pile of rubbish next to the Dumpster until satisfied that there was nothing hidden within. He turned his attention to the Dumpster. Inside, Mercer crouched lower.
The guard lifted the plastic lid and recoiled in disgust. The Dumpster reeked of human feces, rotted food, and decay. He let the lid drop, gagging slightly.
Mercer groped through the filth until he felt Tish’s hand, then gave it a reassuring squeeze. He couldn’t feel her skin through the thin rubberized protection suit, but he knew that it had to be as sweaty as his. He adjusted the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and took a deep breath. The oxygen from the small tank at his side was crisp and cool. The suits and oxygen tanks, the same type worn by sewer workers, had been provided by Hat, who asked Mercer if he could use them to take an art gallery that he knew backed against a Chinese restaurant. The restaurant produced some particularly pungent rubbish.
The two guards, fooled into believing that the two “winos” were the only humans in the courtyard, cut short their search and reentered the OF&C building.
Ten minutes later Mercer opened the lid of the Dumpster and climbed out. He helped Tish to the ground and both peeled off the protection suits. They threw the suits into the Dumpster and gratefully closed the lid.
“This is one side of New York I never thought I’d see on a first date.” Tish grinned.
Mercer would have cautioned her about silence, but he knew that she needed to speak in order to relieve some of the tension.
“Only the finest for you. Next time we’ll go for a moonlight dip in the East River near an industrial vent I know. Very romantic this time of year.”
“You are a charmer.”
Mercer pulled a duffel bag from beneath a pile of garbage and unzipped it. He retrieved a pair of night-vision goggles, purchased from the Hat, and scanned the back of the OF&C building.
It was a typical New York brownstone, five stories high with a flat roof speared by chimneys and TV antennas. Firewalls separated it from its neighbors. There were four windows on each floor except for the ground floor, which had no opening other than a thick steel door. Wrought-iron grilles covered the windows on the second and third floors, making it impregnable from the ground. The upper windows were unguarded, but Mercer knew that a sophisticated security system protected the whole building.
When Mercer had outlined his plan to Hat, the professional thief’s opinion was, “You’re fucked if da system’s zoned.” If the brownstone’s security system lacked individual secure zones, then the destroyed front door would have crippled the entire system. But if individual zones could be compromised without affecting other areas of the building, then Mercer’s attempt to breach the back of the offices would trip further alarms.
Mercer didn’t see movement in any of the darkened windows, but knew that a watcher would not give himself away so easily. He had to take a chance. From under a urine-soaked tarpaulin that Hat had placed in the courtyard hours before, Mercer took four lengths of ten-foot pipe, each with rungs protruding at regular intervals. Joined, the sections became a crude forty-foot ladder.
Mercer carried the ladder to the base of the building and set it up with minimal effort, resting the top between the building and a rusted drain pipe. Then he drew his gun, a Browning Hi-Power, a souvenir from Iraq. The 9 mm pistol could not carry as many rounds as the H&K he had lost in Washington, but its stopping power was fearsome. The gun and the spare clip were loaded with mercury-filled hollow point bullets that would break up on contact. If a man were hit, nearly anywhere on his body, the shock alone would kill him.
He cocked the pistol and thumbed off the safety. The silencer attached to the barrel made it slow for a quick draw, but he needed both hands for the next few minutes. He reholstered the weapon and climbed the ladder.
On the train ride to New York, Mercer had explained his plan to Tish. At first she had balked at his intentions, but as he spoke, he could see the trust growing in her eyes. He outlined the four weeks of CIA training he had received prior to his insertion into Iraq, and that seemed to alleviate most of her fears. Though his training had focused on weapon tactics, he had learned the basics of breaking and entering and felt confident in his abilities.
At the top of the ladder, just level with the fourth-floor window, Mercer paused and scanned the darkened room. He saw nothing. From a pocket in his black pants, he withdrew a three-quarter carat cubic zirconia engagement ring he’d bought that afternoon while shopping for clothing for Tish. The retailer at the jewelry store had scoffed at Mercer’s poor choice, but he didn’t know that the ring would never be used as a betrothal gift.