Ice Cold Kill (36 page)

Thorson felt remarkably calm. The French had confirmed the presence of a superflu in the bombed-out factory. They had positive ID on Gibron entering the building. Putting her at a table with the biologist, János Tuychiev, seemed like icing on the cake.

For the sake of their testimony—in a week or a month or whenever—Thorson said, “Have we heard from Langley?”

Maldonado’s eyes flickered to the severed wires, breaking her audio link to the Shark Tank. “No, sir.”

“Right then. Shooters? On my signal: take them. Collier, your priority will be Tuychiev and the newcomer. Once Gibron and Belhadj are down, I want the other two in custody. Everyone ready?”

*   *   *

Asher blinked again. “I … what?”

“I have Tuychiev’s flu. I’m infected.”

Asher spoke to the old man without taking his eyes off Daria. “Expose her. Give her the other flu.”

Daria’s black eyes flashed. “I’m sorry? What the fuck…?”

János Tuychiev concurred. “What?”

“The second flu!” Asher spoke, still staring at Daria and the pink smudge of blood on her upper lip. He now noticed she wore no coat and that she was sweating.

“I think one flu is more than enough, thank you!”

He talked through her, reaching out, gripping her forearm. “No, no. The second flu weakens the protein bonds that link the first flu to your cells. It renders the first flu useless.” He turned to the biologist. “Infect her.”

The old man adjusted his teacup on its saucer and smiled down at it, looking at neither of them.

Daria reached out and cupped the back of Asher’s hand on her arm. “Oh, God. What have you done?”

He turned back to her. “Chatoulah?”

“There is no second flu. You don’t know any more about
protein bonds
than I do. You’re echoing words this old fool told you.”

Asher slowly turned back to Dr. Tuychiev.

The elderly man smiled. “She’s very clever, this one.”

Asher blanched.

“He told you his flu could be turned on and off like a faucet. And you believed him.” Daria was incredulous. “It can’t. Asher, there is no off switch. If you release this flu in a major Jewish population, it will infect thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Perhaps more.”

János Tuychiev looked so proud. “She is your Patient Zero. The virus spreads through her. This woman is a gun. All you have to do is aim her.”

Daria turned to the old man. “You will rot in hell.”

Dr. Tuychiev smiled. “Save me a seat.”

Asher reached into his tunic, drew a SIG-Sauer and shot János Tuychiev through the heart.

*   *   *

At the first
crack
of gunfire, a couple hundred pigeons—who normally tolerated the noisy tourists well enough—bolted for the sky.

The CIA sniper who was lining up on Belhadj pulled his eye away from the scope, just in time to see one of the targets fall backward, a brimmed hat flying, white hair wafting.

Thorson’s voice boomed over the comms. “Shots fired! Snipers: go! Collier: go!”

The shooter put his eye back, flush against the viewfinder. The pack of tourists popped into clear view, people flinching, ducking, heads spinning, following the echoes of the gunshot.

The Syrian was gone.

*   *   *

The second CIA sniper had Daria in his crosshairs. He applied even pressure to the trigger.

Someone stepped into his shot. It was an enormous man with a shaved head and a bullet-shaped skull. He was moving fast. He was moving toward the targets.

The sniper said, “No shot, no shot. Someone get that palooka out of the field of fire.”

*   *   *

As Asher’s shot rang out, Daria kicked with both legs, tipping her chair straight back. It hit the pavers hard. She turned the fall into a somersault, tumbling fast. She spun on her knees, skittered under the closest iron table. A .223 bullet, fired from on high, panged off the tabletop and ricocheted toward the patrons in the café.

Daria rolled and skidded under tables, putting distance between herself and Asher until she bumbled into the jeans and boots of a stranger.

A blond man in a buzz cut grabbed her by the shirt collar and lifted her up to her knees. The man was all muscle, no fat. She recognized him from the factory in France, where she saw him duck into the escape tunnel.

He swung a gravity blade, inches from her face.

Daria’s thumb flicked free the spade-shaped knife as she was hauled upright. She slid the toughened plastic blade into the newcomer’s arm, severing his biceps tendon.

He howled, his hands opening, dropping both his knife and Daria to the pavers.

Daria rose to her feet, bending her knees, using her weight and center of balance to dance the man in a half circle.

Her fist swiped left to right, the spade blade severing the blond man’s throat.

Before her killing stroke did its job, a high-caliber bullet from three stories up slammed into the man’s back, propelling him forward. He collapsed, taking Daria down with him.

*   *   *

Asher turned back from killing Dr. Tuychiev. Daria was gone, her chair overturned.

Three men were approaching from Asher’s ten, twelve, and two o’clock positions. All three had drawn handguns, shouting over one another in Americanized English. Asher made a show of quickly setting down his weapon and raising his open palms.

He watched as the CIA trio closed in but his own people moved up behind them.

Eli Schullman sheathed the knife—intended for Will Halliday’s back—and instead drew his auto and fired. Not at Halliday, but at the closest CIA agent to Asher.

Will Halliday dropped another CIA agent. He glanced at Asher and winked.

Asher marveled at the American’s luck, then he picked his gun up from the tabletop and heaved over the heavy iron table. It might provide a small modicum of cover.

Bullets began raining down from on high.

*   *   *

One of the CIA snipers saw the shots peppering the plaza from the high ground. He deftly calculated the angle and spun his rifle in that direction. He spotted the opposition in less than a second.

He ratcheted the bolt, fired, ejected the shell, and ratcheted in another round. “Taking fire from above! They have snipers!”

*   *   *

Blood drenched Daria’s shirt as she shoved Asher’s man off her. The sniper slug that killed him should have been a through-and-through, killing Daria as well. How it had missed her was a mystery.

The dead man had a blackened .357 Colt Python tucked into his belt. Daria grabbed the revolver left-handed and glanced over the dead man’s shoulder to see Asher sprinting across the plaza toward the cathedral.

*   *   *

Assistant Director Cohen and Nanette Sylvestri stood side by side, thunderstruck as two of the flat-screen TVs turned into a live-fire urban battlefield. The bird’s-eye view from the military satellite showed tourists and Milanese scrambling for safety, some falling, others trampling them.

There were too many combatants in too small a space to tell friend from foe. Sylvestri spoke into her mic. “Swing Band: break off the firefight! Get to cover! Too many civilians. Confirm!”

Fiats of
carabinieri
and city police screeched to a halt all around the plaza. The Shark Tank’s software included a small descriptor for each car in semiopaque lettering.

Sylvestri shouted into her mic. “Swing Band! Law enforcement is on scene! Disengage firefight!”

She turned to her techs. “Are they getting this?”

The technicians had no answer. The Shark Tank was transmitting. They just weren’t hearing anything back.

*   *   *

Owen Cain Thorson had always believed in a simple rule of conflict: bring more guns than the other guy. First overwhelm, then sort things out.

Between his snipers and Collier’s men in the plaza, Thorson had more than enough firepower to kill Gibron and Belhadj, and to capture the old biologist. Also, by using the transmitted images from his snipers’ lenses, Thorson and Maldonado could watch it all unfold as planned.

All that changed in a heartbeat.

Even without everyone’s comms, Thorson could hear the crackle of gunfire from the plaza. Men were shouting. Plus, the CIA snipers now were firing back at someone else’s snipers, robbing Thorson of their transmitted scope images of the situation on the ground.

He turned from the monitors and ripped open the weapons locker, nearly springing the hinges. He tossed an American-made Ruger MP-9 machine pistol to Maldonado, who was doffing her headset and reaching for a Kevlar vest. Thorson underhanded her a long magazine of 9-millimeter shells, which she shoved home.

He grabbed an identical machine pistol and vest, and leaped out of the bus.

*   *   *

In the Shark Tank, Sylvestri watched the real-time satellite image, which took in the entirety of the Piazza del Duomo as well as half of the gothic cathedral.

Someone said, “Still no audio from Swing Band. We—”

Something caught Sylvestri’s eye. “What’s that? Who is that?”

The screen showed panicky civilians pouring toward the streets and into surrounding buildings. They danced in every direction. But one figure sprinted, as straight as a laser, toward the cathedral.

Sylvestri adjusted her voice wand. “Swing Band, can we—” She ground her teeth, threw off her headset. “I need comms!”

Stanley Cohen said, “Nan,” and pointed at the satellite monitor.

A second figure separated itself from the throng. This one, also, vectored true. Destination: the cathedral.

But even from space, the satellite made the identity of this second runner obvious.

She was the only person in a plaza not wearing a coat.

*   *   *

The spiky, peaked towers of the cathedral seemed to rise higher and at a more oblique angle as Daria sprint-stumbled toward it, each craggy, ivory tower with a saint perched at its apex like medieval Cirque du Soleil acrobats.

Daria wheezed like an old man, her arms and legs pumping, eyes stinging with sweat. Her left leg buckled, only a little. She caromed off a stranger in the plaza, knocking him flat on his ass but using the impact to right herself.

She sprinted on, feeling weaker than she had since Asher had shot her years ago.

Asher opened the distance between them.

*   *   *

John Broom sat in the plaza, legs spread, knees up, one palm bleeding.

He had never heard live gunfire before. It wasn’t like in the movies.

He hit the speed dial for Theo James, who answered after one ring.

“John! John! Are you okay?”

John shouted into his phone, “I just got knocked on my ass by Daria Gibron!”

“What the heck? Why?”

“She was … I don’t know! She’s chasing a guy! I tried to get her attention. They’re heading toward the cathedral!”

“This is a firefight, son! Get inside!”

John tested his legs. They were shaking from fear but seemed uninjured. His heart was rabbiting. He climbed to his feet.

“Doc, listen! She’s bleeding from her nose and at least one ear. She’s pale as a ghost and sweating heavy.”

“Was she hit?”

“Don’t think so! She’s sprinting! But she looks sick!”

“Those sound like early stage symptoms of the virus. She could have it.”

John tested both knees and winced a little. He’d twisted his right knee in the fall. His hands were shaking and he tasted acid on his tongue.

“Are you safe?”

Theo shouted, “Yeah!”

“Okay, well, I’m really sorry, about this, but I need you at the cathedral! Quick as you can!”

“Why? What—”

John hung up, steeled himself, and limped after Daria.

Thirty-two

The interior of the cathedral—the fourth-largest in the world—was vast and dark, seemingly as tall as it was long. The building was shaped like a giant cross, the long dimension stretching one and a half times the length of an American football field. It was split into several naves, and on that day it was filled with tourists and supplicants, church staff, and a children’s choir. The Duomo offered an air of serenity.

Outside the cathedral, two armed soldiers stood guard. Both were twenty-two. Neither had seen combat. When the shooting and shouting began, they glanced at each other, wide-eyed.

The senior of the two was a pimply faced youth from Modena with dreams of a career in computer game animation. He wet his suddenly very dry lips. “Get the doors. Keep everyone out of the cathedral!”

“But…” the slightly younger soldier had studied for the priesthood. Guarding the Duomo meant something a bit more to him than a field duty. “It’s sanctuary! The shooting. We have to let everyone in! The gunmen—”

Asher Sahar looked like any other tourist or Milano, dashing past the two, right up until he slammed into the senior soldier, catching him between his shoulder blades. The man tumbled into his cohort and both fell badly. Both youths wore right-hand hip holsters. Asher drew a SIG and put a bullet in each man’s right wrist. Crippled, the youths howled and writhed.

Asher didn’t need them dead and he didn’t need them drawing their weapons on him. He needed them making a ruckus and bleeding. Tourists scattered, moving away from the cathedral.

He displayed both of his SIG P-220s, one in each fist, high over his head. “Move!” he bellowed, and shouldered aside the few people who hadn’t yet fled. He marched into the grand church.

Inside, it was like stepping into another country: The quiet of it, the darkness of it, and, surprisingly for so vast a space, the warmth of it. It was twenty-five degrees warmer inside than out. A children’s choir sang sweetly, at least a hundred voices deep. Pigeons roosted at the upper levels, some flitting about, but most waiting for closing time and the humans to leave their church.

So dense was the pink Candoglia marble walls that the tourists and true believers within weren’t aware that they had missed a gun battle without. There were no signs of panic inside the cathedral. That did not suit Asher’s needs. A
carabinieri
in a severe tunic with brass buttons, striped trousers, and a Sam Browne belt and sidearm peered at him down a long, aquiline nose.