He came slowly to his feet, staring at the nurse who stood in the doorway. He was more afraid than he’d ever been in his life.
Then the nurse smiled. “She made it through surgery.”
“Will she be all right?”
“The surgeon will be along shortly. He’s—”
“No, don’t put me off. Is she all right?”
“She’s not out of the woods yet. She’s on a ventilator and they’re going to keep her in an induced coma for a little while. The damage was worse than they first thought. Like I said, the surgeon will be here shortly to explain everything.” She came to him, lightly laid her hand on his arm. “I know this is incredibly difficult, Mr. Grace, but you must keep faith. She’s still with us, and I for one will do my best to see she stays with us.”
48
ROOK TO A4
Maryland
Zahir drove toward Frederick, Maryland. He was calm and relaxed, and felt really good. Everything was coming together. He had twenty-four hours, a long day’s hike, to get into position. Having the security layout and blueprints of the target made it easier to decide where to set up his base camp. He admitted he was a bit worried about the dogs; he’d be stupid not to be, since the K9 security teams were in place as well. Their schedule was set so he should be able to avoid them. He had deer scent in his bag; he planned to bathe in it to mask his own human smell.
He reached the entrance of the Catoctin Mountain Park at three in the afternoon. He left the car in a campground, hoisted the pack to his shoulders, and set off. There was no one around to see him, a good thing since he really didn’t want to leave a trail of dead bodies. He wanted to get in, get the job done, get himself back up through New York into Canada, and eventually find his way back to Jordan, to the warmth of his estate. The future looked very pleasant.
The forest was quiet, only the sounds of animals scurrying about, the birds overhead occasionally squawking, but no people. It was nice to be able to think clearly. Being around so many people for so long made him crazy.
He thought back to those months of training by the British Special Forces, and wasn’t that irony for you? But it was an American who’d paid him to kill the first time. To a young man not yet twenty, the ten thousand dollars was a vast amount of money, and that made him smile. The client had sent Zahir to Saint Petersburg to kill a man who worked in the oil business. To this day Zahir had no idea why. He’d enjoyed spending that vast amount of money, and in those days, what he’d been paid had gone a long way. Then, of course, the money ran out and he wanted more. By the fourth kill, Zahir realized he’d found his calling.
He traveled all over the world for his clients, learning, always learning, never repeating a mistake, always silent and deadly. He was the best of the best—a chameleon unhampered by a conscience, shrewd, never giving up. He loved each challenge and discovered along the way he also enjoyed the dramatic. To kill flamboyantly, more than most of his targets deserved, probably, but it pleased something in him. And he made his hits more and more dramatic because he wanted the world to know it was he who was responsible, and to fear and praise him in hushed voices. He wanted to build his legend. When the client wanted the deaths to be undetectable, Zahir was disappointed.
A sociopath, his father once called him, which was rich, coming from the mouth of that old hypocrite. With every kill, he supposed now he was sending the old man a message, telling him clearly that perhaps one of these days he might see his son for the last time. His father’s last time.
He enjoyed reading speculation about himself in the newspaper, particularly the comparisons to Carlos the Jackal, that covetous madman who wasn’t in his league. He’d even done a few off-book killings, suitably complex, to keep the blood flowing through his veins, to keep his brain razor sharp, his reflexes fast and lethal.