Crusader One (Tier One Thrillers Book 3) Read online

  The instant Cyrus had spotted the blatantly gay man walking on the opposite side of the street, a plan had formulated in his head. Strength in weakness. Since the forced Russian annexation, there was no place for gays in Petrov’s Crimea. In the aftermath of the coup, Serge Askinov, Crimea’s self-proclaimed leader, used his pro-Russian “self-defense” squads to drive the homosexual community out of the peninsula. Gays who chose to stay had been forced underground or risked a beating . . . and yet here this man was, strutting the streets of Simferopol and spitting in the face of suppression. This man was impossible not to notice, and therefore the perfect cover persona for the assignment. Cyrus figured his target would be on the lookout for dark, lurking figures. So instead of hiding in the shadows, he had decided to hide in plain sight.

  Cyrus had followed the young man back to his apartment and murdered him at the threshold—severing his spinal cord with a sharp twist of the head as the youth knelt to kiss the dog. Cyrus had then dragged the body inside, stripped it naked, and arranged it under a running shower. A decent medical examiner would determine that the man had not slipped in his shower and broken his neck, but that would be days from now, and besides . . . who in the Simferopol Police would care about some dead sodomizer? By the time anyone connected the dots—if they connected the dots—he would be safely back in Tehran.

  The dead man’s clothes—a blue leather jacket and black jeans—were uncomfortably tight. But Cyrus forced himself to embrace the feeling because it served the caricature he was trying to portray. He sashayed his hips, just as he had observed the gay man doing while walking down the sidewalk. He talked to the little dog in French, because despite his time with Arkady, his Russian was dreadful. He spoke French nearly as well as Farsi. Besides, French was appropriate in this circumstance, an effeminate language for an effeminate man with an effeminate dog. He couldn’t help but smile at the cleverness of it all as he walked through the park to meet his imaginary lover under the cover of darkness—a forbidden relationship, but one he’d risk a beating for. He wasn’t going to stop being gay just because some Russian megalomaniac stole his beloved Crimea. And when he felt a surge of angry indignation at this thought, he knew he was fully in character and he could move on his mark.

  He found a bench near the meeting site and took a seat. This would be his first assassination, though not his first murder. His initial teacher, VEVAK’s wet-work specialist Behrouz Rostami, had insisted that Cyrus demonstrate the resolve to kill on his first day of training in Tehran. Back then he had been hesitant—tentative.

  What has this man done? he’d asked, staring at the hooded prisoner who was bound to a chair in the corner of a dark and dirty cell.

  That is not your concern, Rostami had replied. It matters only that your orders are to kill him. This is your new life. This is how it will be. What you do now, you do for Persia and for Allah. What you do now, you do for your mother.

  It was the latter that had compelled him.

  He remembered raising the pistol and aiming it at the bulge under the black hood. He remembered hesitating. He remembered feeling sick. And he remembered squeezing the trigger anyway. He’d fired once, and then as thoughts of his murdered father and the brother he’d lost to the Navy SEALs during a mission to provide arms to Iran’s allies flooded his mind, he’d unloaded more bullets into the faceless hood. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he’d squeezed the trigger until the magazine was empty. And then, he’d kept on squeezing, until Rostami took the gun away from him.

  His thoughts drifted to his dead doppelganger, lying naked with a broken neck in the shower. Ten months ago, in that prison cell in Iran, Cyrus had felt remorse. Now, he felt nothing. How far he had come. Rostami’s training had been ripe with passion and emotion, fueled by purpose, and driven by commitment to God and country. Arkady Zhukov’s had been cold, clinical, and detached. For the Russian, murder was a tool, used methodically and without passion or ethos; killing was a craft, not a calling. Arkady had completed the evolution that Rostami had set in motion.

  Cyrus suddenly felt a swell of gratitude toward his uncle for shipping him off to Russia these last six months. In short order, he would be a better operator than Rostami, if he wasn’t already. Tonight, he would assassinate a covert American agent and, in doing so, begin the process of avenging his family.

  He heard hushed voices to his left. With an exaggerated head turn, he looked, sighed, and then forced himself to appear disappointed. He turned his attention to the dog while he parsed the mental snapshot he’d just taken: Caucasian man, medium height, medium build, dark hair, both hands in his pockets; Caucasian woman, short and lean, blonde hair, hands also in her pockets; both dressed in rain jackets and dark pants.

  He waited a beat and made an exaggerated tsk sound, rolled his eyes, and then pulled out the mobile phone he had taken from the dead man. Pretending to make a call, he lifted the phone to his ear. “Are you coming or not?” he said with a subtle lisp, finding it easy to sound gay speaking French. “I know, I know, but it’s cold, and I can’t wait all night. Okay, then hurry up and get that tight ass of yours over here so you can warm me up . . .”

  He paused as if listening to his lover’s reply, while in reality he was straining to hear bits of the hushed conversation between the two approaching Americans.

  “I don’t care, Jason. My gut tells me he’ll spook. Stay at the edge of the park and run some counter for me.”

  “It’s a big fucking park. I don’t like leaving you alone and unprotected like that.”

  “Well, that’s the job. I’m perfectly capable of handling a sixty-five-year-old academic, I assure you.”

  “He’s not just some random professor, Anne. That’s the point of this.”

  “Just meet me at . . .”

  As they passed out of earshot, her last words were impossible to make out.

  It didn’t matter. It would have been useful to know where the American partners were supposed to rendezvous after the meet, but this information was secondary. The essential takeaway was that the female agent was his target, and her colleague was running countersurveillance.

  “Ça va, ça va, à bientôt,” he said into the mobile and pretended to end the call. He set an alarm timer with a ringtone then slipped the mobile phone back into his pocket. The toy poodle, which was huddling on his lap, licked his hand. He gave it another treat and affectionately rubbed its head until the Americans were out of sight around the corner. Then, he set the dog on the ground and set off in trail. After a few steps, he remembered to put some sway back in his hips as he scanned the park around him. Other than the two Americans, it appeared to be deserted.

  Cyrus wondered if Arkady had known that the target would be a woman. Of course the old bear did. This was all part of making his final exam a true test. During their time together, the Russian spymaster had quickly discovered all his weaknesses, including his devotion to his mother and a predisposition for chivalry toward women instilled in him by his father. But he was a Persian millennial, and like his Western counterparts, he thought and viewed the world differently from the generation in power. Despite the Supreme Leader’s concerted efforts to keep Persian women as second-class citizens, Cyrus viewed them as intellectual equals deserving of the same opportunities. And he didn’t care what the Quran said on the matter, either. To lead one’s life according to the archaic scrivenings of men whose worldview was centuries out of date was lunacy. Of course, he would never verbalize his true opinions on such things in Persian company; doing so in front of his uncle would have disastrous consequences.

  As he rounded the bend, the target came into view. She was seated on a bench recessed into a small arc of gravel that dipped a few feet into the tree line. She was alone and loitering, her colleague running counterdetection surveillance as she had instructed. Any minute now, the Belarusian informant would arrive and greet her and, in doing so, seal her fate.

  The timer went off on his phone and the ringtone sounded. He retrieved it, s
wiped, and pretended to answer an incoming call. As he passed the American agent, speaking in French, he smiled at the woman. She was quite young, much younger than he’d expected. Not much older than he was, in fact, midtwenties perhaps. And she was pretty—very Slavic, with high, slanted cheekbones; a hard, angular nose and jaw; and deep-set, almond-shaped eyes. He continued to babble in French, tugging gently on the bejeweled leash as he passed. He could feel her eyes on his back as he strutted around the corner.

  He felt a twinge of hesitation. Why does Arkady want this girl dead? But no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard Arkady’s voice in his head, as clear as if the Russian were walking next to him: Never ask this question. It is not a matter of what I want. It is not a matter of what you want. You are a weapon of the state. Today, you are an instrument of foreign policy, tomorrow a stratagem, and the next day maybe you are settling a personal grudge on the whim of the President. It does not matter. These things are not your concern. Does a precision-guided missile contemplate the implications of its payload on its target? Nyet! You do not think; you only do. If your orders were to kill me tonight, instead of this girl, could you do it? Could you do it?

  “Dah,” he heard himself say.

  Under Arkady’s tutelage, he had come to view himself as a computer program—executing line after line of code without emotion or contemplation until the instructions were completed. This was how the mind of the perfect assassin was supposed to operate. Just yesterday, the Russian had embraced him like a father while confessing how proud he was of Cyrus’s progress. Then, a beat later, Arkady drew his blade and aimed the point at his own heart. Could you drive this blade into my chest if ordered to do so? his teacher had asked.

  Yes, he’d replied.

  Then do it. Kill me. This is your final test. Take my life and take my place.

  Robotically, Cyrus took the knife and plunged it into the Russian’s chest. Arkady had grunted and stumbled backward from the blow, but the blade failed to penetrate. Very good, my son, the old Russian said with a laugh, lifting his sweater to reveal a puncture-resistant ballistic vest. Very, very good.

  If he could kill Arkady, he could kill this woman. He felt nothing for her. She was not a woman; she was a weapon of the state . . . of the American state, the same intelligence machine that had left him brotherless. Left him fatherless. Left him motherless . . .

  He twisted the leash in his hands. He was ready.

  He stopped on the path, cocking a hip to the side and talking more animatedly on his phone while scanning the path behind him as well as in all three other directions. He saw nothing. The American agent conducting countersurveillance was either well hidden or out of range. He would learn which soon enough. Cyrus swept the small dog up into his arms and slipped quietly over the low black chain that marked the edge of the path, then disappeared into the dark of the woods. He looked down at the white-haired dog in his arms, its tongue out and tail wagging—expecting yet another treat. He patted the dog’s head, hesitating for only a moment before doing the deed.

  Unencumbered now, he stripped off the blue leather jacket and print shirt he’d been wearing, exposing the skintight, black tactical shirt beneath. He rolled the sleeves down and pulled tactical gloves from his back pocket and slipped them on over his hands. He had only a few more minutes before the Belarusian arrived, giving him just enough time to conduct his own countersurveillance sweep.

  As he moved silently through the trees and underbrush, Arkady’s tutelage echoed in his mind: On the hunt, forget your technology. Embrace your senses. You are an animal—a predator. Rely on your ears. Use your sense of smell. Your nose might be your only means of detecting danger. If you do not do this, then you are no longer the hunter—you become the prey.

  After successfully clearing the woods, he approached the park bench where his target sat waiting. He took a knee and scanned in all directions. Then, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. To his surprise, he was able to detect a feminine scent—perfume or maybe a floral soap. A beat later another scent registered. The Belarusian must have arrived, because the air now carried the musky tang of sweat and cigarettes. He crept forward until he could just barely make out snippets of the conversation taking place in Russian.

  Although Arkady had not shared with him any of the background precipitating this meeting of spies, Cyrus had his own working hypothesis. During the past six months, he had immersed himself in Eastern European politics and become a student of Russian clandestine strategy at work in the region. According to the file, the informant was a professor at Belarusian State University in Minsk. However, Cyrus suspected this was his official cover—and that the old man had siloviki roots. It was no secret that Belarusian President Lukachenko maintained a cooperative relationship with Russian President Petrov and that the Belarusian Security Service worked closely with its Russian counterparts. Men like this Belarusian “professor” had proven to be much more effective at gathering intelligence inside the Baltic states than Russian operatives. It made sense to Cyrus. A government official in one of the Baltic states would certainly be less suspicious if approached by a Belarusian academic than by a Russian. Knowing this, the FSB made use of partner agency operatives. If Americans were aware of the FSB’s tactics, then it made sense the CIA would try to find informants to turn inside the “retired” Belarusian siloviki network.

  From his back pocket, Cyrus retrieved the paring knife he’d taken from the gay Crimean’s apartment. He quietly slipped off the plastic sheath and slid it into his pocket. Clutching the blade in his right hand, he listened as the Belarusian spoke about some operation in the Ukraine. Cyrus shelved the names in his head should they be demanded during post-op debriefing with Arkady. The American asked why a history professor should have such knowledge. Answers came. Finally, the Belarusian’s nerves seemed to get the better of him, and he said, “I need to go.”

  “I would like to meet again,” the woman said.

  “Perhaps,” the professor answered and then coughed. “I have much more information. This is but a taste—a small amount so you will know I am of value. But it comes with a price. Get me out of Belarus. Get me out of the service. I want to spend the rest of my days somewhere warm. Like Antigua.”

  “I’ll speak with my superiors. How will I get in touch with you?”

  Cyrus heard the shuffling of the older man getting to his feet. He peered through the brush and saw the Belarusian standing beside the bench. The woman was up now, too.

  “Don’t contact me. I’ll signal you when I’m ready—just as before,” he said, looking around nervously. Cyrus wondered if the performance was an act for his benefit or if the Belarusian man was exactly what he’d portrayed—a tired old spy wishing to check out of the game for good.

  The American woman handed him a scrap of paper.

  “Memorize this. It’s my personal number. I can be ready to get you at a moment’s notice.”

  They shook hands and the old man turned and headed north along the path. The American spy turned and walked south. Cyrus moved with the stealth and speed of a tiger through the trees, keeping low and staying parallel to the woman, the blade clutched in his right hand. Their vectors were converging at the point where the sidewalk bent left, nearly touching the tree line before it changed direction to arc around a lily pond. His preference was to take her there because he could remain hidden until the very last second, but if she attempted to make contact with her colleague before that, he would strike early.

  As it were, the two triggers merged into one, with the American spy pulling her phone from her coat pocket just as she approached the bend. Cyrus caught himself panting, not with fear or fatigue, but with excitement. Any hesitation he had felt at killing the woman was gone. There was now only predator and prey. He shifted the blade to his left hand and readied himself. As she walked past his hide, he stepped silently onto the path behind her. He snaked his left arm around her torso and simultaneously clamped his free right hand
onto her windpipe.

  She made a soft nuhhh sound as he lifted her completely off the ground and disappeared her into the trees. He twisted at the waist and threw her hard onto the ground. Before she had time to recover her wits and breath, before her self-defense training kicked in, he drove the paring knife into her neck at the base of her skull. The woman’s body instantly went slack, and the stench of excrement hit him a beat later as her bladder and bowels let go.

  Cyrus withdrew the blade and crouched beside her, scanning and listening for her partner. The night was still—not a sound, not a shadow. He grabbed the woman by the collar of her jacket and dragged his quarry deeper into the woods. Ten meters in, he rolled the body over. Looking at her pretty Slavic face, her painted lips frozen open in surprise, a strange compulsion washed over him, and he kissed her. She tasted of lip balm, stale coffee, and fear. “You are my first,” he whispered and gently brushed her blonde hair off her forehead. “Thank you.”

  Bring me proof—physical proof—that it’s her and she’s dead, said Arkady’s voice in his head.

  He gripped her ear and positioned the paring knife to take it but, before making the cut, realized that an ear was not positive identification, something the Russian would probably demand. So instead, he sliced off her right thumb at the end of the first metacarpal. Dark blood dribbled—did not spray—from the wound, confirming her heart had stopped beating and she was finally dead. He wrapped the severed thumb in his handkerchief and shoved it into his pocket. He quickly found her identification, powered off her mobile phone, and stuffed both items into his other pocket.

  Then, without regret or afterthought, he walked away and disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tehran, Iran

  April 10

  He is standing in a dark, dirty prison cell. In the corner sits a man, hooded and bound. His teacher hands him a semiautomatic pistol.