Том Клэнси - The Teeth of the Tiger

But neither could it be denied.

He continued to command himself to breathe. It had to happen. It had never not happened, and so it must. He felt his bladder emptying next, but the flash of shame was immediately overcome by the building panic. He could feel everything. He could hear everything. But he couldn’t do anything, nothing at all. It was like being caught naked in the King’s own court in Riyadh with a pig in his arms–

–and then the pain started. His heart was beating frantically, now at 160 beats per minute, but in doing so it was only sending unoxygenated blood out into his cardiovascular system, and in doing that the heart – the only really active organ in his body – had used up all of the free and reserve oxygen in his body–

–and denied of oxygen, the faithful heart cells, immune to the muscle relaxant that it had itself infused throughout its owner’s body, started to die.

It was the greatest pain the body can know, as each separate cell started to die, starting at the heart, the danger to which was immediately reported to the body as a whole, and the cells were now dying by the thousands, each connected to a nerve that screamed into the brain that DEATH was happening, and happening now–

He couldn’t even grimace. It was like a fiery dagger in his chest, twisting, pushing deeper and deeper. It was the feel of Death, something delivered by the hand by Iblis himself, by Lucifer’s own hand. . .

And that was the instant Sali saw Death coming, riding across a field of fire to take his soul, to Perdition. Urgently, but in a state of internal panic, Uda bin Sali thought as loudly as he could the words of the Shahada: There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His messenger. . . There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His messenger . . . There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is His messenger –

– Thereisnogodbutallahandmohammedishismessenger .

His brain cells, too, were deprived of oxygen, and they, too, started to die, and in that process the data they contained was dumped into a diminishing awareness. He saw his father, his favorite horse, his mother before a table full with food – and Rosalie, Rosalie riding him from on top, her face full of delight, that somehow became more distant . . . fading . . . fading . . . fading . . .

. . . to black.

People had gathered around him. One bent down and said, “Hello, are you all right?” A stupid question, but that’s what people asked in such circumstances. Then the person – he was a salesman of computer peripherals heading to the nearby pub for a pint and a British ploughman’s lunch – shook his shoulder. There was no resistance at all, like turning over a piece of meat in the butcher’s shop . . . And that frightened him more than a loaded pistol would have done. At once he rolled the body over and felt for a pulse. There was one. The heart was beating frantically – but the man wasn’t breathing. Bloody hell . . .

Ten meters away, Sali’s tail had his cell phone out and was dialing 999 for emergency services. There was a fire station only blocks away, and Guy’s Hospital was just across Tower Bridge. Like many spooks, he had started to identify with his subject, even though detesting him, and the sight of the man crumpled on the sidewalk had shaken him deeply. What had happened? Heart attack? But he was a young man . . .

BRIAN ANDDominic rendezvoused at a pub, just uphill from the Tower of London. They picked a booth, and scarcely had they sat down when a waitress came to them and asked what they wanted.

“Two pints,” Enzo told her.

“We have Tetley’s Smooth and John Smith’s, love.”

“Which one do you drink?” Brian shot back.

“John Smith’s, of course.”

“Two of those,” Dominic ordered. He took the lunch menu from her.

“Not sure I want anything to eat, but the beer’s a good idea,” Brian said, taking the menu, his hands shaking ever so slightly.

“And a cigarette, maybe.” Dominic chuckled. Like most kids, they’d experimented with smoking in high school, but both had sworn off it before getting hooked. Besides, the cigarette machine in the corner was made of wood, and was probably too complex for a foreigner to operate.

“Yeah, right,” Brian dismissed the thought.

Just as the beers arrived, they heard the dissonant note of a local ambulance three blocks away.

“How you feel?” Enzo asked his brother.

“Little shaky.”

“Think about last Friday,” the FBI agent suggested to the Marine.

“I didn’t say I regretted it, dumbass. You just get a little worked up. You distract the tail?”

“Yeah, he was looking right into my eyes when you made the stick. Your subject walked maybe twenty feet before he collapsed. I didn’t see any reaction from the stick. You?”

Brian shook his head. “Not even an ‘ouch,’ bro.” He took a sip. “This is pretty good beer.”

“Yeah, shaken, not stirred, Double-Oh-Seven.”

In spite of himself, Brian laughed aloud. “You asshole!” he said.

“Well, that’s the business we’ve fallen into, right?”

JACK JR.found out first. He was just starting his coffee and doughnuts, and had lit up his computer, navigating his way first to the message traffic from CIA to NSA, and at the very top of the electronic pile was a FLASH-priority alert for NSA to pay special attention to “known associates” of Uda bin Sali, who had, CIA said the Brits had reported, evidently dropped dead of a heart attack in central London. The Security Service FLASH traffic, included in the CIA-gram, said in terse English prose that he’d collapsed on the street before the eyes of their surveillance officer, and had been rushed by ambulance to Guy’s Hospital, where he “had failed to revive.” The body was now being posted, MI5 said.

IN LONDON,Special Branch Detective Bert Willow called Rosalie Parker’s apartment.

“Hello.” She had a charming, musical voice.

“Rosalie, this is Detective Willow. We need to see you as soon as possible here at the Yard.”

“I’m afraid I am busy, Bert. I have a client coming any minute. It will take two hours or so. I can come directly after that. Will that be okay?”

At the other end of the line, the detective took a deep breath, but, no, it really wasn’t that urgent. If Sali had died of drugs – the most likely cause that had occurred to him and his colleagues – he hadn’t gotten them from Rosalie, who was neither an addict nor a supplier. She wasn’t stupid for a girl whose entire education had been in state schools. Her work was too lucrative to take that risk. The girl even attended church occasionally, her file read. “Very well,” Bert told her. He was curious about how she’d take the news, but didn’t expect anything important to develop there.

“Excellent. Bye-ee,” she said before hanging up.

AT GUY’SHospital, the body was already in the postmortem lab. It had been undressed and laid face up on a stainless steel table by the time the senior duty pathologist came in. He was Sir Percival Nutter, a distinguished academic physician, and chairman of the hospital’s Department of Pathology, sixty years of age. His technicians had already drawn 0.1 liter of blood for the lab to work on. It was quite a lot, but they’d be running every test known to man.

“Very well, he has the body of a male subject approximately twenty-five years of age – get his identification to get the proper dates, Maria,” he told the microphone that hung down from the ceiling, which led to a tape recorder. “Weight?” This question was directed to a junior resident.