Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

The guests all gravitated toward him, extending their sincere congratulations. Many of them had helped finance the campaign. He was their horse, and they had backed him. Ross was well into his martini and Speyer was well into his second hilarious story, when Ross noticed a familiar face watching him from across the room. Ross became uncomfortable before he even knew it. His hands got sweaty and his throat tightened a bit. He avoided looking at the man directly. He expected him to be here, but not out in the open. Ross suddenly felt the need to dull his nerves a bit. He turned to the bartender and motioned for another martini. A little liquid courage was what he would need to get through the evening.

Rather than fly into Limassol’s International Airport, Gazich took a more circuitous route. He flew first from Bucharest to Athens and then took the ferry to Rhodes, where he stopped for a few days before jumping another ferry to Cyprus. Immigration and passport control at the ports was virtually nonexistent. It had been more than ten weeks since he’d set foot on the island he called home. He had spent much of that time hopping from one country to the next and trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Before the bomb had exploded, he’d already decided to lay low and hide out in America for a week or two. That was his style. Where others rushed to get out of a country after a hit, he remained calm and waited for things to blow over.

Every step of the way he had been relaxed and deliberate. Run away from the scene of a crime and you attract attention. Stand and watch, lurk and loiter for a while and nobody notices. You blend in with all of the other gawkers who congregate to stand in awe of the carnage. Carnage was plentiful that Saturday afternoon in late October. At first Gazich had been unable to take in his handy work. The dust and debris cloud was massive. Fortunately, he had remembered to put in earplugs before the bomb went off. It had been more powerful than he’d expected and surely would have blown both his eardrums.

He had stayed pressed against the tree for ten seconds, his eyes closed and his T-shirt over his mouth and nose, holding his breath. When he opened his eyes a crack, day had been turned into night. With a cautious step Gazich left the protection of the tree, and started down the sidewalk. Even though he could barely see, he wanted to make it to the perimeter before the dust settled. He wanted to be standing amid the first group of onlookers. Slowly, the air cleared and the sky began to brighten. Debris was everywhere; broken glass, hunks of metal, bricks, and wood were strewn about the sidewalk. With the earplugs pulled out, he began to hear cries for help. He walked past those cries and made it to the bottom of the hill across the street from the Starbucks where he had been before the attack.

A man stopped him and asked if he was all right. Gazich still had his T-shirt over his mouth and nose. He nodded, coughed, and kept walking. A half a block later he reached the Safeway parking lot and stopped. This was his first chance to turn around and take in the destruction. The size of the crater surprised even him. It crossed both lanes of traffic and looked to be at least six feet deep. It was as if a meteor had come in at a shallow angle, slamming into the middle of Georgetown. It was hard to tell, due to the smoke and fire, but it looked like the apartment buildings across the street were no longer there. Most importantly, Gazich counted only one limousine. It was turned over on its back like some helpless turtle. Gazich guessed that the other limo had been close to incinerated.

As the crowd of onlookers grew, Gazich fell farther and farther back. With each move he was careful to shake more dust from his clothes. Emergency vehicles began to arrive within minutes and they just added to the chaos. When the pandemonium reached its peak, he simply crossed Wisconsin Avenue and walked four blocks to his parked car on T Street. Twenty minutes later he was merging onto Interstate 95 and on his way north.

He changed out of his clothes as he drove, not daring to pull into a rest stop. Too many cops patrolled those places. With the windows down and the cruise control set at the legal limit, he shook the dust from his hair and put on a new T-shirt and a pair of jeans. When he crossed the state line into Delaware, he finally relaxed a bit. The reports on the radio kept repeating the same information over and over, so he turned off the radio and drove in silence. A couple of hours later he ditched the car in Newark and took the train into Manhattan. He’d already booked a room at the Sheraton Hotel and Towers near Times Square-1,750 rooms, lots of tourists, and near complete anonymity. He’d arranged for two tickets to a show that night and he picked them up from the concierge before he headed up to his room. He didn’t want to go to the show. He would much rather go to one of the high end strip clubs and blow through a wad of cash, but he reasoned that if he was playing himself off as a tourist he should act like one.

When he got up to his room, he turned on the TV and any thought of going to the show, a strip club, or anywhere else for that fact, completely vanished. He could barely believe how quickly everything had gone from perfect to disastrous. He’d missed the target. The candidates were alive, and the wife and a whole lot of other people were dead. Gazich knew it had not been his fault. The man on the phone had told him they would be in the second limo. The limo that he incinerated. Would the person who hired him believe it when he told him he’d hit the car he’d been told to hit? Would they want him to try again? Gazich already knew what the answer to that would be. You only got one shot at something like this. Anything after that was a death wish.

Gazich barely slept that night, despite the fact that he’d put a serious dent in the minibar. As soon as the stores were open he found a T-Mobile kiosk and purchased a PDA with web browsing capabilities. He’d been paid a million dollars in advance and promised a million more upon completion of the assignment. In Gazich’s mind, the second million was still his. His employer had assured him that they had an impeccable source. Everything on his end had been done to perfection. This screwup was the source’s fault, and he was not about to take the blame for it.

Gazich logged onto the e-mail account using the password he’d been given and opened the draft menu where a message was waiting for him. It was pretty much what he had expected. They were blaming him for screwing up. As quick as his two hands could type, the assassin punched in his terse reply, placing the blame where it belonged. He finished by demanding the rest of his fee and then logged off. Over the next forty-eight hours they went back and forth, with things getting worse before they got remotely better. Both sides made threats and both were presumably in a position to follow through even though they had never met face-to-face. One side had the money and presumably could find the assets to retaliate while the other side had the talent and determination. In the end it was a standoff. This was a war that neither side wanted to fight.

The demands for a second attempt on the candidates’ lives was dropped and they eventually admitted that their inside source had relayed bad information. Since the job was not completed, they asked if he would accept a reduction in his fee. He told them he would take his full fee and kill the inside source free of charge. They went back and forth several more times and eventually settled on $750,000. When the money showed up in his Swiss account Gazich breathed a sigh of relief, but only for a second. The next day he called his banker and gave him instructions on how he wanted the money relocated. He then left New York and headed west by train to begin his ten-week journey home. Throughout his travels, Gazich couldn’t shake the feeling that this entire affair was going to come back and bite him in the ass.