Джеймс Паттерсон - Target - Alex Cross

“If you don’t mind, sir. No cell phone?”

“They said no phones, and besides, I can’t hear for nothing on those things,” Cruz said before removing the hearing aids, placing them in the bin, and walking through a metal detector.

He’d used the IDs and worn similar hearing aids when entering the arena three times in the past two days, and he fully expected the venue’s security guards, DC Police, and members of the U.S. Secret Service to wave him through.

But after he’d cleared the metal detector, he was met by a Secret Service agent carrying a wand. Special Agent Crane, according to his ID, told Cruz to extend his arms and spread his legs.

Cruz acted as if he didn’t hear the order. Agent Lewis, Crane’s partner, went to the bin and got out his hearing aids.

The assassin put them on and this time followed Crane’s orders as the agent moved the detection wand over him. He ignored the cheeping noise when it passed the two hearing devices.

When he was done, Crane handed the wand to his partner, who had been typing on an iPad, and said, “I’m going to have to pat you down, Mr. Leonard.”

“Whatever,” Cruz said.

Agent Crane checked the assassin’s legs and pockets.

Lewis said, “He checks out.”

Crane nodded before patting both of Cruz’s arms. His expression changed.

“Please pull up your sleeves, sir,” he said.

Cruz calmly rolled back the sleeves of the jumpsuit, revealing the translucent spiderwebs wrapped around both forearms.

“What are those?”

“Braces for a repetitive-strain injury,” Cruz said in that quacking voice. “My cousin invented them. Did the same design for knees.”

“I could use one of those,” Agent Lewis said. “They on the market?”

“The website’s going up and the knee brace is coming out I think, like, next month? Spiderweb Braces,” Cruz said. “These are prototypes.”

“Work well?” the agent said, stepping back to let him pass.

Cruz smiled. “First day. I’ll let you know on my way out, even before I tell my cousin.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Leonard.”

“God willing, sir,” Cruz said, and he walked on.

Feeling like he’d already won a major battle and remembering the schematic maze he’d taped to the abandoned factory floor, Cruz worked his way through the perimeter corridors surrounding the arena and then used a key he’d stolen, copied, and returned to a janitor two days before to unlock an unmarked door.

He looked around, saw the hallways largely empty at that hour, and slipped into a utility stairwell. He clambered quickly down two flights of steel stairs, exited into a subbasement with narrower halls, and went through them confidently until he reached a T. He turned left and, to his relief, found the passage in front of him empty.

Cruz went straight to a door marked with an electrical warning symbol, unlocked it, and went through it into a small, very warm space with meters running on the wall, recording the energy the facility was consuming.

He removed his left hearing aid and tugged the ultrathin wire that linked the amplifier to the earbud. Four more inches of wire came out of the amp. He wound the cord around a connector that joined the largest electrical meter to the big power line feeding the facility. Then he opened one of the alcohol wipes and carefully cleaned the aid and everywhere he’d touched the meter.

He did the same to the doorknob in and out of the room before moving back toward the stairwell. Just shy of it, Cruz used his key to open a door on his right and went into a storage closet that held toilet paper, napkins, coffee cups, and the like.

Behind a stack of paper towels, he found the things he’d smuggled in two days before beneath his work clothes: the disassembled parts of his graphite derringers, a sandy-blond toupee, contact lenses, a set of clothes, and an ID.

Cruz stripped out of the jumpsuit, folded it, then assembled the weapons and attached one to the belly of each spiderweb. He put the contact lenses in; they made his eyes a dazzling blue. Then he donned black pants, black shoes, a black dress shirt, and a black V-neck sweater.

He set the white cleric’s collar and the toupee next to him on the floor at the back of the storage unit and sat on several rolls of paper towels in total darkness, meditating and dozing while he waited for his moment.

Anxiety was not allowed to enter his brain.

Neither was fear. Or thoughts of the plan. Or dreams of the future.

Cruz became like death: nobody, nowhere, in no time.

At 4:50 A.M. on Friday, Kristina Varjan got in an empty elevator in George Washington University Hospital and pushed the button for the fourth floor.

Wearing hospital scrubs, glasses, hazel contact lenses, and a long auburn wig gathered into a ponytail, she carried a blood-draw kit in her left hand and sported an excellent fake GW badge that read TERRI LE GRAND, PHLEBOTOMIST. A near-perfect forgery of an official GW employee pass hung from a clip at her waist.

As the elevator began to rise, Varjan was still debating whether she’d done the right thing by lighting two M-80 fire-crackers taped to two smoke bombs and dropping them in a trash can at the Victorious tournament.

She’d gotten out of there clean, hadn’t she? There was that, and more. Those were FBI agents in the tournament hall, the same FBI agents who’d gone to her motel room. She’d known that the second she’d laid eyes on them.

But what else was she going to do? She’d had to send a message, hadn’t she?

Yes, of that Varjan was certain. She’d been smart to use the smoke bombs for many reasons. But how had the FBI agents gotten there?

Before she could dwell any longer on the thought, the elevator slowed and dinged. The doors opened, and she exited.

Varjan ambled down the hall, yawning and covering her mouth with her sleeve.

She saw a nurse working at a computer at the dimly lit nurses’ station.

“Hi,” Varjan said, smiling at the nurse. “I’m here for Jones and Hitchcock?”

The nurse, a Filipina in her forties, wore a white sweater over her scrubs and a badge that said BRITA. She cocked her head. “You’re kind of early.”

“I’m working an early shift,” Varjan whispered. “Moonlighting. I’m usually at Georgetown Friday afternoons and I needed a double.”

Brita put on reading glasses, typed on the computer. “Who’s the draw for?”

Varjan looked at a clipboard, said, “Meeks for Jones. Albertson for Hitchcock.”

The nurse nodded. “Shame to wake them. Hitchcock had a rough night.”

“I could go upstairs and do my business and swing back if that would help.”

“No, go ahead. I have to deal with our shift change in five.”

“Thanks, Brita,” Varjan said, and she moved down the hall toward Hitchcock’s door. When she looked back, she saw the nurse busy at her computer again.

She went past Hitchcock’s door and the next one, took a deep breath, and used her elbow to push open the third door to a private room occupied by Arthur Jones.

Jones lay in bed, his gray skin lit by various monitors around him. In a chair on the far side of the bed, covered in a blanket, an older woman snored softly. Varjan swallowed. It could have been worse, but the woman did complicate things.

Varjan was flexible and adaptable, however. As she slipped toward the bed and the tangle of medical lines hooked to the old man, she was already spinning lies to use should the woman wake.

But the old woman showed no sign that she heard Varjan setting her kit on a table and opening it. Jones, however, stirred when she slipped a device on his finger to check his pulse ox and then put the blood pressure cuff around his upper arm.