Read Online The Assassin by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen Coonts
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Intelligence Officers, Grafton; Jake (Fictitious character), spy stories, Undercover operations, Qaida (Organization), Assassination, Carmellini; Tommy (Fictitious character)
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“Don’t you trust ol’ Oleg?”
Grafton merely smiled.
So here I was, eating high on the hog with a beautiful woman across the table, pretending I was spending the money I had just made selling a truckload of AK-47s to some Pakistani businessmen who needed them for hunting in the Hindu Kush. It was nice work.
After we ordered—Kerry ordered for both of us—I set forth for the men’s room, the “loo” as it was known in these parts. I photographed both of Surkov’s tablemates with the Dick Tracy camera hidden in my watch as I went to and from. I had never seen either of them before. They were speaking Russian as I passed their table.
In the men’s room I hid a small microphone and recorder that would store every sound made in there for the next four hours. I put it on top of the paper towel dispenser in plain sight, held in place by brackets that contained magnets.
As I sat back down at our table I got a shock. I recognized the woman standing with the maftre d’ and a man at the door, waiting to be seated. In her late twenties, with high cheekbones and eyes set far apart, she carried herself erect, her back absolutely straight, and wore her long, dark brown hair brushed over to one side, exposing her right ear, from which hung a large diamond earring.
Marisa Petrou!
She nodded toward the window, and the maftre d’ led the way. She paused for a moment to speak with Surkov, who introduced her and her escort to the other two men. Then, with nods and smiles, they continued to the empty table where the maftre d’ was waiting, holding a chair. She sat with her back to me.
Well, her mom-in-law knew Oleg, and so it figured that she might know Oleg’s segundo.
“You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said,” my lady friend said, with a tiny hint of mind-your-manners.
“Sorry.”
So what was Marisa Petrou doing here? In London? Here at this restaurant tonight? And who was the man? Her husband? She and he had separated, last I heard.
Unlike some people, I am a big believer in coincidence; random chance rules our lives. Meeting a certain person, a car wreck, being squashed by a falling piano—all those things happen by chance, and they change lives. On the other hand, since I am not a bigot, I will admit that cause and effect is also fairly important in human affairs.
Marisa Petrou was the daughter—maybe—of Abu Qasim, the most wanted terrorist alive. Grafton and I ran into her in Paris when Abu and his pals were trying to assassinate the G-8 heads of government in the Palace of Versailles. She and I had met the previous June, in Washington, when she picked me up at a party. That was no coincidence, either—I was trying to get picked up.
The problem was that Jake Grafton never tells me a thing more than he has to. He’d been after Qasim on and off since Paris, and madly plotting since Winchester and his friends joined the war, but would he tell me how things stood? Nope. Go here, go there, do this, do that, use your best judgment. Aye aye, sir. Fair winds and following seas, anchors aweigh, and so on.
I scrutinized the other diners, trying not to obviously stare—I should have done that sooner—looking for anyone I might recognize. One man, on the opposite side of the room, near Marisa, was being accosted by his fellow diners, smiling and shaking hands.
“Who’s that?” I asked Kerry, nodding discreetly in his direction.
“Telly star. Very funny.”
“Oh.”
Kerry was rattling on about American politics and I was trying to pay attention while nursing a second Scotch when two waiters delivered our dinner with a flourish. Marisa and her man engaged in quiet conversation, no smiles or laughter, and Alexander Surkov and his friends had a serious discussion. The telly actor was polishing off drinks and having a jolly good time with his companions.
I looked at my plate. Three little piles of something. Thank heavens there wasn’t much of it.
I toyed with the idea of stepping outside and
Grafton merely smiled.
So here I was, eating high on the hog with a beautiful woman across the table, pretending I was spending the money I had just made selling a truckload of AK-47s to some Pakistani businessmen who needed them for hunting in the Hindu Kush. It was nice work.
After we ordered—Kerry ordered for both of us—I set forth for the men’s room, the “loo” as it was known in these parts. I photographed both of Surkov’s tablemates with the Dick Tracy camera hidden in my watch as I went to and from. I had never seen either of them before. They were speaking Russian as I passed their table.
In the men’s room I hid a small microphone and recorder that would store every sound made in there for the next four hours. I put it on top of the paper towel dispenser in plain sight, held in place by brackets that contained magnets.
As I sat back down at our table I got a shock. I recognized the woman standing with the maftre d’ and a man at the door, waiting to be seated. In her late twenties, with high cheekbones and eyes set far apart, she carried herself erect, her back absolutely straight, and wore her long, dark brown hair brushed over to one side, exposing her right ear, from which hung a large diamond earring.
Marisa Petrou!
She nodded toward the window, and the maftre d’ led the way. She paused for a moment to speak with Surkov, who introduced her and her escort to the other two men. Then, with nods and smiles, they continued to the empty table where the maftre d’ was waiting, holding a chair. She sat with her back to me.
Well, her mom-in-law knew Oleg, and so it figured that she might know Oleg’s segundo.
“You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said,” my lady friend said, with a tiny hint of mind-your-manners.
“Sorry.”
So what was Marisa Petrou doing here? In London? Here at this restaurant tonight? And who was the man? Her husband? She and he had separated, last I heard.
Unlike some people, I am a big believer in coincidence; random chance rules our lives. Meeting a certain person, a car wreck, being squashed by a falling piano—all those things happen by chance, and they change lives. On the other hand, since I am not a bigot, I will admit that cause and effect is also fairly important in human affairs.
Marisa Petrou was the daughter—maybe—of Abu Qasim, the most wanted terrorist alive. Grafton and I ran into her in Paris when Abu and his pals were trying to assassinate the G-8 heads of government in the Palace of Versailles. She and I had met the previous June, in Washington, when she picked me up at a party. That was no coincidence, either—I was trying to get picked up.
The problem was that Jake Grafton never tells me a thing more than he has to. He’d been after Qasim on and off since Paris, and madly plotting since Winchester and his friends joined the war, but would he tell me how things stood? Nope. Go here, go there, do this, do that, use your best judgment. Aye aye, sir. Fair winds and following seas, anchors aweigh, and so on.
I scrutinized the other diners, trying not to obviously stare—I should have done that sooner—looking for anyone I might recognize. One man, on the opposite side of the room, near Marisa, was being accosted by his fellow diners, smiling and shaking hands.
“Who’s that?” I asked Kerry, nodding discreetly in his direction.
“Telly star. Very funny.”
“Oh.”
Kerry was rattling on about American politics and I was trying to pay attention while nursing a second Scotch when two waiters delivered our dinner with a flourish. Marisa and her man engaged in quiet conversation, no smiles or laughter, and Alexander Surkov and his friends had a serious discussion. The telly actor was polishing off drinks and having a jolly good time with his companions.
I looked at my plate. Three little piles of something. Thank heavens there wasn’t much of it.
I toyed with the idea of stepping outside and
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