The Perfect Assassin, page 2
The shock froze me in place. Before I could open my mouth again, she grabbed my upper arms and turned me to face the curb, like a cop getting ready to frisk a suspect.
Adrenaline shot through me. “Hey!” was all I could get out. I saw a green van with an open cargo door right in front of me. She shoved me forward, and I sprawled into the van head first. My face slapped hard against the rubber floor liner. When I flipped myself right side up, the door was sliding shut.
My heart was beating so hard I could hear my pulse in my ears. This had to be a prank, or some terrible mistake. I kicked against the inside of the door, but my rubber soles didn’t even make a mark. A second later, I heard the passenger door open. There was a thick divider between the cargo section and the front seats. It was black metal at the bottom with thick, clear plastic across the top. I saw the woman slide into the driver’s seat. I pounded on the plastic with my fists. She ignored me and turned the key in the ignition. She cranked the wheel and pulled out onto the street. Then she floored the accelerator. I fell backward against the rear door. I didn’t bother trying to stand up. I crawled forward on my hands and knees.
“Hey! What are you doing??” I shouted. “Where are you taking me??”
My face was jammed right up against the plastic. The woman stared ahead, arms straight out on the steering wheel, weaving through the morning traffic like an Indy racer. We were heading north, out of Hyde Park. I turned to the side and started pounding on the sliding door. I twisted the door handle back and forth. It wasn’t just locked. It was unscrewed. Totally useless. I tried the rear door. Same thing. I put my face against the cold metal of the truck wall. “Help!” I shouted. “I need help!”
“No whining!”
It was her. She was shouting at me from the front seat. Her voice cut right through the divider.
I kept on yelling. Every true-crime show I’d ever watched flashed through my brain. Rule Number One: Never get into a stranger’s vehicle. Once you’re taken, your chances of survival go way down. Why hadn’t I put up a fight? Because it happened so fast, that’s why. In real life, you don’t get time to think about it. All I could do now was keep making noise and hope that we’d pull up next to a police car. Any car. But when I looked out through the plastic, I could see that we were now on a deserted street, or maybe in an alley. There was nobody around.
I kept pounding and shouting for dear life anyway. Suddenly I felt the van pull over and skid to a stop. I flew forward and my shoulder banged hard against the partition. I was frantic, confused, terrified. My knuckles were bruised and bloody. As I got up from the floor, the cargo door slid open. The woman was outside, leaning in.
She had a no-bullshit look on her face. Her voice was low and even.
“I said, no whining.”
The punch came so fast I barely saw it. There was a sharp pain in my jaw and I felt my head snap back. I was out cold before I hit the floor.
CHAPTER 3
WHEN I CAME back to life, I was lying on my back inside some kind of bag. I could feel thick rubber against my glasses and forehead. It was hard to breathe. I was on top of a narrow cushion, and I was rolling forward. I could feel the vibration of wheels on a hard surface. My jaw ached and my head throbbed.
Everything was hazy, like coming out of anesthesia. The rolling stopped, then started again. I heard a door slide closed and felt a thump. I was in an elevator, going up. I heard the rattle of chains in the shaft. The elevator stopped with a lurch. I started to thrash around inside the bag, but I realized my hands and ankles were wrapped tight. I felt a hard slap on the side of my head.
“Quit moving.” It was her.
I was rolling forward again. A couple of turns. Then another stop. A series of beeps. The sound of a heavy door swinging open. Wheels rolling again. Different surface now. Stopped again. Boots on wood. I felt hands rustling the top of the bag. The sound of a zipper. Then a wide gap opened over my face.
The sudden light made me blink. I was looking up at an industrial ceiling—raw aluminum ductwork and beige pipes. The woman’s face appeared in the opening, leaning over me. She yanked the zipper down to my knees. I saw the flash of a blade. I felt tugs at my hands and feet and then I realized that I was loose.
“End of the line, Doctor,” the woman said. “Up you go.”
She crooked her arm under my neck and lifted me to a sitting position. I pulled my feet out of the bottom of the bag. There was gray duct tape clinging to my ankles and wrists. I sat on the edge of the cushion and then slid off and stood up, dizzy and disoriented. I rubbed my jaw where she’d clocked me. She reached out, tilted my chin up, and appraised the damage.
“First lesson,” she said. “When I tell you to stop doing something—stop doing it.”
“Who the hell are you?” I asked. My brain was foggy and my jaw hurt when I talked.
“Wrong question,” she said. She rezipped the body bag and folded it on the cushion, which I could now see was the top of a hospital gurney. I swiveled my head to look around, looking for accomplices. I didn’t see anybody.
“It’s just us,” she said. “Go ahead. Take in the atmosphere.”
You’re a trained observer, I told myself. So observe. Like they say on a dig, everything is evidence. We were on a high floor. Brick walls. The wood planks had dark outlines and metal plates where heavy machinery had been bolted down. This was no modern high-rise. It was a high-priced renovation. I was pretty good at estimating spaces, and this place was big—over a thousand square feet, not counting whatever was behind the doors at the far end. My apartment would fit in here twice.
The space was wide open, with one area flowing into the other. Trendy. And expensive. There was an industrial-sized kitchen at one end. At the other end, I saw a classy seating area with a cushy leather sofa, a glass table, and a baby grand piano. In the middle of the space, on a black rubber surface, there was a bunch of high-tech workout machines with names like Precor and Cybex. Luxury loft meets CrossFit gym.
“This is yours?” I asked. “You live here?” Make a human connection, I was thinking. And maybe she won’t kill you.
“Yes,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And as of now, so do you.”
My gut turned. She sounded like a psycho. She unbuttoned her parka, took off her cap and scarf, and tossed everything onto a bench. Underneath, she was wearing black tights and a long-sleeved athletic jersey. I tried not to be obvious, but I studied every inch of her. I wanted to be able to give a good description to the cops, if I ever got the chance. Late twenties or early thirties. Tall. Probably five foot ten. Athletic build. Blue eyes. Pale skin. No visible piercings. And one really distinctive feature: long curly hair, the color of a bright copper penny.
I suddenly felt woozy, like I was about to pass out. I leaned back against the gurney.
“Hold still,” she said. “You need water.”
She turned and walked toward the kitchen, her boot heels clicking on the hardwood. I glanced toward the elevator. It was about six feet away. I took a small side step in that direction. The woman took a glass from a cabinet and turned on the faucet. Her back was to me. I took a deep breath and lunged for the elevator button. I pounded it hard with my closed fist. Nothing happened. No light. No ding. No hum. I heard footsteps behind me. Shit! I whipped around. My glasses flew off and skittered across the floor. Everything went blurry. I panicked. I dropped to my hands and knees and reached for my frames. Her boot heel came down and smashed them to pieces.
“You don’t need those anymore,” she said. “I mean, you won’t.”
CHAPTER 4
Eastern Russia
26 Years Ago
IT WAS MIDNIGHT. Headmaster Alexei Kamenev was still in his office at the school. The curriculum he had inherited was excellent, but he often worked on small tweaks late into the night, refining a technique or devising a new challenge. The wall facing his desk was covered with 5″x7″ black-and-white photographs of his students, hundreds of them. So many that the faces practically filled the space from floor to ceiling. Kamenev felt a deep interest in every single one. Affection, even. He understood all their strengths and weaknesses—but most of all, their potential for greatness. After all, he had chosen each of them personally. By now, he knew them better than their parents ever had.
Kamenev looked up as a thin shadow passed across the frosted glass panel of his office door. He usually left bed check to his staff, but tonight he felt like stretching his legs. He closed his leather notebook and put down his pen.
When he reached the doorway to the preschool girls’ dormitory, Matron Lyudmila Garin was already walking the room like a wraith. Maybe sixty years old, she looked ten years older, pale and sickly. She looked up at Kamenev with hollow eyes and gave him a respectful nod.
The narrow beds were arranged in neat rows a few feet apart. Garin glided easily between them, but Kamenev, with his extra bulk, had to be careful not to knock against the bedframes. The light from the full moon passed through the window bars and cast shadows across the room. It was a chilly night, and most of the girls were tucked under their wool blankets, but there was one, at the far end of the room, who was not. Curious, Kamenev walked over.
It was the copper-haired girl. She was lying on top of her blanket, curled around a ragged stuffed bear. Kamenev looked up as Garin approached. In the dim light, the matron looked even more frail and wasted. Kamenev tapped the bear lightly.
“What’s this?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
Garin looked down at the skinny four-year-old, already tall for her age. She was holding the bear tight, spoon fashion, her arms around its soft belly.
“It’s the only way she can sleep,” said Garin softly. She stifled a cough.
“An indulgence,” said Kamenev curtly. “Remove it.” He turned and walked back down the row toward the door. Garin hesitated, then leaned over and pulled the bear gently from the girl’s grasp. The girl’s eyes popped open. Startled, she blinked and looked up. Seeing the bear in Garin’s arms, she reached up with a whimper, tears pooling in her eyes. “No! Please!” she said softly. Garin leaned back down and brushed the copper curls away from the girl’s forehead.
“You have only yourself,” she whispered softly. “Nothing else.”
Garin held the scruffy stuffed animal tight to her chest and walked toward the doorway, where Kamenev stood in silhouette. She glanced back and saw the copper-haired girl trembling as she curled herself around her thin white pillow.
CHAPTER 5
Chicago
I DON’T UNDERSTAND how I managed to sleep, but I guess I did. For all I know, the water she gave me was drugged. When I opened my eyes, I instinctively felt around for my glasses. Then I remembered. Right. Crushed. The whole world was fuzzy, which made it even more terrifying.
It took me a few seconds to realize where I was, which was in some kind of cell in a rear corner of the loft. Cot up against one side. Metal stool bolted to the middle of the floor. Metal toilet against the back wall. Clear shower stall. And transparent Plexiglass all around. Maximum security. Zero privacy.
My suit and shoes were gone. I was wearing gym shorts and a Nike T-shirt. Had she actually undressed me while I was unconscious?? Jesus! I didn’t see or hear her anywhere. Was she gone? Did she leave me here to starve to death? Was she watching me right now on a camera? I squinted to make things a little sharper, but I couldn’t make out any movement.
I slipped out from under the blanket. My bladder felt like a water balloon. I stared at the toilet. Normally, there’s no way I could pee right out there in the open. But my body wasn’t giving me a choice. It was either that or wet my pants. I walked the two steps to the toilet and tugged the leg hole of my shorts aside. As the stream hit the bowl, I heard footsteps.
“Morning, Doctor.”
Shit! Her voice put a crimp in my flow. I hunched forward, doing my best to shelter my privates. I saw her shape pass by on the way to the kitchen.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “Do what you need to do.”
I did my best to finish up, then tucked myself back in and flushed. She was heating a kettle, putting a teabag into a cup. “Sorry about the Hannibal Lecter setup,” she said. “Probably overkill. At least in your case.”
I pounded on the clear wall facing her and shouted. No words, just a guttural scream—at the top of my lungs.
“Speak normally, Doctor,” she said. “The cell is wired. I can hear you perfectly.”
This was insane! Sociopathic. She was going about her business like she was talking with a house guest. On the other hand, if she really wanted me dead, she’d had plenty of chances. Or maybe she was just drawing it out. Making me suffer. A sociopath and a sadist. What had I done to deserve this?? Why me??
She poured her tea and carried her mug over to the front of my enclosure. She pulled up a rolling stool and sat down. She took a sip of her tea and tilted her head. Her face was blurry from where I stood, but I felt that she was looking at me like I was some kind of rare zoo specimen. She set her mug down on the floor and crossed her legs. She cleared her throat.
“Okay,” she said calmly. “A few things you should know.”
I stood with my hands pressed against the Plexiglass, my heart racing. I was all ears. I wanted any information I could get.
“The loft is totally sealed, soundproofed, and lead-lined,” she said. “The elevator is locked, as you discovered. There are two staircase exits, also locked. Against fire codes, I know. But my house, my rules. In terms of the university, you’ve decided to take your sabbatical, effective immediately, on an island with no cell service. Your colleagues are annoyed by your sudden departure, but they’ll get over it. For now, Professor Racine will be taking over your classes.”
“Racine??” I said. “That moron wouldn’t know an Aborigine from an Inuit.”
“Not your first choice for a fill-in, I realize, but under the circumstances, he was the best option. He had some holes in his schedule.”
I pounded on the Plexiglass. I was confused and furious. How had this woman managed to get control of my life??
“Who the hell are you??” I shouted.
“Wrong question,” she said, and then pushed right on. “Your colleagues will be receiving occasional emails from you through a VPN. The IP address will be untraceable. Your snail mail is being forwarded to a post office box. Your rent has been paid in advance. Your landlord has a note from you that you’ll be abroad and unreachable. Obviously, since you have no friends, nobody else will be looking for you.”
That stung. But she wasn’t wrong. I guessed that she knew that I also had no family, no girlfriends, no pets, no Facebook account. I realized that if you were looking for someone who could disappear without a trace, I was a great choice.
“In case you’re holding out hope,” she continued, “nobody witnessed your abduction. The street was clear and the surveillance camera at the intersection was disabled. The van will never be found. And according to the building plans, this floor does not exist.”
“Tell me who you are!” I shouted.
“Wrong question,” she said again.
“What do you want??” I asked. “Is it money?” I was getting frantic.
“Do you mean the five thousand, three hundred and sixty-two dollars in your PNC savings account?” she asked.
She stood up and walked right up to my enclosure. We were just two or three inches apart. I could see her face clearly, even without glasses. She was very attractive. Stunning, in fact. It felt weird to even be noticing that.
“What do you mean, ‘wrong question’?” I asked.
She leaned in even closer, almost touching her side of the clear cell wall.
“I don’t need money, Doctor,” she said. “All I need is you. This may be hard to believe, but I’m actually going to turn you into somebody worth kidnapping.”
CHAPTER 6
SHE TAPPED A combination on a keypad and let me out of my cage. Then she nodded toward a shoebox on a chair. “Put those on,” she said, walking back to the kitchen.
I picked up the box and pulled off the lid. Inside was a pair of orange and turquoise running shoes with the Nike swoosh on the side and ZoomX stamped on the heel. I slid them on over my socks and laced them up. Perfect fit. Light as air.
“Nice, right?” she called out from the kitchen. “Carbon fiber sole plates.”
I had no idea what that meant, but they were the most comfortable shoes I’d ever worn. I walked over to the kitchen counter and pulled up a metal stool. Morning light was streaming through the massive windows. It felt like a cozy little domestic scene, except for the fact that I’d recently been snatched off the street, punched in the jaw, and stuffed in a body bag—and the perp was fixing breakfast. I figured I had no choice but to play along until I found a way to escape. Unless she decided to kill me first.
I watched as she pulled ingredients off the shelves and out of the fridge. Fruit. Powder. Seeds. Olive oil. She started dumping everything into a huge industrial blender. She gave the blender a couple of quick pulses and then dumped in a load of plain yogurt and a bunch of spinach leaves. She put the machine on high until the ingredients turned into a thick green fluid.
I waited for the blender noise to stop, and then I spoke up. I was sure she would say “wrong question,” but I had to give it a shot.
“Do you have a name?” I asked. “Or should I just call you Dear Leader?”
She gave the concoction a few more pulses and lifted the top to check the consistency. She looked up. “Call me Meed,” she said.
“Is that your real name?” I asked.
“Not even close,” she said.
She lifted the pitcher off its base and poured two glasses of the gross-looking drink. She slid one glass across to me and raised the other in front of her chin.
“Bottoms up,” she said, and started gulping.
I stuck my nose into the top of the glass. It smelled like compost.
