The Mark of the Assassin Read Free

heard the jetliner before he could
    actually see it. Ten seconds later, he picked up the 747's navigation
    lights and tracked it across the black sky. Then the tone sounded in his
    ear, alerting him that the Stinger had acquired a target. The Whaler
    rolled violently as the Stinger's solid rocket fuel ignited and the
    missile roared from the launch tube. "The Americans like to refer to
    their precious Stinger as a fire-and-forget weapon," his trainer had
    told him during one of their sessions. The trainer was an Afghan who had
    lost an eye and a hand killing Russians. Fire and forget, Mahmoud
    thought. Fire and forget. Simple as that. The launch tube, now empty,
    was considerably lighter than before. He dropped it onto the deck, as
    Yassim had instructed him to do. Then he fired the Whaler's engine and
    raced away from the coast, taking just one glance over his shoulder to
    watch the Stinger streaking at supersonic speed across the black canvas
    of the night.
    CAPTAIN FRANK HOLLINGS had flown B-52s over North Vietnam, and he had
    seen surface-to-air missiles before. For a brief instant, he permitted
    himself to believe it might be something else--a small plane ablaze, a
    meteor, stray fireworks. Then, as the missile raced relentlessly toward
    them at lightning speed, he realized it could be nothing else. The
    nightmare scenario had come true. "Holy Mother of God," he murmured. He
    turned toward his copilot and opened his mouth to speak. The aircraft
    shuddered violently. An instant later it was ripped apart by a massive
    explosion, and fire rained down on the sea.
    WHEN HE HEARD THE APPROACH of the Dauntless, the man called Yassim
    quickly flashed a powerful signal lamp three times. The smaller vessel
    came into view. Mahmoud reduced power, and the Dauntless glided toward
    the stern of the yacht. Even in the weak light of the moon he could see
    it on the boy's face: the crazed excitement, the fear, the rush. He
    could see it in the shining deep-brown Palestinian eyes, see it in the
    jittery hands fumbling over the controls of the Dauntless. Left to his
    own devices, Mahmoud would be up all night and the next day too,
    reliving it, recounting every detail, explaining over and over how it
    felt the moment the plane burst into flames. Yassim detested ideologues,
    detested the way they all wore their suffering like armor and disguised
    their fear as valor. He distrusted anyone who would willingly lead a
    life such as this. He trusted only professionals. The Dauntless nudged
    against the stern of the yacht. The wind had picked up in the last few
    minutes. Gentle swells lapped against the sides of the boats. Yassim
    climbed down the ladder as Hassan Mahmoud shut down the engine and
    clambered into the forward seating area. He reached out a hand for
    Yassim to help him out of the boat, but Yassim simply drew a silenced
    9mm Glock pistol from the waistband of his trousers and shot the
    Palestinian boy rapidly three times in the face.
    THAT NIGHT HE SET THE YACHT on an easterly heading and engaged the
    automatic navigation systems. He lay awake in his stateroom. Even now,
    even after countless killings, he could not sleep the first night after
    an assassination. When he was making his escape, or still in public, he
    always managed to remain focused and operational cool. But at night the
    demons came. At night he saw the faces, one by one, like photographs in
    an album. First alive and vibrant; then contorted with the death mask or
    blown apart by his favorite method of killing, three bullets to the
    face. Then the guilt would come, and he would tell himself that he had
    not chosen this life; it had been chosen for him. At dawn, with the
    first gray light of morning leaking through his window, he finally
    slept.
    HE ROSE AT MIDDAY and went about the routine of preparing for his
    departure. He shaved and showered, then dressed and packed the rest of
    his clothing into a small leather grip. He made coffee and drank it
    while watching CNN