The Perfect Weapon Page 3

  Lance raised the waistband of his underwear and let the shirt fall and bent to pull his pants up. He didn't know what to expect when he knocked on the door. A few minutes earlier, he made a point of making as much noise as possible when he parked the car at the end of the driveway a couple hundred yards away. He had revved the engine several times before he slammed the door, twice. The noise easily carried across the field of snow. His chosen path to the front porch of the villa was out in the open where he could clearly be seen from the wall of windows on the west side of the structure.

  He found the place easy enough. Seibel’s coordinates were spot on. It was indeed a hidden slice of paradise up several dirt and gravel roads that no casual traveler would trek. It was a secret alpine lair for a secretive person. There were surely alarms that he had triggered. She would have installed these protective devices well before taking up residence.

  “Would you like to come in?” She lowered the gun and stepped to the side. Her step back carried with it the tiniest hint of a limp in her right leg. Lance winced slightly, witnessing her pain. A reaction he should not be feeling. Damn.

  “Yes. Thank you,” Lance nodded like a gentleman before stepping into the foyer. He took his eyes from hers, but not without some difficulty. She was mesmerizing in a way. After removing his snow-covered boots, he stepped past her, turning his back to her. He couldn’t know what she would do in this moment. She could raise the gun and put a clean shot through his skull. She could jam the barrel of her Graz Buria into his back and order him to the floor. He was ready for anything. But didn’t plan to fight back.

  Instead, she simply closed the door behind him, turning her back on him. A wary opponent would have surveyed the yard and forest for signs of others who had come with Lance. She didn’t look. She didn’t seem concerned about those things. Marta walked past him into a small living room with couches and side chairs and a small fire crackling in the fireplace. She set her gun down on the coffee table and sat on a couch, motioning for him to sit in the sofa facing her. He did so. They simply looked at each other. There was no rush. There were no deadlines, no nuclear weapons to be captured, and no head of state to assassinate. Lance was content to let her lead the conversation. He really hadn’t thought much further than seeing her again. And whether she would kill him, of course.

  “I guess I should be surprised to see you.” She broke the silence.

  “He didn’t tell you I might stop by for a visit?”

  “No. I haven’t spoken with him since Baghdad. Not since he left after his doctor stitched me up.” She was obviously a little more comfortable. Her English words carried a breath of Russian accent. “We only talk a few times a year anyway.”

  “But you’re not surprised to see me.”

  “No. I didn’t really expect you to come. But I knew we would meet again.” The smile that accompanied these words was delightful. Lance could tell by the set of her face that smiling was not something she did often, or even naturally. “Our meeting in Iraq was…” she looked away for the first time. His eyes followed hers to the windows and the forest and mountains beyond them. “Strange, I think that is the word.”

  “Strange works.” He agreed with her and smiled.

  “Can I ask why you came here? Why didn’t you pick a more public place?” Her question implied that coming here was not the smartest thing he’d done. A public place might offer more security, less chance that she would kill him on the spot. He had shot her, after all.

  “I don’t know really. I have to get back to the U.S. soon. I guess I just needed to. Sorry, that’s not much of an answer.” He noticed something else happening. He was telling her the truth. Like Marta’s smile, it was not something he did often. Honesty didn’t come naturally to him.

  “That’s fine. I think I understand.” Her smile was back. Lance shook his head ever so slightly. She noticed, of course. “What is it?” Her smile even wider.

  “You should be mad, pissed. I’d understand if you’d shot me a few minutes ago. I’d be fine if you killed me. But instead you’re sitting there smiling at me.”

  So they just looked at each other for the next few moments. Each smiling. It was surprisingly easy for both. She broke the silence again. “I can’t help myself.” Now it was her turn to shake her head. She turned again to look out the window, but not before the faintest blush lit her face.

  Chapter 3

  “Go back. Go back to the last one.” She was giggling and speaking Russian, her natural language. Her dialect from Novosibirsk in Siberia.

  They were sitting outside on the rear balcony overlooking a snow-covered meadow with snow-covered pines in the near distance and unspeakably gorgeous snow-covered mountain peaks filling up the rest of their view. Their cups of coffee steamed into the frigid air. It was the morning of their second day together. As a gentleman, Lance initially declined and then graciously accepted her invitation to stay, sleeping in the small but charming guest bedroom, of course.

  He was putting on a show for her. In the last 11 minutes, he had been no fewer than 60 different characters. The little act started when she asked him to tell her something honestly. He proceeded to tell her honest truth after honest truth, but did so in the guise of different characters. His flawless transition from Bavarian nun to Mexican gardener to California surfer to Saudi carpet salesman was nothing less than flabbergasting. Marta had never seen anything or anyone like it. Lance couldn’t help but think of watching Robin Williams on Carson or Letterman running through a dozen or so characters in his frenetic manner.

  Lance was a one-man show. The coffee cup in his hands, or placed on the table in front of them, was his only prop. And he had a bunch more characters he could pull out, but Marta finally asked him to stop and go back to the used car salesman from Texas he had just done before switching to an old man in a Jewish deli.

  He affected the thick Texas accent again and adjusted an invisible cowboy hat as he greeted her. “Ma’am, I believe I have just the automobile for you. It’s a low mileage Pontiac and I do declare, you would look like a million dollars behind the wheel.”

  Her giggle evolved into full laughter as he tilted his head and put the cheesiest smile ever on his face. It was toothy and anything but sincere. “Ma’am, I’m quite serious when I say, you and this car were made for each other. What do you say, can I put you in this beauty today?”

  “That’s it. That’s the one. What’s your name?” She was playful and reached out a hand to touch his forearm. He wished he didn’t have the heavy jacket on so her touch would have been on his skin.

  “I’m Bart. Bart Radish, but my friends call me Horse.” He kept the cheesy smile going.

  “Horse? Why do they call you that?”

  “On account of my last name, ma’am.”

  She squinched up her forehead for a moment. “Oh, I get it. Your last name is Radish.” And she laughed some more. It was infectious and, lovely, that was the word that came to his mind. She was lovely.

  “You got it little lady.” He tipped his pretend cowboy hat again.

  Marta sat back in her chair and shook her head. She brought her coffee cup to her lips. After looking into the distance for a few quiet moments, she turned back to him and spoke in English. “You are truly something. He did not lie when he told me about you and your various talents.” After shaking her head again she smiled a new smile; one he hadn’t seen before. “I’ve never met anyone like you. That’s your answer.”

  He furrowed his brow, “My answer?”

  “To your question. You were wondering what he told me about you. He said I’ve never met anyone like you. He said there was only one person he knew that came close.” She looked away. Her breath steamed out and floated away on the silent breeze.

  He followed her gaze into the beauty of the winter forest scenery in front of them. “And I think we know who he was talking about.”

  “Do we?”

  “Not too hard to guess. I think it’s safe to say that you are that on
e person.”

  “You think so?” She brought her eyebrows together.

  But the strangest thing happened. Lance did not see her procerus muscle at work. He did not watch his favorite muscle tug at the fascia lying underneath her eyebrows pulling them together and creating a delicate crease in the skin between her eyes. He did not look at the orbicular oculi, the muscles surrounding her eyes creating the squint, or the minute tightening in her sternocleidomastoid, the smooth muscles running from the base of the skull down to the top of the sternum on both sides of the neck.

  He did not see Marta as he saw others. She was not a compilation of anatomical parts working in unison to create a functioning human. No, he saw something else when he looked at Marta. Lance saw a person. It was a realization that took a whole second to sink in. Damn, double damn. This was bad.

  It was his turn to smile and shake his head. “So the question I have is, do you think he was looking for you in all those candidates over the years? Looking for something he’d only found in his most prized pupil?”

  She reached out a hand to him. He took it instinctively without hesitation. Although both cold, there was heat when they touched. She smiled again. It was the new smile. Lance liked it. It warmed him further.

  “I don’t know.” Her response was honest. “Geoffrey does things for reasons only he knows. He doesn’t share his motives with others, at least not me.”

  He hadn’t held someone’s hand since holding his mother's back in grade school. He couldn’t recall holding a girl's, or woman’s hand, ever. It was a show of affection he was unfamiliar with.

  Holding her hand like this brought feelings of comfort and trust, feelings he had purposely kept separate from his relationships with females. Holding Marta’s hand on this winter morning was perhaps the most intimate moment he had ever shared. It surprised him. Yet as he started to wander, to travel somewhere else, or maybe go out of body and look down at this intimate scene, she squeezed his hand. She kept him there in the moment.

  “Can I say something?” He was hesitant, unsure.

  “Of course. Anything.” No hesitation in her response.

  “I don’t know how to do this.”

  She just looked at him. “What part?’

  “Being here; being with you.”

  She squeezed his hand again. “You’re doing fine. You don’t need to do anything else.”

  “I don’t know. That seems too easy.”

  “Don’t make it hard.” Her smile lovely again.

  Even with her honesty and her transparency, he just couldn’t help it. His natural tendencies were too strong for him to control and he dove back into the comfort of a created character. “Well ma’am, I’ll do my darndest not to.” And he tipped his imaginary hat one last time. He’d have to work on actually being Lance. It was a character, a person, he did not know well.

  They sat together holding hands for a while longer, neither wanting to let go. He stayed with her for two more days. He was genuinely surprised by her ability to find comfort in his presence; even more impressed by her domestic talents, especially cooking. He never imagined this cold, calculating and supremely talented killer could prepare such fantastic meals. She absolutely loved to bake. She found real pleasure in making and baking bread, cakes and apple pie. He ate it all.

  They took walks through the snow. They played chess beside the fire. They tried to one-up each other in target practice using her silenced Glock handgun. He never stood a chance and could only sigh when she put three successive bullets through the exact center of the hand-painted target. She was definitely scary. Definitely deadly.

  On the morning he was to leave, Lance didn't want to. He’d never felt this before. They had held hands a few more times, but not advanced in their display of affection. The attraction between them was obvious. It was powerful, like its own gravity. But the time was not right. Each knew it. To explore deeper feelings and sensations at this early juncture would complicate matters beyond their already convoluted status. She walked with him to his car. He had moved it to a detached garage to hide from prying eyes in the sky. Lance pulled open the heavy garage doors and turned to her. A brisk breeze was blowing, but it was not enough to cause the tears that had formed in her gentle eyes. Sadness produced these tears.

  Neither knew when they would see the other again. He was returning to Harvey Point, his CIA home away from home. She would be leaving her hidden villa within days to resume her role as a KGB operative gone rogue. Their paths might not cross for months, possibly longer. Neither liked the thought of that. But neither was naïve enough to believe they could make plans. They did not exchange numbers or addresses or quaint code words only they would recognize. Their lives, their time, were not their own. They moved at opposite ends of a dangerous world. Where or when their orbits would bring them together again was up to the stars.

  He took the necessary step to her. It put his face inches from hers, closer than they’d been since their strange, but passionate kiss and embrace in Baghdad. She was the first to throw her arms around him. He responded by doing the same. Finally, he pulled his head back to look into her face. A tear escaped her eye and gently rolled down her cheek. He wiped it away and then he followed the curve of her cheek down to her chin with his finger. She brought her lips up to meet his and their embrace took on an entirely new element. Unlike Baghdad, Marta had not been shot a few minutes earlier and Lance had not thought of killing her in the preceding moments.

  No, this time, this embrace and kiss were born of a new passion. This attraction, this thing, was real. Undeniable. She pulled away and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Thank you for coming to see me.” She sighed.

  He surprised himself by laughing at the simplicity of her words and the underlying sentiment. “Thank you for letting me stay with you.” She pulled away from him and took a deep breath and a step back. He realized in that moment that she was indeed stronger than him. He did not have the strength to pull away, to be separated.

  “Good bye Lance.” She smiled and another tear rolled down.

  Lance reached up to tip his invisible cowboy hat. “So long ma’am. I truly appreciate the hospitality. I’ll be seeing ya.” He stepped into the garage and was about to open the door when he turned back to her. Bart was gone, it was just Lance now. “I’ll be seeing you. Count on it.” He got into the car and started it. He backed the sedan out and pulled away. Marta waved and smiled.

  Chapter 4

  She turned away before he could see her cry in his rear view mirror.

  Tears hadn’t flowed from her eyes like this in years. She hadn’t convulsed and bent over in emotional pain for just as long. This is the reason she hadn’t given herself to anyone, to any man. This loss of control, no matter how brief, was an affront to her being. Marta despised those unable to stay in control of their emotions. She honestly never expected to be one of them. These feelings were entirely outside her expectations. But they would pass.

  As she walked back to the house, she stopped and listened to the sound of the car’s engine fading away. When it was gone, there was nothing but silence. Her footfall in the snow, with its gentle crunch underneath, was the only sound. By the time she reached the porch, she was herself again. She was ruthless, determined, uncompromising. She was Marta. One to be respected – to be feared.

  The tears were distant memories. In 20 seconds, she had shoved those sensations down deep inside. She purposely looked away from his face in her mind as she entered the door and walked through empty rooms. She closed her ears to his laugh and the amazing variety of languages, dialects and characters he displayed for her. She closed her fist to avoid the feeling, the sensation of him reaching across the chessboard to take her hand as they sat on their knees beside the coffee table.

  She had realized in that moment that she was ready, prepared to let him take her. But he did not advance. He didn’t cross the chasm between them. He had obviously had his share of women. He was beautiful, so easy t
o look upon and be with. He would know what to do, where to touch, how to read her thoughts as she lay in his arms. She shook her head and brought a clenched fist to her forehead to push the images out. She needed a clear mind for what she had to do.

  Instead of the past three days of comfort and pleasure, she thought of the next dozen steps that lay ahead when she departed today. She left numerous issues hanging, ends untied. Her only trusted team members were dead, thanks to Lance. Stop that. Don’t think, or say, his name.

  The American CIA agent. That was better. Put a vague nameplate on him. He killed them in Iraq. She would have to rely on others she had been cultivating. She would need to invite them in from the periphery. They would welcome the invitation. Working with Marta, or whatever name she chose to work under, meant action. It meant results. And most of all, it meant money. Her operations had generated millions.

  Four weeks of silence was not unheard of for Marta. She did not need regular contact or updates. Those she had left in charge of information drops or blackmail operations or money laundering knew that she would be back. They both looked forward to and feared that day. One never knew what to expect from the brilliant and deadly Russian.

  Marta kept her confidants to a select few. She would be contacting these few in the coming days. First though, she needed to visit to her boss. Marta needed to see Gregor Smelinski to show him she was still in control. Her well-cultivated role as a rogue agent, a KGB pariah, had been created in tandem with him. He considered Marta his greatest weapon. He said it with his eyes every time they met.

  Funny how these lions of espionage, these two uncompromising leaders thought they knew her. Smelinski and Seibel were unquestionably brilliant. They were strategists with decades of experience on their side. They were the best in their chosen profession. The fact they both still lived and breathed was proof of their survival skills. But neither knew what drove “their Marta.” And she knew, absolutely knew, that neither one could see what was coming. Neither knew they were doomed the moment they met her. For as much as they had invested in her in time, resources and training, she had made a greater investment in creating a façade of acceptance. Both the Russian and the American thought they had control. Neither did. No one ever would.