Page 10 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

The Czech took the chair near the bed, removing his felted green Tyrolean hat. “Vladimir, how are you feeling this morning, my old friend?”

“I dreamed last night my body was full of crabs, clawing out my guts with their giant red pincers.”

The Czech shook his head, frowning. “My wife died from cancer. I know how painful it must be.”

“Drink a bottle of battery acid and then shit out a box of roofing nails, and then you might have a glimmer of an idea of how painful it is.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You’re relieved it isn’t you in this bed and me sitting in that chair.”

Vasilev winced with a sudden stab of pain. He jabbed the morphine button in his hand, dosing himself again. It was having less and less effect. When the pain finally eased, he asked, “What news for me regarding Rhodes?”

The Czech’s eyes dropped for a moment, thoughtfully fingering the red-speckled feather tucked in the hatband.

Not a good sign, Vasilev knew.

“Still no luck, I’m afraid.”

“Luck? Luck has nothing to do with it. How hard can it be to kill a man trapped in a prison cell?”

“An American prison cell,” the Czech protested. “A federal one, at that. And he is a former senator, so he is closely watched.”

“You don’t need more luck,” Vasilev said. “You need more money. Increase the bounty. Make it five million dollars.”

“That’s a lot of cash.”

“I haven’t much patience. I’m flying to the Paris clinic tomorrow.”

“Then five million it is.” The Czech raised an eyebrow. “How long will you be gone?”

“Two months, at least. But what choice do I have?”

“It’s a smart move. And it’s Paris.”

“Bah,” Vasilev said, waving a veiny hand. “It’s a medical facility in the suburbs, trapped in a quarantined cage with no guarantees of success. Still, my doctor says without this new experimental treatment, I would be fortunate to last another six months.” The old Bulgarian winked. “He nearly pissed his pants telling me that, so I suspect it would have been less.”

“You’ll make out just fine. I read up on this CAR T treatment. It’s the very latest Western medicine has to offer.”

The Czech’s investigation caused him both despair and hope. Despair because the revolutionary treatment had proven wildly effective in pediatric blood-cancer trials. The treatment removed a patient’s natural cancer-fighting T cells and genetically altered millions more into little homing missiles targeting the specific cancer when reintroduced into the body. Vasilev stood an excellent chance, theoretically. That meant more years of the old killer’s tyrannical rule, and he himself was not getting any younger.

The Czech’s only hope was that other clinical trials for solid, adult tumor treatments such as Vasilev required had been mixed. There was an even chance that the Bulgarian butcher wouldn’t survive after all. Vasilev’s kill-list madness would end, and the Czech’s ascendancy could begin.

“For the half million dollars a month it’s costing me? I should be more than fine,” Vasilev said, wheezing with effort. He grinned mischievously. “With this ‘miracle’ treatment, maybe I’ll live forever.”

“Nothing would please me more.” The Czech shuddered inwardly but hid his disdain with a smile.

Vasilev’s fixation on the kill list bordered on insanity. It had cost the Iron Syndicate millions, the loss of several vital assets, and unnecessary attention from state authorities. Fortunately,their organization had penetrated the police and security agencies of most industrialized countries years before, scuttling investigations into Iron Syndicate activities. Otherwise, they might all be in jail by now, or dead.

If he were in charge, the Czech thought, he would have abandoned the kill list before it even began. Revenge for its own sake was bad for business. But the Czech was resigned to his fate. As long as the targets lived and Vasilev breathed, the list would drive everything to the exclusion of far more pressing business opportunities.

The Czech briefly considered killing his Bulgarian overlord when this madness fell on him, but quickly dismissed the idea. Vasilev had a personal security system that amounted to “mutually assured destruction.” If Vasilev died of any suspicious causes before his time, a secret network of assassins would avenge his death, targeting first and foremost the Czech, the heir apparent to the coveted throne, even if he wasn’t at fault. This incentivized the Czech to guarantee Vasilev’s security at all costs.

The only other solution to end Vasilev’s kill-list madness was to finish the job as quickly as possible before it ruined them all.

Vasilev grunted a laugh. “You’re a good friend, and a good liar. The syndicate will be in good hands when you take the reins.”

The Czech nodded his appreciation. “Thank you.”