Page 151 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

In the few short weeks he’d been there, Brkic had already successfully recruited seven members into his new organization, the Islamic Front in Sweden, and tonight’s meeting with the Iraqi brothers would likely result in at least two more.

But now it was late and he was tired and cold, and it was still a long, miserable slog through the snow-covered streets to the nearest bus stop.

“Hey, you! White man,” a voice called in Swedish from out of the alley. “Got a cigarette?”

Brkic didn’t speak Swedish. He had signed up for language classes only last week, since most white Swedes spoke English anyway. Despite the language barrier, the menacing tone of the man’s voice was obvious. Brkic trudged on, hoping that the glowing streetlamp up ahead provided enough light to deter the man who called to him.

Over the crunch of his own boots he heard the muffled rush of several feet speeding up behind him. Brkic whipped around.

Eleven lean, dark, angular faces confronted him. Somalis, Brkic guessed. Teenagers, mostly, glaring at him. A few flashed white teeth, like smiling wolves.

The tallest one of the group approached, his thin skull wrapped beneath an olive-drab Swedish Army winter cap, its flaps tied down around his ears and secured in a bow beneath the triangle of his chin. Thick flakes of wet snow began to fall, collecting on the brim.

“You don’t belong here, white man. This is our territory. Pay the tax.”

Brkic shrugged, feigning ignorance and fear. But his sharp eyes were sizing up the order of attack he had to make if hehoped to survive this engagement, starting with the leader first.

The leader stepped closer, his smile widening, gloved palms open to the sky in a gesture of peace.

“Just a little money, eh?”

One of the Somalis standing to his left howled with laughter as another barked like a madman, leaping around in the snow.

Brkic turned. More Somali voices called out from the upper stories of the buildings around him, shouting and mocking. Brkic glanced behind him. Another group of young men had approached him, equally menacing.

A heavy object, hard and angular, struck him in the skull, blunted by his thick woolen cap. Brkic reached up to touch his wound, his vision blurring. He turned around to see who’d thrown it, only to be greeted with a brick smashing into his face.

Light exploded in his good eye as his knees buckled. He tumbled into the snow, stunned like a steer before the slaughter.

A cold, narrow hand pressed against his face as a blade drew across his throat, severing arteries and muscle, cutting deep to the bone.

Brkic gasped for air, thrashing like a landed fish. His hot red blood gushed black and steaming into the snow under the harsh light of the streetlamp. His mind raced to find the words of theshahada, but they escaped him.

His heart failed as he bled out, surrounded by the frenzied chatter of a foreign tongue he could not comprehend.

76

PARIS

Vladimir Vasilev woke up that morning beside himself with joy despite the freezing rain outside his window. Not only was he feeling better than he had in years, he had also greeted the day with his manhood tenting the bedsheets. He hadn’t done that since he was a teenager.

The experimental CAR T-cell treatments for his cancer had been wildly successful, even better than the doctors could have hoped, let alone predicted. He had joked with his friend, the Czech, weeks ago that he might live forever. Now he was wondering if it was actually true.

His health was so good, in fact, that he was scheduled to be released early from his treatment regimen. Perhaps as early as next week, a month ahead of schedule. Yes, of course, regular visits for ongoing treatment and maintenance were necessary, his doctor assured him. But at least he would escape hissanitary life inside the glass aquarium, slurping miso soup and swallowing purified water.

Vasilev was so happy that he almost didn’t notice the new nurse pulling on her protective suit outside the glass. His rheumy eyes caught the full curve of her breasts, the shapely turn of her fine ass, and the beguiling blond ponytail he’d love to wrap his gnarled fingers around.

The poor wretch was probably making less than sixty thousand euros a year. He’d offer her ten thousand euros for a quick ten-minute lay right here in the adjustable bed. Why not? And if she refused? He’d promise her a nightmare retribution.

Either way, Vasilev was determined to take advantage of his recovered libido. It wasn’t his fault she was perfectly desirable and in close proximity.

His lust inflamed even more when he saw the two other shift nurses and the EKG technician leave their stations for a break. That meant it would be just him and her for at least thirty minutes, and probably more. These French people didn’t value an honest day’s work, but today that would be to his benefit.

He licked his fingers and smoothed out the thin hair on his motley scalp as the nurse passed through the secured enclosure, pushing a stainless-steel cart. A moment later, she was by his bed. Even behind her surgical mask, her eyes told him she was smiling.

“Good morning, Mr. Vasilev. Your regular nurse called in sick last night, so unfortunately you’re stuck with me for the day.”

Vasilev’s loins tingled at the sound of her delicious American accent.

“I am in capable hands, I’m sure. Please, tell me your name—your given name. How do you say it? Your first name.”

He laid a liver-spotted hand on the back of her thigh. The nurse didn’t withdraw.

“That’s so sweet of you to ask, Mr. Vasilev.”

The nurse’s bright eyes smiled again as she prepared a hypodermic needle for injection.

“You can call meAdara.”