The perfect assassin, p.1
The Perfect Assassin, page 1
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2022 by James Patterson
In association with Condé Nast and Neil McGinness
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First Edition: November 2022
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ISBN 9781538721841 (trade paperback) / 9781538726617 (large-print paperback) / 9781538721872 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number is available at the Library of Congress.
E3-20220928-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Part 1 Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Part 2 Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
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ONE
Eastern Russia
30 Years Ago
A MOTHER CAN sense a disturbance in her world, even in her sleep.
Marisha did.
The late-night snowfall made the small village on the Kamchatka Peninsula look like a cozy Christmas painting, but the wind was harsh. It whistled around the cottage and seeped through the walls of the tiny nursery where the six-month-old twins slept in a single crib, spooned together for warmth. Like tiny dolls. They were just five minutes apart in age, with matching features and the same delicate, pale skin. But the similarities stopped at the top of their heads. One girl had her father’s dark, straight hair. The other had lush copper-colored curls, like nobody else in the family.
Marisha was a physicist. Her husband, Mikhail, was a mathematician. In their courting days at the university, they had long talks about what extraordinary children they would have together. And that’s exactly what happened. Two in one day. The babies were remarkable—so beautiful and loving. And now, at just half a year old, already advanced for their age. They were everything a parent could wish for, and more.
Mikhail had put the girls down just after seven. At 2 a.m., Marisha woke suddenly. Something was off. She could feel it. She pushed back the covers and slipped out of bed, not bothering to nudge her husband or find her slippers. She grabbed her robe from the wall hook and wrapped it hastily over her nightgown as she hurried down the short hallway, feeling the cold tile against her bare feet.
When she opened the door to the nursery, a waft of frosty air crossed her face. In the next second, she felt a matching chill in her gut. She took a step toward the center of the dark room and inhaled sharply. Snow dusted the floor under the half-open window. Marisha grabbed the side rail of the crib with both hands, then dropped to her knees and screamed for her husband. Mikhail stumbled into the doorway seconds later, his eyes bleary and half closed. He saw his wife on the floor and then—the empty crib. His eyes opened wide.
“They’re gone!” Marisha wailed. “Both of them! Gone!”
TWO
A MILE AWAY, two thickset men in heavy wool coats were making their way up a rugged slope. The village lights were already fading behind the scrim of windblown snow. The footing was treacherous, and they were not familiar with the terrain.
Bortsov, the taller of the pair, used a heavy hiking pole to probe the path ahead. Gusev, the shorter partner, carried a high-powered hunting rifle. In their opposite arms, each man carried a tightly wrapped bundle. The men were killers by trade, and this was their first kidnapping. In fact, it was the first time either of them had held an infant. They clutched the sixteen-pound babies like rugby balls.
After twenty minutes of steady hiking, they were out of sight of the village. Still, Gusev kept looking over his shoulder.
“Stop worrying,” said Bortsov gruffly, pointing at the trail behind them. “We were never here.” He was right. Just a few yards back, the snow was already filling their tracks. The search would begin at dawn. By then, it would be no use.
Bortsov had scouted the campsite the day before. It was a natural shelter beneath a rock overhang. He’d even taken the time to gather wood for a fire. By the time the kidnappers reached the spot, it was nearly 4 a.m. They were both exhausted from the climb and their arms were cramped from gripping the babies. Bortsov walked to a snowdrift about ten yards from the shelter. He bent forward and set the bundle he’d been carrying down in the snow. Gusev did the same with his.
They stepped back. The twins were about four feet apart, separated by a snow-covered log. They were both squirming under their tight wraps, their cries muffled by wool scarves around their heads. Bortsov pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and placed them on a rock in front of the baby on the left. Gusev placed a bunch of coins in front of the baby on the right. Then they shuffled back toward the shelter and started a fire.
When the wood caught, flames and sparks illuminated the small recess. The kidnappers tucked themselves under the rock and pulled their thick coats up around their necks. Gusev fished a flask of vodka out of his coat pocket, took a deep gulp, and passed it to his partner. A little extra warmth. Before long, their eyes were glazed. Soon after that, their stupor faded into sleep.
The babies, left in the open, were no longer crying.
THREE
MORNING. GUSEV WOKE first, stirred by an acrid waft of smoke from the smoldering fire. He brushed the snow off his coat and shook his flask. It was empty. Gusev’s head throbbed and the inside of his mouth felt thick and pasty. He glanced across the small clearing to where the two babies lay silent in the snow. He elbowed Bortsov in the ribs. Bortsov stirred and rolled over. Gusev nodded toward the twins.
Both men rose slowly to their feet and walked on unsteady legs to the snowdrift. Over the past few hours, the wind had blown a fresh coating of white over both babies. Bortsov pulled the stiff scarves away from their faces. In the dawn light, their skin was bluish, their lips and nostrils coated with frost. Obviously dead. A total waste of a trip.
“Weak! Both of them!” said Gusev, spitting into the snow.
Bortsov turned away, snarling in frustration. “Food for the bears,” he muttered.
As Gusev retrieved his rifle, he heard a small mewing sound. He turned. The baby on the left was stirring slightly. Gusev hurried back and knelt down. He pushed the frozen scarf back off the baby’s head, revealing coils of copper hair.
“We have one!” Gusev shouted. “She’s alive!”
Bortsov tromped over. “Mine!” he called out with a victorious sneer. He scooped both sets of coins from under the snow and pocketed them. Then he lifted the copper-haired girl from the snowbank and tucked her roughly under his coat. Gusev gave the dark-haired baby one final shake, but there was no response. He kicked fresh snow over the tiny corpse, then followed his partner up the mountain, cursing all the way. He hated to lose a bet.
The walk down the other side of the mountain was even harder than last night’s climb. Bortsov’s knees ached with every step, and Gusev was coughing in the thin, cold air. But they knew the effort would be worth it. They had conducted the test with the babies, side by side, as they had been instructed. A survivor this strong meant a big payday, maybe even a bonus. An hour later, Bortsov and Gusev pushed through the last of the tree line into a rolling snow-covered valley.
Straight ahead was a campus of sturdy buildings made of thick stone. A few simple balconies protruded from the top floors, and most of the windows were striped with heavy metal grates. In the early morning, a light glowed from a corner room, where they knew the headmaster would be waiting for the new student. Bortsov pulled the copper-haired baby out from under his coat as they approached the imposing school gate. He knew the headmaster would be pleased. This child showed exceptional promise.
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
University of Chicago
Present Day
I’D FORGOTTEN HOW much I hated first-year students.
I’d just finished a solid fifty minutes of a cultural psych lecture, and I might as well have been talking to a roomful of tree stumps. I was already pissed at Barton for asking me to sub for him at the last minute—and a 9 a.m. class, no less. I hadn’t taught this early since I was an anthropology TA. That was twelve long years ago.
Barton’s lecture notes were good, but since I’d actually written my thesis on South Pacific cultures, I was able to ad lib some interesting insights and twists on tribal gender roles. At least I thought they were interesting. Judging by my audience, not nearly as interesting as TikTok.
After class, the students moved toward the door with their eyes still glued to their screens. I felt like I was forgetting something. Shit. The reading assignment! I scrolled through Barton’s notes. Jesus. Where is it? Right here. Got it.
“Sorry!” I called out to the departing crowd. “Listen up, please! Reading for next class!” I held the textbook over my head like a banner. It was as heavy as a brick. “In Muckle and Gonzalez! Chapters Five and Six, please!” Most of the students just ignored me. I tried to catch their eyes as they walked past, but up-close contact has never been my strength. Lecturing to a class of a hundred, no problem. Just a faceless mass. Close up, I tended to get clammy.
Sometimes I thought I might be on the spectrum. No shame in it. So was Albert Einstein. I definitely met some of the criteria. Preference for being alone? Check. Difficulty in relating to people? Check. Stuck in repetitive patterns? Check. On the other hand, maybe I was just your garden-variety misanthrope.
I plopped the textbook down on the lectern. Two female students were the last to leave. I’d noticed them in the back row—way more interested in each other than in my cogent analysis of the Solomon Islanders.
“Awesome class,” said the first student. Right. As if she’d heard a word of it. She was small and pert, with purple-streaked hair and an earful of silver rings. “So interesting,” said her blond friend. Were they trying to suck up? Maybe they were hoping I’d be back for good and that I’d grade easier than Barton, who I knew could be a real prick.
“Good, good, thanks,” I mumbled. I stuffed Barton’s iPad and textbook into my briefcase and snapped it shut. Enough higher education for one day. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Purple Hair nudge her partner. They looked over their shoulders at the whiteboard, where I’d written my name in big capital letters at the start of class.
DR. BRANDT SAVAGE
Purple Hair leaned in close to the blonde and whispered in a low, seductive voice, “I’ll bet he’s a savage!” She gave her friend a suggestive little hip bump. Nothing like freshman sarcasm. Make a little fun of the gawky PhD. Got it. And not the first time somebody had made the point: I was about as far from a savage as a man could possibly get.
I headed down the hall to the department office to pick up my mail. As I pushed through the heavy oak door, I could hear Natalie, our department admin, helping a student sort out a snafu in his schedule. When she saw me, she held up her index finger, signifying “I need to talk to you.”
I liked Natalie. She was all business, no drama. Quiet and efficient. Herding cats was a cinch compared to keeping a bunch of eccentric academics in line, and she did it well. The student jammed his new schedule into his backpack and headed out the door. Natalie leaned over the counter in my direction.
“So where will you be going?” she asked, flashing a knowing smile.
“What do you mean?” I asked. My only travel plans involved heading home and heating up some soup. Natalie leaned closer and looked both ways, as if she were revealing a state secret. She gave me an insider’s wink and held up a slip of paper.
“Your sabbatical,” she whispered. “It’s been approved!”
CHAPTER 2
HOW THE HELL did that happen, I wondered? I headed down the corridor with the slip in my pocket, dodging students as I went. I’d put in the sabbatical request eight months ago and hadn’t heard a thing. The university system was definitely not built for speed. Ulrich, my department head, was unearthing a crypt somewhere in the Middle East. I’d given up on an approval until he got back. Had somebody gotten to him? I guess miracles do happen.
My only problem was that I hadn’t really given any thought to a destination. All I knew was I’d earned six months of peace and quiet. Now I just had to figure out where to spend it.
I pushed open the main door and stepped out through the Gothic stone front of Cobb Hall. My glasses were immediately speckled with falling snow, and the cold cut right through my overcoat. That Chicago wind everybody talked about was no joke. I put my head down and almost banged into two students rushing up the steps.
“Sorry,” I said. “My bad.”
Even on sub-zero days, I looked forward to the twenty-minute walk to my apartment. Time to clear my head. A break from crowded classrooms and talky colleagues. As I headed toward East 59th, my shoes lost traction on the sidewalk and I had one of those real-life cartoon moments, where your arms flail in the air while you try to keep from falling on your ass and you hope to hell nobody is watching. Once I got my footing again, I walked the rest of the way across campus with short, careful steps. Like an old man with an invisible walker.
I dipped my head into the wind and headed up the city sidewalk, squinting to keep the snow out of my eyes. Most people who passed me from the opposite direction gave me a wide berth, probably because I looked half blind. The next time I looked up, I saw a young woman in a puffy parka headed toward me through the snow.
She was walking at a quick pace, staring straight ahead. As she passed, our elbows bumped.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mumbled. I was a real menace to humanity today.
The woman stopped and turned abruptly. “Don’t apologize!” she shouted.
