Free Ice Cold Kill by Dana Haynes Page A

through the speakers inside the truck. Thorson grabbed a pen and a notepad.
    “Ray?” The voice was digitally recorded on no fewer than three devices; a backup for the backup, as well as a device back at the Shark Tank beneath Langley. “Hallo. It’s Daria. I’m in New York, believe it or not.”
    The Texan studied his monitors. “She’s bouncing off a cell tower within a mile of here.”
    Daria sounded cheerful. “I wanted you to know, an old friend, Colin Bennett-Smith, is in town. He was MI-6 but washed out. I told you about him…”
    Another CIA agent quickly jotted down the name. “Bennett-Smith?”
    Owen shushed him. He was not surprised a trained spy was using a code name for the Syrian assassin over a cell phone.
    “Anyway, he wants to meet me. Don’t know why. He set a meeting at two, at Forty-second and Park Avenue, in midtown. He said it was Life and Death. That means he’s using his old codes. We’re really meeting at four o’clock at some place called Verdi Square. I’ve never heard of it.”
    Owen Thorson no longer was seated.
    “I wanted you to know, in case this ends up being something the FBI wants in on. So, anyway. Miss you. Take care. Bye.”
    The line disconnected.
    “Shit!” one of the agents barked.
    “It’s okay,” Owen said, catching the attention of everyone: The men in the truck, the cadre of agents on the streets and rooftops, and the people back in the Operations Room at Langley. He adjusted his voice wand. “All teams: The meet isn’t happening here. We are mobile. Repeat: we are mobile! Verdi Square: Where is it?”
    The third man in the truck rifled through a Thomas Guide. “Ah … got it! Seventy-second and Broadway!”
    Thorson pointed toward the door to the empty cab. “Drive.”
    *   *   *
     
    At CIA headquarters in Langley, a dozen agents monitored the communications. Eight large, flat monitors caught the images from the eight CC cameras set up around the rendezvous site. One was Nanette Sylvestri, a tall African American woman a few years past sixty. John Broom stood next to her with his ubiquitous coffee cup, watching the flat-screens.
    He had all but begged to be allowed in the field for this one, given his knowledge of Batsman. He’d literally written the book on Daria Gibron. Owen Cain Thorson had declined. “You’re Analysis, not Ops. Besides, you’ll have a different perspective if you’re seeing real-time intelligence from home. You might see something I don’t.”
    Now, John listened to the pirated transmission. He had studied Daria Gibron but had never heard her voice. It was pitched lower than he’d imagined. He tagged her Middle Eastern accent but it was spiced with something else. Not just dulled by her years living in America, the woman’s voice had picked up a ragout of dialects from the many languages she spoke. John thought that Daria Gibron sounded like the future. Like a world without countries.
    As Thorson galvanized his Manhattan team, John froze with a coffee halfway to his lips.
    “The hell…?” he whispered.
    *   *   *
     
    Asher Sahar’s team in the diamond exchange and the men in the Grand Cherokee overhead Daria’s whole message, as well as the site-to-site chatter from the CIA.
    Eli Schullman threw off his foam headset. “What the fuck is this about a code? What goddamn code?”
    Asher Sahar took a step back from the third-floor window and lowered his binoculars. His eyes darted the length of Forty-second Street. His anxiety level spiked. None of the other men could tell, but Eli Schullman had been his friend for years.
    “What?”
    Asher continued scanning the street.
    “Asher? You didn’t expect her to show?”
    Asher ignored the big man.
    Their radio chirped and one of the men sitting below them in the Jeep Grand Cherokee swore in English. The man was a Bosnian Croat mercenary from the Neretva Canton of Herzegovina. “Base: this is fucked! What are your orders?”
    Asher set down the binoculars and