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  “Who the hell is she?” Skouris asked, her expression a mixture of shock and confusion.

  “Well, she’s not who she said she was,” Baldwin replied.

  Pointing to his laptop, Galanter said, “Hang on. There’s one more thing.” He fast-forwarded the video, and another car came into view. Two more people jumped out of this car, both males, coming to the assistance of Alicia Colbern’s unmoving attackers.

  Definitely Feds, Baldwin decided as he absorbed what he had just seen, but who? It certainly was possible that the CIA, FBI, or some other group from the vast alphabet soup of government agencies had taken an active interest in Colbern—one of the 4400—but none of them had approached NTAC. Background checks had been run against the returnees and a few had even turned up criminal records, but those mostly were for minor infractions. Of course, the review had only been comprehensive with respect to those who had been taken more recently. Information on returnees taken more than thirty years back had been of varying quantity and detail, and a few had come back with no results whatsoever.

  Adjusting his holstered Glock so that it sat more comfortably on his right hip, Baldwin said, “We can put some feelers out to other agencies, but something tells me that’s a dead end even before we get started. Whoever was after Alicia Colbern, they wanted to do it on their own terms, and to hell with us.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ® and © 2008 by CBS Studios Productions LLC. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department,

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9413-0

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-9413-2

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  DEPARTURE

  JUNE 1992

  ONE

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  SHE STARED THROUGH the scope, her body still absorbing the rifle’s recoil as she watched the back of her target’s head explode in a crimson rain.

  There was almost no wind, and the angle she had selected provided her an unobstructed view between those few trees at the edge of Federal Hill Park’s expansive open field. At this range, the shot was child’s play, the single round entering the man’s forehead just above his left eye. He had turned at the last possible instant as she pulled the trigger, placing the round slightly off its intended mark, but the results were the same, as Sheik Miraj al-Diladi dropped limp to the stage behind his podium, dead before he had even begun to fall.

  From her concealed sniper’s nest two hundred yards away, Lona Callahan continued to peer through the scope, watching the scene around the raised dais as the audience scattered. Most ran away or simply dropped to the ground in search of protective cover, but a few rushed to the platform in the hopes of aiding the fallen al-Diladi. The body already was surrounded by assistants or other members of the cleric’s entourage, some of them looking around and pointing in all directions in attempts to determine the origin of the shot. They would have little luck with that, owing to the rifle’s silencer. Lona did not normally bother with that particular accessory, but her proximity to the target had made it necessary. She would have preferred a greater distance between them, but the site of al-Diladi’s rally coupled with the constricted geography in this part of south Baltimore had forced her to carry out her assignment from a closer range.

  Ignoring the distant cries of fear and terror echoing across the park, she instead focused her attention on the rapidly expanding pool of blood beneath al-Diladi’s head. The single shot was the result of weeks of planning combined with Lona having gotten herself into position more than an hour before the cleric was scheduled to speak. She had observed the gathering of people swell about the large open field at the center of Federal Hill Park, and had watched through her scope as al-Diladi’s entourage arrived and inspected the dais before allowing him to step out of his limousine. Training the rifle’s crosshairs on his head from the moment he settled behind the podium, Lona waited until al-Diladi began speaking to the assembled audience to verify that he would remain in place. From there her training and experience took over as she drew a single, calming breath and released it an instant before her finger squeezed the trigger. The rest had taken care of itself.

  Satisfied, Lona rose from her prone position on the dining table she had used as her platform, rolling to her feet and flipping away the dark green nylon poncho she had used to cover herself. The poncho worked in concert with the lack of light in the apartment as well as her black Lycra bodysuit—with its matching hood to cover her head and face—to make her all but invisible to any casual observer who might cast a furtive glance through the partially open window. Situated six feet from the window, the table had allowed her to set up her shot without exposing her position. Sticking one’s rifle barrel through an open window was the stuff of amateurs.

  Just ask Lee Harvey Oswald.

  Moving with practiced efficiency, Lona disassembled the rifle, returning the components to their padded carry case. The Dragunov was not her preferred weapon, but it had proven more than adequate for this assignment. She would not use it again, of course; it would be disposed of once she was away from here. Her hands were protected by thin latex gloves that would prevent the transfer of fingerprints or skin particles as she worked.

  Completing the collection of her other equipment, Lona glanced at the watch on her wrist. Three minutes since she had taken the shot. She could hear the faint sounds of sirens approaching, eighty seconds ahead of the schedule she kept in her head. Impressive, she conceded, even though she had factored in a greater level of efficiency for first responders to the scene.

  Time to go.

  There already was a police presence on hand, owing to the nature of the park gathering. Sheik al-Diladi had been a controversial figure, a prominent Muslim cleric who had taken polarizing stances on a number of issues in recent years. Decrying extremist groups who carried out terrorist acts in the name of Islam, al-Diladi had long been a vocal advocate for harmony and tolerance—not only in the Middle East but also between that embattled region and the West. He should have been the ideal ambassador to usher in a new era of peace, and to most of the world that was exactly the image he projected. Indeed, the park gathering today was but the latest stop on a multicity tour through the United States, with al-Diladi bringing his message not only to Muslim followers but anyone else who cared to listen.

  However, Miraj al-Diladi presented an entirely different persona to the world’s leading intelligence agencies, many of which had been investigating his alleged ties to many of the very terrorist groups that were targets of his public denouncements. It had taken years to gather evidence sufficient to justify any sort of retaliatory action against the divisive cleric, after which the Central Intelligence Agency finally had taken the bold step of putting such sanctions into play.

  Enter Lona Callahan.

  Still wearing her mask and gloves, Lona reached into her bag and extracted a pair of white running shoes, which she donned over the black stockings she wore to cover her feet. That accomplished, she picked up the red backpack containing the rifle and her other gear and slung it across her back before taking a last look around the run-down apartment to ensure no sign of her sniper’s nest remained. She knew better than to close the window—doing so in the moments after the shooting might a
ttract unwanted attention. The table in the dining area was returned to its former forlorn state, stacked with the magazines, unopened mail, and empty pizza boxes she had gathered for just that purpose. Every apartment in the building that faced the park would be searched, she knew, but investigators would find nothing. Lona had rented the room two months earlier under an alias, and when that name was scrutinized along with every known detail of the assassination in the days to come, the world’s intelligence and law enforcement entities ultimately would come to the same conclusion.

  The Wraith had claimed another victim.

  Lona smiled beneath her hood at the thought of the melodramatic moniker bestowed upon her by the media, dating back nearly a decade to when she had committed her first high-profile assassination. It had been another political leader on that occasion, the fascist dictator of a small South American country believed to be assisting Colombian drug cartels in their efforts to smuggle cocaine into the United States. His murder—also carried out with the use of a sniper rifle—was broadcast live on state-run television and picked up by intelligence services around the world, to say nothing of the international media. No clues or worthwhile evidence had been found to suggest a suspect or a motive for the assassination; it was as though the leader’s killer were a ghost, and the papers and news networks had taken it from there.

  Pausing at the door, Lona listened for signs of movement in the hallway. She heard nothing and stepped into the narrow, dimly lit corridor on her way to the stairwell. It was empty, as well, and she descended the steps two at a time, waiting until she had moved from the fourth to the second floor before finally removing her hood and sticking it in a side pocket of her backpack. As she walked, she reached up to ensure her blond wig was still in place to conceal her red hair.

  It was not much of a disguise, but Lona always had operated on the principle that less was more. Large dark sunglasses could pique curiosity, as would long coats with collars pulled up around the face or any one of a dozen things a Hollywood assassin might do when leaving the scene of a crime. The goal was to blend in, appearing as ordinary and part of the landscape as possible. With that in mind, Lona had chosen the simple black exercise suit with white piping, the same sort of unremarkable outfit worn by women running the streets and parks all over the city.

  Encountering no one before reaching the first-floor landing, she entered a passageway that would take her to a door leading into an alley behind the apartment building. Now she removed her latex gloves, knowing they would attract attention. This, Lona knew, would be the critical part of her exfiltration, the time when she was at her most vulnerable. Police would at least be in the beginning stages of setting up cordons and blocking off streets with the hope that the shooter was still in the area and that they might block or hinder an escape. One key advantage she possessed was that, as a woman, she would not draw immediate suspicion from casual bystanders. However, with law enforcement already in the area, the possibility of her being seen or even stopped by an alert police officer was not to be ignored.

  Careful not to use her hands, Lona pushed open the door and stepped outside. The sounds of police sirens now were louder, and she could hear frantic shouts in the distance. She had exited via the door at the midpoint of the long, narrow four-story building, placing her roughly sixty yards from the street that separated the apartment complex property line from the western edge of the park. The alley itself reeked of urine, stale beer, and overfilled Dumpsters sitting too long in Baltimore’s June sun, but it had the virtue of being void of other people.

  Adjusting the pack on her back, Lona started up the alley heading west, away from the park. From here, it would be a simple matter to turn north at the alley’s far end and walk two blocks before crossing the street to the nearby Maryland Science Center. She would proceed north to Harborplace, a waterfront marketplace boasting restaurants, bars, and retail shops as well as a significant tourist presence. There, she would lose herself in the crowd before making her way to the parking garage east of the market and the car she had staged there for her getaway.

  Lona was almost to the mouth of the alley when the uniformed police officer came around the corner.

  Damn it.

  The cop barely had time even to register her presence before she launched herself at him, striking him in the face with the heel of her hand and feeling cartilage snap. He was a big man, dark-skinned and well muscled, but the blow had taken him completely off guard—and now she had the edge. His eyes screwed shut in pain as he reached for his broken nose, blood already streaming from it and staining his dark uniform shirt. Not giving him any quarter, Lona lashed out with a roundhouse kick, her foot slamming into the side of his face and driving him to the cracked pavement.

  He grunted once before falling still, and Lona quickly reached for his neck to verify that she had not killed the man. Finding a pulse, she breathed in relief as she regarded his prone form. With rare exceptions when no other alternatives presented themselves, Lona always had prided herself on not killing anyone but her designated marks. It was an odd ethical code for an international assassin to possess, but it was one she embraced. The cop’s strength and training may well have allowed him to give her a decent fight, and while she still was sure she would have beaten him, the scuffle would almost certainly have drawn the attention of a passerby. Instead, the police officer, whose metal name tag read “Jenkins,” would be fine once his nose and pride healed. More important, Lona found it unlikely that he had gotten even a fleeting glimpse of her face. He would be unable to identify her or even to offer a description of her to a police sketch artist.

  Glancing around to ensure she remained unobserved, Lona headed once more out of the alley but stopped again, this time responding to an abrupt sound from behind her. Turning, she searched for the source of the odd drone that seemed to be echoing through the alley, but saw nothing.

  It seemed mechanical, wavering in pitch as it increased in volume with each passing second, growing to the point that it drowned out every other sound. Lona sensed discomfort in her inner ears before a wave of dizziness washed over her. She reached toward the apartment building’s brick façade for support just as an intense light appeared above her. Looking up, she shielded her eyes, seeing nothing but the light. Air rushed around her and Lona felt as though something had reached down to take her in its massive grip. The odd drone had dissolved into the howl of wind all around her and as the ground disappeared beneath her feet, she was swathed in the feeling that she might be flying.

  Then, Lona saw…

  TWO

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  THE APARTMENT WAS too clean, Tom Baldwin decided. Not too neat or tidy, at least not if the kitchen and dining area was any indication. It was simply too clean. His gut told him that something about the room was off, but he had no idea yet what that might be.

  Way to crack the case, Agent Uncertainty.

  “Maybe she shopped every couple of days,” he said, holding open the door to the kitchen’s off-white refrigerator and examining the unit’s contents, which were uninspiring to say the least. A half-gallon plastic jug of milk of the two-percent variety that to Baldwin always tasted watered down, two cartons of leftover Chinese food, and three bananas appeared to be among the most recent additions. Baldwin glanced at the milk’s expiration date, noting that it was a week in the past. “Assuming she even ate here at all, that is.”

  “What are you trying to say, Agent Baldwin?” asked Ted McIntyre, the senior agent on scene, from where he stood next to the apartment’s pair of windows. “Are you formulating a theory?”

  Baldwin rolled his eyes as he closed the refrigerator. Special Agent in Charge Theodore J. McIntyre was many things, among them a veteran member of the Bureau as well as Baldwin’s immediate superior. He also was a colossal, patronizing prick, which seemed to be a trait required for climbing the FBI advancement ladder. “Not yet. Right now I’m just making notes.”

  “Well, here’s something to note,” M
cIntyre said, motioning for Baldwin to join him at the windows. “What do you make of this?”

  The left window was closed and covered by a grungy yellow roller blind, whereas its companion was open a third of the way and propped up with a standard wooden twelve-inch ruler. Its blind also was pulled down, but only enough to cover the closed portion of the window. Baldwin found it odd that the window was open at all, given the laboring of the dilapidated air-conditioning unit mounted on the wall to his right.

  Bending down so that he could look through the open portal, Baldwin observed that the sight line was directly across Federal Hill Park. A few trees lined the way and at points their branches obscured his view, but he still was able to see the raised dais and podium on which Sheik Miraj al-Diladi had been standing when he was shot. Even from this distance, he could make out the thin lines of yellow police tape around the platform. Uniformed Baltimore police officers as well as plainclothes detectives from the department’s Homicide Division moved about the area, presumably canvassing the park grounds for evidence.

  “Two, maybe two hundred twenty yards away?” Baldwin said, pointing through the window. “Pretty easy shot for someone who knows what they’re doing. If they were using a scope, it’d be a piece of cake.” He shrugged. “We’re still not sure yet where the shot even came from.” Looking around the room again, he added, “The walls are made out of Kleenex. If this was the sniper nest, the shooter would’ve had to use a silencer to avoid rousing the neighbors.”

  McIntyre nodded, validating his protégé’s observations while not showing any outward signs of being impressed. “If the shot did come from the front, which is what Baltimore PD is telling us for the moment, that narrows down the angles. And this building is one of the better prospects.” He paused, taking a moment to kneel down so that he could get his own view of the park through the window. “So, Agent Baldwin, what’s your gut telling you? Just another pissed-off guy with too much free time and too few people skills? Or, somebody we know?”