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Chapter 1

Bar-L Ranch, Arizona

Headquarters, Lincoln Research & Development

Monday, July 10, 2006

9:00 A.M.

“Hatch? Proctor here. Someone just offered me a contract to kill you.”

Hatch Lincoln switched the phone to his other ear and picked up his coffee cup before answering, “Did you take the job?”

The humor was lost on Proctor who continued, “No. But someone will. The money is big! Who wants you dead 20 million worth?”

Hatch wondered why Proctor was calling. They hadn’t had occasion to speak to each other since Proctor retired from his assassin-for-hire occupation a couple of years ago. They weren’t exactly close friends, but their paths had crossed several times in the past.

After a pause, Hatch replied, “I don’t know. There are a few, I guess. I thought you had retired. Why were you approached?”

Proctor replied, “I still have the brokers check with me when they have big jobs. It keeps me informed of what’s going on in the nether world. Like finding out someone wants you dead.”

“And you’re warning me why?” asked Hatch, still probing for Proctor’s motives.

“I still owe you a big one. For Sierra Leone.”

“Is there anyone left out there good enough to do the job?” queried Hatch after a sip of coffee.

“No, not now that you’ve been warned and will be on guard. There are a couple who will think they’re good enough. A contract will be made. The money’s just too big. You’ll have to be very careful.”

Dead air, then Hatch asked, “Can you give me a starting point? I’d like to close this down quickly. Which broker called you?”

“Il Sensale. The broker who operates out of Italy usually,” replied Proctor.

“I’ll alert my people there — get them looking for him.”

“I can do better than that for you. I’ll go find out what’s what — who the shooter is. Find him. Then I need to find out who the buyer is. If I can do this, I’ll consider you repaid for Sierra Leone.”

Hatch stroked his beard and replied, “No repayment for that is required or expected but if you handled it for me that would be the fastest way. You know that world better than I do now. I’ll pay you double the price on my head.” He was again probing Proctor’s real reason for calling him. He knew that Proctor was one of the most self-reliant men he had ever met, but why was he getting involved with him again? They were too much alike. They always butted heads in the field.

“No fee. I’m repaying a debt. But maybe your worldwide network could help with logistics if I need it,” replied Proctor.

Right answer, thought Hatch. There are very few men left who acknowledge debts of honor.

“No problem there. My high-tech equipment is vastly improved since last we chatted . . . about things like this. I have a highly-trained agent who knows how to use everything. I’ll team you up.”

“I work alone, Hatch. You know that.”

“Yes, I do. But I’m convinced the high-tech tools I have available will move things along, and there’s no time to train you. Mel Croft needs field experience, you need my equipment. That’s what I call a good match. If you don’t want to do it my way, just give me what you have on the broker. I’ll send my own people.”

Another test. Hatch needed to maintain control of Proctor. He didn’t want him skulking around Europe on his own, even though he was about as good as you could get in this business. Not quite as good as Hatch had been in the eighties when he had been the premier assassin for the CIA, but good enough. Proctor had specialized in political assassinations — usually third-world dictators who needed killing. A few Colombian drug lords. During the cold war Hatch had terminated anyone Reagan’s CIA thought was a threat to U.S. security.

“What a bloody sod you are!” exclaimed Proctor, slipping into a British accent. “Your way or I’m out, eh?”

Hatch sensed Proctor’s annoyance but ignored it. “Give it a try. If, after a few days, you consider it a hindrance rather than a help, I’ll reconsider. Are you in or out?”

“In. I owe you.”

“Where exactly is this broker?” queried Hatch as he stood and paced the large Spanish-style kitchen.

“Rome, last I knew. That’s where I’ll start.”

“Good. Get to Paris by tomorrow, then call me. I’ll hook you up with Melanie Croft. She’s there now,” said Hatch, taking charge.

“She? I can’t work with a . . .”

But the line was dead.

***

In Amsterdam — Proctor’s current home-of-record — it was a little after 6:00 P.M. because of the time difference. Still annoyed with Hatch, Proctor arose from his leather executive chair and went to his wet bar. He fixed himself a glass of gin — three fingers, no ice — and went back to his desk. He pressed the hidden button in the kneehole to summon his butler.

The big, burley man appeared within 30 seconds.

“You rang?” he asked, a wry smile on his lips.

“Yes, Reggie. I have to leave for a while. I don’t know for how long. You’ll have to handle things here as usual. I’ll stay in touch when I can.”

“Anything I should know?”

“Pour yourself a drink and come sit.”

Proctor got up and moved to the cozy area in front of the stone fireplace — two overstuffed chairs with a table between them.

The two men sat and sipped their drinks. Proctor toyed with one of the upturned waxed ends of his mustache, an affectation that suited his current persona, that of a quirky art dealer.

Proctor said, “I’m not sure what I’m getting into this time. It’s not my usual kind of job.”

“I thought you were retired, Phil. You haven’t gone out in over two years.”

Reggie would have called him “sir” if anyone was around, but pretenses were dropped when they were alone. Reginald Roderick was more than a butler. He was the only person in the world that Proctor trusted. Reggie had spent several years in the vaunted British SAS (Special Air Service) and had left as a staff sergeant to become a mercenary — selling his services to the highest bidder. That was how he had met Proctor — they were both mercenaries back then. Proctor had saved Reggie’s life during a particularly vicious fire-fight gone bad, and the two had become bosom friends. Reggie now was Proctor’s constant companion, assistant, and protector. To the outside world, he was his butler.

Proctor’s alias in Amsterdam was Filip van Dijk. He owned and operated one of the finer art galleries in the city. “Proctor” was the name he had registered with all of the assassin brokers around the globe. After the fire-fight where he had saved Reggie, he had become an assassin for hire, and had been much in demand. He considered it a less dangerous occupation — and much more lucrative. He only accepted targets that he considered extremely evil — ones that the world was better off without.

Proctor answered Reggie’s question. “I am retired — from active hits. This is a repayment of a debt of honor I owe Hatch Lincoln. I would like to clean that slate.”

“Hatch Lincoln?”

“Van Lincoln, the world’s richest man. My debt dates back to before you and I met, so I’ve never mentioned it to you.”

“Oh, that Lincoln! Oh, yes, I met him and his wife Syd when they were here a couple of years ago for that big art show.” Reggie knew that Lincoln ran Intelligence International, Inc. — called Triple Eye — and that they had taken over the intelligence field, making the CIA and their intelligence community cohorts dependent on Triple Eye. They were also big in British and Israeli intelligence, and Lincoln had computer and communication companies as well. “Real powerful guy! And that Syd! What a woman! You never told me how you ever got to know blokes like that.”

Proctor sipped his gin and retrieved a cigarette from a lacquered box on the glass-topped table and fitted it into an ivory cigarette holder. Reggie picked up the carved jade lighter and lit it for him.

“Back in 1993, I was working with the government mercenaries in Sierra Leone. I was about 25 or 26 years old back then — a merc for about 6 months. Just out of the U.S. Army’s Special Ops. Our group got ambushed and penned down by a group of RUF rebels. I thought we’d bought the farm for sure — more likely headed for their cooking pots. Then missiles came raining down on the enemy’s position and these four commandos moved into our position out of nowhere, hosing those sodding cannibals with their autos. Their leader was calling in firing directions to some gunship. That guy was Hatch. He and his strike team were there trying to find and free some American hostages when they stumbled across us. Then they disappeared into the landscape. I’ve owed him ever since.”

Proctor fought the Revolutionary United Front rebels for several more months and finally met Reggie when he joined the fray.

“How did you know who he was?”

“I didn’t then. That came later. But that’s a long story for another day.”

“How are you going to repay the debt?”

Proctor told him about the contract on Hatch’s life and that he had promised to take care of it.

“I’ll go find Il Sensale — the broker who called me — and firmly convince him to tell me what I need to know. But I have a problem. Lincoln wants to team me with one of his agents — a bloody woman!”

“That could be jolly good fun!” laughed Reggie as he lifted his gin to his lips.

“Under some circumstances, yes. Maybe if it were Natasha . . .”

He paused, a smile on his lips, as he remembered the times he and the deadly Russian hit woman had had when they had crossed paths. Adrenaline mixed with high-octane sex.

Then he broke his reverie and continued. “This woman is some sort of expert with technical gadgets. No bloody field experience. I don’t need a trainee on a job like this.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it work — to your bloody advantage. What’s your itinerary?”

Proctor crushed his cigarette out in a crystal ashtray and sipped his drink from the leaded crystal tumbler.

“I go to Paris tomorrow to meet up with this . . . woman. From there we’ll go to Rome and start looking for Il Sensale. Since I’ll be arriving in Italy from France, I think I’ll be French — even though I can’t really stand those bloody Frogs. Get my ensemble of documents for Pierre Paret. And, of course, pack the appropriate French wardrobe in the appropriate luggage. And just in case, pack some Italian clothes and my Italian documents. I may change identities again in Italy.”

“Very well. Consider it done.”

“Good. Now go have the cook put together a decent meal for us. We’ll eat at eight.”

Without a word, Reggie swallowed the rest of his drink and left the room.

***

In Arizona, when Hatch Lincoln hung up on Proctor and laid his Blue Phone down on the breakfast table, his beautiful, raven-haired wife Sydney asked, as she drank the dregs of her coffee, “What was that all about?”

“Nothing to worry your sweet self about.”

He smiled.

She smiled.

“Bullshit, Hatch! Come clean!”

“You always see right through me, don’t you?” he laughed.

“We agreed long ago to never keep secrets from each other. Remember? You’re a father now and I don’t want you sneaking off on one of your secret . . . things. You have people all over the world to handle things for you.”

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. I just assigned someone to handle things for me. That reminds me. I have to call Paris right now. Make another assignment.”

She reached over and covered his hand with hers so he couldn’t reach for his phone.

“Not before you tell me what the thing is!”

He told her what Proctor had said and that Proctor was going to go look into the situation.

“My God, Hatch! Who would want to do that? Who would be that stupid?” she exclaimed. “The last two to try that didn’t fare so well.”

They both remembered the year 2001 when two hits were put out — one on Hatch and one on Syd — and she had to handle the situation herself because one of the assassins put a bullet in Hatch and he was in a coma for a while. Thanks to Syd, the two hit men were dead. Sydney Steppe had been a professor of Mideast languages at Harvard and Tel Aviv University before she became an assassin for the MOSSAD, the Israeli intelligence branch. She had met Hatch after she left the MOSSAD. She was still considered one of the most deadly women in the world. Now, however, she was the mother of a 3-year-old boy — little Victor — and she no longer took the chances she used to.

Hatch said, “I have to get hold of Melanie Croft and get her on board. She’s been bugging her boss to give her a field assignment.”

“I thought being in Paris was a field assignment.”

“She wants some excitement. She just does courier work and acts as a translator in the U.S. Embassy in Paris. She has this fantasy thing about being a ‘real’ spy — like her father was. After the year of training we’ve given her she thinks she’s ready. Maybe working with Proctor will scare the shit out of her and she’ll find out being a field agent isn’t as glorious as it seems.”

“You want her to quit?” asked Syd.

“I want her to come down to earth. I promised her father I wouldn’t get her killed. Proctor can look after her and give her some on-the-job training.”

“Proctor is a male chauvinist jerk! Teaming those two will be a disaster! She thinks women are equal to men. He thinks . . . otherwise,” laughed Syd. “And she’s so pretty! He’ll certainly . . .”

“How did you get that impression of him? You hardly know him,” interrupted Hatch as he poured himself another cup of coffee. He raised an eyebrow at Syd, and when she nodded, he filled her cup also.

“Remember when we went to the big art showing at his gallery in Amsterdam? Then he invited us to his home for a late supper? I saw how he treated that pair of blondes that were doting on him. I had enough of a discussion with him to assess his views of women: A woman’s purpose on earth is primarily to service his sexual needs and to fetch for him the rest of the time. I don’t think Melanie will put up with him for long. But . . . that’s your plan, isn’t it?”

“Field work is tough. You have to learn to adapt.”

“Maybe this will be a good test for her. If she can’t handle it, she should find a new line of work. She’s so young!”

“She’s 29, Syd! That just seems young. You were a professor at Harvard at that age, among other things.”

“Ah, yes! One’s perspective on age changes as one . . . ages. After you call Paris, call Jane at Triple Eye and have her set things in motion to find out who these people are that want to kill you. I want this nipped in the bud. I’m not sure Proctor can do this without our help.”

“My plan, exactly, but you, dear, can stay out of it this time.”

Hatch made a mental note to call Jane Forbeson, CEO of Triple Eye, and have her crank up their worldwide network of intelligence agents to start looking for information specific to this crisis. Then he switched subjects.

“This couldn’t come at a worse time. I’m scheduled to testify before the Senate’s Intelligence Subcommittee all next week. They’re contemplating merging all the government’s intelligence databases at Triple Eye. A massive undertaking, and opposed by most agencies, of course. None of them trusts the others. I have to be there, though I’d rather be here on the Bar-L.”

The Bar-L Ranch (L for “Lincoln”) consisted of 300,000 acres in NW Arizona. It had valleys, mountains, and lakes and was the home base of Lincoln Research and Development (LRD). It did not have cattle or any dude-ranch-like facilities as did many of the ranches in Arizona. It did have a small stable with a few horses because Hatch liked to ride occasionally when he was there. It was too large to be fenced, but it had an “electronic” fence around its perimeter so that the security people could monitor any trespassers. Also, one of Hatch’s many satellites watched the entire area continuously, feeding data to the security office in basement level number 2. There was only one road into the compound, but it was seldom used. Most of the time, access to the property was by helicopter and aircraft. There was a 10,000 foot runway a mile from the main house where Hatch, his family, and his guests stayed when they were in residence.

Syd replied, “Yes, you have to do that. I want you safe, though.”

“I can stay low on our Virginia farm — bring in some extra security. Commute to the hearings by chopper. But you and little Victor should stay here. No place is safer than this compound. Shadow-15 is still stationed here, so that gives extra protection.”

Shadow-15 was the latest in a series of super-stealth helicopters that Lincoln Research & Development (LRD) had developed for use by their Hostage Rescue Teams (HRTs) when they were fighting terrorists — Hatch’s main focus now. The other 14 choppers were stationed secretly around the world in special compounds owned or leased by LRD so they could respond quickly to any threat. The choppers could not be detected by any known detection system.

“We’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Maybe Sara should shadow you around. She wouldn’t let any shooter get near you.”

“No, I want her here with you. I’d rather go find this shooter myself. I hope Proctor and Croft can do this.”

“I’ll keep an eye on things while you’re tied up. If I need advice, I’ll call you.”

***

It was 6:34 P.M. in Paris when Melanie Croft’s phone jangled. She had just arrived home to her one-bedroom apartment and poured herself a glass of excellent Merlot wine — ready to start winding down from her harrowing day at the U.S. Embassy.

She answered in French, “Allô! Bonsoir.”

Hatch also spoke French. “Melanie. Hatch Lincoln here. How are you?”

She was aghast! The man himself!

“Fine, sir.”

“Call me Hatch, Melanie. Relax! You’ve wanted a field assignment. I’ve got one for you. Interested?”

“Of course, sir! I mean, Hatch! When?” she bubbled.

“Tomorrow. This is all ‘Most Secret’ so I’ll take care of notifying your employers at the embassy that you have a family emergency and will be unavailable for a few days. I’ll also let your boss at LRD know that I’ve borrowed you.”

Most Secret! I can’t believe it! He’s borrowing me from Special Branch! I’ll be working directly for him!

Hatch continued, switching to English. He told her about the contract hit put on his life, and that she would be teamed with a former international assassin named “Proctor.” Her job was to use her knowledge of LRD’s high-tech equipment to help Proctor find the shooter, then the buyer. It was on-the-job-training on how to be a field agent. She was floating on air — but also nervous.

“Think you can handle it, Melanie?” he finished up.

“Oh, yes, sir! Thank you for the chance! How do I meet with this Mr. Proctor?”

“Just ‘Proctor.’ Not his real name. He changes names more often than he does his underwear. He’ll arrive in Paris tomorrow. After he checks in with me, I’ll call and give you instructions. Prepare your field kit. You know the drill.”

“Right away, sir! Will I need a weapon?”

“No. Not good to travel with one these days. If you need one later, it will be supplied. Just a reminder: no one can know what you are up to or where you are except me and Syd. Don’t call any friends, not even your parents. You will be in deep cover for the duration of this mission.”

“I call my parents every weekend. They’ll become very worried if they don’t hear from me.”

“I’ll talk to your father and tell him you’re doing something for me and will be out of touch for a while. He’ll understand. He’s been in covert ops for years. If anything happens that your parents need to know about, I’ll tell them. I’ll be in touch again tomorrow. Have a nice evening.”

Yes! Covert ops!

She kicked off her shoes and plopped down on the couch. She grabbed a pack of American filtered cigarettes out of her purse, tapped one out, and lit it. She leaned back and exhaled a stream of smoke at the ceiling.

A real job! I can’t fuck this up! I know he’s testing me. Someone is trying to kill him! I need to succeed at this! Deep cover!

She wondered who Proctor was. A mysterious man with one name. A retired assassin for hire. That meant he killed people for money. That didn’t please her! What kind of man could do that? She would have to wait and see. Why had she been teamed with him instead of a Special Branch agent?

She knew that she only got the job with LRD’s Special Branch because her father was friends with Hatch Lincoln. She had completed a year of intensive training in LRD’s Arizona compound and then she was sent here to Paris to act as a translator at the U.S. Embassy.

She spoke French, Italian, Spanish, and German fluently. While in training, she had taken a course in Russian, but could not pass as a native in that language.

LRD did more than pure research and development. It was made up of five divisions: General Research, Computer Design & Development, Shadow Development, Communications Design & Development, and Special Branch.

Hatch was CEO of LRD and Dr. Robert Mills was President and Chief Operating Officer. Hatch focused his attention mostly on the operations of Special Branch, which was managed by a former Marine major named Sara Smith. She was a tough taskmaster. It was from this organization that Hatch secretly waged war on terrorists worldwide.

Special Branch consisted of three departments: Strike Teams (Hostage Rescue Teams (HRTs), Emergency Response Teams (ERTs)), Support (Shadow helicopters and their crews), and Special Agents.

Melanie worked out of the Special Agents Department, which was headed by an ex-CIA field agent named Harry McNamara. But currently she was stranded in Paris on loan to Triple Eye as a translator awaiting a real assignment. Mel knew that, like HRTs and ERTs, special agents were stationed strategically around the world so they could respond quickly to anything that Hatch wanted to get involved in. Her time had finally arrived.

She refilled her wine glass and lit a second cigarette. Hatch had told her to relax! She would take a shower, don her best dress, and go out for a nice dinner! Treat herself! Who knew when she would have a chance to do that again? Melanie’s apartment was on Avenue des Champs-élyées, less than 2 kilometers from the U.S. Embassy on Rue Saint-Florentin. Although she was officially attached to LRD, she was on loan to Triple Eye as a billing consultant. When the Embassy needed her translating skills, they called her in and her time was billed by Triple Eye on an hourly basis (4-hour minimum). From 2002 to 2004 Melanie had worked as an employee of the U.S. Government in that same embassy doing translator tasks, and occasional courier jobs. As an employee, she had to show up for 8-hour days, sit around waiting for tasks to perform, and was treated more or less like a lackey.

Now, as a consultant from the prestigious Triple Eye, she went in only when called, and was treated as a professional. Plus, Triple Eye paid for her apartment, and she had a company car — a Jeep Grand Cherokee with the distinctive Triple Eye logo (a globe of the world with three eyes orbiting around it) on its doors.

It was a good life, but it was essentially the same boring job she’d always had. She hadn’t been called upon to use any of the new skills she’d learned in the year of training at the Bar-L Ranch.

Tomorrow that would change.