“It’s whoever you want it to be,” Chernayev said, standing taller, thumb on the switch. “It’s your worst fears painted on there.”

Middleton had heard of this exact type of doll, had even seen pictures in the ICC’s files from the Russian-Afghan war investigators. They’d turned up at several sites of war crimes. A KGB OSNAZ kill team had been giving them out to high-value targets as a marker for death. The locals and even the regular Russian army started spreading rumors that it was a group of mythical female snipers, the White Tights. Unstoppable. Unscrupulous. They’d garrotte you in your sleep, they’d shoot you from two kilometers away, they’d take out your whole family with IEDs that would make modern-day Iraq’s look like they belonged in the stone age. ICC files had a different name for this assassin—and they were convinced it was just one lone man assigned to OSNAZ’s Alpha Group. They called him “The Doll Maker.”

The name was given to me against my will, but that is another story. There are so many other stories, and there will be time for all of them later . . .

“I know who you are,” Middleton said.

“Pity. We could have talked about that some more. Out of time.”

Out of the corner of Middleton’s eye he saw a figure running through the crowd, coming at them. Whatever, whoever, it was too late. Chernayev’s hand was lifting the remote detonator.

“Arkady, why do it this way?” Middleton said to him, his voice deflated at the inevitable. Whatever name this man was known by—the Doll Maker, the Scorpion—one thing was constant: his art was death and he was about to paint his masterpiece.

“Sorry Harold. It’s complicated.”

17 - JEFFERY DEAVER

17

JEFFERY DEAVER

The president was thirty yards away from the LZ, dust, leaves, branches fleeing from the turbulent wake of the helicopter. The rotors were dispersing the tear gas too.

The commander-in-chief was sprinting like a running back surrounded by a phalanx of teammates toward the goal line: the safety of the chopper.

The fake reporters, their weapons up, moved closer.

Chernayev was poised with the detonator. In thirty seconds he’d fire it.

“Get ready,” gasped Archer, his face gone white. He had struggled onto a hill and had a good view of the landing zone. He was dying, but he’d see this through to the end.

Middleton strayed toward the Russian, but two BlueWatch guards painted him with their complicated black machine guns. He stopped.

“Twenty seconds.”

The scene out there—the chopper, the president, the crowds, the reporters, legit and phony—was utter chaos. But this area, by the viewing stand, was nearly deserted. There were no witnesses to the horrible drama playing out.

Middleton shouted to Chernayev. “Don’t, Arkady. There are a thousand reasons why you can’t do this.”

The Russian ignored him and glanced at Archer.