*
Larry Bishop pushed open the door of his bedsit in Brooklyn and reached for the light switch. He didn’t have time to struggle. Before he closed the door behind him the knife slashed his throat, severing his windpipe. Baranski dragged him into the bathroom and left him pouring out his lifeblood onto the grimy, tiled floor. Blood-speckled foam seeped from his mouth. His dead eyes bulged with terror and shock.
Out of the darkness an old cat meowed, looking for its expected meal. It padded through the blood and climbed onto Bishop’s chest leaving bloody paw prints on his jacket. The cat’s tongue rasped against the lifeless face, anxious to be fed. When it sidled against his legs Baranski picked it up and snapped its neck like a brittle twig.
“You’ll never need to meow for your food again,” he laughed.
Baranski felt good, revitalised. The thrill of the hunt, the feeling of absolute power over another human being filled him with exhilaration. Cold, detached; remorse was alien to him. All he felt was an intense satisfaction, almost glee at the prospect of another kill, but the next one wouldn’t be so enjoyable for him. He liked to be ‘hands on’.
He peered round the door of the bedsit into the corridor. Flaking, sickly green paint, interspersed with patches of black mildew, covered the walls. All the battered doors were closed, but he had to be careful. If anyone was spying through a peephole he was in trouble. The sound of a voice on the metal stairs opposite forced him back inside the bedsit.
He pressed his eye against the peephole and waited. Two middle-aged women, wearing ridiculously short miniskirts and thick make-up, stopped at the top of the stairs. He willed them to move on, but they stood talking and laughing raucously, making obscene comments about some man in the bar where they worked. Eventually, the taller of the two clattered up the stairs to the upper floor calling back,
“See ya later, Nikki.”
As soon as they disappeared from view, he lunged out of the bedsit and down the stairs. He emerged onto the pavement letting out a great breath of air. Nobody had seen him go in or out of the building. By the time they discovered Bishop’s body, his mission would be completed. With a spring in his step he walked briskly towards the subway.
*
Baranski pulled on the uniform. It was a bit snug, but he could get away with it. He grimaced with discomfort at the tightness of the belt and the weight of the regulation weapon. Some improvements were needed. His hair was too long, but that was easily remedied. Patting a bushy, false moustache into place over his own neat version, he put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. He grinned owlishly into the mirror. Yes, you’ll easily pass for that fool Larry Bishop, he decided. Now, he would go to work and suss out the area. Bishop had only been employed with security for a few days before he had murdered him, not long enough to form friendships. That’s why he had chosen him in the first place. Now he needed time to plan his escape route after the assassination.
Luckily, Bishop’s duties were outside, monitoring vehicles and patrolling the area around the General Assembly Building. Baranski wanted a clear shot at the delegates. Once the first one dropped all hell would break loose. That was the specific aim: to create panic and confusion inside and outside the United Nations. Then the brown stuff would hit the fan. Accusations and counter-accusations would be flying thick and fast. Plots by the Russians, cover-ups, CIA investigations. It was enough to keep the Americans busy; so busy they would be unaware of the real attack going on under their very noses until it was too late.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Bernese Oberland, Switzerland
Wallace wriggled his shoulders to ease his muscles. He had been bending over the computer for hours every day; working on the blueprints stolen from Ethan Bateman’s facility in the Nevada Desert. Outwardly, he seemed engrossed in his work, but he was taking note of everything going on around him. The pinpoint light over New York had stopped flickering that morning. One by one, the G8 countries were indicating they were on standby.
There was a sharp tension in the air. Wallace knew that the attack would happen very soon. What were they waiting for? It must be some event on a world level that would act as the catalyst for the attack.
“When will we be ready?” he asked CE1.
He didn’t answer as he brushed past Wallace to speak to an operator on the far side of the computer banks.
“I overheard CE1 talking to the Generalissimo’s personal aide when I passed by his office,” the man next to him whispered. “They’re waiting for some meeting in New York. Whatever they’ve planned will kick off then. It’s bound to be big, buddy, very big.”
Wallace racked his brains trying to think what could be going on in New York. Suddenly, a news broadcast about world poverty hit him like a lightning bolt. That’s it! It must be! Delegates from the G8 nations and a host of other countries would be at the United Nations in three days time. What was the Generalissimo planning? To disrupt the conference, access their computers? A shudder of realisation ran through him. What if they planned an assassination? He had to get out and warn Conrad before it was too late.
*
Conrad glanced at his wristwatch: 07.30 hours. He had started out before daybreak determined to cover as much ground as possible. In the east, pink fingers of light probed the pre-dawn sky. Too early for the cable car, he had travelled to Mürren on a cross-country motorcycle then set out on foot. He was halfway to the facility, ploughing up the mountain through snow that had fallen overnight.
The thin layer of ice underfoot crackled like crisps being crushed in a bag. The air felt rare and pure, so cold it hurt his lungs. No sound except for the occasional plop as snow dropped off one of the straggly pines. An alpine chuff wheeled overhead, dived and disappeared behind an outcrop of rock. Adjusting his snow goggles, he peered up towards the path that led to the old, abandoned hotel. Deep inside the concealed installation Wallace was putting his life on the line. If he had been discovered, he was probably already dead.
Dressed from head to toe in winter camouflage, he knew he was still an easy target for anyone watching from the abandoned hotel. Cautiously, he moved forward using the overhanging rocks and shrubs to conceal his progress. Every few minutes, he stopped and waited for any sign of activity high above him. There was also the Militia helicopter. If that took off they would be likely to spot him and pick him off. He pulled out his satellite phone and punched in Dreher’s number.
“I’m almost there.” Conscious of the stillness in the air, and the way sound carried in the mountains, he whispered. “Be ready with the chopper when I give you the signal.”
“Don’t worry, Jack. We’re ready.”
He retracted the aerial and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. It had a global positioning system that could pinpoint his whereabouts when he was ready for the helicopter. Crouching down behind a fall of rock, he swept the path leading to the facility and the fake stone wall. He waited a few minutes. Still no sign of any movement – so far, so good.
Underneath his winter camouflage, he was wearing black trousers and a black sweater. Around his neck, a black balaclava ready to pull up as soon as he de-suited. He was only a few hundred metres from the facility now. As he scrabbled up the path, he lost his balance on loose shale. The stones trickled noisily in the still air coming to rest up against a large stone, every sound dangerously magnified. He held his breath waiting for a shout from above; nothing, except the faint whine of the wind. Suddenly, he felt slightly giddy and lurched sideways off the path into crisp snow, almost losing his balance. He inhaled deeply in an attempt to steady himself, but it made him even more light-headed. All he needed now was an attack of altitude sickness.
Breathing heavily, he edged upwards until he was close to the fake stone wall. He crouched down low and scurried across to the adjoining rocks. On this side it was easier to climb. He didn’t need to use a grapple hook. Using foot and handholds, he hoisted himself up and over the wall. He landed with a gentle thump amongst the startled goats milling arou
nd their winter feed trough.
Keeping low, he edged toward the partially open steel door. It wasn’t just luck that he had arrived when the goats were out. He had spent a whole day at a safe vantage point scanning the area, noting their feeding times. Not once had he seen a guard. They were careful to stay out of sight, away from prying eyes. His intention was to get back in the way he had escaped. The door wouldn’t be closed until all the goats were back inside. He would only have one shot at disabling the guard before the alarm went off.
He pressed himself against the rock at the side of the door and waited. Standing immobile, the cold cut through his padded jacket. His feet inside the fur-lined boots felt frozen stiff. Suddenly, he heard the familiar call.
“Now then my beauties, let’s get you in out of the cold.”
On hearing the guard’s voice the goats padded towards the warmth of their stalls. Nudging against each other they ambled inside, the guard calling the stragglers by pet names.
As soon as Conrad heard the electronic hum of the door closing he dived in, all his senses alert. The guard didn’t have time to turn around before he clubbed him on the back of his skull. He fell to the ground, his head hitting the metal rail of the stalls. The guard’s dead eyes were wide open. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. He dragged the man into the stall nearest the outer door, covered him with straw, and pulled off his black parka.
Stripping off his winter camouflage, he rolled it into a ball and threw it into the nearest stall. Dressed all in black, the balaclava pulled up over his head, he may be able to mingle with the Militia unnoticed. All he needed was enough time to search for Wallace and get them both out of there. He patted the yellow armband, embroidered with three black crystals, he had removed from the security guard. It was just enough seniority to give him a bit of clout. With any luck, he could wander freely around the chamber watching the workers’ every move.
Pulling a thin strip of rigid plastic from his pocket Conrad squeezed it through the door under the drop latch. He jerked it upwards expecting the latch to go with it, but it wouldn’t budge. Sod it! Taking a deep breath he tried again. This time the bar moved an inch or so then stopped. Using all his strength, he jerked the plastic strip up again and held it open with his foot. Muted voices, footsteps and the electronic whirr of machinery came from the main chamber.
Cautiously, he stepped outside, closed the door behind him, and walked down the narrow passage. Hugging the side, he peered round the last bend into the chamber assessing the level of security. Black-garbed men and women roamed around wearing coloured armbands; mostly administrators and security guards. There was no sign of the upper echelons of the hierarchy.
Seven guards at most, stationed at various points. One at each of the three entrances and two wandering amongst the computer banks. Another seemed to be making equipment checks; lighting, digital scanners, computer leads. Occasionally, he bent over switches and points before recording his findings in an electronic notebook. They all seemed completely engrossed in their work. No need to worry about them. The one to watch was the tall, sinewy guard elevated on a small platform. He was obviously surveillance. His eyes darted round the chamber watching everything and everyone. Conrad swore under his breath. It was like the bloody Grepos on the Berlin Wall. They were all watching each other.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped out and marched purposefully across the chamber, lingering a few moments near a group of administrators. He bent forward as though examining their work and moved on: all the time watching the surveillance guard out of the corner of his eye. Two circuits of the chamber later, another man stepped up onto the small platform. The surveillance guard nodded at him, jumped down, and hurried off down the far corridor. The new man folded his arms and looked round the room. For a brief moment his gaze settled on Conrad then turned away. He breathed a sigh of relief. Now all he had to do was find Wallace. If he was still alive he would be working on a computer, but which one? There must be at least a hundred.
Casually, he wandered in and out of the rows of computers, gazing intently at the uniformed workers. He studied their build, discounting women and anybody too thin to be Wallace. That still left around fifty. Occasionally, he bent over a screen and waited for the operative to look up. He wanted to see their eyes. His heart lurched when he caught sight of a thickset man bent over a screen filled with rolling statistics. He hovered close to him until the man looked up – brown eyes.
He moved on to a small section set away from the others. Eight men and two women bent intently over screens, in two rows of five, facing each other. Slowly, he moved around the group studying the operators’ faces. The man directly opposite lifted his head enquiringly. Green eyes! He would recognise those gold-flecked eyes anywhere. Conrad sidled over and whispered close to the man’s ear.
“What are you working on, Biker?”
Wallace’s head jerked up and stared directly into Conrad’s eyes.
“How the hell did you get in here?” he whispered through the side of his mouth. “You’ll be dead meat if they discover you. You bloody idiot! I know what they’re planning, and it scares the shit out of me.”
“Just listen and do exactly what I say. Take a break. Go into the restrooms. Give it exactly five minutes. When you come out I’ll be standing close to entrance two. There’s another unmarked corridor that leads off from the right-hand side of that entrance. When you see me go in follow me as fast as possible.”
“Save it for when we get out,” Conrad snapped when Wallace started to protest.
Keeping his eyes on the surveillance guard, Conrad continued traversing the chamber. Gradually, he moved towards entrance two and stood with his back to the wall, letting his eyes wander around the chamber like the other security guards.
Heart pounding in his chest, he glanced briefly at his wristwatch: four and a half minutes. His stomach tightened – another thirty seconds. Conrad tensed when a man came out of the restroom and walked across to the administrative section. Another man emerged checking his zipper. Briskly, he strode across the chamber towards entrance two as though heading for the computer section. Conrad shot a swift glance at the surveillance guard then darted inside the passage. Seconds later, he heard Wallace’s boots clumping behind him.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!” he whispered. “We have to get out and down the mountain before they realise you’ve gone.”
He put a warning finger to his lips and scurried down the winding corridor to the door. Carefully, he lifted the bar and pulled it open slightly. A scraping sound caught his attention. There was someone inside! He peered round the door at the back of a militiaman replacing the straw in the nearest stall.
“That’s buggered it!”
“He’s wearing earphones,” Wallace whispered. “I think he’s listening to an iPod.”
He peered round the door again. The guard was nodding his head and sweeping in time to the beat of the music. Conrad opened the door wide, lunged at the man, and fell on top of him. Before he had a chance to cry out, they gagged him and stripped off his hood, padded jacket and gloves.
“Put these on,” Conrad ordered, handing Wallace the guard’s clothes. “It’s bloody cold out there.”
They hauled the man to the outer door. Conrad put his hand under the man’s chin and held his face in front of the scanner. “Keep your eyes open!” He pressed his Glock into the back of the man’s head. The outer metal door swished open. “Go! Go! Go!”
Conrad floored the man with a rabbit punch and darted into the grass enclosure. He threw a grappling hook over the rocks and hoisted himself up and over. Seconds later, Wallace dropped to the ground beside him.
“Get down as low as possible. That sheer wall is a fake. There’s a scanner and surveillance camera set either side of it. Get to the other side and keep off the rubble path. They’re sure as hell to see you there.”
Wallace scrabbled across on all fours and lunged ankle-deep into crisp snow. He stumbled over a stone and rolled down
thirty metres before he could stop. Groaning, he sat up in the snow rubbing his elbow.
“Are you okay?” Conrad asked, skidding to a halt beside him.
“I haven’t forgotten how to roll, mate. It’s just been a long time since I did it.”
“They haven’t spotted us yet, but they will. Come on!”
As they reached the bottom of the covered trail a single shot rang out, echoing on the still air. It pinged off a boulder sending them scurrying for cover below an outcrop of rocks. Tentatively, Conrad raised his head. Another single shot rang out. They were trapped, unable to move out of cover.
“We’re stuck here, that’s for sure. From up there they can pick us off like sparrows. We have to get back down before dusk or we’ll freeze to death,” he said. “There’s nothing here to provide shelter and the wind is building up.”
Wallace didn’t respond. He was gazing up at low-hanging mist drifting down from the peaks. Within minutes it had almost obscured the dilapidated wreck of the abandoned hotel and was swirling down the mountain at an alarming rate.
“There is a God,” he breathed.
“Once it hits us, move out.” Conrad nudged Wallace and pointed up towards the facility. “They’re on to us.”
A group of black-clad Militia swarmed like ants down the mountain less than three hundred metres above them. It took all their willpower to stay put until the mist enveloped them. Then they were on their feet, one to the left, the other to the right, zigzagging down the mountain at breakneck speed. This time a volley of shots rang out followed by another prolonged blast of firing.
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