“It’s too bad your Dr. Utkin didn’t include a tracking device on them when he was building these people,” Cooper said.
“He was supposed to, but he either never activated it, or they rendered them inoperative themselves,” Sevaron replied. “We will just have to use good old-fashioned legwork, deduction and intuition.”
“Not to mention the resources of two of the largest nations in the world,” Cooper said.
“Of course. If you are ready to go, we should really be on our way, as every second counts, correct?”
“That’s right.” Cooper rose off the bed and walked toward the door, with Palomer ahead of him. Together the four of them left the hospital and got into a waiting SUV driven by a DGSI officer.
As they pulled away, Sevaron subtly checked behind them to see the replacement SUV containing Sergei Bershov and Illya Krivov fall in behind them. Pulling out his phone, he texted that they needed to take the next available commercial flight to Madrid.
Then he settled back in the comfortable seat and relaxed, prepared to let the American and the Frenchwoman do all of the work, and allow them to swoop in and take care of the rogue assassins when the time came.
* * *
DRIVING STRAIGHT THROUGH the night at often dangerous speeds, the Russian assassins arrived in Madrid about an hour after dawn. The city was just starting to ramp up its day, and as they approached, the blend of various time periods, given Madrid’s centuries-old existence, became more evident its architecture. The city had held on to a great deal of its history, seen primarily in the Spanish Golden Age structures of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which emphasized austerity instead of flamboyance. Yet here and there were evidence of other styles as well, from the Middle Ages simplicity of the Bishop’s Chapel to the Renaissance styling of the Convent of Las Descalzas Reales, with its simple exterior, looking more like a government building or even a prison, giving way to a beautiful church interior. Every so often more modern buildings jutted toward the sky.
Amani Nejem was particularly taken with the city as they drove in on the A2, looking at the massive Madrid-Barajas Airport as they drove past, and the large Príncipe Felipe Convention Center that would be their target in the next twenty-seven hours.
Driving past the center, they took note of the ongoing preparations, with rows of large trucks unloading tables and chairs, and catering trucks unloading foodstuffs and other supplies.
“This one is not going to be easy,” Kisu Darsi mused as they passed the huge building. “Truly it’s a pity the operation in Paris did not go as planned. Surely everyone will be on their highest alert here.”
“That may be true, but it is of no matter,” Nejem said. “This is the kind of thing the doctor created us for, trained us for. We have the skills to handle it, don’t we, Alexei?”
Alexei Panshin glanced at her from the driver’s seat. His freckles had appeared in full on his now pale skin, blooming across his face in small dots. “Of course we do. We are the wolves among the sheep. No matter how well protected they think they are, we will prevail. We are the harbingers of a new era for our country, never forget that.”
They were staying at the Hotel Neuvo Boston, less than a mile from the center. It was also close to the airport, and they had already made plans to leave the city by plane if possible. Arriving without incident, they checked into their adjoining rooms, and met up once they were situated.
“The real question is whether our original plan is still viable,” Darsi said. “We drew a lot of attention in Paris, and the American Secret Service are going to be very much on their guard.”
“Not to mention those operatives who are no doubt still attempting to track us, whoever they might be,” Nejem added.
“I have been considering both of those issues ever since we left the city,” Panshin said. “Which is why I believe we need to alter the plan to distract at least some of our pursuers.” He looked from Nejem to Darsi. “That is why I want you two to set a trap for the officials still chasing us. That should allow me to infiltrate the summit and complete our mission. Once that is done, we can then leave the city and move on to our next operation.”
Nejem and Darsi exchanged a glance. “But, Alexei, the plan called for all three of us to prepare the auditorium. It was going to be quite a job for all of us, to say nothing about one person doing the setup.”
Panshin nodded. “I know, and I’ve thought about that, as well. With the heightened security, one man executing our plan will draw less attention than three. And if the people back in Paris show up—as we all know they will—then we have to have a way to distract them. Having both of you appear in the city will at least force them to split their forces, or perhaps even draw off entirely and chase you, leaving me free to execute our plan.”
The other two nodded. “That makes sense,” Nejem said. “If we can stop the black-haired man from getting on-site, then that is one less obstacle you must worry about.”
“Exactly. I know we do not have much time nor additional supplies, so I will leave the particulars up to you in terms of how you wish to entrap them. Just be sure that you do it far enough away that they are unable to get to the center in time tomorrow.”
“Agreed.” Nejem nudged Darsi. “Come on, we need to get out into the city so we can be seen.”
“It’s going to be a long day,” Darsi grumbled as they both grabbed whatever gear would be suitable for their mission out of what was left and exited the hotel room.
Meanwhile, Panshin began preparing for his own mission, and his own long day that lay ahead—starting with infiltrating the convention center to begin his mission to kill the American President.
* * *
AKIRA TOKAIDO YAWNED so hard his jaw cracked. He rubbed his eyes. Ever since the Paris debacle, he’d been working the screens nonstop alongside Aaron Kurtzman, both men aggregating data and distilling it into their most accurate hypothesis about the assassins’ next moves.
But even with the highest probability showing that the killers would go to Madrid to attack the EU summit attended by the President, that still left them with the problems of finding them and figuring out how they were going to attack.
Of course, if we find them before they can put their plan into motion, then that solves the second problem, he thought. Which still leaves the first problem...
Tokaido returned his attention to the hundreds of pictures flashing by on the large monitors before him, each one representing a camera feed in Madrid that Stony Man’s computers were all observing, looking for any people who might resemble the assassins, and then following up with highly detailed scans and running facial-recognition programs to get a match. So far, the computers had isolated six people, but the scans and evaluations had all come up with very low probabilities on them, certainly nothing to raise an alert over. Tokaido had flagged them anyway, so the mainframe would continue tracking their movements, just in case they had somehow come up with a way to defeat some of the most sophisticated physical-analysis software in existence.
Another monitor was devoted solely to the people coming and going at the convention center. Between attendees, their security personnel, press and the center staff, there would be more than fifteen hundred people on-site for this conference. And every one of them was being scanned and filed in a huge database. Most would be eliminated immediately as people of interest, but with people constantly entering and leaving the sixteen-thousand-square-yard building, the list of scanned personnel was constantly changing every minute.
“And they said sitting at a desk for twelve hours a day wouldn’t be exciting,” the young hacker said to himself with a wry grin as the computer screen covering Madrid’s bus services—all of which had had cameras installed a few years ago—flashed, indicating it had detected something of interest.
Tokaido looked at it and saw what appeared to be a cosmopolita
n group of passengers heading into the heart of the city. The computer had flagged two people as persons of interest with an 82 percent match possibility, and he zoomed in on them and captured a still shot.
He moved the digital photo—which was decent, but not great—and ran it though the facial-analysis program. That came back with a 93 percent probability that these two were the backup team for the Paris assassin. The woman had dyed her hair and changed her eye color, but it still wasn’t possible to alter the immutable contours of her face—cheekbones, skull measurements, orbital socket diameter—which was what the computer was comparing.
The man was even more obvious, clean-shaven, and with a turban covering his head and dressed in a white shirt, trousers and shoes. Both carried a pair of large shopping bags from a grocery/department store chain common in the country.
Tokaido checked the bus route. The vehicle was several miles away from the convention center, and heading farther from the site each minute.
What are they up to? he wondered. A secondary target? A diversion?
Whatever the answer was, he needed to let everyone know what was going on. Flagging it as a priority sighting alert, he sent it to Kurtzman, Brognola and Bolan, then returned to sifting through the raw feeds. Two had been spotted, which left one still out there...
* * *
“HMM...” MACK BOLAN tried not to frown as he studied the sighting alert that had just appeared on his phone screen.
The jet had gotten them to Madrid in just under two hours. Hal Brognola had notified the event organizers that four agents would arrive on-site to beef up security. They had immediately headed to the convention center, where they’d identified themselves to the security personnel and begun coordinating their perimeter setup. They took the time to review what the center already had in place to prevent a repeat of the Paris incident.
The head of security was a raven-haired woman named Genoveva Prieto, a consummate professional clad in a crisp charcoal-gray pantsuit. While she had welcomed them to both the city and the event, she had also made it clear that the city had final jurisdiction over any security procedures they wanted to implement, and that her people also had final say over any plans they wanted to enact. The Russians were reluctant to accept that, and only some smooth talking by both Bolan and Palomer had prevented an incident.
Now, he looked around to see the Russians reviewing a floor plan of the building and surrounding grounds, and Palomer sitting at a computer, checking over the attendee list. He walked over and bent to look over his shoulder as he placed his smartphone on the desk where she could see it.
“We’ve got a hit on the backup team in the city,” he told her. “Let’s keep it between ourselves for just a minute to work out how we want to respond.”
Palomer studied the bus’s route. “This is the AZCA financial district, and it’s pretty far from the convention center. What’s their goal? Are they going after a secondary target?”
“I have to think it’s a gambit designed to lure us away from the primary,” Bolan replied. “You’ll notice that he’s nowhere to be found, and we haven’t picked up even a trace of him anywhere. They’re trying to get us to split up our force, so he has a better chance of completing the mission.”
“I agree, but what if they’re actually going after a secondary target?” she asked. “They are in the financial district, and that makes sense. There are lots of people, and high-value opportunities for them. How do you want to play it?”
“Are you up for doing a bit of urban hunting?” Bolan asked. At her nod, he discreetly contacted Akira Tokaido. “Stony Base, this is Striker.”
“Go ahead, Striker,” the young hacker replied.
“Regarding that priority sighting you sent over, cross-reference the AZCA financial district with any companies there that might be anti-Russian in their trade dealings. Let me know if and when you find anything.”
“Affirmative, Striker.”
Bolan straightened and turned to the Russians. “Mikhail, Natalya, we have a sighting.”
The two FSB officers joined him, and Bolan filled them in on what Stony Man had given him. They agreed with his assessment. “So, how should we handle this?” Rosnovich asked.
Bolan had already been wrestling with that. “Normally I’d suggest splitting up our team, since we really should have eyes on the primary target,” he said. “However—and I do not mean any offense to anyone here—I’m concerned that a two-on-two matchup against these two may be too dangerous to risk.”
That, and I really don’t trust you guys in this scenario, he thought. No one had mentioned the Russian president’s notable absence from the summit—in fact, there was barely a Russian delegation at all, with just the country’s ambassadors from Germany and Italy attending.
“Agreed,” Rosnovich said. “At the same time, we cannot discount the possibility that they are planning another strike, and leaving it up to local officials would be like sending a trussed-up pig into the slaughterhouse—they would not stand a chance.” He rubbed his chin. “It would appear that we have no choice.”
For a moment, the four exchanged wary glances.
“Not particularly,” Palomer said. “So we should get down there and stop them right now.”
A knock at the suite door made everyone’s head turn. “I’ll get it,” Bolan said, already walking to the door. A suited man stood outside, carrying a small, nondescript box that looked heavy. He walked in and set it on a nearby table, then held out a smartphone to Bolan. He pressed his thumb on the screen, then held the device up to his eye for a moment, waiting as it flashed. He handed it back to the man, who checked something on the screen, nodded, then left, closing the door behind him.
“What was all that about?”
“I had something delivered to even the odds for us,” Bolan said as he opened the box. Inside were neatly packed boxes of ammunition, all labeled VBR-Belgium, with a bright yellow stripe around each. “We’ve got 9 mm, .40 caliber and .45 caliber, just in case.”
Opening one of the boxes of ammunition, he held up a round, which had a cone-shaped bullet that narrowed to a small point. “These armor-piercing rounds have the standard conical profile, and utilize a 6.3 mm hardened steel penetrator, allowing for a larger wound cavity. Most importantly, they can be fired from regular handguns, without any modification. As they’ve been proven effective against Level II and IIIA vests, I would think we should see similar penetration on whatever’s inside the assassins.” Bolan stared at the two Russians. “Unless you’d like to let us know if I’m wrong.”
Rosnovich picked up one of the oddly shaped bullets. “I believe these should work,” he stated.
“No submachine guns, I see,” Kepar said.
Bolan shook his head. “Given the crowded environment we’re entering, we think it’s best to stick with pistols, to minimize the chance of a round hitting any bystanders.”
Rosnovich nodded even as he appropriated an entire box of 9 mm ammunition. “Just in case,” he said.
They took a few minutes to replace the ammunition in their magazines, then headed out in search of their prey.
Chapter Fifteen
Thirty minutes after Amani Nejem and Kisu Darsi left the hotel, Samantha George, aka Alexei Panshin, wearing a black silk turtleneck, matching slacks and black flats, long red hair pulled back in a clean ponytail, walked out of the elevator and out the main entrance. He got into a plain blue Renault sedan and drove the short distance to the convention center, where he went through two layers of security, including ID check and photo confirmation, as well as a complete car search, inside and out, including a bomb-sniffing dog check, just to enter the grounds.
He was stopped again upon entering the building, where his ID was checked once again. This time he was scanned with a metal detector wand and endured a physical pat down by a female security officer beh
ind a screen. He submitted to all of it with patient good humor, even kidding with the woman assigned to him about her job. No one detected a man posing as a woman.
Once cleared, he was issued an on-site badge that would allow him strict access to only the areas of the building he was supposed to be in. Fortunately for him—primarily because his cover identity had been created for this exact occasion—that included the auditorium where the US President would make his speech the next morning. Although it would be tight, there was still enough time to prepare for his arrival.
Panshin entered the main lobby, which was a scene of organized chaos. Men and women walked or ran everywhere, putting the final touches on a gathering of the world’s leaders that happened only once every several years. Various security details, their weapons often in plain view, coordinated with one another, as well as inspecting and overseeing installation of decorations and any additional equipment needed. They could be an issue, but Panshin was pretty sure he could handle any barrier they might throw at him.
He walked straight for the entrance to the auditorium, listening for anyone talking about the Paris incident, but heard nothing. Apparently these people were all focused on the present instead of the past—even the recent past.
At the door, both his badge and ID were checked yet again. They clearly weren’t taking any chances. Panshin waited while the security man ran the final check, and then entered the room.
The large chamber could seat up to three hundred easily. It was vaguely bowl-shaped, with terraces for the audience so they could all see the speaker at the bottom of the room. A black iron grid of lights was barely visible in the shadows of the ceiling.
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