by Stuart Woods
—
THERE WAS a little light in the east, and Quentin could see the park. Then they were down to under a hundred feet, and he saw a man walking his dog. The man didn’t even look up, and that pleased Quentin.
The helicopter came to a stop, hovering, and descended slowly. The rooftop was a hundred feet away, and Quentin could make out the yellow-striped awning. A crewman knocked on his helmet, and he pushed off into space.
—
IN WASHINGTON, Lev Epstein, fully suited out, stood in the door of the helicopter and stared at the striped awning a hundred feet away. He slapped the team leader on the helmet, and he and they pushed out the door and started down, each controlling his own cable with a remote control. Lev knew he was too old and too fat to go with them, but he still wanted to.
They touched the roof and ran toward the tent, paying out wire. Lev saw no one else on the roof.
—
ONE FLOOR DOWN, in the penthouse apartment, Ali Mahmoud’s eyelids fluttered. He thought he had heard a soft thump above him, but it might have been a dream. He tried to go back to sleep, but his brain replayed the thump. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, opened a drawer, and removed a .45 semiautomatic pistol—loaded, one in the chamber and cocked. He got into his slippers, thumbed the safety down, and padded across his bedroom, into the living room, and out the door into the hallway. The stairway door was a few feet away. He opened the door and listened. There seemed to be some sort of shuffling going on above him. Had one of his people gone up there to check things again? He started up the stairs and as he did, he heard a ratcheting noise from the roof. At the top of the stairs, he put his hand on the door handle, pushed it slowly down, and opened it, taking the final step onto the roof. There were dark shapes moving around, and the canopy was gone. He raised his pistol, but as he did he felt cold steel against his right temple.
“Shhhh,” someone said, putting a hand over his mouth, and his gun was taken from his hand. Something stabbed him in the side of the neck, and he went limp. He felt the sensation of being carried before he passed out.
—
IN LONDON, the red spotlight came on, and Quentin saw two elongated lumps on the roof, between him and the awning. Then one of the lumps sat up, and both of them disappeared under a wave of heavy men. Two men in sleeping bags, he thought to himself. They were held down until the drugs had been administered, and he stepped forward for a look. Blond hair protruded from the bag. He switched on his flashlight and got a look, then at the other one. He spoke into his microphone. “Lower litters,” he said. He turned and watched them come down, then saw them, loaded, go up again and disappear into the helicopter.
When he turned around, the awning had been removed and he was staring at a spidery-looking beast about six feet in diameter with six rotors, each about eighteen inches long, and a pod underneath the thing. His explosives man was on his back, inching under the machine with a flashlight. After a moment, he came out with a piece of wire and a small cylinder in his hand.
“Detonator removed,” the man whispered into his microphone, then stood up and looked at the drone. “We’re never going to get this thing into the helicopter—it’s too big.”
Quentin lifted one leg of the thing and was surprised at how light it was. He unhooked his cable, looped it around one of the machine’s legs twice, and clipped it to itself. “Pilot, this is number one. It’s too big to go inside—we’re going to have to carry it dangling.”
“Roger,” the pilot replied.
Quentin pressed his remote control, the cable tightened, and the machine lifted off the roof and began to rise. When it was six feet below the chopper, he pressed the button again, and it hung there, suspended. “Number one to crew, I need another cable.”
The litter carrying the twins was lifted aboard and secured, then Quentin was winched up and helped inside. “Count off,” he said. The men stated their numbers. “Pilot, let’s get out of here,” he said.
The helicopter rotated ninety degrees and began to climb. Quentin sat down beside Millie, unclipped his cable, and fastened his seat harness. “Hi there,” he said.
She put a hand on his cheek. “Welcome back,” she replied.
—
IN WASHINGTON, Lev leaned out of the helicopter and peered at the thing dangling below them as they flew over the rooftops of the city and began climbing. He hadn’t expected it to be so big. He made his way over to the litter and looked at the unconscious Ali Mahmoud in silk pajamas, strapped into it. “All right,” he said into the headset, “let’s head for Dulles.”
—
FORTY MINUTES LATER at the military terminal the chopper descended by inches until the drone could be unhooked and removed to a hangar, then the litter was carried to the waiting jet. The sleeping Mahmoud was removed from the litter, strapped into a seat, and handcuffed to the armrest, across from where the two Dahai pilots sat, opposite the two CIA guards who would accompany them to London. One of them reclined the prisoner’s seat, then put a blanket over him and a pillow behind his head. “Sleep tight,” he said.
Up front in the cockpit, two CIA officers were completing their checklists. Lev tapped one of the guards on the shoulder. “When he wakes up, tell him that he has been declared persona non grata by the secretary of state of the United States of America. His embassy will be notified.”
Lev left the airplane and walked back toward the hangar, unbuckling gear and handing it to one of his men. Inside, the others were gathered around the drone. “It’s big, isn’t it?” one of them said.
“Bigger than we planned for,” Lev replied. He looked back and watched as the Dahai jet taxied away. He got out his cell phone and pressed a button.
“This is Phillips.”
“It’s Lev. Mission complete here. How about you?”
“All is well.”
“The airplane is taking off now. It will be there in about seven hours. You got the twins?”
“That part was easy—they were sleeping on the roof, next to the drone.”
“Well done, Special Agent. You’re going to do well out of this.”
“Thanks, but not as well as you, sir.”
Lev laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. When are you coming home?”
“Can I have a couple of days?”
“We’ll teleconference at three PM London time for debriefing. After that, you can take as much time as you want.”
—
MILLIE CALLED HOLLY, who was already up. “It’s done,” she said. “On both ends—all of it. The airplane is on its way to London.”
“That is perfectly wonderful,” Holly said. “When are you coming back?”
“Can I take a couple of days?”
“Sure. I’ll see what I can do about an aircraft for you two.”
“You’re a good boss.”
“You’re a good kid.” They hung up.
—
AT LANGLEY, Lance Cabot thanked Lev Epstein, then sat, sipping coffee and waiting for his call to his Yemen station chief to go through. Finally, the phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Carter, Director.”
“Scramble.”
“I am scrambled.”
“Ah, Carter. Tell me about your contact with the leader of the Dahai Freedom Brigade—what’s his name?”
“We’re not sure, but he answers to Habbib. A good man, sir. If they’re ever able to dislodge the sultan, he’ll be in line for the leadership.”
“I believe we supplied him with a dozen Russian SA-7 shoulder-fired missiles a few weeks ago.”
“We did, sir.”
“What sort of guidance system?”
“Laser-operated, sir. You lock on, then let it go.”
“Range?”
“Six miles target detection, four miles engagement range, up to twenty thousand feet.”
“Can you get in touch with your man?”
“We also supplied him with an encrypted cell phone.”
“Ring him up and tell him there will be an irresistible target arriving at Dahai International at seven this evening, local time. It’s a G-450, painted white, tail number Delta Alpha 004. I believe the wind is forecast from the north today, so the flight will fly the ILS 36 approach. The initial approach fix is out over the sea, about six miles from the threshold of runway 36 and four miles from the beach. We’d like it to fall in deep water.”
“Can I tell him who’s aboard?”
“Three of the sultan’s favorites.”
“He’ll like that. Shall I offer him an incentive?”
“Tell him if he hits the mark, we’ll wire a million dollars to whatever account he likes.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
“I knew you’d say that. Oh, and tell him not to shoot down an airliner, will you?”
“I’ll tell him to take along his binoculars.”
“And tell him to be sure to issue a statement saying that the Brigade takes responsibility. We want him to have all the credit.”
“I’ll see that he does, sir.”
“Thank you, Carter.” Lance hung up and poured himself another cup of coffee.
63
IT WAS BROAD DAYLIGHT when Millie closed the curtains in her suite at the Connaught and climbed into bed with Quentin. “You’d better still be awake,” she said, snuggling up to him.
“Wide awake,” he said, fondling a breast and kissing her.
“You didn’t want to stay and see the Dahai jet off?”
“Ian can take care of that. I’m right where I want to be.” He rolled over on top of her. “We have until two-thirty, when the car comes to take us to MI6 for our debriefing teleconference.”
“Then we’d better get started,” she said, guiding him inside her.
—
IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT before Stone crawled into bed, tired enough to be glad he was alone. He fell immediately into a contented sleep.
—
HE WOKE at six-thirty and ordered breakfast, then got into a hot shower. He was eating breakfast in bed at seven, when he turned on the CBS Morning News. A banner was spread across the screen: BREAKING NEWS!
Charlie Rose came on. “Good morning. In just a moment we’ll be going to the James Brady Briefing Room at the White House, where the president will be making what we are told will be an extraordinary announcement. Nora O’Donnell, do you have any idea what this is about?”
“Charlie, I hope we’re going to hear that the Middle East negotiations have been successfully concluded. Wait, here we go.”
The White House press secretary stepped to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said gravely, “the president.”
Then Will Lee entered from stage left, dressed casually in khaki trousers, an open-necked plaid shirt, and a blue blazer. “Sorry, wrong president,” he said, getting a big laugh. “Ladies and gentlemen, it falls to me to make an announcement never before heard at the White House. This morning, a little after five-thirty AM, the president of the United States gave birth to a son.”
The room was on its feet, clapping and cheering.
When the noise had died down Will continued. “He will be named, oddly enough, William Henry Lee the Fifth, continuing a tradition that began with my great-grandfather. He will be called, in the family, Will Henry, after his great-grandfather. In spite of being a few weeks premature, he weighed six pounds nine ounces.”
“Who delivered him?” someone in the front row asked.
“I’m afraid this was a very hurried process,” Will said. “I was awakened from a sound sleep a little late in the game by the president, who asked me to call the doctor. I had hardly finished the call when events took a sudden turn. Assisted by Secret Service Agent Frances Buchannan, who in a previous existence was a registered nurse, I called upon my experience in college, when during two summers I worked as an EMT, and I delivered the boy myself. By the time the doctor arrived, the process was essentially complete.”
More applause, cheering, and stomping.
Will got them quieted down. “Mother and child are resting comfortably, and now I must return to my duties as President Mom. More bulletins to come.”
Will left the podium to cheering, and a photograph of Kate and Will Henry was projected onto a large screen.
Stone found himself grinning and clapping.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.
Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.
Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Group (USA), 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 98212-1825.
Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her your manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.)
If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.
If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Sara Minnich at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.
A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.
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