by Dana Haynes
His good eye bulged. His hands clamped into fists. “Fucking”—he gasped—“hate you!”
“You’ll have to narrow it down.”
She drove her elbow into his temple and his one open eye rolled upward, the white suddenly glowing from the overhead fire. She tossed down his wallet.
The building groaned again, the sawdust and wood chips on the floor dancing.
She turned and sprinted for the rubbish chute, pausing to grab the machine gun.
Daria got to the opening of the tough, plastic chute, held one arm out, barrel down, and emptied the magazine straight down. It was a simple enfilade. She didn’t aim. She just let loose with a hailstorm of bullets.
When the machine gun clicked empty, she hiked one long leg up into the circular wooden opening, then the other, then leaped and slid, sliding blind, loving it.
Sixteen
The gathered men and women watched the many screens in the American Citadel subbasement. Fire spread upward through the Hotel Criterion de Medici. Smoke and debris billowed out of the windows and doors into the tight alley, then boiled upward into the sky.
Different lenses highlighted the images from each Mercutio drone: visible light, glowing green night vision, infrared. By glancing from one to another the Pentagon officials and the honchos from corporate could piece together what was happening to the hotel.
The hotel had not dragged down the livery building yet, but that was looking more and more likely.
On one of the screens the illustrated image of Daria Gibron faded and was replaced by a surveillance photo of a woman with a heart-shaped face, straight black hair, and extremely dark eyes. That photo showed just her head, neck, and shoulders. Smaller photos began popping onto the screen: the same woman, here in T-and-jeans, here in a dress; here running and here sitting at an outside cafe and laughing with someone unseen.
Snow’s voice came over the PA system: “Interpol has her.”
Statistics began scrolling beneath the array of photos. Daria Gibron was Israeli. She had served in the Israeli Defense Forces and Israeli intelligence. Later, in the States, with the FBI, DEA, and ATF.
Brevidge kept thinking this nightmare couldn’t get any wore. Holy crap—they’d nuked a fed!
But he read on, and now the two guests were beside him, reading, too.
This Gibron woman was formerly attached to those agencies. These days she was wanted by those agencies.
General Cathcart and Colonel Crace studied the on-screen data. Then turned to each other. They seemed to communicate silently.
The general turned and glared into the eyes of Cyrus Acton until the thin man flinched away. The general turned, and this time glared at Todd Brevidge. Brevidge held the look.
Cathcart let his head swivel, taking in the room.
“Does anyone … anyone … doubt our next course of action here?”
One of the American Citadel managers raised a tentative hand. “I hope you’re not thinking about—”
Colonel Crace interrupted the plump man. “Nobody likes an ultimatum, sir. Nobody wants to be told what to do by a psycho and a goddamn thief. But you can see for yourselves.” She pointed to the scroll of data on the screen. “This Daria Gibron has been red flagged by the CIA. Even her own Israeli intelligence people won’t touch her. She’s screwed with U.S. interests before and, like it or not, the blonde was telling the truth. Gibron is, right now, right here, a threat to U.S. interests.”
General Cathcart said, “Agreed.”
After the shortest of beats, Cyrus Acton said, “Yes. Agreed.” And of course Todd Brevidge quickly capitulated.
The general turned to them. “Well, then?”
Florence
The first thing Daria noted as she climbed out of the Dumpster was that the loquacious blonde was nowhere to be seen. She had called herself Major Arcana, but Daria had heard of her a few times over the years, working under the name Viorica. A mercenary and thief who often hired out to paramilitary groups. She had a fierce reputation.
The second thing Daria noted was that the Dumpster had been filled with soft foam packing peanuts. The blonde had had this exit well planned. The third thing she noted: about eight seconds after she climbed out of the Dumpster and was still pulling staticky foam peanuts and wood chips out of her hair, she heard a high-pitched ping! and turned to see the giant metal bin reverberate and shudder about half a foot.
The blonde had warned her about drones.
Daria sprinted down the alley, still seeing no sign of the tall woman. She got to the end of the alley, hung a quick left, and dashed through crowds that had gathered, wide-eyed, cell-phone cameras at the ready, to capture the destruction of the hotel.
A few caught a glimpse of the semiauto in her fist and shrank back.
Half a block from the narrow alley, a Birra Moretti parasol over an outdoor table splintered in two and toppled away. One of the tourists under the umbrella fell straight backward, a spiral of blood arcing in his wake.
Daria took a moment to check over her shoulder for a helicopter. She saw none. She dodged a cluster of Japanese tourists following a woman walking backward and talking into a minimicrophone and shoulder-slung speaker. She juked left around a newsstand, then right, pivoting quickly into a doorway.
The newsstand seemed to explode, lurid tabloids wafting into the air.
Inside the doorway Daria shouldered her way past a busboy, whose tray of dishes clattered to the floor. She saw stairs ahead of her and hit them hard, arms pumping, taking them two steps at a time. At the top of the stairs she found a perpendicular hallway lined with doors. Apartments, she thought, as she bounced off a wall, taking the brunt on her shoulder, and raced down the corridor.
The busboy behind her began cursing, then screamed. She heard his body hit the stairs.
Fucking hell! she thought, rising up, one foot out, and kicked a door at the end of the hall with all her weight and momentum. The cheap lock splintered and the door banged open. Daria was in, hurdling over an ottoman and shouldering aside an obviously drunk man with a massive belly and a Homer Simpson T-shirt. The man fell as Daria hit his kitchen, found his refrigerator, and slammed into it hard enough to bruise her shoulder. She opened the fridge door as wide as she could and sank to her haunches. She reached into her backpack and snagged her cell phone. She hit Diego’s speed dial number and listened to it ring.
The fridge door rang like a chime and leaped, one of two hinges springing free. At her feet, a jar of pickles smashed to the floor, brine spraying.
Diego’s number rang and rang.
The fridge door chimed again, and this time the bullet penetrated, two inches above Daria’s head.
She shoved the Glock into her backpack. She smashed the door closed and sprinted for the kitchen window, phone in her fist, and sprang for the balcony. Another alley below. There was an old-fashioned collapsible fire ladder, and she kicked the ratchet release, watched the ladder clatter noisily under its own weight, and once it was down, turned and scampered down it not caring that the sundress was probably the wrong attire for climbing into an alley in sight of the half-dozen tables of the nearest restaurant. She heard someone whistle a catcall and applaud as she hit the pavement. She ran, hard, for the next street.
She paused long enough to turn and spot, not one, but two hummingbirds in the alley behind her. And now she remembered seeing them outside the Hotel Criterion. They hadn’t registered before. As she watched, a hawklike figure, maybe thirty meters up, arced into the alley and a flicker of light erupted under it.
Daria turned as the brick wall by her head cratered and debris pecked at her hair.
Several blocks away, Diego’s cell phone lay amid the shattered display of bathroom products, in the window of a pharmacy. Smashed in two, it didn’t ring.
Twenty meters away, amid the dust and debris of not one, but two burning buildings, an American named Jake Kenner dragged Owen Cain Thorson clear. Thorson was bleeding heavily from his cheek and ear, and his boots
barely scraped the asphalt. Kenner hauled him toward their white van.
Seventeen
John Broom, Calvin Pope, and two of the four interns stood around the congressional office. John’s laptop was perched on a filing cabinet. They were watching a live stream from Al Jazeera English. Sitting next to it was Calvin’s laptop. It was tuned to Sky News.
Both showed the fire and destruction of a hotel and adjacent building in Florence, Italy.
Calvin pointed to Sky News. “Russians are saying they lost some military attachés in the explosion.”
One of the interns, Bryce, said, “Terrorism?”
John shrugged. “Looks like it.” He glanced at Calvin Pope.
“Look. Just because your source called yesterday and said something was happening in Florence, doesn’t mean—”
John’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and noted the international extension.
Italy.
“John Broom.”
Instinctively, he put it on speaker. As he did so, Senator Singer Cavanaugh appeared from his office, wearing his bow tie and suspenders but no jacket.
“John! It’s Daria! The hotel attack—”
They heard a clatter and rumble but her words faded. Singer stepped into their midst. John said, “Daria? Hello? Hey, we’re watching it now. The Hotel Criterion. Is that the thing you—”
“They’re drones, John! Micro-drones!” She sounded out of breath. “Never seen anything like them. Hummingbirds for surveillance. Hawks have missiles and bullets! John, listen! They can track—”
The line went dead.
“Daria? Daria!”
John looked at the senator. The man looked grim but not overly emotional, as if his staff received such calls every day. He turned and barely gestured toward Clara, his longtime secretary. The elderly woman hobbled over without Singer having spoken and handed him a cell phone.
Calvin Pope whistled. “Is this for real? Micro-drones?”
John said, “There’s no such thing. On drawing boards, maybe. But not in the field. Not from any country.”
“Then what…?”
The senator spoke into the phone. “This is Senator Singer Cavanaugh. I need the White House chief of staff. Tell him it’s a national emergency.”
John’s phone rang. A different phone number displayed but with the same international prefix. He answered and kept it on speaker.
Daria Gibron shouted, “Bad guys are Serbs! Buyer in Belgrade! I’m going after them. There’s a man called Diego. He’s here, he’ll help! Ask the Viking!”
John said, “Daria? Can you find the U.S. embassy? Get there! Get inside! We’re sending—”
“John! The drones have my voice pattern and face recognition! They can track cell phones. I’m trying a land line! They’re … shit—!”
Everyone stood, eyes locked either on John’s phone or on the devastation appearing live on the two laptop computers.
Singer said, “Edward? It’s me. Need to speak to the president. Sorry: right now. It’s about this thing in Florence.”
Daria came back. “John! Find out who controls the drones! Get to Serbia! I can’t—”
The line died.
Eighteen
Thirty thousand feet above sea level
John Broom always felt it was worth the money to fly business class. The extra legroom made all the difference.
This made his journey from North Carolina to Bologna, Italy, a little out of the ordinary. He was traveling in the cargo hold of a Hercules C-130 transport, thanks to a favor from a man known as the Viking. His seat was a canvas cot that folded down from the bare metal concave hull. He wore jeans and new hiking boots and a fleece-lined Hebrew Union College hooded sweatshirt under a waterproof, winter-weight coat. It was still July outside the Hercules, but inside it was Santa’s workshop.
John had been lying on his side, his messenger bag turned into a pillow. He ached from the cold, and he hadn’t been able to doze for more than a few stolen minutes. He sat up and groaned. The cargo hold was forty feet long and jammed with crates. The crates were unmarked, which meant they were filled with contraband.
John muttered, “John the Smuggler.” His breath misted.
He peered through the frost-limned hatchway window. The sun was rising, lending a golden glow to the leading edge of the huge wing and both massive, barrel-shaped Allison T-56 turboprop engines.
He looked down. They were over land. John didn’t know which country, and he wasn’t sure which continent. Europe? Northern Africa?
He felt adrift. He had rarely been so out of his element.
It had been three days since anyone had heard from Daria Gibron.
Three days since a suspected terrorist organization (or organizations) had used highly sophisticated electronics to track Daria’s phone calls. They apparently had tracked her with both a cell phone and, later, a landline phone at a bookstore that subsequently was fired upon and set ablaze.
Daria was a gifted urban fighter. She knew how to run. She knew how to hide. If the enemy was tracking her, that meant they knew the number she had called. They knew John’s name.
John peered at his watch in the cargo hold’s gloom. It was two and a half days since the U.S. State Department had declared the attack on the Hotel Criterion a terrorist incident. It was, in the parlance of State, a Black Swan Event: unpredicted but with huge international repercussions. It was being likened to the terrorist attacks on Spain and London.
Two and a half days since the CIA had taken operational control of the investigation. Two days since Daria Gibron had been positively ID’d by a CCTV camera at a Bancomat ATM a block from the hotel. Two days since her presence had galvanized the anti–Daria Gibron contingent at Langley, effectively freezing out any hope of an independent investigation by the Senate-House Joint Intelligence Committee.
A day and a half since John Broom had contacted the international criminal known as the Viking.
A day since John had resigned from the staff of Senator Singer Cavanaugh.
John—cold, exhausted, unshaven, and thirty thousand feet over God knows where—was unemployed.
Belgrade, Serbia
Dragan Petrovic stood just inside the door to the office of the Serbian foreign minister. The office was opulent and warmly adorned with Swedish furniture and hunting prints. The desk was mammoth and boxy and currently empty of all paper. The wall behind the desk offered a cluster of framed diplomas and photographs of smiling children and a cherubic wife. The diplomas and children and wife weren’t his.
Dragan Petrovic jammed his thick fists into his trouser pockets and stood, feet shoulder-length apart, as he often had stood on the factory floor during his Community Party days, or when watching his paramilitary troops march past him during the war.
A soft rap on the doorframe behind him alerted him that he was not alone. Dragan turned at the waist, without moving his feet, to find Veljko Tadic, chief of staff to the prime minister, standing behind him.
“Veljko.”
The soft, slight, round man patted Dragan Petrovic on the shoulder. “Not the way I always envisioned you in this office.”
Dragan took a step to his right so the chief of staff could fully enter. Veljko did, but only half a step, and peered around the office as if it were a museum exhibition.
“Josef was a great man. A great foreign minister. He understood the nuances of the past.”
Dragan didn’t know what that meant. But he nodded.
“He was a personal friend, you know. Maria and I had him to the house several times. He and Alena came up to the lake with us last summer.”
Dragan did know all that. His intelligence assets were considerable.
Veljko Tadic sighed a second time. He always seemed to do everything in twos. Dragan expected a second comforting pat on the shoulder.
“The prime minister is grateful that you agreed to step up. More than grateful. Obviously, we can’t be without a foreign minister. Not now with the EU talks, and w
ith Greece spiraling into the abyss. There are the Turks, clamoring for more say in Europe. Stability, Dragan. Let that be our watchword now. Yes?”
Dragan intoned the word carefully. “Stability.”
The chief of staff seemed pleased. “I’ll let you get settled in, Mister Acting Foreign Minister.”
“Thank you. Tell the PM I’ll be at the Cabinet meeting. Three?”
Veljko Tadic checked his watch. “Three thirty, the way the PM’s day is running. But shoot for three if you can.”
He turned to exit, paused, and patted Dragan on the shoulder again.
Dragan let the man get five steps into the antechamber before speaking. “Veljko? What was Josef doing in Florence, meeting with Russian military?”
The chief of staff turned back and licked his thick lips. “Ah. Perhaps it would be best if the PM addresses that question?”
“Of course. Three o’clock.”
The chief of staff waddled out.
As soon as he was gone, Dragan closed the office door and pulled out his cell phone. He hit the number one.
“You’ve reached the offices of Skorpjo. We’re out plotting world domination and can’t come to the phone right now. But your call is important to us. If you leave a—”
“You find this amusing?”
Major Arcana laughed. “I find it a little amusing.”
He had no time for her humor. “The package is ready?”
“It’s here. It’s safe.”
“The Americans?”
She said, “They’ll play their part.”
“You’re sure?”
“The Americans are nothing if not predictable. Mister Foreign Minister.”
Dragan permitted himself a shallow, off-kilter smile. “Acting Foreign Minister.”
“Thank God someone’s acting. It’s what our country needs.”
Dragan ran a fingertip over the desktop. No dust. He could smell lemon polish. “I don’t for a minute believe you’re Serbian.”
She said, “Sure of that, are you?”
Dragan was not. Her accent was flawless. “Make the rendezvous.”