“We’re more than happy to have your guys handle it,” Kyle said. “We will just be along to assist the identification.”
As the plan had come together, General Middleton of Task Force Trident in Washington had put in a call to his counterpart with Einsatzgruppe (Task Force) TIGRIS in Switzerland. The existence of the special covert unit had been totally unknown to even the Swiss for many years. The press called them Supercops.
“Then let us go get some coffee and have a look at the bank plaza,” said Glamer, and they headed toward the bank. Glamer was one of the rare men who seemed unfazed by Lauren’s looks. Like Kyle, he looked like nothing was going on, but he was already hard at work, visually checking the dark shadows beneath the covered walkways. He led them to a little restaurant and, speaking German to the waitress, ordered some pastries and coffee.
“We have heard of you, Gunny Swanson. When this is over, I hope you will come out to the camp and talk to our sniper teams.”
Swanson raised his eyebrows. “I thought you guys might be hunting us.”
Glamer laughed softly. “That is old news. You and Agent Carson are no longer wanted by anyone for anything. You have not gone to the CIA with this?”
Lauren lifted the dainty cup of coffee and sipped. Strong, with a bite of liquor and an aroma that dazzled the senses. “I have an appointment to go meet with them at the American Legation and reestablish contact this evening. When I am satisfied about my reinstatement, I will advise them what is going on but insist that they stay out of your way. It will remain your operation, Commander Glamer.”
Kyle added a lump of sugar and stirred it in with a little spoon. “General Middleton thought it best to keep things unofficial to avoid any perception of a breach of neutrality. We consider this to be strictly an internal criminal matter for the Swiss to handle as they see fit. There are no American national interests involved, although the terrorist himself is an American.”
Glamer said, “I read his file. Former Marine and ex-CIA. And once a friend to you both.”
Lauren answered through gritted teeth. “Yes.”
Kyle put his own history out for the commander’s view. “He was even my instructor before he was my friend. I did not know what a crook he was until he retired and went rogue. Make no mistake, Commander Glamer, Jim Hall is still a dangerous man, a stone cold killer. Your people must take care.”
Glamer absently scratched an ear. “We have yet to have to fire a shot in any of the cases we have encountered and resolved. We will be prepared, of course, but it will be a nonlethal capture. How do you see things unfolding?”
Kyle pointed across the street, where a monolithic bank stood. It looked like a fortress at the far end of the narrow stone plaza. Traffic was minimal on the street that ran in front of it. “You scatter some people around outside, and Lauren will be in an overwatch position with them. I will be inside to confirm when he walks through the front door. You take him down.”
“When will this happen?”
“Soon. Maybe even tomorrow,” Kyle said, pushing away his coffee cup and saucer. “This is the last of his money, and it is at the one bank where he placed it beyond our reach, perhaps anticipating an emergency. He has about five million dollars in cash in their safe.”
“Did the bank tell you this?”
“No,” said Lauren. “I helped him stack it in there several years ago. It was left over from a covert project in Iraq and is in various currencies and denominations.”
Stefan Glamer’s face did not register any surprise. “Won’t he take it out by a banker’s draft or a certified check?”
“That is very doubtful,” she said. “We think he wants the money in his hands, so he will probably need help carrying it away. You should be prepared for several other men who would do the actual lifting.”
“Yes, of course.” The Supercop’s expression changed slightly. “It could be difficult if not handled properly.”
Kyle said, “Use overwhelming force, Commander. Jim Hall will fight to the death, and you will only get one chance to take him. Surprise must be total, and your men cannot hesitate to pull their triggers if necessary.”
Glamer wrote his private cell phone number on the back of a business card and put it on the table. Lauren wrote out a number for him. The TIGRIS commando rose and gave them a slight but rather Prussian bow. “We will stay in close touch, then, and if you do not hear from me, I shall meet you at this place tomorrow at noon. You have my permission to launch the mission. But, Gunny Swanson, you will not be permitted to carry a firearm. Understood?”
Kyle nodded. He waited until Glamer left the restaurant, then waved to the waitress and ordered another pot of coffee.
“Never fired a shot in any of their operations?” said Lauren. “Not good.”
“Maybe they are that good,” Kyle said. “Better be.” He dialed his cell phone and was connected over a secure link with Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman in the Pentagon.
“We’re on deck in the land of the cuckoo clock, and I’m looking at the bank,” Kyle Swanson said.
“Can you bring me back a real Swiss Army knife?”
“No. Tell the general that his friends over here are ready.”
“Or a nice watch. A Swiss military watch.”
“Lizard, shut down those other two accounts right now. Hear me?”
“Can’t do it, Gunny,” Freedman said, a little piqued, knowing his answer would guarantee that he was not going to be getting any presents. “We waited too long. Agent Hall beat us to the punch on them and wired the money out with encrypted transactions that he apparently had set up some time ago. They slipped through the net. About eight million total. Sorry about that.”
ISTANBUL
TURKEY
J IM H ALL WAS STAYING at the Four Seasons hotel in Istanbul, with a view of the Blue Mosque on the far side of the river. The assembly of dignitaries would be held at the Anadolu Auditorium of the Istanbul Convention and Exhibition Center, a world-class facility that could handle the international affair with ease in the center of the bustling city. Security was a standard item in such a place that was frequented by world leaders, and police would be out in force, inside and on the streets.
Even presidents have to sleep and walk around in their underwear sometime, and the chief executive would be staying overnight in one of the Palace Roof Suites of the Four Seasons on the European side of the Bosphorus Strait. The rest of the Pakistani delegation would share the other rooftop suites. Jim Hall was in a one-bedroom suite five stories below in the same hotel. Meetings of national leaders happened all the time, and in an elite hotel, they could be accommodated while regular paying guests would not be disturbed. It was almost too easy. Hall had already figured out three different ways to kill the man and successfully escape. Security off-site from the convention center was not much stronger than a team of rent-a-cops, and he also had an inside guy.
A million-dollar payday from the Taliban and head for the cabin, which was fully stocked and ready in the Bavarian Alps, where he would remain hidden until springtime, when he could shake off the snow and begin his new life. Jim Hall did not kid himself. He suddenly needed this money, badly, because Kyle Swanson, Lauren Carson, and that electronics geek at Trident had raped and pillaged his secret accounts. There was no sign that the CIA had helped, so he would still abide by the earlier deal to leave the Agency alone if they would leave him alone. Best deal he had ever made.
He had only three open accounts left-one in Havana under his French pseudonym, one in Sydney under a British identity, and his fail-safe stack of real money in a big vault in Bern. He had always believed in diversification, and if the authorities did not know of a bank account, then they could not hit it. Lauren knew some, but not all, of the locations. It was all a matter of timing now, careful planning, and he had laid it out carefully. Pull the trigger on the Paki dude, and only then transfer all of the remaining funds to Switzerland, to be put into cash into a separate vault that was already wai
ting for it. After the hit, he had reservations for Switzerland, where he would collect the cash and vanish.
The disturbing buzzing in his brain was Kyle Swanson, who would probably be figuring the same way and planning some way to turn it to his own advantage. That was why Jim Hall, at the same time he had hired the late Nicky Shaw, had also contacted a burly, bald German freelancer to organize some extra muscle and place a surveillance team in Bern. That was the best bet for Kyle to set an ambush.
Hall had taken dinner in his room, had a few drinks, and was watching the plasma TV screen as darkness came over the city that separates Europe from Asia. It was the German.
“We found them,” said the German. “Our watchers spotted them at the clock tower in the middle of town and took some pictures. I enhanced the images, and they match the photos you sent.”
Hall smiled to himself and made a vigorous yes pumping action with his right arm. “Both of them?”
“Yah. They met some civilian for coffee right across from the bank.”
“You have somebody on them now?”
“Yah.” The deep voice had a sinister rumble.
“Kill him. Take the girl. I have one more item of business to take care of tomorrow, but barring any unforeseen problems on this end, I will be there on schedule.” With Kyle dead and Lauren captured, the CIA still on the sidelines, what could go wrong? Checkmate, Swanson, ole buddy.
“Yah.”
46
ISLAMABAD
S ELIM W ALEED WAS SEATED on a silk-covered cushion, with his legs crossed, modestly basking in being so publicly displayed at his father’s right hand. The entire leadership of the Bright Path Party was gathered in a spacious room to officially launch the Taliban’s candidate for the presidency of Pakistan, and everyone was aware that it was the son who had engineered bringing his father to power.
Only a day earlier, Selim had been in the remote mountain hideaway of the legendary warlord Muhammed Waleed and had spoken the words that both men had wanted and had waited for so long to hear. “My father, it is time,” said the young man. “Allah, praise be unto him, has given us everything we have asked. You can now arise from the wildness of our mountains and move into the city to prepare for the final event.”
The older man paused, never one to act in haste. “You are certain of my safety?”
The son nodded and stroked his mustache lightly. “Absolutely. I would never put you at risk. I am in constant contact with our ally General Nawaz Zaman of the ISI, who assures me that all is ready. He has cast his lot with us in exchange for the promise that he will be appointed minister of defense in your new government, giving him control of the army. As the head of the secret police, he is even now starting to crack down on the political opposition. Our own men are assisting in the population centers throughout the country.”
A large white cloud that had drifted through the blue sky opened, as if in a heavenly sign, and sunshine flooded their home. Every window seemed to leap with the sudden illumination. Surely a sign from Allah! “The election is to be announced for next month?”
“Yes, Father. Not that it will matter. When the president is assassinated in Istanbul by Jim Hall, you will be the only candidate in position with a functioning and powerful political movement, and the backing of brokers such as General Zaman and the other tribal warlords. When the president falls, we-you, Father!-will step forward and assume the leadership. The public will demand that it be so because of the destruction in Islamabad by our bomb and the killing of the president. You will be the only one who can bring stability. The election will become a mere formality. Once in power, you will never surrender it.”
So they came out of the mountains, surrounded by a ragged convoy of media vehicles that shielded them from the Americans’ hungry Predator drones and missiles. The caravan grew ever larger as it drove through the villages, trucks and automobiles and tractors, and they arrived in Islamabad as if leading a parade. Crowds jostled along the streets for a view of the famous guerrilla leader who would bring Pakistan back to its rightful position in the community of nations. Then, with his hand on Pakistan’s nuclear missiles, silent but ominous for now, he would have a guarantee that other countries would listen to him.
In the meeting room, the bearded leader was greeted as if he had already taken office. In his humble robes, he moved with ease among the rich supporters, the experienced political teams, and the powerful men who recognized the wave of the future and were clambering aboard his golden train. The conference was called to order by none other than General Nazam, who pledged his loyalty and spoke in glowing terms of young Selim Waleed, hailing him as a patriotic young man who had almost single-handedly transformed the Taliban into a legitimate political organization, the Bright Path Party, with the respected Muhammed Waleed as its presidential candidate.
The general hugged the smiling, bearded warlord as the international film crews buzzed around them. The audience erupted in sustained applause that shook the squares of the soundproofed ceiling. As arranged by Selim, General Nawaz then quietly departed from the platform and left the room so as not to distract any further from the attention being lavished upon Muhammed Waleed. Also on Selim’s instructions, the general was handling a final task of weakening the president’s personal protective services for the Istanbul conference by infiltrating men loyal to him into the inner security ranks. There was much work to do.
General Nawaz was back behind his desk within fifteen minutes, and he immediately placed a scrambled, secure call overseas. When a voice answered, Nawaz asked, “Football?”
“Soccer! Good to hear from you.” CIA Director Geneen was in a sealed communication cubicle adjacent to his office. He had been expecting the call.
“And you. By any chance are you watching television?”
“Why, yes, I am. One of the news channels.”
“Hold on for a second, would you, Football? I have to make another call. Will only take a moment.” General Nazam pulled open the right-hand drawer of his polished desk and picked up a cell phone. He dialed. The signal was received by a little phone, and the battery sparked a detonator embedded in blocks of plastic explosives that were hidden in the false ceiling directly above the speaker’s platform at the headquarters of the Bright Path Party just as Muhammed Waleed was making his acceptance address.
The general strolled to his large window and looked out over the city and saw a mushrooming cloud of smoke and debris rising into the afternoon sky. He went back to the phone. “Football? I fear that something terrible has happened that will be requiring my attention. It seems to be a car bomb or some such thing.”
“Yes, Soccer. I understand that you must tend to your duties.”
“Oh, before we go, I also mentioned our friend Jim Hall to the Turkish police handling the security for our president’s appearance tomorrow. They will deal with it. No trace of your company’s involvement.”
“Best of luck, my friend.”
Both men hung up at the same time. Waleed went back to his window to watch and heard the first sirens of the emergency responders heading toward the scene. In the United States, Bart Geneen made no notes about the brief conversation. He just smiled.
ISTANBUL
TURKEY
J IM H ALL ALSO HAD been watching an all-news channel on television while building a bomb of his own. Wires, battery, detonator, and four powerful blocks of C-4 imbedded with hundreds of marbles were being fashioned into a makeshift claymore mine that he would place at the head of the president’s bed. A pressure switch would be stuffed into the mattress, and when the man lay down to sleep, the circuit would snap shut and the explosion would result. One of Selim’s henchmen on the security team was to allow him entrance to the room. He worked slowly and carefully.
The irritating little news banner crawling along the bottom of the CNN broadcast caught his attention.
NEW EXPLOSION ROCKS PAKISTAN… ISTANBUL POLITICAL MEETING TARGET… POLICE CLAIM TALIBAN LEADERSHIP KILLED… NEW EXPLOSI
ON ROCKS PAKISTAN
Ten minutes later, a Turkish tactical police antiterrorist team rushed into the Four Seasons Hotel in Istanbul, sealed off an entire floor, and breached the door to a small suite. The bed was covered with the makings of a bomb, and explosives experts moved in to secure it.
Jim Hall was gone.
BERN
SWITZERLAND
K YLE AND L AUREN HAD spent much of the afternoon resting and making love in their hotel room and now lay beneath the light duvet. They had fallen asleep with her head on his arm and her free hand resting on his chest, registering his strong heartbeat. It was a struggle to come awake again and hit the shower, but Lauren’s appointment was at seven o’clock for dinner with the CIA assistant station chief who was driving in from Zurich to reinstate her to duty and return her credentials. Basically, the man was apologizing for the CIA’s hurried investigation, which had leaped to an incorrect conclusion about Agent Carson. Those words would never be spoken.
“What are you going to do while I’m at dinner?” she asked, clipping on a new set of earrings that she had bought earlier that day. Little silver bears.
“I’m going to do some more walking around, try to get a better feel for the area around the bank and check out how things look when it gets dark.”
“You never stop, do you?” She gave him a bright smile. “The Swiss Gestapo or Cheesemakers or whoever they are will handle this now, Kyle. We’re done except for pointing a finger at Jim when we see him tomorrow.”
An Act of Treason Page 27