Still her feet did not propel her out of the tent toward the cave. She felt the weight in her hands dragging her down. She considered carrying the warhead outside and sitting down on top of it to wait. She wouldn’t feel a thing when the machine gun bullets struck her. Existence would simply end. Death was not always the worst tragedy. The bomb would be discovered and whisked to safety. Her last act would be seen as having spared thousands of lives and forestalling untold misery.
Then she thought of the crimes committed against her, the individuals who had perpetrated them, and what they would do to others. She thought about Balfour and the money he owed her. Finally she thought about herself and the future.
With a grunt, she lifted the weapon and carried it through the snow toward the safety of the cave. She couldn’t help but look at the sky. The helicopters were so close she could feel the concussion of their rotors.
39
The Grand Hotel Park sat on a wooded knoll, a giant’s chalet built of dark pine with fairy lights dancing below its eaves and loaves of snow weighing down the roof. The Park was another of Gstaad’s five-star ultra-luxe hostelries. The nouveaux riches chose the Palace. The filthy rich chose the Park.
“You’re certain he’s alone?” Danni sat in the passenger seat of the van, staring at the hotel’s festive facade. “I don’t want any surprises.”
Marcus von Daniken handed her a copy of the registration form. “Dr. Michel Revy. Party of one. No wife. No consort. No dog.”
Danni pulled a black sweater over her dress and exchanged her heels for crepe-soled shoes. “You’re sure it will hold?” she said, slipping on a pair of climbing gloves.
Von Daniken shot her a glance.
A last flurry of activity as Danni tucked her hair beneath a watch cap. “Wait here.”
“I’m a policeman, not a taxi service.”
“Do as you’re told, Marcus. There’s a good boy.”
Without another word she climbed out of the van and ran through the woods toward the hotel. Security at luxury establishments was stringent. With only ninety-nine rooms, the Park’s clientele was not large. Staff members were trained to recognize their guests. Danni couldn’t risk being questioned.
Reaching the south side of the building, she grasped a drainpipe and gave it a tug for good measure. Solid. This was Switzerland. No doubt there was a federally licensed drainpipe inspector. She climbed to the first floor. There was no terrace, just a large twin window overlooking the forest. Von Daniken had promised it would be unlocked. Wedging a foot between the pipe and the building, she leaned to her right and slipped the blade of her work knife into the seam. The window swung open. With the grace of a gymnast, she reached a foot to the sill, then a hand, and a moment later she was standing safely inside the hotel.
“There are no cameras in the guest halls,” von Daniken had told her. “The clients like their privacy. But watch out for the cleaning staff. They’re like hawks.”
Danni found the emergency staircase and ran up two flights to the third floor. She ducked her head into the hall and observed that it was empty. Room 333 was a corner suite. She walked briskly to the door. Voices echoed in the hall behind her. Guests? Maids? She kept her head down and slid the card key through the reader. A woman laughed drunkenly. Guests-maids didn’t drink. The door opened and Danni stepped inside.
From her fanny pack she took a penlight and commenced a survey of Revy’s quarters. Turn-down service had been completed. A terrycloth robe lay on the plump duvet, a pair of slippers on the floor below it. Instead of a chocolate on the pillow, there was a trio of miniature pastries on the nightstand. Classical music played softly. She moved from dresser to closet to desk, searching for papers and personal documents. A laptop sat open on the desk. She hit Enter. The screen blazed to life, and she noted that the computer was connected to the Internet.
A check of the browsing history showed that Revy had been perusing the society pages for background information on his guests. Every man a spy, she thought. She continued past addresses for online poker, the Bellagio Hotel sports book, and English off-track wagering, stopping when she saw instructions for Web searches on “Ashok Armitraj” and “Lord Balfour” and “tourist risk in Pakistan.”
The last address was for Emirates Airlines.
Double-click.
A reservation for Dr. M. Revy from Zurich to Dubai. First class, seat 2A. Onward connection via Pakistan International Airlines to Islamabad. She memorized the details as her heart beat faster and a voice protested inside her head. Too soon.
Danni exited from the browser and surveyed the desktop screen. In the search window, she typed “Balfour Armitraj.” A list of files appeared, including one titled “Armitraj Medical History.” Slipping a flash drive into the laptop, she copied all files relating to the Indian arms merchant. She wasn’t done with Revy’s laptop yet.
The transfer completed, she opened a spyware program called Remora. Remora was the real reason for her late-night visit. Like the fish it was named after, Remora latched on to its host and followed it wherever it went. In this case, that meant piggybacking Revy’s every use of the computer-word processing, Web browsing, and, most important, e-mail-and transmitting the information via the computer’s wireless hardware to Division. Each time he wrote a letter or consulted a document, a record of the changes he made would travel to Washington. Each time he logged on to the Internet, Connor would know what sites he visited and for how long. Every time the good doctor wrote or received an e-mail, Connor would know that, too.
The program downloaded in ten seconds, and ten seconds after that, Danni ejected the flash drive and slipped it into her pocket.
She stood for a moment, listening. The hotel was as quiet as the grave. She checked her watch. She needed to hurry.
There was one paper she’d yet to find.
Danni returned to the closet and went through Revy’s jackets and pants. Nothing. She checked behind the bathroom door. Again nothing. She discovered his briefcase beneath the bed. She slid it toward her and defeated the spring locks without difficulty. The briefcase was filled with papers, files, and brochures, all arranged neatly. Revy’s passport peeked from a pocket. She slipped it out and laid it on the floor, open to the personal information page. She attached a biometric scanner to the power slot of her phone and ran the passport’s security strip through it, stealing Revy’s vital data, a nifty little trick known as “cloning.” Page by page, she photographed all the immigration stamps. Finished, she turned to the papers and files in the briefcase and reviewed them methodically as the clock ticked in her mind.
She found what she was looking for in a manila folder marked with a crisp white label: “Pakistan: Travel Documents.” Inside was a tourist visa with one passport-sized photograph attached. She slid it into her pocket.
She replaced the briefcase and stood, checking to make sure that she’d left no trace of her visit. Satisfied that the room was exactly as she’d found it, she went to the door and peered through the spyglass. The corridor was empty.
Three minutes later she was sitting next to von Daniken as he drove the van down the hill.
“Trouble,” she said.
“What is it?”
“He’s leaving sooner than we expected.”
“When?”
Danni told him and von Daniken frowned, understanding the problem instantly. “Is Ransom ready?” he asked, with skepticism.
Danni shrugged and gave him a look that professionals understood the world over. It said that there was never enough time for training. “Right now he needs a Swiss passport,” she said, handing him Revy’s Pakistani visa. “Schnell.”
“Einverstanden,” said von Daniken.
Understood.
40
The CH-47 Chinook helicopters navigated the narrow mountain corridor with difficulty, advancing side by side through snow and clouds like two lost brothers. Visibility was down to thirty meters, with intermittent whiteout. Traveling at a forward ground speed of 1
80 knots, the pilots were essentially flying blind. Night-vision goggles did not help. The pilots relied on their instruments and their training, and hoped to God that there was an angel on their shoulders.
Captain Kyle Crockett sat alongside the crew chief, his eyes glued to a monitor showing a view of the ground below as translated by the infrared cameras situated beneath the helicopter’s nose. A second screen displayed a detailed topographic map of the same area, with an icon indicating their current position.
The pilot spoke in Crockett’s headphones. “We’re passing over the coordinates where the bad guys were spotted this morning. See anything?”
“Nothing,” said Crockett, staring at a field of black.
The chopper hit an air pocket and dropped ten meters in a millisecond, jarring the Marines sitting on their rucksacks and sending Crockett’s stomach into the roof of his mouth.
“Weather’s getting ugly,” said the pilot. “I can give you twenty minutes on-site, then we’re out of here. Landing is out of the question. You spot the enemy combatants. We’ve got to take them out from the air.”
Crockett consulted the map. The valley below ran in a northerly direction for another ten klicks, then split into two branches, one running east toward the Afghan border, the other west into Pakistan. “Stay on this bearing, then follow the valley to the east,” he said. “If they’re heading into our neck of the woods, that’s their best route.”
Crockett wrapped his fingers around the cargo netting as the helicopter banked to the left. For ten minutes he stared at the black screen, his heart jumping at the slightest flash of color. Never once did he see anything that resembled a human being, or any other living creature for that matter. It was a wasteland on top of the world.
“End of the line,” radioed the pilot. “We’ve got some monster peaks blocking our way. Ready to go home?”
“Negative,” said Crockett. “Try the other valley. They can’t have gotten far in this storm.”
“Ten minutes, captain.”
“Roger that.”
The helicopter banked hard to port as it executed a 180-degree turn. Simultaneously, a strenuous crosswind took the chopper in its grip and threw it violently up and down. Crockett clenched his stomach. He felt like a fly in a jam jar. Worse than the turbulence was the ungodly noise. The turbine engines shrieked as they fought to maintain lift in the thin air, while the fuselage groaned in accompaniment. A helmet got loose and rolled across the cabin. His men were battle-tested and airworthy, but none had experienced a ride like this. Several of his operators had already tossed their cookies. The cabin reeked of vomit and nerves. Going down in a helo was a Marine’s worst nightmare. Crockett watched his gunnery sergeant buckle and let go into his barf bag.
“You okay, gunny?”
“Fuckin’ A. Got to love it.”
“Hoo-yah,” said Crockett. “I’m gonna extend my tour as soon as we land.”
“Right behind you, cap. I can’t get enough of this shit. Semper Fucked.”
The CH-47 flattened out and commenced its run up the neighboring valley. Crockett leaned closer to the monitor, as if by sheer will he could force a heat signature to appear. The topographic map indicated they were overflying an icefall before traversing a relatively flat stretch of ground.
A red speck lit on the screen, indicating a heat signature.
Crockett’s heart jumped.
“North by northwest,” he radioed the pilot, his voice dead calm. “Give me all you got.”
“Ramming speed,” said the pilot, as he increased the flight speed to 220 knots per hour. “You find our bad guys?”
“Too soon to tell.”
Crockett didn’t blink as the dot grew larger, and before long it was the size of a peanut. He noted that the shape was moving, but he was too far away to know if it was a human or an animal. The shape grew larger, and he was guessing it was one of their high-value individuals. God knew what manner of beast would be out in this weather.
And then the dot disappeared.
“What the-?” Crockett turned to his chief. “Did you see that?”
The chief shrugged. “Gone.”
“What’s our distance?”
“Two klicks.”
Crockett relayed the coordinates where he’d last seen the heat signature to the pilot. “Take me down low.”
Sixty seconds later the Chinook was hovering over the position.
“I got nothing,” said the chief, scanning his monitor.
“Hit the lights,” said Crockett.
“You sure?” The captain’s concern was merited. Illuminating the five-thousand watt searchlight would be akin to painting a bull’s-eye on the Chinook and inviting any enemy combatants in the area to take a shot. Hovering at a standstill thirty meters above the ground, the helicopters would have no time to evade even the most rudimentary shoulder-launched missile.
“We didn’t come this far to go home empty-handed.”
“Your call.” The pilot radioed his intention to the second chopper, allowing it time to climb three hundred meters. “Lights, camera, action,” he said.
A circle of light fell from the helicopter. The rotor wash combined with the storm’s swirling winds to raise a blinding eddy. Even this low, Crockett had difficulty glimpsing the ground.
“Take her up a little.”
The helicopter rose swiftly. The eddies died down, leaving only the falling snow to contend with. Then he saw it: a corner of pale fabric flapping madly in the wind. Looking closer, he made out the form of a large rectangular tent.
“Any warm bodies in there?” he asked the chief.
“Negative. No one’s down there, unless they’re dead.”
“Drop an abseil line.”
The crew chief tapped the exterior temperature readout. “Minus twenty Celsius without wind chill. You sure?”
Crockett nodded.
“This is gonna hurt.” The crew chief opened the sliding door, and a torrent of subfreezing air invaded the cabin. He positioned the winch assembly out the door and attached a rope. “You’re good to go, sir.”
Crockett slung his M4 over his shoulder, wrapped his feet around the rope, took hold with gloved hands, and slid to the ground.
Ten steps took him to the tent. He pushed aside the flap with the barrel of his rifle. He scanned the area, taking in the floodlights, the pickaxes, the ditch, and the cruise missile. He placed a hand on the nearest lamp and noted that it was still warm. In an instant he registered what had taken place.
Laying down his weapon, he jumped into the pit and ran his hand along the missile. His eye quickly found the yellow-and-black symbol for radioactivity. He was a ground-pounder and proud of it; all the same, he knew what he was looking at. A motherfuckin’ nuke. Sliding under the missile, he gazed up at the empty belly. The payload was missing.
Crockett left the tent and observed where the snow had been disturbed. He spotted a boot print sunk deep into the snow and another a few meters along.
“Time to exfil,” said the pilot in his earpiece. “We’re running low on fuel.”
“No way. These guys are here. They’re close.”
“Two minutes, then we’re leaving. Your choice.”
Crockett followed the tracks a short way and stopped. The wind howled, buffeting him and making it difficult to stand upright. The topographical map indicated his position to be on the lower slope of the mountain, but visibility was so limited he was unable to see more than ten paces in any direction. He considered ordering his men to the ground to commence a search. He was certain that the bad guys could not be far away. If they were in possession of what he thought, they could not be allowed to escape the area.
Multiple factors weighed against a search: lack of fuel and oxygen, deteriorating weather, unfamiliarity with the terrain, and finally uncertainty about the enemy. He had no idea how many combatants might be near or how heavily they were armed. For all he knew, he might be leading his men on a wild goose chase or straight into an a
mbush.
Against that, he considered the prospect of interdicting a terrorist cell in possession of a WMD.
“That’s it, captain,” said the pilot. “Time’s up. Shit or get off the pot.”
The decision came more easily than Crockett expected. In the end, it was too dangerous. He couldn’t risk the lives of fourteen men or the downing of the two Chinooks.
“I’m on my way,” he said. “Just got to snap some pics for the record. The boys in D.C. are going to want to see this. Mark these coordinates and call for another team to get up here ASAP.”
Crockett hustled back into the tent and began firing off pictures with his digital camera. He concentrated on the missile itself, and was sure to get close-ups of the serial numbers on the tail and the belly. Finally he crawled back into the ditch and lay on his back staring into the guts of the missile.
Inside, pressed to the wall, was a square packet the size of a pack of cigarettes wrapped in green plastic. A slim aluminum baton was inserted into the packet, with wires running to an LCD timer. He’d worked with similar devices before and knew at once what he was looking at, and that he was in danger. He hit his helmet light and twisted his head to read the display.
The numbers on the LCD timer attached to the half-kilo charge of C4 plastic explosives read 0:00:06.
Six seconds.
“Evac immediately,” he radioed the pilot, amazed at how calm his voice sounded. “I’m fucked.”
Captain Kyle Crockett did not try to get away. Eyes open, he watched the timer count down to zero. There was a flash, then darkness.
He felt nothing.
41
Frank Connor took the news stoically and, except for a sudden and nearly unnoticed grimace, with no outward show of emotion. He was a veteran of too many campaigns to fear that all was lost. One battle did not a war win- or lose. Sitting in his office, Peter Erskine at his side, he listened dispassionately as the helicopter crew chief relayed the facts of the failed mission.
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