She doodled some notes to herself on a little pad she’d bought from a street vendor and then flipped it shut when the waiter approached to ask whether she wanted anything else. She shook her head and asked for the bill. When he departed, she studied the building and its neighbors one last time, then slipped the opera glasses back into her purse. Jet had a couple of ideas that could work. As she well knew, there was no such thing as a completely secure location, regardless of how much was spent to render it so. She’d spent her career slipping past supposedly impenetrable security, so the building actually only posed an intellectual challenge for her, nothing more. That she would get in was a given. The only question was how.
Back at her hotel she pulled up all of the information Alan had given her and studied the building blueprints, taking her time, skipping lunch in favor of memorizing the layout. Mid-afternoon she spotted the weakness.
It was so simple.
And all it would require was tremendous skill, nerves of steel, the physique of a triathlete, and a modicum of luck. Plus the cooperation of the weather. Rain or high winds would be disastrous, so she would need a clear, calm night.
She got online, checked the forecast, and confirmed that the next two days would be relatively warm and dry, with no more than a light breeze. As she thought through the kernel of a plan that was beginning to form, she grew more excited.
It could work.
No, with a little preparation and refinement, it would work.
She’d see to that.
~ ~ ~
When Jet walked through the glass entry doors into the lobby of the Moscow Hilton, Alan was waiting for her on one of the sofas. He stood as she approached him, looking dashing in olive slacks and a pale blue dress shirt, and she spontaneously threw her arms around him and kissed him in welcome. He kissed back, and after a brief eternity she pulled away, leading him to the restaurant by the hand.
“I’d say get a room, but we already have one...” she said with a smile. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him until he’d stood to greet her.
“Good point, as usual. You hungry?”
“Very. What’s the latest?” she asked as the hostess showed them to a dimly lit corner table.
“Nothing earth-shattering. Just beat after traveling all day. What a pain, as you know.”
“I hope when I fly out of here that it’ll be the last time I ever see Sheremetyevo Airport. I mean it,” Jet said.
“Still not a big fan of the Russian people, I see.”
“I’d say I’m definitely biased. Something about how whenever someone shows up to kill me they’re Russian has made it hard to love them, you know?”
“Hmm. I kind of see what you mean. Now tell me about your day. Any breakthroughs?” Alan asked.
She was just getting ready to tell him about her idea for penetrating Grigenko’s building when his cell phone jangled.
“Hang on. I need to take this,” he said, looking at the display.
He answered, and then after a few seconds held up a finger and stood, moving back through the restaurant towards the lobby. The waiter brought them menus, and she skimmed hers as she waited for Alan’s return.
When he sat down, he looked like he had been sucker-punched. “I’m sorry. I have to go. Right now. Grab my bag and head to the airport. If I can get to Germany I can get a plane across the Atlantic late tonight.”
“What? The Atlantic? What’s going on?”
He looked around. “That was the director. The Mossad got a tip that Saif al-Diin is going to be in Los Angeles tomorrow evening to release the bio-agent,” he whispered.
She digested the news, then frowned. “That’s impossible. We saw the explosion. Nobody could have survived that.”
“Agreed. He must have slipped out the back while we were shooting up the front. Either that, or he had a tunnel.”
“They didn’t find a tunnel, did they?”
“No, so the likeliest is that he was running out one side while we were fighting his gunmen on the other,” he explained.
She shook her head. “Why would someone tip the Mossad and not the U.S.? That makes no sense.”
“Apparently because the tipper is afraid that the Americans will either leak the information or will screw it up, and then he’ll just move to a different target.”
“What the hell are you supposed to do? Los Angeles is huge. Were there any specifics?”
“Not that I know of. But he wants me in the air. Now. The tipper said he’d call tomorrow with detailed information on where he plans to strike.” Alan stood, and Jet rose with him.
“So you’re serious.”
“Absolutely. I have no choice. But I already touched base with my contact here, and he’s sourcing the list of weapons you sent me. Will that be enough?”
“It should be.” Jet clearly wasn’t happy.
He looked at his watch and shrugged, then stood. She pushed back from the table and rose as well.
“I have to go. I’ll call you on the way to the airport. I’m sorry...”
“No need to apologize. I know the game. Besides, you probably would have just slowed me down, anyway,” she said, and then tiptoed to kiss him again. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I have a sneaking suspicion that I do, and I hate to go, but I should have been walking out the door sixty seconds ago. I...I know this sounds dumb, but can I take another rain check?”
“Get out of here. Go. And be careful. I don’t like the sound of any of this. Anonymous tips scare me. How do you even know if there’s any validity to it, and it’s not a trap of some kind? Doesn’t this strike you as extremely odd?”
“Everything does these days. But it’s not like I can argue. The director ordered me to go to Los Angeles, so that’s where I’m headed.” He froze. “Shit. How are you going to get Grigenko? I got so caught up in this...”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of him without you here. I actually think I’ve got the perfect plan.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “You do?”
“Sure. But before you go, tell me. Any ideas on where I can get a blow torch around here?”
Chapter 35
Alan passed through customs at Los Angeles International Airport without any problems, thanks to his Israeli diplomatic passport, and was met by Jeffrey, one of the attachés at the consulate – a popular cover for members of intelligence services all over the world. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then walked silently to his vehicle, a non-descript gray American sedan.
Once they were out of the parking structure, Alan used his satellite phone and called the director to find out the latest developments while he had been in the air.
“We got the second call. Traced it to California, but it was too fast – we couldn’t get it any more precise. It’s going to be tonight, in just a few hours. At a large indoor sports arena in downtown Los Angeles. The caller said that al-Diin will be dressed as a maintenance man. There’s an ice skating competition that’s being televised on national TV – lots of children and old people in the crowd. This guy is one sick bastard. The outrage will be...I don’t have to tell you.” The director proceeded to fill him in on the details. Alan looked at his watch. He had three hours.
When he hung up he stretched his arms over his head, trying to work out the kinks in his neck from sitting on airplanes for almost twenty hours, and stared out the window at the smog layer hanging over LA. They stopped at an intersection leading to the freeway, which was gridlocked from early rush hour, and Alan turned to Jeffrey.
“I’ll need a gun, and a few other items on short notice. An LAPD badge and ID. Would the consulate have something like that lying around?”
Jeffrey grinned humorlessly. “We’re in the land of guns, so that isn’t a problem. As to the badge...I think we can help you. Let me make a call. Anything else?”
Alan told him, and he nodded and raised a cell phone to his ear, in violation of the law prohibiting using one while dri
ving, and began speaking in a soft voice.
~ ~ ~
The sidewalk outside the sports arena was thronged with mothers and their little girls, aspiring skaters in their Sunday best there to see some of the marquée names take to the ice. Television crews in vans sat munching sandwiches in preparation for the show to begin – the event was being televised across the country on sports channels and a few specialty channels, but the work for the grips that moved the cameras and hardware into the huge venue was done until the show was over. Most of the fourteen thousand attendees were already inside, anxiously awaiting the start of the traveling pseudo-competition that showcased the talents of the Winter Olympic medalists past and present. Capacity of the arena was almost twenty thousand, but a significant number of ticket holders had canceled their plans after the terror scare, despite the oft-repeated counsel from the government to keep behaving as though the situation was normal, or the terrorists had already won.
A maintenance technician shouldered past the line of little girls holding hands with their moms and approached the trade entrance, where a couple of bored LAPD officers in uniform were standing talking to four security guards, all off-duty policemen hired for crowd control – about the cushiest job you could get, given that ice skating shows weren’t the kind of sporting event where the crowd rioted after their favorite lost.
The maintenance man flashed a laminated card suspended around his neck on a lanyard at the men, who waved him through with hardly a glance, his age and uniform placing him in the lowest of possible threat profiles. He shambled past the guards and then was inside, toting his large toolkit as he headed for the bowels of the mammoth enclosed stadium.
He had hoped to be able to get into a more visible venue, like JFK Airport in New York, or perhaps Grand Central Station, but the risks were too great – those were natural target assumptions for the authorities, and they were crawling with security forces after his two videos. Still, the horrific death of almost fifteen thousand, on national television, would get more than enough attention, especially as the crowd moved as one for the exits when the symptoms began hitting three quarters of the way through the show.
By that time, he would be on the road, halfway to Palm Springs, well away from the nightmare that would follow his actions. The fallout would be extraordinary, unlike anything ever seen, and he allowed himself a small smile on his newly shaved and bleach cream-lightened face. Even if they had distributed photos of him, those would have shown a dour man with a heavy beard, as unlike the maintenance man as anything could be.
Two janitors approached him from the opposite direction and one of them nodded at him, offering a whassup in passing – some sort of traditional American greeting, apparently. Saif al-Diin, the Sword of the Faith, grinned back at the man like an addled moron and continued on his way, his heavy work boots clumping down the ramp to the lower level and the equipment rooms.
A red steel door marked For service personnel only yielded a concrete stairwell that went down one additional level, and al-Diin paused before he opened it, glancing around to ensure that he wasn’t being watched. Satisfied that nobody was paying any attention, he eased it open and slipped onto the landing before descending to the rooms that were his ultimate destination.
Music from the ice rink above echoed through the long winding corridor of the basement level, barely audible over the muted roar of the massive generators that powered the refrigeration equipment that kept the stadium floor frozen. He took another quick look at his phone screen and counted doors until he arrived at the one that was his target. Yellow paint on the red door proclaimed ventilation – restricted access in six-inch high yellow block letters. He tried the handle but it was locked, which he was prepared for. He felt in the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a key that had been provided by one of his American compatriots, a true believer who had been working at the center for months in preparation for this glorious day – the day that everything changed for America and, ultimately, for the Middle East.
The key slid into the lock and he turned the lever, the door squeaking as he stepped inside the large room, machinery and large pumps mounted on concrete bases vibrating as they thrummed. At the far end giant fans powered the air up into the arena, massive filters cleaning it as it was re-circulated and mixed with fresh air sucked in from outside through ducts.
When he’d questioned the Russian worm about the best delivery system, al-Diin had been particularly interested in a scenario like the one he now faced, where he had a single canister that he could position to flood the stadium with the lethal agent. The disbursal through the ventilation system would ensure that everyone in the hall was exposed within ten to fifteen minutes maximum, although the Russian had felt that the job would be done within five.
He studied the endless rows of ten-foot-high pump assemblies and saw the area he was looking for – a row of huge fans that were driving the air up into the coliseum. He moved to the center one and kneeled, then opened the tool box and extracted the blue canister, disguised as an aerosol can of solvent. Deft fingers removed the top and then screwed it into the female end of a valve assembly. After checking to make sure it was tight, he reached into the toolbox, lifted out the false bottom, and extracted a compact silenced pistol and a device the Russian had provided – a small regulator that operated on a digital timer, which would release the canister contents when the timer reached zero. He stuck the gun into his belt and then carefully threaded the regulator onto the valve assembly, twisting it to ensure it was secure.
After studying the fan lineup for a moment, he stepped up onto the concrete curb and placed the device behind the metal cowling that protected the center fan’s whirring blades, and as he’d practiced numerous times when testing the timer, punched in a series of numbers. Peering at the little LED readout, he nodded and then flipped the red switch that would activate it. The timer began counting down, and he stood and turned, moving hurriedly to the tool box and closing it before picking it up and trotting for the door.
He was fifteen feet away from it when the handle rattled as someone tried the lock, and then the metal by the door jamb exploded inward as three bullets destroyed the latch. He ducked behind some machinery just as the door slammed inward from a kick, and a tall blond man in a charcoal blazer and black slacks stepped into the room, holding a pistol.
Alan’s grip on the weapon was unwavering. He swung around, searching for a target, then walked slowly to the fans. Halfway there a voice called from behind one of the large pumps.
“Stop where you are, and slowly, carefully, put the gun on the floor.”
Alan froze and debated his next move, but then the voice spoke again.
“I have a gun on you. Either do as I say, or I shoot you in the back.”
Alan slowly kneeled and placed his weapon on the floor, then held his hands above his head.
Al-Diin stepped out from behind the pump, his small pistol trained on Alan. “Turn around.”
Alan did as instructed.
“Who are you?” the terrorist demanded in accented English.
“What do you care?” Alan asked in fluent Arabic.
“I asked you a question. Who do you work for?” He raised the pistol, waving it at him for emphasis. “Who are you? You aren’t Homeland Security. No. Not American.” His eyes widened. “Could it be...Mossad?”
Alan didn’t respond to the question.
“You have no concept what you’re dealing with, do you?” the terrorist asked, more statement than question. “You think you’re saving Israel, and the world, from terrorism, right? Fool. You know nothing.”
“I know enough to have this building filled with agents. You’ll never get away with this.”
“Perhaps. But my guess is that you haven’t told the Americans anything, am I right?”
Alan’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent.
“Ah. As I thought. If you had, I would have heard about it.” Al-Diin regarded Alan’s look of surprise. “That’s right,
you cretin. You have no idea what you’re involved in. No idea.” He shook his head in disgust. “I would have heard because I’m working for the Americans.”
“What?”
“Yes, I thought that would get your attention. I suppose it doesn’t matter, because I will have to shoot you anyway. But this isn’t about anything you think it is. You think I’m some rogue terrorist, eh? You’re an idiot, and your masters are fools. You are pawns in a much larger game than anything you realize,” al-Diin hissed.
Alan calculated how many steps it would take to reach the terrorist.
“Don’t even think it. Everyone in this building is already dead. You. Everyone here. The agent will disburse in a few minutes, and the awaited terrorist strike will have taken place. But you don’t know why, do you? Of course not. You’re too busy believing that it’s all about you. So what do you have to say to that – that I work for the Americans?”
“I don’t believe you work for the government.”
“Oh, maybe not the government, but the power behind it, certainly. You really don’t have a clue. I’ll give you a hint. It’s all about Iran.”
“What is this, some fantasy about oil? I can read that all over the internet. You’re lying,” Alan ventured.
“Not oil. Money. The dollar.”
“What about it?”
“Iran is dangerous, but not the way you think. It means to stop trading in dollars for oil. It’s pushing for a gold-backed dinar. If that happens, the dollar is doomed, and the American bankers will lose all the power they accumulated after World War II, when the dollar became the world’s reserve currency – and oil began trading in dollars.”
“Wait. So all this is to justify overthrowing the Iranian government?”
“It’s bigger than that, but you have the right idea. There were two other countries in the Middle East that had national central banks that weren’t owned by the private bankers behind the Federal Reserve. They too wanted a gold-backed dinar for their oil. Both have been overthrown: Iraq and Libya. Iran is the only one left.” Al-Diin spat on the floor by his feet and gestured with the pistol. “It may be about oil, but what it’s really about is protecting American power, and its currency, at all costs. America can’t invade Iran as things are. Claims about its nuclear development are too easily proved false by international inspections, which is what Iran is pushing for. American claims about it developing nuclear capability are viewed as more suspect than the claims about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. But if there’s an Iranian-sponsored terrorist attack... Iran falls, a puppet government is installed, and the demands for a gold-backed currency for oil stop.”
Jet 03: Vengeance Page 22