The TV screen went dark. Ibrahim stood up on the bar stool, reached up to the TV and turned it off.
“You better lie low, my friend,” Trace said. “Being a Syrian or, now, an Israeli won’t help you in this climate. I assume you didn’t register?”
“Of course I did,” Ibrahim said, his feelings seemingly hurt. “Why wouldn’t I? I’m a good American. If my government wants me to register, I register,” he said. He clearly was put off by Trace’s statement.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Ibrahim,” Trace said. “Of course you’re a good American. I was just being protective of you. Sorry I wasn’t clear.”
Trace and Alex looked at each other. Alex raised his eyebrows and slightly shrugged his shoulders.
Trace stared at Ibrahim for a few seconds but did not say anything. I guess we’re all getting touchy.
CHAPTER 100
Quarantine
Day 33
Trace, Alex and Ibrahim spent the early morning at Everglade Harry’s, then left the restaurant soon after curfew ended, each going out alone to a different, unspecified destination.
Trace headed toward the beach. He moved slowly among trees and other shelters, keeping out of sight as he walked.
He selected the Flamingo Beach Hotel on Ocean Drive as this day’s sanctuary. He hadn’t stayed there before so he doubted his presence would be noticed. He wanted to mentally regroup and take stock of his situation.
He settled into the back corner of the lobby, as far from the entrance door as he could get, and closed his eyes. He silently held a conversation with Isabella in which he explained to her why he hadn’t yet rescued her, but in which he also assured her that he would come for her.
Trace’s thoughts reverted to his elite SEAL military training, reminding himself that the successes and achievements of the SEALs were due to the way the team members trained and conditioned their minds to pre-visualize a situation, plan for it, then resolve it. Make the unknown or unfamiliar become known and familiar through previsualization. He also thought through the SEALs’ maxim which dictated that every physical operation must always begin with careful surveillance of the target.
The Navy had drilled into Trace and his SEAL teammates that many plans were created and developed or were abandoned during the long, dry periods of mind-numbing surveillance.
Trace spent almost a full hour walking the normal twenty minutes’ distance to ODMC’s headquarters, executing an SDR as he made his way to the headquarters building. He moved slowly and cautiously, remaining hidden from plain sight and from the ubiquitous surveillance cameras and occasional overhead drones he saw, and, he hoped, from the drones he couldn’t see.
When he arrived, he stretched out on his stomach behind a thick hedge across the street from the headquarters’ entrance. He knew he was at risk of being detected and arrested, and that the consequences of that would be catastrophic for him and Bella. But he didn’t see that he had any other choice than to be here under these conditions.
Trace was used to taking risks. Facing danger had been what being a SEAL was all about. But the danger he’d faced as a SEAL, and the risk he’d exposed himself to then, were part of well-planned missions, not ad hoc projects, as today. His SEAL missions had been thoroughly thought through and rehearsed, not executed on the fly, as today.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He wasn’t even sure this was where Isabella still was being held, but if she was there he might notice it. Perhaps all he’d find was some peace of mind, knowing he was doing something to try to help her, however limited or futile his actions might be for now.
Peace of mind did not visit Trace that day.
After ninety minutes, he decided he had seen enough. He had watched soldiers enter and leave the building. He’d watched civilians come and go. He saw sentries change shifts. But nothing he observed either alarmed or surprised him. And nothing planted the seeds of a rescue plan or even informed him that Bella still was being held at this building.
CHAPTER 101
Quarantine
Day 33
Isabella stepped into General Vista’s office, but stopped just inside the door to wait for permission to enter further.
The general’s orderly closed the door behind her.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Austin,” Vista said. He swept his arm toward a small sofa on the far side of the room. “Make yourself comfortable.” As before, he smiled with practiced malevolence.
Isabella frowned and looked at him, but she did as he told her.
She winced as she lowered herself onto the soft cushions, still feeling as if she was being poked in her left lung with a needle, notwithstanding the bandage that had been applied to hold her injured, floating ribs in place.
Isabella looked up at the general who now sat at the other end of the sofa, watching her, with one leg crossed over the other, his fingers inter-laced on his lap.
She linked her eyes with Vista’s, refusing to break-off contact. She reminded herself that he had assaulted her and threatened Trace.
“May I get you anything, Mrs. Austin? A drink? Something to eat? Something, perhaps, for your pain?” His voice assumed the tone of a well-disposed party host.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry about your ribs,” he said, “but you brought that on yourself.”
Isabella continued to watch his eyes. She did not rise to the bait and respond.
“It’s foolish for you to think your husband can evade us indefinitely. It’s just a matter of time, Mrs. Austin. We will get him, you know. It’s just a question of how and when, a question whether we’ll take him dead or alive.” Vista paused and looked hard at her. Then he said, “And that, Mrs. Austin, will mostly be up to you.”
Isabella took a deep breath and shuddered from the pain.
“Let’s talk about this like reasonable people,” Vista said. “I don’t want to kill your husband even though some people suspect him of being the Quarantine Zone sniper.” He paused, then said, “I don’t think he’s the sniper so I’m even willing to forgive him for assaulting my soldier, but only if he gives himself up. Otherwise, well . . . who knows?”
“What will happen if he comes in?”
“We’ll question him about the vigilantes and his role with them. We’ll also question him about the shootings to see if he’s the sniper or to eliminate him as a suspect. We’ll also ask him some routine questions.
“If he isn’t the sniper and hasn’t otherwise been involved in anything illegal or anything in violation of the Field Orders, he’ll be allowed to leave, as I said before, when you leave.”
“That’s too vague, not been involved. That’s a weasel phrase you can interpret any way you want. I won’t ask him to come in based on that if that’s the best you can do.”
“What’s it you want, Mrs. Austin? What will satisfy you and your husband, satisfy your propensity for legal niceties?”
“My husband won’t surrender to you, not as long as he believes you’ll harm us or keep us prisoner. He’ll require guarantees of our safety and freedom. Why don’t you show some good faith, General. Make a gesture.”
“Such as?”
“Set me free. Then I’ll talk to my husband about coming in, provided you make creditable promises of safe conduct and prompt, safe release.”
Vista frowned and slowly shook his head. He stared hard at her. “I won’t just turn you out, Mrs. Austin. I can’t do that, although I don’t blame you for asking.”
He hesitated and looked at her before continuing. “But I’ll do this for you,” he said. “I’ll promise you on my oath as an officer that your husband won’t be harmed if he turns himself in, peacefully, that is.”
“As I said, General, that’s not good enough. My husband will require guarantees that we also won’t be detained. He’ll want full, blanket immunity, too, in writing. My husband’s no fool, you know. Did I tell you he’s an attorney? He knows how to protect us.”
“You drive a good bargain
, Mrs. Austin. I admire that in a woman.”
He stood and walked over to the window and looked out. After a minute he turned back to her.
“All right, Mrs. Austin, I agree, provided he can convince me he’s not the sniper. I just want to talk with him, that’s all. No point in turning this into a federal case,” he said. “After that, your husband can leave when you leave. Does that satisfy you?”
“Not quite.”
Vista frowned. “Now what? This is becoming tedious.”
“I want it all spelled-out in writing, signed by you before two witnesses who are not part of the military, and I want it notarized. Then I’ll text a copy to one of my husband’s law partners in Washington with instructions to give a copy to the Washington Post and USA Today for possible future publication if you or the Army renege. Then, and only then, will I talk to my husband about this.”
“Anything else?”
“You need to understand, General, I can’t guarantee my husband will agree to these terms.”
“Understood.”
Vista pushed the intercom button and called in his orderly.
“Major, our guest here will dictate a document to you.”
He turned to Isabella. “The floor’s yours, Mrs. Austin.”
CHAPTER 102
Quarantine
Day 33
“Hello, Ladies and Gentlemen. Welcome to our 4:00 p.m. broadcast. I’m pleased to report that the sniper shootings have ended. General Vista’s office has assured me that there have been no reports of more killings or even known attempts by the Quarantine Zone sniper.
“It seems that the mysterious sniper — assuming there was only one person — whoever he is and for whatever reason he started shooting our civilian citizens, our children, and our police and military personnel, has now come to his senses and ended his terrorist activities. We can thank General Vista and the good Lord for that,” Derek said.
“I have no other news to report this afternoon. However, I’ve been asked to remind you that even though the sniper has stopped his terrorist activity for now, be sure to remember the new penalty I mentioned yesterday if you are caught violating the curfew. This still remains in effect.
“With that, Ladies and Gentlemen, I will now sign off until 10:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. We should all say a prayer of thanks that the sniper shootings have ended and—”
Derek’s head exploded as he wrapped-up the broadcast with his familiar signing-off patter.
Blood, brain matter, and bone shards sprayed behind him as his television audience watched.
Viktor field stripped the thread cutter, put it into its briefcase, picked up the spent shell casing, and left the scene by his predetermined exit route.
“Tell me now, Mr. Television Newsreader,” he said to no one as he hurried away, “do you still think the sniper shootings have ended?”
CHAPTER 103
Quarantine
Day 33
Trace left the area from where he’d been watching ODMC’s headquarters and returned to the Palm Court Hotel. The lights were turned down low. Dusk had visited the lobby.
He headed for the manager’s office to retrieve Pete’s laptop from the safe deposit box. Then he headed back to the Flamingo Beach Hotel.
Trace booted up the laptop, double-clicked the Mozilla Thunderbird e-mail program to open it, and configured Thunderbird to retrieve his e-mail from the anonymous mail server.
There were a few dozen unread e-mail messages waiting for him. Mostly SPAM. He wondered how spammers targeted an anonymous e-mail address. He also wondered why they did.
He scrolled to the top of the list to look for mail received that day, and easily located Alex’s messages among the e-mail.
Trace double-clicked the tag line and waited for the message to open and display itself on the monitor. Alex’s message was brief and in simple code. It gave him the location for that night’s rendezvous of Friday’s Progeny.
Trace replied to Alex, also in code, TRIBECA, indicating he had received the message from Alex and had not been compromised. Then he waited thirty minutes and again checked his e-mail directory for a follow-up message from Alex aborting the meeting if someone else had been compromised. No abort message had come in. That night’s meeting was on.
Trace was pleased. Tonight he would lay out the plan he’d formulated to rescue Isabella.
CHAPTER 104
Quarantine
Day 33
When Trace arrived at Friday Progeny’s encampment, he joined Ibrahim, and they then found Alex sitting against a tree.
“Have a plan yet?” Alex said to Trace.
Trace nodded. “I’ll trade myself for Isabella. That seems to be what Vista wants anyway. Later I’ll figure out how to talk Vista into releasing me.”
“You’re dreaming,” Alex said. “He’ll never release you. He won’t have any reason to.” He waited for Trace to say something. When it became clear that Trace was not going to respond, Alex added, “That’s not much of a plan. More like a suicide mission.”
Trace narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand why you’re so negative,” he said.
“You’re not thinking clearly, Trace. What’s the point of getting yourself captured? That won’t help your wife.”
“You don’t know that,” Trace said.
“Trace,” Alex said, “this isn’t a workable plan. It’s not worth a damn. You’re just setting up yourself and your wife for failure. You of all people, with your SEAL background, should know that.”
Trace hesitated as if he was about to say something, but remained silent. He stood up, nodded at Alex, and said, “I’m going for a walk. You can plan your next adventure without me.”
CHAPTER 105
Quarantine
Day 34
Later that evening, Trace, with Ibrahim following close behind, left the encampment and returned to the Flamingo Beach Hotel. It was almost dawn.
They stopped under the archway leading into the lobby and looked around. More people were awake and milling about at this early hour than he expected.
Trace and Ibrahim started walking to the back of the lobby when Trace thought he noticed something strange happening around him.
Is it my imagination or are people turning and looking at me?
As he passed a young couple, he saw them look directly at him and whisper. When he caught the young man’s eye, he abruptly turned away from Trace and said something to his companion.
Something’s going on. Trace’s senses switched to high alert.
He looked around the room, scanning the faces of those people he thought were paying attention to him. He saw one man point at him until he realized Trace was looking back at him. The man lowered his arm and turned away.
Trace turned back to face the young couple who, once again, looked away when he directed his gaze at them.
Trace took a step toward the couple. Their eyes opened wide, they looked at each other, then turned and bolted to the other side of the lobby.
He noticed a familiar young man staring at him, although he could not remember why he seemed familiar. The young man did not look away when Trace’s eyes locked on his.
Trace nodded at him.
He nodded back.
Trace pointed toward the lobby’s entrance and canted his head in its direction.
The young man indicated yes with his head and started walking across the lobby toward the doorway.
Trace and Ibrahim walked over, too, timing their arrival at the entrance to coincide with the young man’s arrival. Trace struggled to place the young man’s face, but wasn’t able to remember him.
“The masses are restless,” Trace said, as he thrust out his hand.
“With good reason,” the young man said, “at least for now, Mr. Austin.”
“How do you know my name?”
The young man glanced around furtively, then looked back at Trace, and said, “You’re a celebrity around here. By the way, I’m Karl. We met through your son.
I don’t remember his name though.”
Trace frowned. “His name was Pete. What do you mean I’m a celebrity? And where did we meet?”
“Your son, Pete, introduced us when I drove him back home from an Internet café. He and I played computer games a few times.” He paused, waited a beat, then said, “As for the celebrity thing, there were soldiers here looking for you, an hour or so ago. They woke everyone up and searched the hotel. They asked us questions about you.”
“What makes you think they were looking for me, not someone else?”
“It was you they were after, Mr. Austin. There’s no question about it. Come with me, I’ll show you.”
CHAPTER 106
Quarantine
Day 33
Trace stared at Karl, puzzled and made wary by his unequivocal statement. When Trace spoke again, he willed himself to speak softly and slowly to avoid spooking the kid.
“Tell me what you mean, Karl,” he said.
Karl shrugged his shoulders, looked from Trace to Ibrahim, then said again, “Follow me.”
He turned, walked toward the hotel’s central hall, and stopped when he reached an imitation Doric alabaster column that acted as an illusory vertical support for the high-entrance ceiling.
Karl pointed to a letter-size sheet of paper taped to the column. He swept his arm across the expanse of the room in a slow, dramatic, arcing gesture.
“They’re all over the place, Mr. Austin,” he said. “Look around. The soldiers taped them up.”
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