“Okay, that continues,” Roth said. “Bring them in.”
“Sir, they have nothing hard. You’ve got the disk and everything here’s sanitized. Maybe we should just jettison the both of them.”
Roth shook his head in an unseen gesture of frustration. He should have known better than to allow an outsider analyst into the inner circle. An outsider, he reminded himself, running around with a story that could end his career if anyone believed it. And with Sherry, to boot. He had always considered her loyal.
“Take care of it however you think best, but we can’t leave them out there with what they think they’ve found. Remember the old adage, Mark. Plug it before it leaks.”
THREE HUNDRED TWENTY MILES WEST OF THE CANARY ISLANDS
Yuri Steblinko checked his watch and realized he’d made the wrong choice.
Flight 66 had not gone west.
He rechecked a sheet of calculations. The 747 would have had a head start of sixty miles when Yuri turned west. With the Gulfstream’s airspeed, he should have been closing on the jumbo at more than sixty knots, and he’d flown for forty-five minutes. If he was really following the big Boeing, the 747 should be no more than ten miles ahead.
The radar, however, showed nothing, and the 747 would have had to climb to a higher altitude by now, Yuri knew. Turbojets burned far too much fuel at low altitude. Only in the thirty-thousand-foot range or higher could the 747 traverse an entire ocean.
Even if Flight 66 was angled off as much as thirty degrees to the north or south of his westbound course, the Gulfstream’s radar would have found it within a hundred-and-fifty-mile cone.
Yuri worked the dials of the radar one last time, finding nothing. He disconnected the flight computer then and turned the Gulfstream to the southeast before pulling out a pencil to work out which angle of intercept to use.
If Flight 66 was southbound—and he had to assume the 747 was heading south, down the middle of the Atlantic—the plane would be more than four hundred fifty miles away by now. But flying directly at his current position would place the Gulfstream even farther behind. He’d have to angle his intercept path toward the position the jumbo would occupy in five hours, the time it would take to catch up. But where was Flight 66 headed?
He pulled the map closer and ran a pencil point south. On a due-south heading, Flight 66 would pass very close to the Cape Verde Islands off the coast of Senegal. In fact, Yuri figured, the captain of Flight 66 would probably steer a course significantly to the west of the islands to avoid radar detection.
He erased the line and redrew it to pass three hundred miles west.
So what’s beyond?
There was open ocean for a thousand miles before the tiny Brazilian archipelago called St. Paul’s Rocks, a pair of tiny islands—two peaks of a submerged mountain range known as the Mid-Atlantic Ridge—neither of which held an airfield.
But beyond that …
Yuri’s finger had traced south, but there was another outcropping to the southeast with a name he remembered. It was a terribly remote, tropical, and sparsely populated British possession, but it had an airport. The runway ran between two mountains, but it was long enough to be an alternate landing site for the American Space Shuttle on each and every launch.
Ascension Island!
Beyond that, Flight 66’s fuel supply would be dangerously low. That had to be it!
Yuri traced the line to Ascension Island and calculated the appropriate speeds and angles. He wrote down a pair of way points and punched them into the flight management computer, then checked his work before engaging the autopilot.
The die was cast. In a little more than four hours, either he would find himself closing in on the radar return of Flight 66, or the sky would be empty and he’d be forced to land at Ascension by himself to try to buy a tank of fuel—while hoping that no one had been alerted to look for the stolen business jet.
There was no other choice. If he had guessed wrong—if the 747 was headed east or north—his mission was all over anyway.
Yuri thought back to the message he had sent over the satellite system to his client as he raced westbound from the Canaries: “Target headed west from Canary Islands. Am in pursuit.”
There had been no reply, nor had he expected any. Now, of course, he would need to revise it.
Yuri checked the autopilot and climbed out of the seat to raid the galley once again, his mind preoccupied by the possibility that Flight 66 wasn’t headed to Ascension Island and had gotten away.
He brewed a fresh pot of coffee, then punched in the revised satellite message and pressed the send button as he was taking the coffee forward with a basket of bread, unaware that his shirt had caught the edge of the cover for the communications console, dislodging it slightly.
The pleasant sound of creaking leather filled his ears as he settled into the captain’s seat again, a sound that drowned out both the brief chime announcing an incoming message and the small report of the satellite receiver lid as it closed once more, accidentally turning off the power switch in the process.
Yuri settled back and sipped the prince’s coffee, planning the next few hours. He would set a tiny alarm on his watch and get an hour of sleep.
There were continuous shortwave radio broadcasts available, and the prince’s aircraft came equipped with a powerful worldband radio. But he had listened to endless hours of shortwave newscasts and was growing weary of them.
Suppose something changes? he asked himself. Perhaps he needed to know what the media were saying.
Yuri thought for a few seconds and shook his head. He already knew all he needed to know. If anything changed, the client could reach him by satellite. And if the jumbo was reported to be somewhere else, he wouldn’t believe the report anyway.
There was no reason to listen to commercial radio, and no reason to listen to the normal oceanic aviation frequencies. He was, after all, an airborne ghost.
Yuri reached over and turned off the commercial worldband radio.
TWENTY-SEVEN
NATIONAL AIRPORT, WASHINGTON, D.C.—SATURDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 23—8:20 P.M. (0120Z)
Rusty Sanders was profoundly frightened. The sea of faces flowing steadily through the hallways of Washington National Airport seemed harmless enough, but he knew that one of them might belong to a CIA employee assigned to end his life.
Sherry Ellis had briefed him as they raced toward the airport in early evening traffic.
“If Jon’s goons show up, there will be at least two of them, each carrying silenced weapons. They’ll be under orders to find both you and the woman seen with you at the hotel. The object will be to force us into some undistinguished car waiting at the curb.”
“To take us where?” he asked, already guessing the answer.
“On a one-way trip, Rusty. Remember what I said before?”
He nodded, hoping she hadn’t heard his loud attempt to swallow.
“The main entrances could be watched,” she warned, “so we’ll enter the terminal one floor below where the rental car shuttle dumps people off. There’s an elevator around the corner that opens into a back hallway.”
Rusty was to go to the concourse bookstore and lose himself in the back shelves while watching for her to reappear. That was the plan.
“So, what happens if you get caught?” he asked.
Sherry smiled. “If it’s another normal vulnerable male, I’ll consider the same technique.” She grimaced. “Although my toe still hurts.”
“I don’t doubt it!” Rusty replied. “My crotch still hurts just thinking about it! You neutered that guy without a doubt.”
“It was him or us,” she said.
Within seconds of reaching the main terminal floor, Sherry disappeared in the direction of the ticket counter while Rusty tried to look invisible as he let the sparse crowd carry him along the hallway. There was a small bar on his left with a television tuned to CNN. With most of the passengers already on their way to evening departures, the bar was half-des
erted. As Rusty passed, the news anchor in Atlanta was coming on under the banner of a special report, and suddenly the logo of Quantum Airlines and the image of a 747 appeared on the screen. Rusty came to a dead stop and eased into the open front of the bar, out of the stream of passengers. The sound was barely loud enough to hear:
“In a late-breaking development, CNN has learned that disease-control experts have concluded that the passengers and crew of Quantum Flight Sixty-six are unlikely to contract the dread virus which killed an American professor aboard the plane.”
Rusty found himself leaning heavily against the wall in shock. The report continued through a brief background of the odyssey, and promised more within the hour.
They’ve changed their minds? How? Why?
The logo of the Central Intelligence Agency appeared over the anchor’s shoulder. At first it didn’t register in Rusty’s peripheral vision, but suddenly he focused on the screen as the name of the hospitalized CIA chief echoed in his ears:
“… who had been Director of the CIA since 1995, had been in a coma for the past two months after suffering a massive cerebral hemorrhage. His death this afternoon came as no surprise to the administration, which had refused to name an Acting Director out of deference to the family. But now, sources close to the President say he will undoubtedly appoint the CIA Deputy Director Jonathan Roth to the post. An announcement is expected from the White House sometime early next week.”
Rusty’s mind raced through the possibilities. Holland was out of contact. Was there any way he could know that no one would get sick? Or was the broadcast part of a worldwide ploy to get Holland to reveal himself?
But why could anyone feel sure that Holland would be monitoring worldband radio broadcasts? The poor guy was racing for his life.
But maybe, Rusty thought, just maybe, he might be listening. Or someone aboard might.
But, more likely, after what he’d been through, James Holland wouldn’t trust such a report. Too much had happened. He’d still find a place to land and let the full twenty-four hours go by.
There was a sudden lull in the number of passengers streaming past his vantage point, and Rusty turned to examine the remaining faces, knowing that doing so made him even more visible.
Did this mean they were still targets, or not? Roth was going to be nominated Director. Would he call off the hits now, or continue and take the chance he could cover up their murders? Could Roth even reach his goons if he wanted to call them back?
Rusty walked to the bookstore trying to suppress the panic gnawing away at his stomach. He entered and moved quietly to the back, where he pulled a book off a shelf at random and began scanning the customers while pretending to read.
Roth was terribly vulnerable whatever he did.
Or was he?
Rusty remembered handing the computer disk over. He still had the hard copy printout, but that could have been forged, they would say. He had no real evidence that Roth had done anything wrong. The men in his condo, the one at the Hyatt—none of them could be readily identified as Jon Roth’s men.
So what do I have on him? Rusty thought. The answer was painfully obvious. Other than his and Sherry’s shared suspicions, there was no evidence. Roth could act innocent and get away with it. Roth had already hoodwinked the President, apparently, though Rusty reminded himself that the announcement of Roth’s appointment hadn’t been formally made.
But why kill us, then? Why take the chance? Why not let us tell our tale, brand us idiots, and be done with it?
Rusty realized he was shaking his head slightly. There was no reason to kill them now, but Sherry had seemed so convinced and the gun they had been staring at less than an hour before had been all too real. It was far too confusing to be certain.
A small memory suddenly appeared in a corner of his mind, rapidly diverting his attention. He thought of an insignificant computer program he had written a year before: a final backup to protect against accidental erasures. It was unorthodox and essentially undetectable—and it would have automatically captured and saved both the original version of the Cairo message and the Arabic message from his computer. And anything the program stored would be saved under an off-the-wall file name on the CIA’s own mainframe computer!
In other words, he did have the evidence!
Rusty realized he hadn’t been paying attention to who had entered the store. He looked back toward the front counter, his eyes scanning the customers.
There were four people browsing. One man too old to be dangerous lounged against a shelf to Rusty’s right, slowly studying the selection. To his left, Rusty could see a young girl in a slinky, skintight dress that showed off her body. There was also a businessman in his mid-thirties who was apparently upset with the clerk for not having a certain book in stock, as well as a silver-haired older woman in a tailored suit who was wearing glasses and perusing the shelves to his left. The woman was slightly chunky and looked just like an irritable librarian he’d once encountered.
That left the upset young man at the counter. Rusty wondered if his exchange with the clerk could be a cover. He was about the same age as the agent Sherry had mauled back at the hotel.
The man suddenly looked up in Rusty’s direction, his eyes landing squarely on Rusty’s. A cold chill began at the base of Rusty’s spine and shot upward as the young man looked away again and resumed berating the clerk in a low growl.
Rusty had made no sounds. There had been no reason for the man to glance back in his direction, unless …
The man turned suddenly and left the store. Rusty watched him head toward the north end of the terminal and stride away. Was he going for his partner?
I’m panicking again.
Rusty closed his eyes momentarily to purge his fear. When he opened them, the young man had not returned and no one else had rushed into the store.
Rusty shook his head slightly and snorted to himself.
False alarm.
The thought brought with it a small feeling of relief—punctuated by a sudden, powerful stinging sensation in his left side.
Startled, Rusty looked down and tried to knock away whatever was stinging him.
Someone’s arm was there close by his side. Something sharp and pointed brushed past his fingers as the arm withdrew. He turned to his left, confused when he saw the woman he had typed as a librarian. He looked down again, incredulous. There was a syringe in her hand—an empty syringe she was dropping in her purse! She met his gaze, her right arm shooting out to grab his left elbow.
“What … what the hell?” he stammered.
Rusty could feel the presence of powerful arm muscles as she turned him back toward the front of the shop and pulled him close to her, growling in his ear at a volume only he could hear.
“Dr. Sanders, listen carefully, and do not look back at me or resist.” Her voice was low and almost guttural, yet it was a woman’s voice.
“I—” he began.
“Shut up and listen! You’ve just been injected with eighty cc’s of a very effective neurologic agent. In twenty-five minutes your nervous system will collapse and kill you. Even if you yell for help, within fifteen minutes—while paramedics are rushing you into an ambulance—they’ll notice that you’re conscious, but for some reason paralyzed and unable to speak. The chemical will begin to shut down your autonomic functions, including your heart. You’ll be dead on arrival, regardless of where they take you, or what they give you.”
Rusty tried to look around and felt the woman’s grip tighten on his arm to the point of pain.
“Don’t look at me again!” she commanded.
“What …” Rusty swallowed hard. His throat was bone-dry. The names of several neurotoxins crossed his mind. All were significantly different. Antidotes took hours to figure out.
“What do you want?”
Again the voice in his ear. Quiet, steady, threatening, and in control.
“You will follow me out of this shop without hesitation. I’m going out the front
entrance to the curb, where another agent is waiting. We’ll inject you with an antidote there. If you’re not right behind me when I open the car door, we’ll leave immediately—with the antidote. You will die on the sidewalk with your eyes open, helpless and pathetic. You understand?”
He nodded. “If I don’t come quietly, I’m dead.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“And if I do come, I’m dead. You’re going to kill me anyway, aren’t you?” Rusty heard himself say the words. He wondered how he’d gotten them out, his worst fears verbalized. He was shaking inside and imagining the progress of the neurotoxin through his body. It seemed unreal. He didn’t have a fighting chance!
His side still hurt. There was no question she’d injected him.
“We’re not here to kill you. We just want to talk with you.”
The woman nodded in the direction of the door and Rusty began to walk, fighting for control of his shaking legs. It was one thing to face a gun, but he had been chemically raped. He was already dead if they didn’t produce the right antitoxin.
What if they’re lying about the antidote? What if they just want me to get quietly into the car so they can dispose of my body more easily?
The woman was pulling ahead of him now, no longer grabbing his elbow. She seemed wholly disinterested in whether he followed or not.
But he had no choice.
She turned left out of the store and began walking briskly as Rusty tried to keep up. He thought he could feel the tips of his toes going numb. He wondered which muscle group was next. Could he even make it to her car?
Where in God’s name is Sherry? Do they have her too?
His captor was passing through the terminal’s main entrance with an energetic stride. She hadn’t even bothered to look back. She knew he’d follow. To do anything else was suicide.
Sherry Ellis had stuffed the two one-way tickets to New York in her handbag and was hurrying toward the bookstore. She stopped short when she spotted Rusty walking toward the main entrance. Something about his demeanor kept her from calling out to him.
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