Grand Hotel Kempinski Loading Docks
MOHAMMED SANEA WAS surprised how easily he was allowed to pass the slack guards on the entrance to the hotel’s underground complex He thought it had to be all those generations of neutrality, where all sides worshiped at the altar of Swiss banks, that made them feel invincible.
But they were wrong.
And this night he would prove it.
Sanea did not drive directly to the loading dock where other panel trucks were parked, unloading linens, groceries and liquor. It was safer, in his estimation, to maintain a healthy distance from the center of activity, knowing a few yards either way would not affect the ultimate destructive force of his own cargo. Nearly centered underneath the Grand Hotel Kempinski, when the Semtex blew, the underground garage would not contain it.
Physics would win out.
Sitting in the van, he played the radio on low volume, not caring if the battery ran down. Whether he managed to survive the night or not, the van was going nowhere. It had reached its final resting place. Sanea found an English-language news channel, the best that he could manage in Geneva, where there were no Arabic broadcasts, and listened to the weather forecast, followed by some boring news of sports events, until the headline stories were recycled on the hour.
There’d been nothing on the drive from Täsch, but now he heard it, a preliminary bulletin reporting murders in Zermatt. Two victims, not identified by name, were said to be of Middle Eastern ancestry. That could mean anything to casual observers, but Sanea knew they had to be his comrades.
Which ones? Guessing was futile, so he did not try.
The brief report described gunfire and an explosion at a guesthouse, with translated comments from the landlord and the town’s ranking policeman. Two men, unidentified, had barged into the building with automatic weapons, killing two boarders, while several more apparently escaped through upstairs windows.
And again: Which ones?
If Saleh Kabeer was dead, Sanea had to question whether the survivors would proceed as planned. He knew them fairly well and trusted their commitment to the cause, but also thought that they required a guiding hand, the motivation of a leader prodding them to risk the final sacrifice for brothers of the faith whom they would never meet in life. Without Kabeer, they might lose heart and scatter to the winds.
Leaving Sanea...where, exactly?
In a basement, sitting on a load of Semtex with a solitary duty to perform.
He had a cell phone with a single number programmed into memory. If he dialed that number, would he reach Kabeer, or had police retrieved the other phone? Sanea didn’t think a brief call could be traced, particularly if he shut his phone off afterward, even removed its battery. He could dial in, listen and hang up without speaking if he did not recognize the voice that answered him.
And if there was no answer, then what?
Cursing his own indecisiveness, Sanea let the radio play on but tuned out its noise, trying to decide if he should flee or wait awhile to see what happened and decide if it was time for him to live or die.
* * *
BEFORE THEY LEFT the Volvo, Saleh Kabeer’s surviving soldiers double-checked their bellman uniforms. Each had already worn a white dress shirt, some of them smudged or slightly damaged in their scramble to escape, but nothing that would show once they had donned their blazers in the locker room. The rest they had in shopping bags, together with their weapons: black slacks, pillbox hats and the hotel’s red trademark blazers. Black clip-on bow ties completed the ensemble, and the three would soon resemble any other servants of a great hotel where rich men gathered to discuss the fate of peasants.
Of the three, only Ali Dajani seemed to have any lasting discomfort from their skirmish in Zermatt, and he’d assured Kabeer that he could still perform as planned, to carry out his part of their design. That plan had changed somewhat, with the loss of two men, but its basic object was the same. Dajani, Habis Elyan and Majid Hayek would obtain carts from the hotel’s kitchen, claiming they were needed for some task the concierge had ordered, then conceal their weapons on the carts and head directly for the banquet hall. If stopped outside its doors, they would employ whatever force was necessary to proceed, then unleash bloody havoc on the celebrated diners while they stuffed themselves with gourmet fare.
Kabeer, from his position in the lobby, would call—and spill the breaking news of justice being meted out to foul Crusaders at the Grand Hotel Kempinski, claiming credit for God’s Hammer. That done, he planned to exit on to Quai du Mont-Blanc and place one final call, telling Mohammed Sanea it was time to blow the Semtex charge.
One problem: when he’d tried to reach Sanea on the drive from Täsch, his calls kept going to voice mail. Kabeer had tried a cryptic text, as well, without result. At present, he had no idea whether Sanea was on station, waiting in the loaded van, or if he had kept driving on from Täsch to parts unknown.
“All ready?” he inquired, receiving affirmation from his soldiers. “One more moment, then,” he said. “I need to try Mohammed’s phone again.”
“He has deserted us,” Dajani opined sourly.
“Mohammed wouldn’t do that,” Elyan replied.
“Then he should have answered.”
“We don’t know what has happened. Maybe he is in a dead zone for the cell.”
“This is Geneva,” Hayek chimed in, “not the middle of the desert. If he’s here, he can make calls. He can receive them.”
Stubbornly, Dajani shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”
“Quiet, all of you!” Kabeer ordered. “I’m dialing now.”
Sanea’s phone rang once, twice—and was answered on the third ring by a strong, familiar voice. “Saleh?”
* * *
GRIMALDI THOUGHT THE two guards on the entrance to the Grand Hotel Kempinski’s underground garage would turn them back, or at the very least demand valid ID. In fact, they didn’t even have a clipboard, and it seemed that only one of them—some kind of cop—was armed. The other was a minor hotel greeter, asking general preliminary questions before waving them along with hopes that they enjoyed their stay.
“Too easy,” Grimaldi remarked, when they were out of earshot from the checkpoint. “I expected more.”
“The hotel’s open. It’s a business,” Bolan answered.
“Still.”
“I hear you. Anyone could be inside.”
“Bingo.”
There was no way to confirm it without searching. Never mind the subterranean garage. They didn’t know what Saleh Kabeer was driving, whether his men had left Täsch in one car or several, each terrorist boosting his odds of a clean getaway. They could have kept in touch while traveling with cell phones, two-way radios, whatever. All that mattered now was whether they were somewhere in the huge hotel, preparing to raise bloody hell.
“The banquet room?” he asked.
“It must be,” Bolan answered, “if tonight’s the night.”
Grimaldi got that, sure. If God’s Hammer let their targets finish eating, listening to speeches, sipping cognac, they would have to take their marks one at a time, battling security at each VIP suite while the hotel’s alarms went off and law enforcement swarmed the scene. That was a stupid way to go. Better to skip the first night altogether, try the following day or the one after that during sessions of the conference or when they broke for lunch and everyone was back together in one place.
“So, are we really checking in?” he asked.
“No point,” Bolan replied. “It’s either on tonight, or isn’t. If we keep a sharp eye out, maybe we’ll spot them on the sidelines, gearing up. If not, there’s still all day tomorrow and the next day.”
“I was never fond of guessing games,” Grimaldi said.
“Me, either. But it’s what we’ve got to work with.”
&nbs
p; “Overnighting in the car won’t work.”
“Agreed. We’ll have to stay awake or nap in shifts, maybe take in a late show at the theater.”
“Any idea what’s playing?”
Bolan smiled at that and let it go. “You ready to go up?”
“Let’s do it.”
Standing by the Jetta, screened from CCTV cameras behind a massive concrete pillar, they switched jackets for longer coats that did a better job of covering their shoulder-slung carbines. The coats had inside pockets, too, for stashing extra magazines and M84 stun grenades. They wouldn’t make it through a pat-down, much less any kind of metal detector, but it was the best they could do.
Security wasn’t impressing Grimaldi so far. He knew the summit VIPs were prone to travel light, maybe a dozen guards apiece in quiet countries such as Switzerland, but these were extraordinary times. The local cops, if nothing else, should have increased their presence at the Grand Hotel Kempinski—though, for all he knew, plainclothesmen could be as thick as fleas inside and roving on the grounds.
Another obstacle to watch for, once they were inside.
They found an elevator one row over from their parking slot, punched in, waited, and rode the car with a quirky instrumental take on Elton John’s “The Bitch is Back.”
“They shouldn’t tamper with the classics,” Grimaldi commented.
“Classics?” Bolan asked.
“Don’t get me started.”
That was good advice, and Bolan took it. They were headed for the mezzanine, midway between the hotel’s first and second floors, accessible by elevator, escalator and old-fashioned stairs. It was a compromise, giving them time to scope the lobby, have a look around and see if any faces from Brognola’s file were hanging out in the vicinity, instead of stepping from the elevator car directly into line of sight for all the officers and agents standing watch outside the banquet hall.
Good intentions, right.
But were they good enough?
Five men, well armed, could still wreak bloody havoc, even if they never reached the world leaders they hoped to kill. Bolan remembered the Utøya massacre, with sixty-nine killed by a single gunman, and Virginia Tech, where another lone shooter had slain thirty-two, wounding twenty-three more. Five men with automatic weapons, maybe with explosives, could put those grim death tolls in the shade.
Most people, in the present circumstances, would have blown the whistle to security. Of course, that meant detention and interrogation, officers from half a dozen agencies wanting to know how Bolan and Grimaldi knew the summit was at risk, and why the two of them were armed. From there, ballistics tests were just a step away, linking their weapons to the carnage in Zermatt. They would be disavowed by Washington, and when the murder charges landed, that would mark the end of Bolan’s life.
Switzerland didn’t execute convicted killers. In fact, of all developed countries in the West, only the USA still practiced capital punishment. The law wasn’t a factor when it came to Bolan, though. Once caged, somehow, before too long, he’d have a price tag on his head, a target on his back. He would defend himself, but in the end, prison meant death.
And Grimaldi? Depending on the circumstances, Swiss law punished homicide with prison terms ranging between five years and life. Add terrorism to the list of charges, and the best that the Stony Man pilot could hope for was to totter out of jail someday, when he was old and gray—if not a broken man, one left to live from hand to mouth by menial pursuits, disgraced, an outcast.
Those were all familiar risks, and understood by anyone who worked with Stony Man, but Bolan personally would prefer a clean death in the heat of battle if it came to that.
But better yet, he would prefer to leave his enemies in body bags and move on to another contest, on another battleground.
As soon as he had finished up on this one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Saleh Kabeer sat inside a men’s room stall, just off the lobby of the Grand Hotel Kempinski, wishing the commodes in public lavatories came with solid lids like those installed in private homes. It would have been more comfortable, waiting for the first reports of gunfire, when he would emerge and step into the lobby with his cell phone, to make history with the announcement of a major coup as it was happening, before the massive hostelry was blown sky-high.
But for the next few minutes, he could only sit and wait, pretending to relieve himself while others came and went, answering calls of nature, scrubbing hands, drying their fingers with the droning hot-air blower. No one tarried long enough to notice Kabeer in his stall, or realize how long he’d been in place.
Five minutes? Ten? It felt like hours, sitting with his phone in one hand, pistol in the other, while his backside started to go numb.
It would have been too dangerous for him to simply loiter in the lobby, where the concierge or check-in staff might log him as a stranger who was neither registered at the hotel nor seeming to go anywhere within it. If he was accosted, had to use his weapon prematurely, that could jeopardize the more important strike against the banquet hall.
At least, after his conversation with Mohammed Sanea, Kabeer knew the Semtex was in place, ready to blow upon command. A weight had lifted from his shoulders when he heard Sanea’s voice affirm that he was on the scene and ready to proceed. If both of them survived the night, they would have much to celebrate.
And if not, they would celebrate in Paradise.
Kabeer glanced at the cracked face of his watch and saw that thirteen minutes had elapsed. Not long to work a miracle, but he was champing at the bit, eager to do his part and leave. That was no cowardice, he told himself, but dedication to a cause with no one other than himself quite fit to lead it.
He shifted on his plastic seat of pain, was just about to rise, restore the circulation to his lower body and be done with it, when gunfire crackled, distant but still loud enough to register. Kabeer immediately tucked his pistol out of sight, behind his waistband, covered by his jacket. Flushed with sudden energy, he marched directly to the lavatory’s exit, hands unwashed, pushed through the swinging door—
And instantly collided with a cop.
The impact startled both of them. Kabeer was on the verge of reaching for his pistol when he caught himself, apologized and held his phone up for the officer to see.
The cop said something to him in German.
It was totally incomprehensible, but Kabeer smiled and nodded, stepping back to let the man pass. Outside, the lobby lay no more than fifteen feet in front of him: the stage from which he would address the world.
* * *
“NOBODY HOME,” BOLAN SAID, when he’d scanned the lobby twice without detecting a familiar face from Hal Brognola’s gallery of God’s Hammer terrorists.
“Ditto,” Grimaldi replied, after another sweep around the mezzanine. “Plan B?”
“Affirmative.”
They’d seen cops standing at strategic places, decked out in ballistic vests, half of them armed with MP5s, all packing pistols, pepper spray and other weapons on their belts. The officers weren’t stopping anyone, or even blocking access to the second floor, since there were other meeting rooms up there and business had go on for the hotel to turn a franc. As Bolan and Grimaldi drifted toward the escalator, feigning small talk, no one in authority appeared to spare a second glance for them, but Bolan would have bet their faces had been filed away for future reference.
That was a risk, but Bolan had this visit slated as his last trip to Geneva for a good long while. He didn’t like to play a venue twice, if he could help it, though some cities in the States had lured him repeatedly. Outside his home turf, when it came to places like Geneva and Zermatt, repeated stop-ins had been few and far between—some of them when he’d used his birth name and worn another face.
They reached the second floor and turned right
from the escalator, following the unobtrusive signs toward several meeting rooms, leaving the banquet hall behind them for the moment. Plan B called for them to scout the second floor—or first floor, as it would be known in Europe, where the ground floor didn’t count—and see if they could intercept Kabeer’s gunmen before they crashed the summit’s opening event. Failing in that, they had agreed to split up and to mount roaming surveillance on the banquet room, hopefully without tipping the guards already set in place to watch them.
It was no easy task, trying to be invisible with no disguise and several dozen watchers on alert. Some might have said it was impossible, but Bolan had removed that word from his vocabulary long ago.
They passed two meeting rooms en route to check the kitchen. One was hosting a reception for conventioneers from something called the Church of Rectified Humanity. The other room was wall to wall with people watching color slides of something that appeared to be a giant rotting carcass, hoisted on a crane above a ship’s deck, while a narrator described the photographs in French.
The Stony Man warriors reached another corner, rounded it and started toward the kitchen, following its tantalizing aromas toward two sets of swing doors. As they approached, three bellmen cleared one set of doors, their leader empty-handed, while the other two pushed covered serving carts.
* * *
MOHAMMED SANEA WOULD have missed the action’s start-up, three floors down and buried underground, if his cell phone had not chirped in his hand. He answered midway through the first note with a breathless, “Yes?”
“It’s starting,” Kabeer announced, then cut the link before Sanea could respond.
But what would he have said, in any case?
Sanea set his pistol on the empty seat beside him, with his phone and the remote control to detonate the Semtex sitting less than three feet behind him. If he triggered it right now, would he feel anything before his eyes opened again in Paradise, beholding all the wonders that awaited him?
A niggling voice asked him what he would do if he and all his spiritual teachers had been wrong, that killing even in the name of God was wrong, and he woke up on fire, in Jahannam—or if, in fact, there was no afterlife at all. Again, Sanea had no answer, so he turned the radio back on and found a music station, “easy listening” they called it in the West, which meant songs without meaning, never sparking any controversy.
Dead Reckoning Page 24