As a mental exercise, Sanea tried to picture what was happening upstairs. He still had no idea which members of the team had died back in Zermatt, except that Saleh Kabeer had not been one of them. That left three counterfeit bellmen to carry out the mission. They would all be killed in the attempt, of course. The only question now was how many Crusaders would die with them.
And the answer, with Sanea holding the remote control for fifty pounds of Semtex, was: every last one of them.
He waited only for the final word, telling him that Kabeer had cleared the premises. When that was done, Sanea would immediately leave the underground garage on foot, retreating to a safe distance from which to beam a lethal note through space and spark the Semtex detonators. If the pudgy fellow and policeman still guarded the exit, he would act accordingly: two head shots for the policeman, maybe one for the civilian if he did not run away.
Then out, across Rue Philippe-Plantamour, and when he reached the vacant lot there, find something to hide behind—one of the concrete buildings in the southwest corner, preferably—and key his detonator for the biggest blast in all of Geneva’s history.
No one was neutral anymore, no one untouchable.
A new day was about to dawn, and none who stood against God were safe.
For comfort, he retrieved his pistol from its place and held it in his right hand, then took up the detonator with his left, careful not to touch the bright red button that would vaporize the van, himself and most of the hotel. Holding the weapons reassured Sanea, as if he were drawing power from them by osmosis, rather than just sitting in a panel truck, holding two lifeless objects in his hands.
He would be ready to use one or both, when it was time.
And his gut told him that time was coming soon.
* * *
HABIS ELYAN HAD expected difficulty, entering the Grand Hotel Kempinski with security in place for the Crusaders, but in fact, no one challenged him as he and his companions left the service elevator on the ground floor, following directions to the locker room. One bellman passed them in the hallway, said in German, “You’re late,” and swept on past them with a look of satisfied superiority.
“Mos zibby,” Elyan replied, knowing the white man would not understand him, and his two companions chuckled their appreciation, even as Elyan cursed himself for slipping into Arabic.
“Quiet!” he snapped, to silence them. Majid Hayek began to say “But you—”
“Enough!” Elyan rounded on them, wild-eyed. “Say nothing. Anyone who ruins this, I cut his throat myself and promise you that he will not see Paradise. Now, follow me!”
The locker room was much like any other Elyan had seen, and held the same stale odor trapped between its concrete walls. Not having lockers of their own, Elyan and his two comrades emptied their shopping bags of bellman garb and started changing clothes: trading their denim jeans for slightly rumpled dress slacks, slipping on the blazers that were oversize except for Hayek’s, fastening their pillbox hats in place with straps beneath their chins, and straightening their small bow ties. When they were done, a full-length mirror on the wall revealed three slightly scruffy members of the servant class, prepared to spend another shift slaving for minimum wage.
They left their other clothing where it lay, on the floor or crumpled on hard wooden benches, useless to them now. Each member of the team knew that the Grand Hotel Kempinski would most likely be his final resting place—or, rather, the last place on Earth their eyes would ever see. Beyond it lay an unmarked pauper’s grave and history.
When they were dressed, the three retrieved their shopping bags, still heavy with weight of their AKS-74U carbines, extra 30-round magazines and antipersonnel grenades. The spare magazines were a nod toward optimism, in Elyan’s opinion, since they were unlikely to have time for reloading once the action started. They were meant to spray the banquet room, focusing on the heads of state who always shared a table at such gatherings, then hurl as many hand grenades as possible before Crusaders cut them down.
That was reality. The rest was only fantasy.
No matter, though. Habis Elyan was prepared to die and thought the others were, as well, although Ali Dajani whined too much about his aching back for someone who did not expect to live another ninety minutes.
Elyan had worried that a concierge might stop them on their way to reach the kitchen, calling them away to other tasks, but no one passing by appeared to notice them at all. The great hotel was bustling with employees, most of them behind the scenes, moving on special staircases and elevators the wealthy guests would never see. Maids in their café au lait-colored uniforms pushed carts piled high with linens, towels and rolls of toilet tissue. Bellmen trudged past with luggage carts of polished brass, taller than they were. Waiters lugging trays for room service trailed the aroma of overpriced food behind them. Elyan and his two cohorts, bent on a mission of murder, were lost in the crowd.
The hotel’s kitchen was another beehive of activity this night. A master chef presided over it, his tall hat cocked slightly to one side as a symbol of insouciance, correcting here, tasting there, chastising drones who disappointed him in any way. The drones wore white coats of their own, but most of theirs—unlike the master chef’s—were stained with soups, sauces or gravies. One group worked to keep the banquet room supplied, another served the hotel’s three gourmet restaurants, while a third kept orders flowing to the FloorTwo Bar and room service. Despite the clatter, chatter and confusion of aromas, it appeared to be a well-oiled, well-directed operation.
No one noticed Elyan or his companions as they found a rank of polished service carts, chose two and cautiously removed their weapons from the shopping bags they carried, carefully arranged them on the carts, then covered them with spotless tablecloths. It only took a moment’s time, and they were on their way, Elyan leading, bearing death to cap the great Crusader’s feast.
* * *
“IT’S THEM!” GRIMALDI hissed at Bolan, as the bogus bellmen made their exit from the kitchen, fifty feet away. Despite their silly costumes, all three faces were recognizable to the pilot from the mug shots of God’s Hammer members he’d studied since he came on board the mission. Habis Elyan led the trio, empty-handed, while Majid Hayek and Ali Dajani followed, pushing service carts. The effort seemed to cost Dajani something, as he grimaced in apparent pain.
Bolan was there ahead of him, his carbine rising by the time Grimaldi spoke. One of the bellmen saw the move and said something in Arabic that put the other two on full alert, whipping the linen covers from their carts and grabbing for whatever lay beneath.
Not food, Grimaldi saw, as stubby AK carbines sprang to hand and swiveled toward him, brown plastic magazines seeming longer than the weapons’ stubby barrels. The Stony Man pilot dove for the vinyl-covered floor when muzzle-flashes started blinking at him, bullets chewing up the wall immediately next to him, a yard or so above his head.
No sound suppressors, which meant the racket should alert the delegates and bodyguards inside the banquet room. Evacuation could begin immediately, sweeping the assembled dignitaries out of range—unless they ran into another hunting party on the way.
As he began to return fire, Grimaldi’s brain was doing basic math. Five minus three left two members of God’s Hammer unaccounted for.
And where in hell were they?
Grand Hotel Kempinski Banquet Room
BROGNOLA’S FORK WAS halfway to his mouth, bearing a slice of pork with an anchovy skewered to it, when he heard the sharp snap-crackle-pop of automatic fire. It wasn’t fireworks, or a backfire from the highway, or a loaded tray someone had dropped while en route from the kitchen. The big Fed knew a Kalashnikov when he heard one, and that meant shit was coming down right freaking now.
Around him, conversations stammered to a halt, while bodyguards moved toward their principals, producing weapons they had managed to conceal u
nder tuxedo jackets, closing ranks. Brognola had been briefed on the evacuation plan, in case of an emergency, and this was it—or one of them, at least.
In fact, there had been several plans, each tailored to a certain crisis. If the place caught fire—unlikely, although not impossible—the diners would be escorted through whichever one of the banquet room’s exits was nearest their part of the hall, broken down in advance with a helpful floor plan. If there was shooting, egress would depend upon the source of the attack, using the exits that appeared to be the most secure and farthest from the source of hostile fire. That plan involved a separate escape route for each of four exits, with different routes leading escapees upstairs to their suites or out into the street, as logic might dictate.
The shots Brognola heard were coming from the general direction of the hotel’s kitchen, or the entrance nearest to the dais where the VIPs were sitting frozen now, surrounded by the officers in charge of their security detachments. None had risen yet, or made a move to leave, although Brognola saw them fidgeting and arguing with bodyguards who restrained them.
We’re wasting time, Brognola thought, but kept his seat, letting the pros have first shot at controlling a disaster in the making. When they started moving people toward the exits, he’d be ready—and to guarantee it, the big Fed reached under his tuxedo jacket, to the back, checking the mini-Glock he’d hidden there.
It wasn’t his job, personally, to defend the Man against a terrorist attack, but if he had the chance, Brognola would not hesitate. He’d dropped the hammer on assorted bad guys in his time and lost no sleep over the fact, although it wasn’t something that he relished, either. There’d be ample time for feelings somewhere on the other side of action, for the ones who managed to survive.
For those who didn’t...well, the story ended, either way.
Up on the dais, Secret Service agents had the Man in motion now, surrounded, and the other heads of state were likewise rising, ringed by guards with weapons on display. The bulk of diners—undersecretaries, aides—were becoming restless, stirring like the surface of a cooking pot about to boil. More guards were circulating through the banquet hall, collecting members of the delegations they’d arrived with, aided by local police.
Brognola followed orders when a Secret Service man approached his table, telling him and the companions he had barely met to follow him. They made a beeline for the exit where the President was headed, picking up their pace upon command.
Moving toward safety, or a one-way ticket to the Great Beyond?
* * *
THE FIRST WILD shots missed Bolan as he dropped and rolled, aware of Grimaldi doing likewise, somewhere to his right. The faux bellmen were laying down a blaze of 5.45 mm fire, crouching behind the service carts they’d overturned for cover in the hallway, when they’d spotted Grimaldi and Bolan drawing weapons. They had canvas shopping bags back there, as well, and part of Bolan’s mind wondered what they contained, but he was busy at the moment, fighting for his life.
Bolan fired a short burst from his SIG 552 Commando carbine, punching holes along the steel top of the nearest cart, impact resounding with a rapid clang-clang-clang. He missed the shooters, though, and one of them—he thought it was Ali Dajani—popped up long enough to answer with an AK burst that plowed linoleum a foot to Bolan’s right, chipping the concrete underneath.
The service carts weren’t much, in terms of cover, but they still provided more than Bolan or Grimaldi had, sprawled in the open corridor downrange from their opponents. Three weapons against their two, and even in the midst of battle, Bolan understood that left two terrorists still unaccounted for.
Saleh Kabeer and Mohammed Sanea. Where in hell were they right now?
Bolan triggered another burst, aimed slightly to the right of where he’d hit last time and firing for effect. His 62-grain bullets drilled the relatively thin steel surface of the capsized cart, seeking a fleshy target on the other side and finding one. As a cry of pain reached Bolan’s ears, he saw an arm flung back, hand empty, quickly dropping out of sight again.
One down, or only wounded while retaining the ability to fight?
The next arm raised was clutching a grenade, lobbing it overhand with no attempt to place the pitch precisely. Grimaldi called out a warning from his place against the other wall, and Bolan fired to keep the shooters down, while trying hard to track the wobbling path of what appeared to be an RGD-5 antipersonnel grenade.
It struck the wall above Grimaldi and rebounded, spinning through the air, sailing some twenty feet past Bolan before bouncing off the other wall and dropping to the floor. He heard a pop as the pyrotechnic delay fuse ignited and started to burn. Lying outside the ten-foot “guaranteed” kill zone, Bolan pressed his cheek against the cool linoleum, one arm over his head and waited for the blast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Saleh Kabeer seethed with frustration as the switchboard operator at Radio Télévision Suisse put his call on hold, filling his ear with music that reminded him of something from a third-rate science fiction film. He cursed into his cell phone, pacing in the Grand Hotel Kempinski’s lobby until he noticed uniformed employees staring at him, whispering among themselves behind the registration counter.
Surely they had heard the same gunfire he had—or was it all in his imagination?
No! There came another sharp, staccato burst, and patrons in the lobby were excited now, milling about and conversing in languages Kabeer could not translate. The desk clerks had forgotten him, their eyes shifting toward the mezzanine and second floor above it, where the sounds of battle echoed down the escalators to ground level.
There still was no human being on the phone line, only vapid New Age music boring into Kabeer’s head with all the delicacy of a rusty awl. He snapped the phone shut, dropped it in the left-hand outer pocket of his coat and drew the Bizon submachine gun from concealment with his right hand. He cocked it with his left, and aimed it toward the registration counter.
Somewhere in the lobby, Kabeer heard a woman scream in German, “Someone has a gun!” while someone else picked up the cry in French.
The gun that so alarmed them was already spitting death, strafing the registration desk and those behind it, 9 mm bullets chipping wood veneer and drilling into flesh as his disoriented targets reeled, stumbled and fell. Kabeer saw two men and a woman drop before he lifted off the Bizon’s trigger, breathing in the heady scent of gunsmoke, hot brass crunching underneath his shoe soles as he crossed the lobby, moving toward the escalator.
Someone shouted after him to stop, and he turned to face the challenger, a portly older man dressed in the uniform of Geneva’s cantonal police. The cop had his pistol drawn and vaguely aimed, but he had balked at shooting Kabeer in the back. That mistake cost him dearly as Kabeer squeezed off another burst, ripping a jagged gash across the policeman’s stout abdomen. The cop fired too late to save himself, his bullet wasted on the vaulted ceiling overhead, and landed on his back, awash in blood.
Kabeer turned from his kill and leaped aboard the escalator, climbing two steps at a time while the conveyor belt propelled him toward the mezzanine, a somewhat dizzying effect that made him stagger when he reached the solid floor. People were running here and there around him, most intent on getting to the escalator that would take them down and out of the hotel to what they viewed as safety.
Fools.
Kabeer took time to spray the long descending escalator with his Bizon SMG, starting a wild landslide of lacerated flesh and screams. Pausing to check the helical magazine’s indicator holes, Kabeer found that he had expended forty rounds, leaving but twenty-four to fire before reloading. Smiling fiercely, he decided that he might as well spend those right where he was, before proceeding to the banquet hall.
His last long burst across the mezzanine sent bodies tumbling, sprawling, as the Parabellum slugs cut through them, spilling pools
and streams of blood across the pale Carrara marble floor. More screams accompanied the slaughter, their cacophony encouraging Kabeer, wringing a shout of laughter from his throat.
The Bizon’s bolt locked open on an empty chamber, and he hastily removed the weapon’s magazine, discarding it. Drawing a fresh one from a pocket, he engaged its forward hooks with pins below the SMG’s front sight and snapped the rear end into contact with a spring-loaded paddle catch/release in front of the gun’s trigger guard. A quick yank on the bolt, and the Bizon was ready to go.
But not here.
Grinning, feeling invincible, Kabeer ran toward the nearest entrance to the hotel’s banquet hall.
* * *
THE RGD-5 FRAG grenade exploded, buffeting Mack Bolan in his prone position on the service hallway’s floor. Smoke filled the corridor, while fragments of acoustic tile, shot through with shrapnel, rained down from the dropped ceiling overhead. A piece some two feet wide cracked Bolan on the head, tearing his scalp, but he ignored it as the storm of death washed over him.
Physics spared Bolan’s life, sending most of the grenade’s shrapnel upward and outward, riddling walls and ceiling while sparing objects lying on the floor. He felt one fragment graze his right arm, drawing blood, and thought another might have clipped his left shoe sole before it cut a divot in the nearby wall. Behind him, Bolan heard Grimaldi gasp in pain and turned to face him through the haze.
“You hit?” he asked.
“A couple stingers,” Grimaldi replied, his voice taut. “Nothing I can’t live with.”
Hoping that he was right, Bolan returned his full attention to the upturned service carts, both scarred by shrapnel now, where two assailants lay waiting to finish the skirmish. As he watched, they fired short bursts from both ends of their cover, their rounds still flying high and wide, brass glittering as it sprang upward from their weapons, then came tinkling back on to the vinyl-covered floor.
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