12:00
P.M.
, Wednesday, July 28,
Fort Irwin, The Mojave Desert
The man sat under the camouflaged netting, the only safe refuge from the blistering desert heat. He took a long pull at his water bottle. Besides maintaining cover during the day, dehydration was their main problem. His UHF radio scanner squawked and he woke the woman sleeping next to him. “A plane is landing.”
The woman pulled herself up, her soft Asian features dusty from being in the field for over a week without a hot bath. “What time is it?” she asked. Her voice carried the trace of a foreign accent. She reached for the water bottle.
The man checked his watch. “Noon.” They had to make a decision. Should they break cover to do a visual check and risk discovery by one of the many helicopter patrols constantly overhead, or should they rely on monitoring the radio until it was dark?
The woman made the decision. “Let’s do a visual.” They crawled out from under the netting and made the short climb to the exposed observation post in the rocks above their campsite. She ripped the cover off the high-powered telescope hidden there and popped the caps off the lens. She scanned the desert floor stretched out in front of her. A huge, high-wing cargo plane was landing on the bare airstrip camouflaged to blend with the desert terrain. “A C-Seventeen,” she said.
The man took over and focused on the activity beside the runway. An MH-53J Pave Low helicopter was being loaded while approximately sixty men waited to board. “They don’t seem to be hiding anything. Maybe they’re going home.”
“Do you think it’s Delta Force?”
“Can’t tell from here. But it is definitely a Pave Low.”
She pulled out the cellular phone clipped to her waist and punched in a number. “I’ll report it anyway.” A loud rasping sound grated in her ear the moment she pressed the Send button. She jabbed at the end button, her eyes wide. “We’re being jammed.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the man growled. She started to disassemble the telescope. “Leave it,” he ordered, running for the all-terrain vehicle hidden over a mile away. She followed him down through the rocks.
“Freeze!” a voice commanded. The man skidded to a stop, trying to see who gave the order. The woman kept right on running. A short burst of submachine gun fire cut her across her legs and she collapsed.
Four men appeared from behind the rocks and surrounded them. “Now who would you be working for?” one asked. She spat at him.
“Not the friendly type,” he muttered. “Shit, I hope you don’t work for someone like the Chinese. Then we’d have to get ugly.”
She grimaced. “Bastard!”
He grinned at her.
6:58
P.M.
, Wednesday, July 28,
CNC-TV News Studio, Washington, D.C.
Confidence radiated from Jonathan Meredith when he took the seat next to Liz Gordon, the network’s premier reporter and talk show host. The cameras zoomed in on his handsome profile as Liz gave him the standard welcome to her weekly evening show. A guest appearance by Meredith guaranteed them a ratings sweep and Liz’s director beamed in satisfaction.
Liz didn’t waste time and turned immediately to the hot topic of the day. “Mr. Meredith, what is your reaction to the allegations published by the
Sacramento Union
this morning that your organization has extorted large amounts of money from corporations in the name of campaign contributions and deposited them in an offshore bank account?”
Meredith turned to the camera. “Liz, this is a classic smear campaign where an unscrupulous reporter twists the truth to her own purposes.”
“The reporter is Marcy Bangor,” Liz replied, “who has been widely praised for her courageous coverage of the L.A. riots.”
“But the fact remains,” Meredith replied, “that I have done nothing wrong. True, I have received campaign contributions from many sources. But these people approached me, not the other way around, and my organization has reported every single penny. True, I have bank accounts in foreign banks. But my organization is international in scope.”
Liz bombarded him with questions, pounding at his integrity. But he smoothly fielded every probe and the director sensed Meredith was making his case. “End it,” he muttered into his headset.
Liz raised an eyebrow, her way of acknowledging him. “Are you going to sue the
Sacramento Union
and Ms. Bangor?” she asked.
“My lawyers will pursue it,” Meredith answered calmly, “but what will that accomplish? I’ve been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion. I challenge this reporter to meet me on national TV and make these charges to my face. Let me answer her directly so the public can hear the evidence and make up their own minds.”
“Mr. Meredith, if CNC-TV arranges such a meeting, will you be there?”
“Any time, any place,” he answered. The interview was over and they broke for a commercial. Meredith shook hands all around, gathered up his advisers, and left.
“Why did you do that?” Liz’s director asked just before they went back on the air.
“He’s a demagogue and a bastard,” Liz answered. “But I believe him.”
“I think you’re right,” the director conceded.
7:05
A.M.
, Thursday, July 29,
National Military Command Center, The Pentagon
Durant was appalled by the obsolescence surrounding him. The National Military Command Center was an anachronism straight out of a 1980s movie. He sat at the commander’s console and sketched ways to bring it into the twenty-first century with holographic displays and interactive computers similar to Agnes. Art Rios smiled when he saw the sketches. It was the way Durant’s ego emerged: the sure conviction that he could do anything better than anyone else.
“Please direct your attention to the status board,” a woman’s voice announced over the loudspeaker. Durant scanned the computer-generated wall maps. The C-17 carrying Delta Force and a backup Pave Low had landed at Bangui and joined the small force already in place: four Pave Lows, two C-130Ps and two Combat Talon MC-130Es.
“You’re here early, Mr. Durant,” the general said.
“Is seven o’clock early?” Durant said, a little testy.
The general caught it immediately and recovered. “Only for me,” he laughed. “I’m not used to working for a living.”
Rios gave the general high marks for reading his boss right. “What about the bad guys watching Delta Force?” Rios asked.
“We rolled them up yesterday,” the general answered.
“Did they get a warning message out?” Durant asked.
“Not to the best of our knowledge,” the general replied.
Agnes would know
, Durant thought. It was another uncertainty they would have to live with.
“The B-Two launches in fifty minutes,” the general said.
6:10
A.M.
, Thursday, July 29,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
The doors at the front and rear of the hangar cranked silently back. The B-2’s engines came to life in rapid sequence as it sat in the early-morning shadows, a giant raptor ready to spring free of its tethers. The bomber sat there, its engines a loud growl as Lt. Col. Jim West and his pilot, Maj. Larry Bartle, ran the before-taxi checklist, waiting for all the systems to test okay and come on-line. It was the same routine as any training mission.
Bartle called for taxi clearance. “Spirit Four,” ground control answered, “Cleared to taxi runway one-nine.” They were taking off to the south. The pilot eased the two inboard throttles forward and the B-2 taxied clear of its cage. On the ground, there was something unnatural about the B-2; its high, ungainly stance, its odd silhouette that resembles a guppy, the slight downward curve of the tip of its nose. But like its call sign, all of that would change once it was airborne and in the element for which it was created. In the air, it flew with an incredible grace and some would say it was a thing of beauty. But once over the Atlantic, it would shed its training call sign “Spirit Four” and become what it really was: “Striker One.”
The taxi out was routine in the extreme, typical of the training missions launched from Whiteman every day. But this time, a lone staff car was parked beside the hammerhead at the run-up end of runway 19, the south runway. The B-2 pulled up short of the runway and held. Then the control tower cleared it to taxi onto the active and hold. The commander of the 509th Bomb Wing climbed out of the staff car and stood watching the B-2.
“Spirit Four,” the control tower radioed, “cleared for takeoff.” Still the B-2 did not move, awaiting its exact launch time. When the second hand on the commander’s watch read five seconds to go, Bartle ran up the engines. The second hand touched 1200 hours Zulu, Greenwich Mean Time, and Bartle released the brakes. The B-2 started to move.
The commander came to attention and saluted his pilots. He held the salute as the plane lumbered past, rapidly gaining speed. “Do this one right, Jim,” he murmured. His words were lost in the wake of the jet blast.
1:10
P.M.
, Thursday, July 29,
Thun, Switzerland
The phone call from the task force came just after lunch. Toni took it in her bedroom while Sutherland and Mather sat on the balcony overlooking the lake. “Hank,” Mather said, very nervous and distracted, “I know you’re interested in Toni but—”
“That’s an understatement,” Sutherland replied, interrupting him.
The young FBI agent was embarrassed. “So am I.”
“I don’t have any claims on her,” Sutherland said. He studied Mather, trying to remember when he was that age. It seemed so long ago. “I suppose you’re going to ask me if my intentions are honorable,” he joked.
Mather fixed him with a worried look. “Well?”
“This is an unbelievable conversation,” Sutherland replied, “for this day and age.”
“Not in my family,” Mather said. A heavy silence came down.
Toni joined them, her face ashen. “That was about Diana Habib. She’s dead”
“Oh, no,” Mather groaned. “What happened?”
“They don’t have all the details. But it looks like a gangland style execution. Two bullets at close range in the back of the head. Apparently, it happened sometime after I called her Tuesday.”
“Ramar,” Sutherland gritted. “He’s removing any witnesses who can cause him trouble.”
“Toni might be next,” Mather said.
“It’s possible,” Sutherland replied. “If Ramar made the connection to Toni or traced the phone call she made to Diana.”
“Hey, guys!” Toni said. “I’m in the room. Don’t talk around me. And quit obsessing. Ramar never got a make on me. Besides, the task force has already alerted Interpol and the Swiss. Now let’s get with the program and find Sandi Jefferson.”
“I think we should change hotels,” Mather said. “Maybe find something in Bern.”
“We can check with the embassy,” Toni added, “and find out if they’ve made progress on the Mercedes.” She gave Sutherland a bright smile. “Besides, I’d like to meet your ex and find out what kind of woman turns you on.”
“Hey, give me a break,” Sutherland protested. “That was a long time ago. I was young, dumb, and full of myself then.”
“You’re still batting two out of three,” Mather muttered.
2:15
P.M.
, Thursday, July 29,
Khartoum, The Sudan
Kamigami led the two pilots across the blazing tarmac and onto the ramp of Assam’s waiting C-130. They were shackled together, with canvas hoods firmly in place over their heads. They were barefoot and he knew the asphalt was blistering their feet. “Step up,” he ordered. “You’re on the ramp of an aircraft.” They did as commanded and Terrant stumbled, almost dragging Holloway with him. Kamigami caught him by the arm and kept him upright. He could feel the man trembling under the thin fabric of his prison dungarees. He guided the men up the ramp and had them sit down on the floor at the rear of the cargo deck.
“Where are we going?” Terrant asked.
Kamigami didn’t answer when he saw Davig al Gimlas climb the ramp. The army captain was wearing a long flowing white robe and not his customary uniform. His white
kaffiyeh
was held in place with a twisted cord of gold that matched the wrapping hiding the short sword he was carrying. He looked at the two men sitting on the cargo deck, the two men he would execute in less than twenty-four hours.
Kamigami watched him walk forward to join Jamil bin Assam at the passenger seats. Assam accorded him the place of honor next to his seat. No sign of emotion crossed Kamigami’s face.
There’s not going to be a rescue
, he thought.
They hung us out to dry. I can still walk away from this and get back to Malaysia on my own
. An image of his wife and children flashed in front of him. But just as quickly, he rejected that option. He would keep the faith and do what he had come for.
His decision made, he walked into the toilet module. He squeezed inside and locked the door. He quickly extracted the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and hid it in the storage bin where he had found the first message. He turned, relieved himself, and washed his hands. With a touch of soapy water, he made a small backward check mark with its tail curving upward and to the left. It was a repeat of the first time he had made contact except the message was from him this time.
He came out and sat on the parachute jump seat closest to the prisoners. The Arab copilot came back to check on the passengers before taking off. He spat at the two Americans. “Why do you worry about them?” he snarled.
“General Assam hired me to provide security and until tomorrow, I’m responsible for them.” The copilot snarled an answer in Arabic and went into the toilet. Kamigami heard him flush the commode. “Jewish pigs,” he snarled when he came out. The engines were already turning and a cool blast of air flooded over the cargo deck, finally breaking the heat.
“Is it tomorrow,” Holloway muttered.
At first Kamigami didn’t answer. Then, “Not if I can help it.” It was all he could offer them.
The flight to Wadi Rahad took less than forty minutes. Just before they started to descend, Murray, the expatriate Englishman who served as the C-130’s flight engineer, came back to use the toilet. He was out in a few moments.
It’s him
, Kamigami thought.
So obvious
. He would check the toilet after they landed to see if the check mark had been erased to indicate the message had been picked up. “Want to come up on the flight deck?” Murray asked. Kamigami followed him forward.
The C-130 flew low as it approached the edge of the dry riverbed where the fortresslike compound was located. The road leading to the wadi was jammed with people making the journey to witness the execution. The gates to the compound were closed, holding the crowd outside, and would be thrown open only an hour before the execution. Inside, four white tents were erected for Assam and his party. An iron cage for the pilots stood in the sand-covered forecourt in front of the Rock of Vengeance. The airstrip was located about a half mile to the northwest. Army tents were pitched in a neat row next to the parking ramp and most of al Gimlas’s soldiers were already encamped.
The American pilot made a routine landing and Kamigami checked the toilet as they taxied to parking. He was relieved to see the check mark had been wiped off the mirror. His message had been received. He came back to the two Americans as soldiers streamed onto the aircraft. “They are in my custody now,” al Gimlas announced. But before the soldiers could haul them off the airplane, Murray and the American pilot were dragged off the flight deck.
“Search them,” Assam ordered. He looked at Kamigami. “Search all foreigners. I want no spies with their cameras here.”
Kamigami held his arms out, ready to be searched. The soldiers would only find what everyone could see on his equipment belt. But Murray had his message in the pack of cigarettes. Could the Englishman carry it off? Kamigami had to create a distraction to give him some cover. “If you’re looking for spies, search the copilot. He’s been acting very suspicious lately.”
Assam barked a command in Arabic and the soldiers turned on the copilot. The man was terrified as they rummaged through his pockets. A soldier pulled out the pack of cigarettes Kamigami had hidden in the toilet. The copilot fell to his knees begging for mercy. He ripped open the cigarettes one by one, licking the inside of the wrapper paper until the message appeared. He held it up for Assam to inspect before it disappeared. “Immediate situation update required,” Assam read. “Who sent this?”
Kamigami suppressed an inward groan. He had fingered the wrong man.
The copilot’s panic was total. He looked around, not having the slightest idea who he was in contact with. He focused on the Englishman. “Murray,” he blurted out.
Assam barked an order and the soldiers dragged the copilot and Murray off the aircraft.
Al Gimlas joined Kamigami. “I thought you were a spy.”
“You thought wrong,” Kamigami said. “You had better search everyone. Start with me.”
3:20
P.M.
, Thursday, July 29,
The American Embassy, Switzerland
The first secretary delayed the meeting as long as possible. Finally, it was quitting time and he could no longer postpone the inevitable. He buzzed his secretary. “Please show Special Agent Mather and group in.” He stood when they entered his sumptuous office, always the correct and proper diplomat. He put on his most official face. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mather. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person. I served under your father in the Netherlands.” Mather made the introductions before they turned to business. “The Swiss do not like foreign investigators probing into the affairs of their citizens. I’m afraid you are rapidly wearing out your welcome here.”
“We understand,” Mather said. “We are most anxious to leave. Do you have anything on the Mercedes?”
The secretary nodded. “Apparently, the car in question is registered to the estate of a Swiss-American company, Century Communications International.” He daintily pushed a paper across the desk and rapidly withdrew his hand from the offending object as if it were contaminated. “I had to spend a great deal of obligata to obtain this, a personal connection really. The Swiss are very concerned.” It was diplo-speak for that’s-all-you-are-going-to-get-now-get-the-hell-out-of-the-country.
Sutherland glanced at the address; Kandersteg. Suddenly, he was back in his VOQ room at Whiteman, tidying up after Beth had dropped in unexpectedly and crashed in his bed, dog-tired from traveling. He was looking at her ticket envelope with a name and phone number dashed across the cover in Beth’s bold handwriting. The word
Kandersteg
leaped at him.
“Why am I not surprised?” Sutherland muttered.
“Ah,” the first secretary said, “then all is in order?”
“More than you know,” Sutherland said, rising to leave. “We should be returning to the States tomorrow.”