Brothers In Arms (13 page)

Several miles away, Marie Garvais listened to the responding units on a portable police scanner. Satisfied that there was no description of their vehicles, she sat back on the seat to ease the pain in her rib cage where two bullets had hit. She opened the vest and dug out the two slugs: pistol bullets, nine millimeter it looked like. The rifle bullets would have penetrated her vest, but the rifleman had been firing high down the
hallway and her team had taken no direct hits. She had been struck in the chest by someone firing a pistol, Dougard had a round graze his hand, and Isabelle and Andre were untouched.

The minivans crossed a bridge over the river into a suburb of St. Paul, and drove to a house with a two-car garage. The automatic garage doors opened as the vans pulled into the garage, and then the doors closed. The assault team dismounted. Isabelle came to Marie and said, “Are you all right? Are you injured?”

“I’ll be bruised,” Marie said. She touched Isabelle lightly on her face. “I’ll be fine, really.”

“Is everyone else all right?” Isabelle said.

Dougard held up his hand and said, “Only a graze, not bad. If you would dress it . . .?”

Marika Torkay came forward with a first-aid kit. “I’ll do it,” she said.

Marie massaged her chest, then took off the vest and examined the widening bruise beneath her black T-shirt. Isabelle touched the bruise, lightly, with one finger.

“Are you sure you didn’t break a rib?” she asked.

“I’m all right. It was pistol fire. We weren’t expecting that rifle.”

“They were professionals,” Isabelle said. “They were ready very quickly and they handled it well. They didn’t follow us outside; they stayed put and called the police.”

“Yes,” Marie said. “We’ll have to find out more. They’ll move him now to some place harder. Marika, can you find out more about the team?”

“I don’t know,” Marika said, finishing the dressing of Dougard’s hand. “It’s not as though we can get employment there, it’s a very small and handpicked staff. I don’t think it’s possible.”

“Do you have someone watching now?”

“There’s one of our people with a video camera in the woods; they’ve probably pulled out so that they won’t get caught up in the police sweep. They’ll be checking the ground for clues.”

“Have them do what they can,” Marie said.

“Of course,” Marika said. “But there won’t be much to do now that the police are there.”

Marie muttered under her breath and went into the kitchen. She took an ice-cube tray out of the freezer and emptied it into a plastic garbage bag, then wadded it up and stuck it beneath her black T-shirt against her spreading bruise.

Isabelle followed her in.

“Mistakes happen,” Isabelle said. “Andre couldn’t help it. And the intelligence we had didn’t say there were more bodyguards with rifles. We were expecting a handful of sleeping men with pistols. This is a very professional operation.”

“It doesn’t make me feel any better. This is a hard target that has just gotten much harder. I’m not giving up on this.”

“We have to back off until they get better intelligence for us, Marie. We can’t just go running a gauntlet of fire each time hoping to get him.”

“You’re right, but it doesn’t make me feel better. We’ll have to consider something beside close-quarters assault.”

“You sound so dangerous . . . ‘close quarters assault,’ indeed.”

Marie laughed, and reached out and draped an arm around her lover’s neck.

“Come here,” she said. “Massage these ribs for me.”

As soon as she was notified by a call that woke her, Dr. Rowan Green rushed to the center. Her identification got her through the first perimeter and into the confusion of police vehicles parked outside the center. She saw Dale Miller, dressed in rumpled clothes, talking with several police officers. After she parked her car, she hurried to him.

“Is Mr. Uday all right?” she said.

Dale nodded. “He’s all right. No injuries.” He said to the police officers, “Anything else?”

“No,” a sergeant said. “You can go back inside. If we have anything else, we can find you in there.”

Dale followed Dr. Green into the center. She walked around the back and lingered for a moment, looking at the blackened back door, riddled with bullet holes and blackened from the explosive charge that had shattered the lock. Then she hurried down the hall to Uday’s room, where Rahman Uday sat in his armchair, curiously formal. Harrison stood behind him, while Ford stood guard outside the door.

“Are you all right, Rahman?” Dr. Green said.

Uday nodded slowly, once. “They want the One.”

Dale eased into the room behind Dr. Green and studied the quiet psychotic. “Are you the One?”

“I am not the One,” Uday said. “The One is the One. But I have seen the One.”

“Who is the One?” Dale said.

“He will bring the sad holiday,” Uday said. “Men with guns are with him. Like tonight.”

“The sad holiday, it’s men with guns?” Dale said.

“No,” Uday said. “It’s a sad holiday. When the blooming comes.”

“When the blooming comes,” Dale said. “What does that mean?”

A lifetime of phones ringing in the night had conditioned Ray to come wide awake from deep sleep at the first ring. He opened his eyes and reached for the phone, but not before looking over at the empty space in the bed beside him.

“Dalton,” he said.

Mike Callan’s voice was tinny over the phone. “I take it you haven’t had your coffee yet.”

“What’s happened?”

Callan gave him a short, succinct briefing on the attempt at the Torture Center.

“So they made the hit,” Dalton said. “They had some good intel.”

“Not good enough,” Callan said. “They weren’t expecting our crew. Our boys did a good job. There were at least four shooters with buzz guns and night vision. Our guys got into one of them. None of ours got touched.”

“No injuries?”

“Not a one. The center is shot up, and the staff is shaken. It’s time to get Uday out of there.”

“What does his doctor say?”

“She doesn’t think anyone is going to get any more out of him
right now. The attack didn’t even faze him, that’s how out of touch he is. She thinks he can be moved to a facility where he has medication management and therapeutic support and he’d be no worse off than he is there. She thinks that he poses a danger to the other patients as long as he’s there. They want him out.”

“Do you have a safe house there?”

“Dale planned for that contingency. He’s got a buddy, a retired master sergeant out of SF, with a farm down in Decatur, Illinois. It’s about ten to twelve hours south of the Twin Cities. His pal has run some training courses for Agency people down there. It’s near a good-sized town but out in the country, no close neighbors, got his barns and outbuildings set up for garages and dormitories, even got a shooting range. His neighbors mind their business and they leave him alone. Dale says we can put Uday down there and bring in our own medicos to work on him. Then the detail can go to a much harder posture without anybody seeing it.”

“Do it. What do you need from me?”

“Just keep signing the checks. We’re going to bring in more shooters and that will get expensive.”

“Whatever they need, they’ll get.” Ray paused. His room began to lighten with early-morning sun. “Do you think Dale would talk to me at this point?”

“No need to get him riled up right now,” Callan said. “I don’t see the point. That’s what cutouts are for.” He paused. “Right?”

Ray was quiet for a moment, then said, “You’re right. Let me know how it develops.”

“Just keep signing the checks, Ray. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Youssef bin Hassan killed time wandering the cobblestone streets of Amsterdam. It was a bright and warm summer day, and the sun felt good against his bare arms. He wandered the twisting streets of the Jordaan District, pausing to peer through dirty windows into bars brown with nicotine stains, looking up at the gabled row houses leaning up against each other, following the sinuous winding of the canals and watching the tourist boats go by. He stopped at a cyber café and checked his e-mail, but there was nothing for him. After some time, he stopped outside of a plain-fronted building with a sign that said
HOMELESS SHELTER
. There was a small group of unwashed men lingering in front, who looked Youssef up and down. He ignored them, as he’d learned to ignore the many homeless in Amsterdam. The liberal Dutch welfare policies ensured that all the homeless could have a roof over their head, something to eat, and a blanket to cover themselves. This was such a place.

Youssef went in. A short plump woman, her blond hair braided in cornrows, stood behind the front counter. She looked up and smiled at Youssef.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“I was wondering if you ever needed volunteer help,” Youssef said.

“We can always use help,” the woman said. “Do you want to sign up?”

“Could you show me around?” Youssef said. “Give me an idea of what is needed?”

“I can give you the tour,” she said. She placed a sign on the counter that said
BACK IN TEN MINUTES
, then came out around the counter. She stood only as high as Youssef’s shoulder. “Come on then.”