Authors: Christopher Reich
The Chinooks barreled through the valley and landed, one after the other. The crew chiefs jumped to the ground and waved the Marines aboard.
Crockett drew his men close for a final word.
“We can expect some fight from these guys,” he shouted, straining to be heard above the rotors. “Once we engage, you are to shoot to kill. These are enemy combatants. We don’t have any room for prisoners on the ride back. Are we good?”
“Hoo-yah,” shouted the Marines as one.
“All right then,” said Crockett. “Let’s go get us some.”
The lecture was titled “Advances
in Aesthetic and Cosmetic Treatments: A Clinical Perspective,” and the speaker was to be one Dr. Michel Revy, diplomate of the Swiss Board of Plastic Surgery, FACS, member of the International Society of Cosmetic Plastic Surgery, and recipient of a half-dozen awards and fellowships that Jonathan had never heard of. The venue was not a university or a hospital but the second-floor private dining room of the Restaurant Chesery, at the southern tip of the village. A plaque by the door indicated its membership in the Chaîne des Rôtisseurs as well as a score of 18 of 20 as awarded by the
Gault Millau
. Jonathan needed only a single whiff of the richly scented air to tell him he was in culinary heaven.
A man waited by the stairs to relieve them of their overcoats. Jonathan took Danni’s arm. “Which one of us is the patient?” he asked.
“Me,” she said, as she slipped her hand into his and interlocked their fingers. “I need a nip and a tuck.”
“Not likely,” replied Jonathan, with a surgeon’s outrage.
“Why, thank you, John. That’s the nicest compliment I’ve received in years.” Danni dropped her voice. “Keep your eyes on Revy. Look for any habits or mannerisms. Engage him in conversation. Turn on the recorder as soon as you get close. We’re here to listen and learn. He and Balfour have been exchanging calls three times a week for a month, but that’s all we know. We have no idea what Revy may have told Balfour about himself.”
The dining room was already full. Jonathan’s fellow guests comprised a cross-section of the international elite. In the course of twenty minutes, he shook hands with a German Graf, an Argentine
cattle baron, and a Norwegian oil magnate. Jonathan was unfailingly polite. He smiled. He made small talk. But all the while he kept his eye trained on the animated form of Dr. Michel Revy as he held court in the corner, talking to a succession of pinched, pulled, and primped matrons.
Revy was of medium height, stocky, with thinning blond hair and avuncular eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He wore a dinner jacket and black tie. According to Connor, he and Balfour had never met. Revy’s website did not offer any photos of the doctor himself, only the usual before-and-after shots of his patients. A thorough search of the Internet confirmed Revy’s preference for anonymity.
At eight-thirty, the lecture began. Revy spoke for an hour about the latest procedures to halt and reverse the aging process. He began with the necessity of better nutrition, moved his way to the latest dermatological advances in acid peels and laser treatments, and finally delved into his own specialty, the field of cosmetic surgery. Each body part was covered, from the ass to the eyebrows, with plenty of before-and-after slides to make his point. Jonathan had a sense for a doctor’s skills, and he didn’t for a moment doubt Revy’s competence. The man was a gifted surgeon, no question.
“He’s a gambler,” Danni had explained. “He’s made a fortune and lost it ten times over. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs. The banks took his homes and his toys. He owes the bad boys big-time. A few years ago he operated on the head of the Corsican Mob, and since then he’s gotten a name as a knife for hire.”
Revy concluded his remarks, saying, “I’m happy to speak with you personally after our dinner.”
The guests applauded politely, then turned toward their place settings to await their meal. White wine was poured, a local Fendant, followed by an
amuse-gueule
of terrine de foie gras with fig and pistachio. A first course of Bouillon mit Mark, or beef broth with marrow, was followed by Kalbgeschnetzeltes nach Zürcher Art, morsels of tender veal and thinly sliced mushrooms bathed in a white wine cream sauce, accompanied by a side dish of rösti (which Jonathan had always considered to be hash browns with an attitude). A green salad
was served. Waiters bearing countless bottles of Dole des Monts made sure no glass remained empty. Fruit and cheese came next. And finally, a dessert of Apfeltorte mit Schlagrahm, warm apple tart with whipped cream. Cognac and eaux-de-vie were offered. Conversation grew louder. Finally Revy rose, signaling that dinner was at an end.
“Now’s your chance,” said Danni. “Go get him. And don’t worry about asking personal questions. You’re an American.”
Jonathan pushed back his chair and made his way to the front of the room. A group of fawning women had formed a circle around the doctor. Arms crossed, Jonathan waited until the women cleared away and he was face-to-face with the physician.
“Restylane,” said Michel Revy.
“Pardon me?” Jonathan looked over his shoulder, thinking that someone else was the target of Revy’s outburst.
“You need Restylane.” Revy raised his chin as he examined Jonathan’s face. “Yes, yes, yes—one syringe for your nasal labial folds and another for those terrible frown lines. You’ll be amazed how refreshed you’ll appear.”
“Refreshed?”
“Mm-hmm. It will take off ten years. I insist you come and see me. Yes, yes.”
“I will,” said Jonathan. “I wanted to ask—”
Before he could finish, Revy turned his attention to a more promising client, a flat-chested woman in her fifties with flaming red hair and skin so sun-damaged it had the texture of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Jonathan stayed close, watching and listening as the doctor poked and prodded the woman’s deflated bosom with his pen and went on about the merits of silicone versus saline implants. Jonathan noted that Revy had the habit of saying “Yes, yes, yes,” that he constantly ended sentences with “isn’t it?” and that he couldn’t let someone speak for more than five seconds without a “Hmm, hmmm, hmmm.” And all this with his thick Suisse Romande accent.
“What did you learn?” Danni asked when Jonathan broke away.
“Nothing. He’s too busy drumming up business. He’s lined up two facelifts, a boob job, and a tummy tuck inside of ten minutes.”
“Not good.” Danni touched Jonathan’s sleeve and led him to the stairs. “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Revy’s hotel. Maybe I’ll find something there.”
“How do you know where he’s staying?”
“Von Daniken told me. Grand Hotel Park. Room 333.”
“Did he give you the key, too?”
“No,” said Danni. “I got that all by myself.” And she brushed his leg with the card key.
“How did you—”
“We didn’t have time for the class about picking pockets. Maybe when you get back.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and whispered, “If anyone asks, say I’m indisposed. Don’t let him go until I get back. I’ll need an hour.”
“What if I can’t delay him?”
Danni put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” she said. “In this business, there are no what-ifs.”
It was an excavation site
. They had erected a large tent to protect them from the snow and the howling wind and to guard against unwanted eyes gazing down from high above. A pair of sodium floodlights cast a harsh light on the missile. The porters stood up to their knees in a ditch next to it, swinging their pickaxes in rhythmic succession. The men had been digging for an hour, and despite the cold, they had stripped down to sweaters and their dark faces shone with sweat.
“How much deeper?” asked Emma, standing with her arms crossed at the edge of the pit.
The snow had come away easily. The soil, hardened to a diamondlike permafrost, less so. The ditch was a meter deep and twice that in length, but still it wasn’t large enough.
“Another half meter,” answered the stocky engineer. “Or I won’t be able to open the access panel.”
The Boeing AGM-86 was divided into three sections. The rear third of the missile housed its power plant, a Williams F107 turbofan jet engine and fuel. The nose and forward section held a terrain contour-matching guidance system, the predecessor to GPS-based navigation systems. The payload, in this case a 150-kiloton nuclear weapon, sat in the center of the missile. Access to it was gained through a panel in the missile’s underbelly.
Emma envisioned the panel swinging open, releasing the dangerous cargo. “Will it fall out?” she asked.
“I don’t believe so,” said the engineer. “The weapon is bolted to the interior wall. Anyhow, you needn’t worry. The bomb cannot detonate
until a high-explosive charge drives a pellet into the uranium core, initiating a chain reaction.”
“What kind of charge are you talking about?”
“Approximately one-half kilo of plastic explosives.”
A half kilo of Semtex was more than enough to obliterate everyone standing within seven meters of the missile. “And could that explode if it dropped?”
The engineer lost his smug expression.
Emma hopped into the ditch and lay down on her back. Steel rivets held the rectangular access panel in place. The rivets wouldn’t be a problem. All the equipment needed to open up the missile and free the weapon sat in one of three duffel bags. There were drills and wrenches and power saws and even an acetylene torch. Earlier she’d asked the men if they’d ever worked on this kind of missile.
“Of course not,” came the unworried reply. “Our expertise is in ground-based ballistic missiles. But we’ve studied the schematics.”
The crackle of the satellite radio echoed through the tent. Emma climbed out of the ditch and answered it. “Yes?”
“How are you progressing?” asked Balfour.
“About to open it up.”
“What does that mean,
about?
When will work be completed?” There was an urgency in Balfour’s voice that hadn’t been there an hour before.
“What is it, Ash? What’s wrong?”
“You must hurry. You don’t have much time.”
Emma turned her back on the porters raising the picks over their heads and the engineers staring transfixed at the missile. “What do you know?” she whispered.
“Your presence has been noticed. The U.S. military is sending a team to investigate.”
Emma held her tongue. The implications of Balfour’s words were too complex, too far-reaching to absorb at once. Who had spotted them? How had they known where to look? And, most important, who had passed along the information to Balfour? Emma had no
doubt that he knew more than he was telling, but now was not the time to press him. It was imperative to focus on matters at hand. “How long do we have?” she asked.
“The order was passed down to a special operations unit in northern Afghanistan a few hours ago. I suppose it depends on how quickly they can get a team to you.”
Emma had worked with members of special operations units in the past. She knew firsthand that they could mobilize very fast. “So they could be here any second?”
Balfour offered little consolation. “I suggest you get the weapon out now.”
“We’re trying.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” said Balfour. “The Americans have an order to shoot to kill. They don’t want anyone to learn about their lost nuke.”
The line went dead. Emma paused to bridle her anger before rejoining the others. “Gentlemen,” she said. “There is a new development. We need to accelerate our efforts. Balfour expects us back by morning. Accordingly, he is doubling your fees.”
Fifteen minutes later, the porters had finished digging and both engineers had taken up position beneath the missile. The panel came off. More time passed as they exchanged wrenches for screwdrivers and back again. Bundled in oversized parkas and down-lined pants, with oxygen masks covering their mouths, they worked with agonizing slowness.
Emma stepped outside the tent. Snow like goose down fell from a low-lying cloud cover. She scanned the sky, seeing nothing, knowing all the time that when they came, it would be with lights doused. Then she heard it—the distinctive rhythmic batting of a helicopter. And a second, with the same signature. Twin rotors. Probably Chinooks. That meant a large team, at least ten operators. The Americans were loaded for bear. No prisoners, indeed.
Emma squinted, seeking out a shadow among the clouds. It didn’t matter that the pilots could not make visual contact or that they were flying with night-vision goggles. The helicopters carried sophisticated
infrared scanning devices that would spot their heat signatures through the densest cloud.
Dum … dum … dum … dum … dum
.
The throbbing grew louder. Just then the wind gusted and she could no longer hear it. She stood stiller than she ever had, waiting for the gusts to pass, fearing that when the wind quieted, the helicopters would be upon them. But a moment later the gusts calmed and the sky was silent. The pilots had flown up the next valley.
Emma stepped back inside the protective tenting and dimmed the floodlights. “Can you get the device out in the next ten minutes?”
“We need more light.”
“Out of the question.”
One of the engineers frowned. “There are still seven bolts attaching it to the wall of the fuselage, and then—”
Emma grasped him by his shoulders. “Just a yes or a no.”
“If I must, yes.”
“You must.”
The engineer went a shade paler, then barked a few commands to his thin colleague, and the men attacked their task with renewed vigor. Emma took up position half in, half out of the tent. One eye kept watch on the engineers while the other scanned the sky. She heard a yelp and saw that one of the engineers lay on his back and that a stainless steel projectile had dropped halfway out of the missile’s belly and landed on his chest.
“Careful!” she shouted, nerves getting the better of her. She put her head back outside and heard the helicopters again. This time there was no mistaking it, nor the fact that the helicopters were approaching. The moment the Americans turned their infrared cameras onto her location, their screens would light up, showing red human forms against a black background.