Authors: Christopher Reich
“Anyone who doesn’t need to be here, leave now. Get back to the cave and go as far inside as you can. Hurry.”
The porters and the guide took note of her voice and fled.
If I sound as scared as they look, thought Emma, we’re in deep trouble.
She hurried to the missile. “Get the payload clear.”
“It’s stuck,” the engineer said. “I can’t free the last bolt.”
Emma hopped into the pit. “Give me the wrench.”
The engineer thrust the tool into her hand and pointed to the recalcitrant bolt.
Emma tightened the wrench on the bolt and gave a tug. Nothing. Then another. Still nothing. Above the wind, she could hear the batting of the helicopters. “Get out of here,” she said, motioning for the engineers to scram. “I’ll take care of this myself. And make sure you go at least twenty meters inside the cave. Those helicopters are looking for us. And they don’t plan on asking us too many questions.”
The engineers ran from the tent.
Emma lay on her back, staring into the guts of the missile. It looked like a souped-up Chevy, she thought. One of those cars that Jonathan always dreamed of having. A ’68 SS Camaro with a racing stripe down the hood. She laughed grimly. This was hardly the moment to be reminiscing. She tried the wrench again, to no avail.
“Sod it all.” Drawing her pistol, she placed the barrel a few centimeters from the bolt, shielded her eyes, and pulled the trigger. The bolt shattered as the bullet passed through the steel skin. The warhead dropped from its carriage onto her chest, crushing her. Gasping, she rolled it one way while rolling her body another. The warhead slid onto the dirt.
The nuclear weapon was encased in stainless steel and measured one meter in length. It was shaped like a bullet, rounded at one side and wider at the shoulders. A litany of serial numbers ran along the side, but there were no warnings except a small yellow-and-black radioactivity symbol. Anyone who got this close to a nuke didn’t need to be reminded to be careful.
Emma slid from beneath the missile and hefted the bomb onto the lip of the ditch. It weighed at least forty kilos, and she needed all her strength to maneuver it to the door of the tent. The helicopters were closer, and though the wind was driving the snow horizontally and the Gore-Tex was snapping wildly, she could make out the pitch
of the two aircraft. It was impossible to tell where they were. Noise traveled strangely in the mountains. Close enough, thought Emma.
Still her feet did not propel her out of the tent toward the cave. She felt the weight in her hands dragging her down. She considered carrying the warhead outside and sitting down on top of it to wait. She wouldn’t feel a thing when the machine gun bullets struck her. Existence would simply end. Death was not always the worst tragedy. The bomb would be discovered and whisked to safety. Her last act would be seen as having spared thousands of lives and forestalling untold misery.
Then she thought of the crimes committed against her, the individuals who had perpetrated them, and what they would do to others. She thought about Balfour and the money he owed her. Finally she thought about herself and the future.
With a grunt, she lifted the weapon and carried it through the snow toward the safety of the cave. She couldn’t help but look at the sky. The helicopters were so close she could feel the concussion of their rotors.
The Grand Hotel Park sat
on a wooded knoll, a giant’s chalet built of dark pine with fairy lights dancing below its eaves and loaves of snow weighing down the roof. The Park was another of Gstaad’s five-star ultra-luxe hostelries. The nouveaux riches chose the Palace. The filthy rich chose the Park.
“You’re certain he’s alone?” Danni sat in the passenger seat of the van, staring at the hotel’s festive facade. “I don’t want any surprises.”
Marcus von Daniken handed her a copy of the registration form. “Dr. Michel Revy. Party of one. No wife. No consort. No dog.”
Danni pulled a black sweater over her dress and exchanged her heels for crepe-soled shoes. “You’re sure it will hold?” she said, slipping on a pair of climbing gloves.
Von Daniken shot her a glance.
A last flurry of activity as Danni tucked her hair beneath a watch cap. “Wait here.”
“I’m a policeman, not a taxi service.”
“Do as you’re told, Marcus. There’s a good boy.”
Without another word she climbed out of the van and ran through the woods toward the hotel. Security at luxury establishments was stringent. With only ninety-nine rooms, the Park’s clientele was not large. Staff members were trained to recognize their guests. Danni couldn’t risk being questioned.
Reaching the south side of the building, she grasped a drainpipe and gave it a tug for good measure. Solid. This was Switzerland. No doubt there was a federally licensed drainpipe inspector. She climbed to the first floor. There was no terrace, just a large twin window overlooking
the forest. Von Daniken had promised it would be unlocked. Wedging a foot between the pipe and the building, she leaned to her right and slipped the blade of her work knife into the seam. The window swung open. With the grace of a gymnast, she reached a foot to the sill, then a hand, and a moment later she was standing safely inside the hotel.
“There are no cameras in the guest halls,” von Daniken had told her. “The clients like their privacy. But watch out for the cleaning staff. They’re like hawks.”
Danni found the emergency staircase and ran up two flights to the third floor. She ducked her head into the hall and observed that it was empty. Room 333 was a corner suite. She walked briskly to the door. Voices echoed in the hall behind her. Guests? Maids? She kept her head down and slid the card key through the reader. A woman laughed drunkenly. Guests—maids didn’t drink. The door opened and Danni stepped inside.
From her fanny pack she took a penlight and commenced a survey of Revy’s quarters. Turn-down service had been completed. A terrycloth robe lay on the plump duvet, a pair of slippers on the floor below it. Instead of a chocolate on the pillow, there was a trio of miniature pastries on the nightstand. Classical music played softly. She moved from dresser to closet to desk, searching for papers and personal documents. A laptop sat open on the desk. She hit Enter. The screen blazed to life, and she noted that the computer was connected to the Internet.
A check of the browsing history showed that Revy had been perusing the society pages for background information on his guests. Every man a spy, she thought. She continued past addresses for online poker, the Bellagio Hotel sports book, and English off-track wagering, stopping when she saw instructions for Web searches on “Ashok Armitraj” and “Lord Balfour” and “tourist risk in Pakistan.”
The last address was for Emirates Airlines.
Double-click
.
A reservation for Dr. M. Revy from Zurich to Dubai. First class,
seat 2A. Onward connection via Pakistan International Airlines to Islamabad. She memorized the details as her heart beat faster and a voice protested inside her head.
Too soon
.
Danni exited from the browser and surveyed the desktop screen. In the search window, she typed “Balfour Armitraj.” A list of files appeared, including one titled “Armitraj Medical History.” Slipping a flash drive into the laptop, she copied all files relating to the Indian arms merchant. She wasn’t done with Revy’s laptop yet.
The transfer completed, she opened a spyware program called Remora. Remora was the real reason for her late-night visit. Like the fish it was named after, Remora latched on to its host and followed it wherever it went. In this case, that meant piggybacking Revy’s every use of the computer—word processing, Web browsing, and, most important, e-mail—and transmitting the information via the computer’s wireless hardware to Division. Each time he wrote a letter or consulted a document, a record of the changes he made would travel to Washington. Each time he logged on to the Internet, Connor would know what sites he visited and for how long. Every time the good doctor wrote or received an e-mail, Connor would know that, too.
The program downloaded in ten seconds, and ten seconds after that, Danni ejected the flash drive and slipped it into her pocket.
She stood for a moment, listening. The hotel was as quiet as the grave. She checked her watch. She needed to hurry.
There was one paper she’d yet to find.
Danni returned to the closet and went through Revy’s jackets and pants. Nothing. She checked behind the bathroom door. Again nothing. She discovered his briefcase beneath the bed. She slid it toward her and defeated the spring locks without difficulty. The briefcase was filled with papers, files, and brochures, all arranged neatly. Revy’s passport peeked from a pocket. She slipped it out and laid it on the floor, open to the personal information page. She attached a biometric scanner to the power slot of her phone and ran the passport’s security strip through it, stealing Revy’s vital data, a nifty little trick known as “cloning.” Page by page, she photographed all the immigration stamps. Finished, she turned to the papers and
files in the briefcase and reviewed them methodically as the clock ticked in her mind.
She found what she was looking for in a manila folder marked with a crisp white label: “Pakistan: Travel Documents.” Inside was a tourist visa with one passport-sized photograph attached. She slid it into her pocket.
She replaced the briefcase and stood, checking to make sure that she’d left no trace of her visit. Satisfied that the room was exactly as she’d found it, she went to the door and peered through the spyglass. The corridor was empty.
Three minutes later she was sitting next to von Daniken as he drove the van down the hill.
“Trouble,” she said.
“What is it?”
“He’s leaving sooner than we expected.”
“When?”
Danni told him and von Daniken frowned, understanding the problem instantly. “Is Ransom ready?” he asked, with skepticism.
Danni shrugged and gave him a look that professionals understood the world over. It said that there was never enough time for training. “Right now he needs a Swiss passport,” she said, handing him Revy’s Pakistani visa.
“Schnell.”
“Einverstanden,”
said von Daniken.
Understood.
The CH-47 Chinook helicopters navigated
the narrow mountain corridor with difficulty, advancing side by side through snow and clouds like two lost brothers. Visibility was down to thirty meters, with intermittent whiteout. Traveling at a forward ground speed of 180 knots, the pilots were essentially flying blind. Night-vision goggles did not help. The pilots relied on their instruments and their training, and hoped to God that there was an angel on their shoulders.
Captain Kyle Crockett sat alongside the crew chief, his eyes glued to a monitor showing a view of the ground below as translated by the infrared cameras situated beneath the helicopter’s nose. A second screen displayed a detailed topographic map of the same area, with an icon indicating their current position.
The pilot spoke in Crockett’s headphones. “We’re passing over the coordinates where the bad guys were spotted this morning. See anything?”
“Nothing,” said Crockett, staring at a field of black.
The chopper hit an air pocket and dropped ten meters in a millisecond, jarring the Marines sitting on their rucksacks and sending Crockett’s stomach into the roof of his mouth.
“Weather’s getting ugly,” said the pilot. “I can give you twenty minutes on-site, then we’re out of here. Landing is out of the question. You spot the enemy combatants. We’ve got to take them out from the air.”
Crockett consulted the map. The valley below ran in a northerly direction for another ten klicks, then split into two branches, one running east toward the Afghan border, the other west into Pakistan.
“Stay on this bearing, then follow the valley to the east,” he said. “If they’re heading into our neck of the woods, that’s their best route.”
Crockett wrapped his fingers around the cargo netting as the helicopter banked to the left. For ten minutes he stared at the black screen, his heart jumping at the slightest flash of color. Never once did he see anything that resembled a human being, or any other living creature for that matter. It was a wasteland on top of the world.
“End of the line,” radioed the pilot. “We’ve got some monster peaks blocking our way. Ready to go home?”
“Negative,” said Crockett. “Try the other valley. They can’t have gotten far in this storm.”
“Ten minutes, captain.”
“Roger that.”
The helicopter banked hard to port as it executed a 180-degree turn. Simultaneously, a strenuous crosswind took the chopper in its grip and threw it violently up and down. Crockett clenched his stomach. He felt like a fly in a jam jar. Worse than the turbulence was the ungodly noise. The turbine engines shrieked as they fought to maintain lift in the thin air, while the fuselage groaned in accompaniment. A helmet got loose and rolled across the cabin. His men were battle-tested and airworthy, but none had experienced a ride like this. Several of his operators had already tossed their cookies. The cabin reeked of vomit and nerves. Going down in a helo was a Marine’s worst nightmare. Crockett watched his gunnery sergeant buckle and let go into his barf bag.
“You okay, gunny?”
“Fuckin’ A. Got to love it.”
“Hoo-yah,” said Crockett. “I’m gonna extend my tour as soon as we land.”
“Right behind you, cap. I can’t get enough of this shit. Semper Fucked.”
The CH-47 flattened out and commenced its run up the neighboring valley. Crockett leaned closer to the monitor, as if by sheer will he could force a heat signature to appear. The topographic map indicated
they were overflying an icefall before traversing a relatively flat stretch of ground.
A red speck lit on the screen, indicating a heat signature.
Crockett’s heart jumped.
“North by northwest,” he radioed the pilot, his voice dead calm. “Give me all you got.”
“Ramming speed,” said the pilot, as he increased the flight speed to 220 knots per hour. “You find our bad guys?”