by Tom Clancy
“Yes, sir.” Major Bennett keyed one up and hit the play button on the remote.
“Czech 58,” Price said immediately. “No faces?”
“Nope, that’s the only thing we have on the subjects,” Bennett replied.
“Odd weapon for robbers,” the sergeant major noted. Chavez turned his head. That was one of the things he had yet to learn about Europe. Okay, hoods here didn’t use assault rifles.
“That’s what I thought,” Tawney said.
“Terrorist weapon?” Chavez asked his squad XO.
“Yes, sir. The Czechs gave away a lot of them. Quite compact, you see. Only twenty-five inches long, manufactured by the Uhersky Broad works. Seven-point-six-two /thirty-nine Soviet cartridge. Fully automatic, selector switch. Odd thing for a Swiss bandit to use,” Price said once more for emphasis.
“Why?” Clark asked.
“They make far better weapons in Switzerland, sir, for their territorials—their citizen soldiers stow them in their closets, you see. Should not be all that difficult to steal several.”
The building shook then with the sound of helicopters landing not too far away. Clark checked his watch and nodded approval at the timing.
“What do we know about the neighborhood?” Chavez asked.
“Working on that now, old boy,” Tawney answered. “So far, just what the TV feed shows.”
The TV screen showed an ordinary street, devoid of vehicular traffic at the moment because the local police had diverted cars and buses away from the bank. Otherwise, they saw ordinary masonry buildings bordering an ordinary city street. Chavez looked over at Price, whose eyes were locked on the pictures they were getting—two now, because another Swiss TV station had dispatched a camera team there, and both signals were being pirated off the satellite. The translator continued to relay the remarks of the camera crews and reporters on the scene to their respective stations. They said very little, about half of it small-talk that could have been spoken from one desk to another in an office setting. One camera or the other occasionally caught the movement of a curtain, but that was all.
“The police are probably trying to establish communications with our friends on a telephone, talk to them, reason with them, the usual drill,” Price said, realizing that he had more practical experience with this sort of thing than anyone else in the room. They knew the theory, but theory wasn’t always enough. “We shall know in half an hour if this is a mission for us or not.”
“How good are the Swiss cops?” Chavez asked Price.
“Very good indeed, sir, but not a great deal of experience with a serious hostage event—”
“That’s why we have an understanding with them,” Tawney put in.
“Yes, sir.” Price leaned back, reached into his pocket, and took out his pipe. “Anyone object?”
Clark shook his head. “No health Nazis here, Sergeant Major. What do you mean by a ‘serious’ hostage event?”
“Committed criminals, terrorists.” Price shrugged. “Chaps stupid enough to put their lives behind the chips on the gaming table. The sort who kill hostages to show their resolve.” The sort we go in after and kill, Price didn’t have to add.
It was an awful lot of brain-power to be sitting around doing nothing, John Clark thought, especially Bill Tawney. But if you had no information, it was difficult to make pontifical pronouncements. All eyes were locked on the TV screens, which showed little, and Clark found himself missing the inane drivel that one expected of TV reporters, filling silence with empty words. About the only interesting thing was when they said that they were trying to talk to the local cops, but that the cops weren’t saying anything, except that they were trying to establish contact with the bad guys, so far unsuccessfully. That had to be a lie, but the police were supposed to lie to the media and the public in cases like this—because any halfway competent terrorist would have a TV set with him, and would have somebody watching it. You could catch a lot by watching TV, else Clark and his senior people would not be watching it either, would they?
The protocol on this was both simple and complex. Rainbow had an understanding with the Swiss government. If the local police couldn’t handle it, they’d bump it up to the canton—state—level, which would then decide whether or not to bump it one more step to the central national government, whose ministerial-level people could then make the Rainbow call. That entire mechanism had been established months before as part of the mandate of the agency that Clark now headed. The “help” call would come through the British Foreign Office in Whitehall, on the bank of the Thames in central London. It seemed like a hell of a lot of bureaucracy to John, but there was no avoiding it, and he was grateful that there was not an additional level or two. Once the call was made, things got easier, at least in the administrative sense. But until the call was made, the Swiss would tell them nothing.
One hour into the TV vigil, Chavez left to put Team-2 on alert. The troops, he saw, took it calmly, readying gear that needed to be seen to, which was not very much. The TV feed was routed to their individual desktop sets, and the men settled back in their swivel chairs to watch quietly as their boss went back to Communications, while the helicopters sat idle on the pad outside Team-2’s area. Team-1 went on standby alert as well, in case the helicopters taking -2 to Gatwick crashed. The procedures had been completely thought through—except, John thought, by the terrorists.
On the TV screen, police milled about, some at the ready, most just standing and watching. Trained police or not, they were little trained for a situation like this, and the Swiss, while they had considered such an event—everyone in the civilized world had—had taken it no more seriously than, say, the cops in Boulder, Colorado. This had never happened before in Bern, and until it did, it would not be part of the local police department’s corporate culture. The facts were too stark for Clark and the rest to discount. The German police—as competent as any in the world—had thoroughly blown the hostage rescue at Fürstenfeldbrück, not because they had been bad cops, but because it had been their first time, and as a result some Israeli athletes hadn’t made it home from the 1972 Munich Olympiad. The whole world had learned from that, but how much had they learned? Clark and the rest all wondered at the same time.
The TV screens showed very little for another half hour beyond an empty city street, but then a senior police officer walked into the open, holding a cellular phone. His body language was placid at first, but it started to change, and then he held the cell phone close to his ear, seeming to lean into it. His free hand came up about then, placatingly, as though in a face-to-face conversation.
“Something’s wrong,” Dr. Paul Bellow observed, which was hardly a surprise to the others, especially Eddie Price, who tensed in his chair, but said nothing as he puffed on his pipe. Negotiating with people like those controlling the bank was its own little art form, and it was one this police superintendent—whatever his rank was—had yet to learn. Bad news, the sergeant major thought, for one or more of the bank customers.
“ ‘Was that a shot?’ ” the translator said, relaying the words of one of the reporters on the scene.
“Oh, shit,” Chavez observed quietly. The situation had just escalated.
Less than a minute later, one of the bank’s glass doors opened, and a man in civilian clothes dragged a body onto the sidewalk. It seemed to be a man, but his head, as both the cameras zoomed in on the scene from different angles, was a red mass. The civilian got the body all the way outside and froze the moment he set it down.
Move right, go to your right, Chavez thought as loudly as he could from so far away. Somehow the thought must have gotten there, for the unnamed man in his gray overcoat stood stock-still for several seconds, looking down, and then—furtively, he thought—went to the right.
“ ‘Somebody’s shouting from inside the bank,’ ” the translator relayed.
But whatever the voice had shouted, it hadn’t been the right thing. The civilian dove to his right, away from the double gla
ss doors of the bank and below the level of the plate-glass bank windows. He was now on the sidewalk, with three feet of granite block over his head, invisible from the interior of the building.
“Good move, old man,” Tawney observed quietly. “Now, we’ll see if the police can get you into the clear.”
One of the cameras shifted to the senior cop, who’d wandered into the middle of the street with his cell phone, and was now waving frantically for the civilian to get down. Brave or foolish, they couldn’t tell, but the cop then walked slowly back to the line of police cars—astonishingly, without being shot for his troubles. The cameras shifted back to the escaped civilian. Police had edged to the side of the bank building, waving for the man to crawl, keep low, to where they were standing. The uniformed cops had submachine guns out. Their body language was tense and frustrated. One of the police faces looked to the body on the sidewalk, and the men in Hereford could easily translate his thoughts.
“Mr. Tawney, a call for you on Line Four,” the intercom called. The intelligence chief walked to a phone and punched the proper button.
“Tawney . . . ah, yes, Dennis . . .”
“Whoever they are, they’ve just murdered a chap.”
“We just watched it. We’re pirating the TV feed.” Which meant that Gordon’s trip to Bern was a waste of time—but no, it wasn’t, was it? “You have that Armitage chap with you?”
“Yes, Bill, he’s going over to talk to their police now.”
“Excellent. I will hold for him.”
As though on cue, a camera showed a man in civilian clothes walking to the senior cop on the scene. He pulled out an ID folder, spoke briefly with the police commander, and walked away, disappearing around the corner.
“This is Tony Armitage, who’s this?”
“Bill Tawney.”
“Well, if you know Dennis, I expect you’re a ‘Six’ chap. What can I do for you, sir?”
“What did the police tell you?” Tawney hit the speaker switch on the phone.
“He’s out of his depth by several meters or so. Said he’s sending it up to the canton for advice.”
“Mr. C?” Chavez said from his chair.
“Tell the choppers to spool up, Ding, you’re off to Gatwick. Hold there for further instructions.”
“Roger that, Mr. C. Team-2 is moving.”
Chavez walked down the stairs with Price behind him, then jumped into their car, which had them at Team-2’s building in under three minutes.
“People, if you’re watching the telly, you know what’s happening. Saddle up, we’re choppering to Gatwick.” They’d just headed out the door when a brave Swiss cop managed to get the civilian to safety. The TV showed the civilian being hustled to a car, which sped off at once. Again the body language was the important thing. The assembled police, who had been standing around casually, were standing differently now, mainly crouched behind the cover of their automobiles, their hands fingering their weapons, tense but still unsure of what they ought to do.
“It’s going out live on TV now,” Bennett reported. “Sky News will have it on in a few.”
“I guess that figures,” Clark said. “Where’s Stanley?”
“He’s at Gatwick now,” Tawney said. Clark nodded. Stanley would deploy with Team-2 as field commander. Dr. Paul Bellow was gone as well. He’d chopper out with Chavez and advise him and Stanley on the psychological aspects of the tactical situation. Nothing to be done now but order coffee and solid food, which Clark did, taking a chair and sitting in front of the TVs.
CHAPTER 3
GNOMES AND GUNS
The helicopter ride was twenty-five minutes exactly, and deposited Team-2 and its attachments in the general-aviation portion of the international airport. Two vans waited, and Chavez watched his men load their gear into one of them for movement to the British Airways terminal. There, some cops, who were also waiting, supervised the van’s handling into a cargo container—which would be first off the flight when the plane arrived at Bern.
But first they had to wait for the go-mission order. Chavez pulled out his cellular phone, flipped it open, and thumbed speed-dial number one.
“Clark,” the voice said after the encryption software clicked through.
“Ding here, John. The call come from Whitehall yet?”
“Still waiting, Domingo. We expect it shortly. The canton bumped it upstairs. Their Justice Minister is considering it now.”
“Well, tell the worthy gentleman that this flight leaves the gate in two-zero minutes, and the next one after that is ninety minutes, ’less you want us to travel Swissair. One of those in forty minutes, and another in an hour fifteen.”
“I hear you, Ding. We have to hold.”
Chavez swore in Spanish. He knew it. He didn’t have to like it. “Roger, Six, Team-2 is holding on the ramp at Gatwick.”
“Roger that, Team-2, Rainbow Six, out.”
Chavez closed his phone and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Okay, people,” he said to his men over the shriek of jet engines, “we hold here for the go-ahead.” The troops nodded, as eager to get it going as their boss, but just as powerless to make it happen. The British team members had been there before and took it better than the Americans and the others.
“Bill, tell Whitehall that we have twenty minutes to get them off the ground, after that over an hour delay.”
Tawney nodded and went to a phone in the corner to call his contact in the Foreign Ministry. From there it went to the British Ambassador in Geneva, who’d been told that the SAS was offering special mission assistance of a technical nature. It was an odd case where the Swiss Foreign Minister knew more than the man making the offer. But, remarkably, the word came back in fifteen minutes: “Ja.”
“We have mission approval, John,” Tawney reported, much to his own surprise.
“Right.” Clark flipped open his own phone and hit the speed-dial #2 button.
“Chavez,” a voice said over considerable background noise.
“We have a go-mission,” Clark said. “Acknowledge.”
“Team-2 copies go-mission. Team-2 is moving.”
“That’s affirmative. Good luck, Domingo.”
“Thank you, Mr. C.”
Chavez turned to his people and pumped his arm up and down in the speed-it-up gesture known to armies all over the world. They got into their designated van for the drive across the Gatwick ramp. It stopped at the cargo gate for their flight, where Chavez waved a cop close, and let Eddie Price pass the word to load the special cargo onto the Boeing 757. That done, the van advanced another fifty yards to the stairs outside the end of the jetway, and Team- 2 jumped out and headed up the stairs. At the top, the control-booth door was held open by another police constable, and from there they walked normally aboard the aircraft and handed over their tickets to the stewardess, who pointed them to their first-class seats.
The last man aboard was Tim Noonan, the team’s technical wizard. Not a wizened techno-nerd, Noonan had played defensive back at Stanford before joining the FBI, and took weapons training with the team just to fit in. Six feet, two hundred pounds, he was larger than most of Ding’s shooters but, he’d be the first to admit, was not as tough. Still, he was a better-than-fair shot with pistol and MP-10, and was learning to speak the language. Dr. Bellow settled into his window seat with a book extracted from his carry-on bag. It was a volume on sociopathy by a professor at Harvard under whom he’d trained some years before. The rest of the team members just leaned back, skimming through the onboard magazines. Chavez looked around and saw that his team didn’t seem tense at all, and was both amazed at the fact, and slightly ashamed that he was so pumped up. The airline captain made his announcements, and the Boeing backed away from the gate, then taxied out to the runway. Five minutes later, the aircraft rotated off the ground, and Team-2 was on its way to its first mission.
“In the air,” Tawney reported. “The airline expects a smooth flight and an on-time arrival in . . . an hour fifteen minutes
.”
“Great,” Clark observed. The TV coverage had settled down. Both Swiss stations were broadcasting continuous coverage now, complete with thoughts from the reporters at the scene. That was about as useful as an NFL pre-game show, though police spokesmen were speaking to the press now. No, they didn’t know who was inside. Yes, they’d spoken to them. Yes, negotiations were ongoing. No, they couldn’t really say any more than that. Yes, they’d keep the press apprised of developments.
Like hell, John thought. The same coverage was reported on Sky News, and soon CNN and Fox networks were carrying brief stories about it, including, of course, the dumping of the first victim and the escape of the one who’d dragged the body out.
“Nasty business, John,” Tawney said over his tea.
Clark nodded. “I suppose they always are, Bill.”
“Quite.”
Peter Covington came in then, stole a swivel chair and moved it next to the two senior men. His face was locked in neutral, though he had to be pissed, Clark thought, that his team wasn’t going. But the team-availability rotation was set in stone here, as it had to be.
“Thoughts, Peter?” Clark asked.
“They’re not awfully bright. They killed that poor sod very early in the affair, didn’t they?”
“Keep going,” John said, reminding all of them that he was new in this business.
“When you kill a hostage, you cross a large, thick line, sir. Once across it, one cannot easily go backward, can one?”
“So, you try to avoid it?”
“I would. It makes it too difficult for the other side to make concessions, and you bloody need the concessions if you want to get away—unless you know something the opposition does not. Unlikely in a situation like this.”
“They’ll ask for a way out . . . helicopter?”
“Probably.” Covington nodded. “To an airport, commercial aircraft waiting, international crew—but to where? Libya, perhaps, but will Libya allow them in? Where else might they go? Russia? I think not. The Bekaa Valley in Lebanon is still possible, but commercial aircraft don’t land there. About the only sensible thing they’ve done is to protect their identities from the police. Would you care to wager that the hostage who got out has not seen their faces?” Covington shook his head.
