“See if she was all right.”
“You didn’t . . .”
“Give me a break. No. I just needed to use her computer for a second.”
“For what?”
“Had to send an e-mail.”
“Anyone I know?”
“No.” Rat got serious. “Sorry we didn’t get Ismael tonight. We’re actually getting close.”
“Did you really have to cut that guy up?” Stovic asked, still affected by the picture of the writhing, bleeding man under his knee.
“He’ll be okay. He won’t know that for a while, but he’ll just have some scars. I stayed away from the arteries.”
“You do this stuff a lot?”
“Can’t talk about what I used to do.”
“The French think you work for the CIA.”
“That’s the French for you. Does it matter?” Rat asked, looking at him over the bottle of water he had picked up and started drinking.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it. You can just stay in your warm existence, and others will go out there and do the dirty work for you.”
Stovic was stung. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You pilots,” Rat smiled. “Big heroes. Big huge fights in the sky, missiles, always know who your enemy is, no ambiguity. No gray areas. And no blood. If you kill somebody, they just sort of disappear. That’s not what war is. When people die, they die unhappy. They bleed to death, or their bodies come apart.
“You may kill somebody, but even if you drop a bomb, all you see is the blue sky. If you kill someone inadvertently, you don’t have to see the little girl with her legs blown off. You just say, ‘Gee, sorry, inadvertent. Didn’t mean to kill her. Let’s go to the O’ Club!’
“There are a lot of people out there who do some pretty dirty work you’ll never hear about. And it’s only because of them that you can go to the O’ Club and get shit-faced and tell the girls what heroes you are.”
Stovic put his hands on his hips. “What’s this all about?”
“You’re a pilot. You have no idea how the world really works. Not the way it works today, anyway. It’s only because this Ismael guy has crossed the line to go after an actual military target that you’re even aware of his existence. Most of these assholes like to kill women and children and blow themselves into tomorrow. They never actually fight anyone.”
Stovic looked at Rat with a peevish face. “Are you going to tell me you understand how carrier battle groups operate, and airborne rules of engagement? You going to tell me flying is just pretty boy shit, and all the real work is done by you SEALs, or whatever the hell you are now?”
Rat chose his words carefully. “Look. What you do is important. I’m just telling you that today, most of the defense of the United States is done where you don’t see it. And now that you’ve seen just a little of it, you’re shocked. We’re in transition,” he said, looking for something else to drink. “The world used to fight with armies, and uniforms, and rules. Since World War I, pilots have been the heroes. They get all the medals. The battle was where we wanted it to be. Not anymore. Ever since the World Trade Center, when the War on Terrorism got going, we started seeing that things were going to be different. Snake-eaters like me are the front lines, because there aren’t any front lines. And it’s dirty, and ugly. And we’re wrong now and then, just like pilots are. But we’re where the fight is.”
Stovic ignored him. “You can’t just torture people.”
Rat frowned. “Why not?”
“It’s illegal and . . . immoral.”
“So if he knows where the guy is that’s going to try to shoot you down, you won’t let me cut him up a little?”
“I don’t know.” Stovic changed the subject. “Where’d you come up with that South African stuff?”
Rat smiled. “When people start asking questions, I give them answers that don’t compute. Gives them time to think about what was said. They tend to get distracted.”
“All because they think you’re working for some company?”
Rat smiled. “They don’t believe that for a second. Not a millisecond.”
“Who do they think you’re working for?”
“They’re not sure.”
“So how is it you’re here talking to me instead of in some French jail?”
“They know I’m an American counterterrorism operative—or used to be—and they have no idea who I’m working for right now. And they’re afraid if they piss me off, they might piss off the wrong people and end up picking their feet in Poughkeepsie, as Gene Hackman would say.”
“What?”
“French Connection. You know.”
“Never saw it.”
“Well, our French connection isn’t that hot. These guys are not on the trail of your shooter, and unless things change, he’s going to be there waiting for you tomorrow.”
“So now what?” Stovic asked, chilled by Rat’s last thought.
“So he’ll assume you have flares. What do we make of that?”
Stovic frowned. “It’ll just be a little harder, I guess.”
Rat shook his head vigorously and stood up. He crossed to the cabinet where some bottles of water stood by crystal glasses. He looked around for ice, and finding none, poured the warm water into a glass. “If you were going to shoot an airplane, and you knew he had flares, would you do anything differently?”
“No. You get yourself into a firing position—and fire. If he has flares, maybe they help him, maybe they don’t. You don’t do anything differently.”
“What if you’re on the ground?”
“I don’t know.”
Rat answered his own question. “You’d make sure they can’t see you. You’d surprise them.”
“How?”
“Think!”
“From underneath, and directly behind. They don’t even know you’ve fired at them, so they don’t know to drop flares.”
“Exactly. And your flight is a shooter’s dream. Totally predictable and can be timed down to probably a couple of seconds. He’ll put himself directly under your flight path. He just has to pick what part of the show to do it in.” He cleared off the coffee table and grabbed the hotel stationery and pen. “When is the best time to do that, in your air show routine? To do the most damage, get a lot of others, especially the crowd, if that’s possible. But you guys never really fly right at the crowd, do you. It’s all from one side.”
“There’s one time,” Stovic realized as he said it. “It’s kind of late in the show. We come in together—the two solos—flying right at the crowd. Then when we cross over the center point, we break in opposite directions. It looks like we’re going to hit each other.”
“Right in front of the crowd?”
Stovic nodded.
“Heading toward the crowd?”
He nodded again.
“What if you got hit right before the break?”
“If it went out of control right away, there’d be some risk of crashing into the crowd. Full-on.”
“Shit, Animal. That’s it! When exactly is it during the show? Draw it for me.”
Stovic got on his knees and drew on the stationery on the coffee table. “You want the whole air show?”
“No, just the part right before this, and some way to know when this happens.”
Stovic nodded. He drew a picture from directly above the field and showed the airplanes’ line of flight.
Rat studied it. “That’s where he’ll be. Right along this line.”
“So what do we do?”
“I’ll be there waiting for him,” he answered as he looked at his watch. “It’s 0300. You’d better get some sleep. I need to make some phone calls.” He walked toward the door, then stopped. “There’s a lot of security around, but it’s not perfect.” He reached behind him under his polo shirt and produced a small but thick semiautomatic handgun. He crossed back and handed it to Stovic. “Here. Take this. Odds of you having to use it are
low. You did qualify expert in pistol, didn’t you?”
Stovic nodded.
“Good. This is a Glock 9 millimeter. Great gun. Very reliable. There’s a round in the chamber and lots more in the clip. If some lunatic runs out of the crowd and points something at you? Just pull that out, squeeze off a round, and get the hell out of there.”
“Come on,” Stovic protested. “Don’t get dramatic on me.”
“Just a precaution. Carry it in your flight suit. Never know when you’ll need it.”
Stovic rolled his eyes, lifted his shirt, and stuck the cold, plastic-feeling handgun into his belt against his skin. “Be careful.”
“Count on it. I’ll be on your frequency during the air show. If I see anything, I’ll yell it out. If you hear my voice, something bad is happening and you should take evasive action. If there’s nothing, you won’t hear me at all.”
“Okay.”
Rat walked to the door.
“Thanks, Rat. I appreciate what you’ve done so far.”
“It’s not over yet. We’ve got to get you through the weekend.”
“Where are you going now? Back to look at Andrea’s computer?”
“Nope. No time for that. Unless I miss my guess, our good friend with the carved-up chest should be about ready to do something stupid. I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Karen woke in the middle of the night. She slipped on a bathrobe and walked out to the family room of the large cabin. Two FBI agents were playing cards with just a desk light. “Hi,” she said, surprising them. They jumped up.
“Everything okay?” Kate asked. “You okay? Kids?”
“Fine, fine. I just couldn’t sleep.”
The other agent, a tall black man who looked intimidating, glanced at his watch. “It’s only one in the morning. You sure you’re okay? Did you hear something?”
“No, I didn’t hear anything.” She walked to the huge windows that looked out over the Colorado mountains. The moon reflected off the snowcapped peaks. “I want to call Ed. Is that okay? I know what hotel he’s staying at in Paris. Just one call.”
“Sorry,” Kate replied. “Can’t. Against the rules. No communication at all, except e-mail that can’t be traced.”
Karen nodded. She knew that would be the answer. “All because of one person.” She looked at them. “Kind of amazing how much trouble one person can cause.”
“You have no idea.”
“Actually, I do. He has almost ruined my family. He’s trying to kill my husband, he’s already killed my brother-in-law, . . . you think he’s trying to kill me or the kids. . . .”
“No, we don’t think that,” Kate said. “We’re just being overcautious.”
“The air show is tomorrow. I want to be there for him.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” the man said, suddenly concerned that she might try to go anyway. “Definitely not a good idea. The risk is probably over after this weekend. If nothing happens, you can go back home. We’re just afraid this guy has plans we haven’t anticipated. He surprised us in Tennessee.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“We don’t want that to happen again. I’m sure you don’t either.”
“How many people are here to protect us?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Enough.”
“What could really happen?” she asked, crossing her arms.
Kate replied, “You don’t really want us to go into that, do you? After Tennessee?”
“No. It’s okay.” She headed back to her bedroom. “You sure I can’t call him?”
“We’re sure.”
* * *
Hafiz staggered into the dingy room in the basement of the tobacco shop. His shirt was filled with blood, his face looked as if he’d been in a terrible fight, and he felt dizzy. He couldn’t believe the French had let him go. They seemed to be so furious at that American lunatic that they had failed to realize who they had in custody, the one who had given them the false information that led to the raid on the hotel aimed at the very American who had taken him within an inch of his life. It had been the most frightening experience of his life. He knew he couldn’t stay in Paris. He had to leave with Madani and the others when they fled. Why wait, he asked himself? Why not just get out now?
His room had been completely dismantled. It was never much to look at, but now it was a complete disaster. His minimal clothes, disguises, and food dishes were strewn all over. The GIGN had been there.
Hafiz went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Blood was crusted all around his broken and cut nose. It still didn’t look as bad as it felt. The smashed cartilage was throbbing in pain. He opened the shirt the French doctor had given him and looked at his chest. He would be scarred for life with five cuts from his neck to his waist, all perfectly straight and parallel. They were dark with blood, but most of the active bleeding had stopped. The doctor had begun to sew a couple of them but had inexplicably stopped. Hafiz had been given a new shirt and dropped in the Algerian quarter with apologies for the American psychopath they were now interrogating.
But now what? What do to? Madani had given him a cell phone and a number he could call only once. It was to be used only in an absolute emergency. Hafiz had to warn them. He knew the French would be watching his every move, but they couldn’t trace a phone call from a phone they didn’t know he had.
He turned off the light, stood on the bed, and painfully removed the light fixture from the ceiling. He pulled the fixture entirely from its suspension, then dug at the plaster around it. Finally it was hanging from its wires, and a small ziplock bag showed through the hole in the ceiling. He pulled it through carefully, stepped off the bed, and took the small phone out of the bag. He turned on the power, waited for a good signal, and dialed the number Madani had given him.
Groomer was a block away in the van, waiting for the signal to come on. The French had found the cell phone earlier that evening when they were searching the room. They knew these old buildings and knew which rooms had crawl spaces above the ceilings. They had copied the phone’s identification information and put it back. Groomer had simply copied down the information when the French had triumphantly radioed it in to their superiors.
Hafiz gently fingered his nose to feel its deformation as he waited for the phone to connect.
Groomer and the French caught the signal at the same time. They both wanted only one thing—the recipient—the one on the other end of the call.
Madani looked at the ringing phone on the seat next to him in the truck. It could only be bad news. Some emergency. He picked it up. “What,” he asked.
“It’s me,” Hafiz said.
“What’s the matter with your voice?”
“I was attacked by an American. He is the one I put the French onto. He is after us. He is after Ismael—”
“Don’t use names, you idiot!”
“He cut my nose and broke it, then carved my chest up. The French broke into our planning room—”
“What were you doing there?” Madani asked furiously.
“The American tortured me until I took him there—”
“You should have let him torture you to death!”
“There is nothing on the model.”
“We must change our plans now.”
“The French are everywhere. They broke into that room anyway! They knew where to come. And they broke into my apartment. They are arresting every Algerian who has done anything. They are interrogating everyone, probably keeping them in custody until after the air show—”
“Shut up!” Madani screamed. “Don’t say anything!”
“You said this is secure—”
“Nothing is secure!”
“The American said he is going to be waiting for you. He knows everything, and will be there—”
“You must disappear and never contact me again!” Madani said as he ended the call abruptly.
Hafiz looked at the phone, angry at the way he had been treated, angry that he was never paid for any of his work for this Madani, angry that he had been the one tortured and scarred for life. He threw the phone on the bed, grabbed a plastic net shopping bag, found his passport, and headed for the train station. He opened the door and found two French counterterrorist agents waiting for him. They grabbed his arms, went into the room, found the phone, checked the last number dialed, and dragged him into their car.
Groomer had the ID of the receiving phone. That was all he needed. The CIA had perfected the technique of triggering a cell phone to make a low-level transmission without showing its owner it was doing anything. As long as the battery was in the phone, it could be used as a constant locator signal.
Groomer looked at the strobe from the second phone, stored it in the computer from their current location, and began driving to get a triangulation strobe from another place. He transmitted to Rat on their encrypted signal. “We’ve got the ID on the second.”
“Roger. When you get close, we may want to let the GIGN handle the takedown.”
“I’ll keep in touch. We’re rolling. Out.”
Ismael had slept in the back of his van in an industrial section of Paris, blending in easily with the other work trucks around the neighborhood. He drove directly to the warehouse. He drove by once, went to the end of the road, turned around, and drove by the back of the warehouse. He drove by twice more before committing himself. He stopped in front of the warehouse door, turned off his lights, and waited.
The gray steel door rolled up, and Ismael quickly pulled his
van into the garage, almost hitting the bottom of the door as it retracted. The men operating the door lowered it as soon as the van was inside. Ismael turned off the engine and hopped out of the van. Several men were working on the weapons. A table was against the stairway with dozens of handguns, assault rifles, and grenades.
Two men opened the doors to another van that was already there and grabbed the Stinger case. Ismael surveyed the warehouse, looking for anything odd, anything out of place. No one said a word. He watched the men open the Stinger box. They carefully removed the Stinger and showed it to him. He nodded, and they put it back in the case.
The Shadows of Power Page 30
