by Brian Drake
“Drop your weapons,” Stiletto said.
AMBULANCES FILLED the street.
The emergency personnel separated the wounded and the dead. Medical helicopters were on the way; some of the wounded were too badly hurt to risk ground transport.
Stiletto sat in the back of a truck, he on one side and a disarmed Miller and Lisbeth on the other. Nobody spoke. Ash and dirt covered their exposed skin.
Glinkov leaned in.
“There’s nothing for us to do here,” the FSB man said. “I’m taking you back to the airfield.”
Stiletto only nodded. He and his charges were going back. He assumed the rest of the tac team had perished. It could have been him leading the charge; if not this time, maybe next. He wasn’t going to live forever.
The motor fired and Glinkov steered them away from the bloody remains of the battle.
The truck jolted along the rough road. Stiletto never took his eyes off the pair across from him. His finger remained poised over the trigger of the HK.
“You don’t need that,” Miller said.
“I think you’re right,” Stiletto said. He set the weapon aside.
Men had turned for less, indeed. And as he watched the two lovers scoot a little closer together, Stiletto decided Miller had turned for the best reason of all. Life truly wasn’t black-and-white, as much as he wished it were. He’d have to get used to the gray, accept more complex answers.
The mission was otherwise a failure. Zolac had escaped with his key people. Stiletto had hoped this would be the last stop for the NWRF; instead, it was the halfway point of a mission with no end.
Chapter Thirteen
LESS THAN twenty-four hours later, Stiletto once again joined the General in his office.
This time, chief-of-staff David McNeil sat with them. McNeil had a notebook and a file folder resting on his lap.
It had been a long ride back from Russia. Miller and Lisbeth had been taken to the Blue Ridge black site for debriefing, neither resisting; Scott, however, returned to headquarters with a heavy weight on his shoulders. He’d gone to Russia with a full tactical team and returned alone. His mind raced once again with other choices he could have made to keep those men alive, but never came up with a concrete answer.
The meeting with the General meant a fresh start, and Stiletto listened to his boss with careful attention.
“The accountant, who is now well enough to actually talk, is trading information for immunity.”
“Only useful if he actually gives us something,” Stiletto said.
“So far, he has. Gratien has let us tap into his computers. We didn’t freeze the accounts because we wanted to see if anybody else had access. Somebody did.”
“Who?”
McNeil consulted some notes. “Arnold Bell. We found his name in the Austrian files. He moved an amount of money equivalent to the ransom into another account.” He looked up. “In doing so he almost wiped out Zolac’s cash reserves.”
Stiletto nodded. “They needed to close the financial gap to buy the nerve gas. Sounds like I’m having a chat with Mister Arnold Bell. Where is he?
“He lives outside Madrid,” the General said.
McNeil handed Stiletto a file from his lap. “Everything you need is right here.”
Stiletto took the file.
Arnold Bell poured a cup of coffee and went outside. From the beginning of the operation announced at Zolac’s meeting, to now, he’d been anxious about the Miller kidnapping / ransom. He’d called the plan insane, and saw no reason to change that opinion. He wished he’d have proposed an alternate solution. The mess in Monte Carlo and Austria proved the Americans were onto them, and no matter how clever the scheme, the NWRF would have to answer to American guns. He hoped they were strong enough to beat them back.
He stood behind a stone pillar holding up the overhang of the cabin’s porch.
“Good evening, sir,” one of his guards said.
Bell nodded and took a sip of his coffee. He looked around at the rolling hills nearby and the snow-capped peaks of the higher altitude mountains in the distance.
Bell took another sip, and heard the whip-crack of a gunshot.
The bullet smashed into the guard’s head, blood spilling from the holes at either end. The guard fell over and landed face first in the grass. Bell dropped his coffee mug and ran back into the house.
Stiletto stormed the property, letting off a string of full-auto fire as return shots crackled from Bell’s two remaining troops, who fired from inside. He dropped flat close to the patio, lobbed a grenade. The two troops coming out the patio door screamed as the frag blast cut through them and left bloody chunks across the surface. Stiletto fired the HK into the house, leaped over the debris and ran inside.
Stiletto raced through the first floor, finding it empty of troops or Bell. He pounded up a stairway. A clatter down the hall. Stiletto reached the second floor. A light at the end. The bedroom. Stiletto cleared the doorway, and Arnold Bell froze as he turned from an open wall safe, raising a gun.
“Drop the gun, Bell.”
Bell put the pistol to his head. “Never.”
He fired once.
The bullet exploded through Bell’s brain, splashing blood and tissue on the wall and the safe. His legs buckled and he fell to the floor.
Stiletto slung the HK and began sorting through the safe, ignoring the blood. He found pictures and a black notebook in the safe and started flipping through the items.
The pictures were in color, on glossy paper. Stiletto recognized the landscape and the landmarks. Israel. Tel Aviv and Jerusalem.
He set the pictures on the nightstand. He flipped through the notebook. Names and notes. Two pages displayed a pro/con list comparing Delta Nine nerve gas with another kind of gas Scott had not heard of. Nice to know even terrorists were frugal.
Stiletto collected the items and ran out of the house.
THE NOISE of the helicopter engines didn’t disturb Stiletto’s call to the General.
He wanted to admire the pink countryside sunset as the Agency pilots flew him out of the combat zone, but he wasn’t there to see the sights.
“That’s right, sir, pictures of Israel and notes on the Delta Nine gas,” he said. “We need to alert Mossad.”
“What else did you find?”
“They’re getting the gas from a man named Hamid Fahzil. We need a rundown on him and fast. They’re going to meet within twenty-four hours. Private hanger at the Luchthaven National airport in Brussels.”
“Head there right now. I’ll get you covered.”
“I’m all for it but with one change, General.”
“Which is?”
“I want Miller to come with me. We haven’t truly honored our end of the bargain and this is the only way to do it.”
“I disagree.”
“We’ve had this conversation, sir.”
“Fair enough. But the termination order isn’t going to be enough. I want him to wear an ankle monitor equipped with an explosive that will kill him if he tries to take it off, and we keep the woman at the black site.”
“Agreed. Make the arrangements. I’ll head for Brussels.”
THE PAVE Low refueled in flight and touched down in Brussels several hours later.
A message from General Ike said Miller would be waiting, under guard, at the multi-level parking structure adjacent to the airport.
The “guard” turned out to be Mike Cutter, the agent Stiletto had worked with in Berlin. Cutter, along with the rest of his tac team, had already taken up positions. Cutter showed Scott a detailed layout of the airport, and in the back of a black van the three men plotted their approach to Fahzil’s private hanger.
The C.I.A. indeed had a file on Hamid Fahzil, but never any reason to go after him. A former bomb maker for al-Qaeda, Fahzil now operated a smuggling operation throughout Europe, moving everything from guns to cigarettes to heroin, but mostly heroin as it turned the largest profit.
Fahzil had secu
red the most secluded hanger on the airport grounds, in the southern end near a high fence. Stiletto and Miller rode in the van to an empty hanger not far from Fahzil’s and set up their surveillance.
Stiletto could taste the end of this mission.
If nothing else went wrong.
Cutter left Scott to join his team; Stiletto and Miller entered the hanger and found a small office with a window. The hanger had not been used for some time. Dust hung in the air and irritated their eyes and noses. The metal walls creaked a little.
Stiletto found a chair in the warehouse office and brought it over to a grimy window. He removed a night scope from his pack. Miller went to grab another chair but stopped as something scurried across the office floor.
“Was that a rat?”
“Don’t tell me rats make you nervous,” Stiletto said.
“Yes they do.”
Stiletto laughed as Miller joined him.
“Can’t see much through this window.”
“We can see enough. Plus, it means they can’t see us.”
Miller tried to find a clear spot but gave up. “What do you see?”
“So far,” Stiletto said, “I count two shooters and a car off to the side. No sign of Fahzil yet.”
“Can you see inside?”
“The hanger doors are closed.”
“Their transport must be inside. Or parked elsewhere.”
The scurrying sound echoed again outside the office.
“Holy crap,” Miller said, turning toward the sound. “Worse than being under fire.”
Stiletto laughed again. “I’m telling your girlfriend.”
“She doesn’t like rats, either.”
A van pulled up to Fahzil’s hanger and stopped. The shooters approached but held back from assisting the exiting occupants. Four new arrivals. They opened the rear of the van and unloaded a large trunk, which they placed on a wheeled platform.
Yet another figure exited the hanger. Stiletto zoomed in on the man’s face.”
“Got him.”
“Fahzil?”
“In the flesh. We take him alive, by the way, and his delivery men. We need to know where the Delta Nine came from and if there’s any more.”
“I have no beef with him,” Miller said.
“I sure do,” Stiletto said. He keyed his radio. “I have eyes on Fahzil and a large trunk. The Delta Nine is probably in there. We need that secured and Fahzil alive. All units copy.”
As the responses filtered back, Stiletto continued to watch the target.
Fahzil directed his shooters and they pulled open the heavy sliding doors of the hanger. Inside the lighted structure sat a large helicopter, a U.S. Huey, probably purchased on the surplus market.
A chopper Stiletto could fly.
They had removed the U.S. markings and repainted it white, but otherwise it was standard U.S. issue.
The men from the van wheeled the trunk to the Huey. Fahzil opened the side door and the men lifted it into the cabin. Fahzil shut the door.
Stiletto spoke into his com unit. “Now!”
STILETTO AND Miller pounded across the tarmac.
The rest of Cutter’s assault team emerged from the shadows, firing suppressed automatic weapons. Fahzil’s shooters went down first, their upper bodies exploding in sprays of red as flesh-shredding hollow points tore into them. Strategic shots brought down the four from the van. They withered in wounded agony on the hanger floor.
The tac team closed in, swarming the hanger, as Fahzil broke cover and fired a handgun. Stiletto yanked the Colt from side leather and fired once. The unsuppressed crack of the pistol echoed across the airfield and the .45 ACP stinger kicked Fahzil’s left leg out from under him. He crashed to the ground, screaming. Fahzil rolled over as Scott reached him, raising the pistol, but Stiletto batted it away and bashed the smuggler over the head. Fahzil, out cold, lay still. Scott rolled him onto his back.
“We got it,” Cutter said, coming up behind Scott as he wrapped Fahzil’s wrists and ankles with zip ties. “We got the trunk. Gas canisters inside. All secured.”
“You know what to do with this one.” Stiletto stepped back.
He took in the rush of the other commandos as they went about their tasks, but didn’t see Miller. He snapped his head left, right, around.
Behind him, Miller said, “I’m right here.” He held his weapon muzzle-down. “Had you covered the whole time. Were you expecting otherwise?”
“Of course not.”
“I honor my deals.”
“I know you do. Let’s go check out that helicopter. Are you afraid of flying, too?” He started for the hanger.
“Just rats,” Miller said, falling in step beside Stiletto.
Chapter Fourteen
THE HUEY lifted off without a hitch.
Stiletto reached 3000 feet and steered the machine into the night. The whipping rotor blades and purr of the engine filled the cabin; the glow of the instruments provided illumination.
Cutter’s men had off-loaded the trunk; as they had examined the chopper, they found a mounted .50-caliber machine gun inside.
Miller said, “They’ll get a taste of their own medicine!”
After securing their personal gear, Miller came forward to sit in the copilot’s seat and strapped in.
Stiletto plotted a course using the GPS coordinates on a handheld device provided by Cutter. A four-hour flight. They’d be there by daybreak.
THE CHALET wasn’t a bad place to have a fight.
But Karl Staar didn’t want one.
He and Zolac stood in a large conference room inside the chalet, windows on either side of the room looking out at the mountains. Staar was impressed with how clean not only the windows were but the place in general, since it had been locked up for most of the last year. Staar had wanted to argue against going to the Switzerland hideout, but Zolac had made an excellent point. There was nobody else to take delivery of the nerve gas.
A long table, empty, sat in the center of the room. Zolac stood in front of a wall of television monitors, turning each one on in turn.
Staar said to Zolac, “We can’t be here more than 24 hours.”
“Fahzil’s helicopter will be here in the morning,” Zolac said, “and I have my meeting right now. . .I think we’ll be okay, Karl.”
“Heinrich—”
“Look, we’ll be out of here as quick as we can. Excuse me.”
As faces appeared on the television monitors, Staar turned and left the room. As he shut the doors, he noticed only three faces had appeared. The other monitors remained blank.
With a rifle slung across his back, Staar left the chalet and walked around the outside. They were perched on the top of a mountain, nothing but more mountains in the distance, a sharp chill in the air. He wandered around the landing area on the south side of the house, which was clear of any debris. He or Raeder would sweep it again before Fahzil landed.
Staar wandered to the west side driveway where their SUVs were parked. He followed the driveway to the winding road leading to the chalet.
He kept to the edge of the road but there were no other vehicles coming their way. He wanted to line the road with mines, though. After Russia, no precaution was too extreme. He reflected on the situation so far. Nothing had gone according to plan. Now, simply surviving was proving to be more than he bargained for.
Worse, the NWRF lay in shambles. The three men on Zolac’s monitors were all that remained. He’d been looking for a job when he found Zolac; maybe it was time to get out while he could still save his own neck, and find some greener pastures.
He walked as far as the main mountain road, the chill licking at his neck. He turned and started back the way he had come. Any decision could wait until they left the chalet. For now, he still had a job to do.
ZOLAC FACED the wall of monitors.
Bald-headed Mr. Grunberg occupied one monitor; the other two were Harmon and Tate, the only two Americans in the NWRF leadership.
Zolac said, “It’s just us?”
“Indeed, Heinrich,” Grunberg said. “And now we must discuss what happens next.”
Tate said, “We need to stay under cover. The U.S. government will not stop with what they’ve done so far.”
“How long do we hide?” Harmon said. “A year? Ten years?”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Zolac said. “We are taking delivery of the Delta Nine gas any time now. If we are putting operations on hold, we need to figure out a place to store it.”
“What about the missiles we purchased in Africa?” Tate said.
Grunberg responded, “I have seen to the missiles myself. They have been hidden in separate locations.”
“Can we put the nerve gas in the same location?” Zolac said.
“I don’t see why not.”
“So we’re scrapping the Tel Aviv and Jerusalem plans?” Harmon said.
“We have no choice,” Zolac said. “Our infrastructure is shattered. Going back to the question of how long we stay hidden, I’m not sure I have an answer. But we must withdraw and take appropriate time to rebuild. Once we do, we will have not only the missiles but the Delta Nine as well. And we should strike at the heart of America. Perhaps it will take ten years. But as long as we survive the fight will continue.”
Grunberg said, “Heinrich, the three of us are relatively safe. What about you? You’re the one who is exposed more than us.”
“I have enough cash secreted away. I’ll be okay once we move the Delta Nine into hiding,” Zolac said. “It’s not like I didn’t ever plan for a rainy day.”
STILETTO FLEW the Huey helicopter low through the Swiss Alps, the ground beneath passing quickly. It had taken a few moments to get used to the chopper controls and soon he was flying smoothly out of Brussels.
He worked the cyclic and collective to move the chopper up and down as the geography dictated, morning glow filling the sky. The sharp peaks, some of them capped with snow, offered a majestic view. He raised the chopper to 4000 feet and zeroed in on the mountain peak atop of which lay Zolac’s hideaway.
