As Arzaman spoke the last sentence, he made eye contact with each man to ensure they understood the implications of his warning. The plane taxied toward the far apron.
“It will take us forty-five minutes to drive to the hospital. We will obey the traffic regulations, but if for some reason we are stopped by the British police and they become suspicious, Olivier will show them his police credentials and the extradition papers. Professional courtesy should prevail. Olivier and Hafez will enter the hospital first and immediately start the paperwork. Naseem and Rashid, you will unload the stretcher and wait for Hafez to show you to the room. You both have the drug?”
The two men were dressed in the blue-and-white uniforms of French SAMU paramedics. Naseem spoke excellent English and Rashid spoke a few words of French, but the men had been chosen for today’s mission because both were combat medics in the Revolutionary Guards. They could keep the patient stable and fool an inquisitive doctor if necessary.
Naseem answered. “Yes. It is a sedative-hypnotic agent. It will leave him unable to speak or move. We will inject it into a peripheral line off of the intravenous drip. If there is no peripheral line, we will have to inject it directly into a vein, but can use only half the syringe. Too much too quickly will kill him.”
Rashid added, “The drug will take effect in twenty to thirty seconds, at which point we can move the patient to our own stretcher.”
“Sedate him immediately,” Arzaman said. “Remember, we are snatching this man out of a hostile country. It is a blessing from Allah that he is still unconscious, but we cannot risk him awakening before we are back aboard the plane. If there are hospital staff in his room, take them into the hallway to look at some paperwork or ask them some questions, but get them out of the room. There may even be police there, but remember, they are there to keep the prisoner in, not to keep us out.”
Hafez smiled at the irony. Seconded from the ranks of the Iranian Qods Force, he would be their security and their interrogator. Legend had it that he’d once cut out a man’s tongue then suffocated him by stuffing it back down his throat. Hafez was a blunt instrument, but an effective one; and he’d never failed to extract the desired information from one of his prisoners.
Arzaman looked briefly at his men to see if there were any questions, but there never were. He was not the type of man who encouraged people to think on their own.
“I want everyone back in the van half an hour after we reach the hospital. It’s forty-five minutes to the airport and we will leave the moment everyone is on board the aircraft. The pilots have told me that our medical status will allow us an expedited departure.”
Olivier frowned, concerned about the tight timeline, but said nothing.
Arzaman continued. “Once we are in the air we will have approximately one hour to perfect the deception. Naseem will switch the prisoner with the double and Rashid will stabilize the prisoner in the tail compartment. Remember to draw at least three vials of blood. Olivier has assured us that he has a sympathetic coroner in Paris who will test the blood, and not the corpse, to confirm that the DNA from the two crime scenes is the same. Ten minutes before we land at Le Bourget, Hafez and I will climb into the compartment with the sedated prisoner. As soon as you three are off with the double, we will fly on to Croatia, where we have a second plane waiting to take us to Tehran.”
The aircraft engines throttled back and the ground crew directed the jet to its spot on the ramp.
“Be careful with the prisoner. He may be very weak. We are taking a great risk coming here to recapture him instead of simply having him killed. We must find out what he has learned and what he has told his handlers.” For the first time that anyone could remember, the speaker looked worried. “The very existence of the republic may depend on it.”
The plane stopped and the copilot lowered the stairs. A black Vauxhall van was waiting for the team.
Hafez leaned in to the group and whispered, “Sir, what if something . . . happens and we lose control of the prisoner?”
“There is always a chance that this is a trap. Maybe the INTERPOL notice was a trick, or maybe the agent has recently regained consciousness and spoken with the authorities. We must take that chance. So if, as you say, something happens . . . then put a bullet in his brain, and may shit rain down upon his grave.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
ZAC HEARD A commotion outside his room. He caught only snippets of the conversation, but there was talk of transferring a patient. A smile crossed his face. Clements must have learned of his arrival and sent people to transport him to London. He felt enormous relief that he would no longer have to run and hide, that he would soon be in a place where he could finally tell the truth.
But he wasn’t there yet. He kept his eyes closed as three people walked into the room. He heard a man tell a nurse about the advanced life support equipment they’d have en route.
“We’ll have you out of here soon, Mr. Miller,” said another man.
With his eyes still closed, Zac focused on the voice. The accent wasn’t American, as he’d hoped. It sounded almost English, but not quite. It was the English of someone who’d learned the language in England but had grown up speaking something else.
The nurse recited his recent vital signs to the men. One of them asked if he could have a copy of Zac’s chart and the nurse left the room to print it. Zac felt a needle prick his arm, followed by a burning sensation.
One of the men spoke quietly to the other in a foreign language and Zac’s eyes popped open. The two men standing in the room were not American or English. They had Middle Eastern features. One was putting a syringe in his pocket as the other walked out of the room. Zac’s last controlled act was to close his eyes.
FIFTY-NINE
CHRISTINE KIRBY RAN down the hall to Ted Graves’s office. His door was closed and his assistant said that he was not to be disturbed. Kirby ignored him and walked in.
“We found Miller.”
“Where?”
“He’s in England; down in Kent. I’ve got a team assembling right now. Let’s go.”
Graves hung up the phone and followed Kirby into the elevator. They emerged inside the parking garage. Two CIA security men were waiting with a silver Range Rover. Kirby tapped the thick windows with her knuckle as she and Graves climbed into the backseat.
“Anything up to a seven-six-two NATO, ma’am,” said one of the security men.
“I’ve got a feeling we might need them.”
The driver sped through the London traffic while the other man navigated. They were soon out of the city and driving down the motorway at nearly twice the speed limit.
“How did you find Miller?” Graves asked Kirby.
“I put flags on the borders, airlines, rails . . . everything you asked me to, but it was the local police in Kent who matched his picture with an INTERPOL Red Notice, if you can believe it. His status changed in the system to ‘located’ last night and Scotland Yard passed it over to MI5 this morning as part of their daily routine. Five called us about ten minutes before I came into your office.”
“Is he all right? Why is he in the hospital?” Graves asked.
“I have no idea of his medical status but he’s definitely not all right. While I was on the phone with my contact at Five he told me there was a second hit on the INTERPOL system. Apparently, the French filed for extradition last night and are picking him up today. We don’t know what time. MI5 was going to ask the Home Office to call the local police and tell them not to let Miller out of their sight since he’s an American citizen, but it’s anyone’s guess how that will go. The Home Office is usually very helpful, but with Miller’s media coverage, you never know.”
“Great work, Christine. Now we just need to get him before the French do.”
SIXTY
THE IRANIAN PARAMEDICS transferred Zac, with his oxygen and IV, onto the Aeromed stretcher and took him down
in the elevator. Arzaman smiled inside the van when the hospital doors slid open and the group emerged.
Ahead of schedule . . . For all their faults, at least the English are punctual.
Naseem and Rashid folded the stretcher’s wheels and slid it into the Vauxhall.
Hafez watched a police car speed up the drive and stop in front of the hospital’s main entrance, two hundred feet from the van. Two constables jumped out and jogged toward the doors.
“Let’s get out of here, now,” said Arzaman.
Hafez yanked the rear doors closed and the heavy stretcher slammed into Naseem’s ankle as the van accelerated. He cursed loudly and fell to his knees. His ankle started to swell immediately, but he and Rashid locked down the stretcher before tending to the bruised and bleeding joint.
The driver ignored the speed limit while the passengers rode in silence. The arrival of the police at the hospital might have been a coincidence; however, the Iranians were trained to expect the worst. None of them wanted a firefight, but they were ready if the situation demanded it.
Arzaman took a prepaid mobile phone from the driver and ordered the pilots to be ready for takeoff as soon as the team arrived. Burning a few extra pounds of jet fuel might be the difference between a successful mission and a lifetime spent in an English prison. They would be safe once they were airborne. Whatever the English suspected, they wouldn’t shoot down an unarmed passenger plane. The van sped down the empty two-lane road as they counted down the minutes to the airport.
Olivier saw it first through the side-view mirror. A police car was coming up from behind. Its warning lights were off, but it was moving fast. The driver of the van eased off the gas and moved to the left-hand lane. Hafez opened a heavy plastic container marked “Medical Waste/Biohazard” and removed three Heckler & Koch MP7 machine pistols. He stashed two of them below the seats and kept one for himself.
“What do I do?” asked the driver.
“Just drive the speed limit,” said Arzaman. “We follow the plan. If he stops us, Olivier shows his ID and the extradition papers. Tell them we are rushing only because the patient needs urgent medical attention.”
The police car slotted in behind the van. Hafez’s hand reflexively went to his MP7. Arzaman gently pulled the hand away and motioned for him to relax. There was no point in acting like kidnappers if they were being stopped for speeding.
The police car’s blue warning lights started flashing.
“Just pull over. We’ll be on our way in a few minutes,” said Arzaman.
The driver was agitated. “They’re armed response.”
“What does that mean?” asked Hafez.
“See those yellow circles on the car? It means they’re armed.”
“Is that uncommon?”
“Many police in Britain do not carry weapons. Armed officers are deployed only when trouble is expected.”
Hafez’s hand went to his weapon again. “Nice of them to warn us.”
“Did the police car at the hospital have the yellow circles?” asked Arzaman.
“I did not see them, and I would have noticed,” said the driver as he lowered his window.
Arzaman acknowledged that the situation might be more serious than he’d initially thought. He removed his own machine pistol from beneath his seat. Two officers stepped out of the car and walked toward the van. Both carried sidearms but neither weapon was drawn.
Olivier stepped out of the passenger side of the van with his hands away from his body. In his left hand were his police credentials, open to reveal his badge and ID. In his right hand was the extradition paperwork from the U.K. and French governments.
The two constables stopped ten feet behind the van and glanced at each other. One of them ordered Olivier to stand still while the other spoke into the radio microphone attached to his epaulet. The standoff lasted only a few seconds until the radio dispatcher responded. Both officers drew their weapons. The one closer to Olivier ordered him to turn around and get on his knees.
One of the officers covered the driver’s door while the other watched Olivier slowly lower himself to the ground. Neither was looking at the back doors of the van when they burst open and a barrage of automatic weapons fire erupted from inside.
Arzaman and Hafez were each down on one knee and firing the machine pistols. The high-velocity, small-caliber rounds penetrated the officers’ body armor before tearing into flesh and bone, rupturing blood vessels and puncturing vital organs. Both officers collapsed on the ground without firing a shot.
Arzaman began barking orders. The country road was quiet but the Iranians would be asking for trouble if they left the two policemen lying on the pavement. Rashid jumped down. The officers were already in shock and nearly dead as he tossed the first one into a drainage ditch.
The driver turned around and started yelling. “We’re ten minutes from the airport. Let’s get out of here!”
A deafening burst of gunfire ripped into the van from the rear. A third officer had been in the car, obscured from view by glare on the windshield. Now he was standing behind the police car, raking the Vauxhall van with a fully automatic rifle. Hafez was hit in the throat and chest, but Arzaman ducked away before taking any fire.
* * *
• • •
ZAC’S EYES HAD popped open at the sound of the first gunshots. Distracted by the police, the Iranians had forgotten to administer the second half of the sedative. Zac could once again move his extremities, but did so minimally to avoid drawing attention. He spotted the straps that held him to the stretcher running across his chest and legs. They were more like seat belts than shackles. He would be able to release them easily when the time was right.
Bullets ripped through the air above Zac’s head and blood splattered down on top of him as rounds tore into Hafez. The dying man slumped atop the stretcher before rolling onto the ground. His weapon fell to the floor.
Rashid yelled something from outside the van before another burst of fire silenced him forever. Arzaman glanced at Zac, then fired back at the officer, but the bullets crashed harmlessly into the police car. The automatic rifle responded instantaneously and more 5.56mm rounds tore through the sheet-metal skin of the van. The driver was grazed in the shoulder by a bullet. He screamed again for Olivier to get back in the van but the French police officer was nowhere to be seen.
Arzaman shot a few more rounds and shouted to the injured Naseem. The medic crawled over and picked up Hafez’s weapon, firing off the rest of the magazine. Zac watched Naseem search for more ammunition. The two men made eye contact. Neither one said a word.
The driver and Arzaman were screaming at each other. Zac could feel the van start to pull away. Arzaman fired a shot through the windshield and the safety glass exploded with spider-cracks. The driver slammed on the brakes and stopped the van.
Naseem found another magazine and shot at the police car, but a burst of return fire forced him to dive for cover. He lay flat on the floor as three distinct reports came from outside the van and the policeman’s rifle fell silent.
Olivier walked out from behind the police car with his pistol in his hand.
Arzaman jumped down from the van. “Where the hell have you been?”
Olivier holstered his weapon and jogged toward the van.
“I dove off the road when the shooting started and was just getting up when the rifle opened fire, so I crawled through the ditch to flank him.”
Naseem stepped forward. “What took you so long? Hafez and Rashid are dead!”
Olivier swiftly raised his weapon and pointed it at Naseem’s head. “And if the cop had seen me, we’d all be dead. Shut up and get in the van.”
“Good work,” said Arzaman. “Now let’s get out of here before the fucking SAS show up.”
SIXTY-ONE
THE ROADSIDE TREES flew by in a blur as the silver Range Rover sped southea
st along the motorway.
“What do we know about the French extradition party?” asked Ted Graves.
“Zero. I’m guessing they’ll have maybe two cops and a doctor or a nurse,” answered Kirby. “If we can’t grab Miller before the French get to the hospital, then we’re really going to need the Home Office to come through with the local police.”
The man in the front passenger seat took a call on his mobile phone. He turned around quickly to face Graves and Kirby.
“MI5 says the local police just missed Miller at the hospital. The French have him.”
“Dammit,” Graves shouted. “Do we know where they’re going?”
The man with the phone asked the question and shook his head.
“Where would they be going?” Kirby asked.
“From Conquest? Brighton is an hour west, Lydd is an hour east,” said the driver.
Graves slammed his fist against the seatback. “Are you still on with Five?” he asked the security officer with the phone. The man nodded.
“Tell them to get police cars to both airports. Tell them to pull out all the stops. This is a matter of national security for the U.S. and Britain. Do not let Miller out of the country.”
The security officer relayed the instructions and the interior of the SUV was quiet for the next fifteen minutes until he received another call. He kept the phone to his ear and pointed emphatically at the exit ramp. The driver slammed on the brakes and turned off the motorway. The man with the phone punched a new route into the SUV’s GPS system and turned to face Graves and Kirby. “It’s Five again. Three local cops just got into a firefight with automatic weapons. It’s the same black Vauxhall van that was spotted at Conquest Hospital. It’s heading for Lydd.”
The supercharged Range Rover accelerated to nearly 120 miles per hour. Graves spoke first. “Do the police have the men from the van in custody?”
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