Without waiting for a reply, he strode toward the bedroom. A couple of minutes later, Mark joined him.
As they gathered up their gear, Coop was grateful for Mark’s silence. He needed a chance to regroup after seeing the shocking picture of Monica, hearing her tremulous voice, feeling her fear. To find a way to deal with—and control—his roiling emotions.
But he had few coping mechanisms in his arsenal. Emotional involvement had never been an issue on a mission. Knowing it would compromise his ability to do his job, he’d steered a wide berth around that complication. To be an effective HRT operator, you needed absolute and complete focus. Personal feelings had to be put aside. Period.
This job, however, was different. This time he cared about the outcome not just as a dedicated professional, but as a man.
When this was over, when they found Monica—and they would find her—he needed to figure out how this woman had managed to infiltrate his soul in a handful of days.
But for now, he had to look at this as a job. He couldn’t afford to let emotion cloud his judgment. To save Monica, he needed to operate at top efficiency. To use the clues she’d given them to track her down.
And this time he didn’t intend to fail her.
A chilling wind whipped up the silty ground, and Sayed dipped his head as he passed the two guards at the entrance to the mud hut. He ducked through the doorway, casting an indifferent glance at the three hostages sleeping on mats on the drafty dirt floor. The older man’s cough was worse, he noted.
“All is well?” He directed the query to one of the two rifle-toting guards inside.
“Yes. They sleep. Perhaps for the last time.” The man smirked. “Tomorrow is a big day. And we are ready to follow your instructions.” He lifted the gun.
“Good. I have been called for a late meeting with Tariq. I am confident he will have some directives. Stay vigilant.” Sayed exited, sparing the hostages no further attention.
Once back in his quarters in the adjacent hut, he opened his cell phone and tapped in a series of numbers. As he waited for the call to go through, his lips curved into a slight smile. Tomorrow at this late hour he would be far away from the sand and cold and primitive conditions he’d endured for most of his fifty-nine years. No longer would he have to risk his life in the company of men he didn’t trust. His departure had been long in the planning, but the outcome would be worth the wait.
With the money David Callahan had delivered in the market, along with the funds he’d skimmed off the top of the opium-trading operation he oversaw for Tariq, Sayed could spend the rest of his life in comfort. The ten percent he’d paid his “accountant” to deposit the funds in an untraceable Swiss bank account had been money well spent. Likewise the small sum he’d paid the disenchanted Anis for information.
Unlike Tariq, Sayed didn’t crave power or great wealth. The modest property he’d purchased in Brazil was more than adequate for his needs. Add in some good wine, fine cigars, decent food . . . a woman now and then . . . what more could a man want?
“Yes?” The clipped question interrupted his musings.
“All is ready?” Sayed kept his voice low.
“Your papers are prepared and your tickets are in my hands. They will be passed to you at the airport according to our arrangements.”
“Excellent. I am leaving now.”
Closing his phone, he exited the hut and strode toward his car without a backward look. Pointing it toward Kandahar, he disappeared into the darkness in a cloud of dust. Once out of sight of the village, he altered his direction and headed toward Kabul.
Everything had gone according to plan, he reflected with satisfaction. The guards were used to his late meetings with Tariq. They wouldn’t begin to suspect trouble until tomorrow morning, after he was on the plane. And with the falsified papers that awaited him in Kabul, there would be no way to trace him.
He had just one more task to complete. One last debt to pay. And that would be taken care of in five or six hours, as he approached the outskirts of the city. The simple phone call would take no more than thirty seconds. But it would give David Callahan the information his government had bought for the price of Sayed’s dream.
Plus a bonus that would eliminate any possibility of retribution.
The man was stonewalling.
Through narrowed eyes, Coop watched as Kurt Renner, the FBI agent he and Mark had accompanied from the Charlottesville office, questioned the general manager of the Harrisonburg Motel 6. The fifty-something supervisor was a typical petty bureaucrat who was making the most of his rare moment of importance. Coop had run into his type in past investigations. They typically crumbled under pressure—which he was itching to apply.
“Mr. Nieman, as I explained, we’re in the midst of a confidential investigation.” Renner’s tone was courteous, but Coop heard the stirrings of frustration. “I understand your concern about protecting the privacy of guests at your facility. However, this is a life-threatening situation where every minute counts.”
“But don’t you fellas need a search warrant to look at records? On TV, no one ever turns over information without one.”
The man’s habit of running his hand over the long strands of hair he’d draped over his bald spot was getting on Coop’s nerves. If Renner didn’t make some headway soon, Coop intended to jump in. They couldn’t afford to waste precious minutes being polite to this pompous jerk.
“It’s on the way, Mr. Nieman. But we may not need it if you’ll answer a few simple questions. Unless you have something to hide, that is.”
Good move, Coop thought. The man’s pasty complexion went a shade paler and his cocky attitude wilted a bit.
“No, of c-course not.”
The stammer was a good sign too.
“We could also go to your area manager if you feel you can’t cooperate.”
“No, no. That’s not necessary. I’ll answer what I can.”
“We appreciate that. We need to know if anyone of Middle Eastern descent checked in during the past week. And if they’re still here.”
The man shifted in his seat and did that annoying hair-rub motion again. “That sounds like profiling. Isn’t that illegal?”
He’d had it. Slanting a look at Mark, Coop stood, using the intimidating height advantage that had worked well for him in interrogations during his field agent days. Shoving the edges of his suit jacket back, he propped his fists on his hips and stared down at the man.
“Mr. Nieman, we will get the information we need.” His words were slow, deliberate. “The legal authorization to check your records and view your front desk security video is being processed as we speak. But let me give it to you straight.” He settled his hands on the desk, palms flat, and leaned into the man’s face, invading his personal space. The manager’s eyelid twitched. “A woman’s life hangs in the balance. Minutes matter. If she dies because you didn’t cooperate, there will be repercussions.”
Pinning the man with an intent look, Coop waited him out, hoping the subtle, nonspecific threat would make him crack. It had worked in the past. He prayed it worked now.
The man blinked. Shifted in his seat. Tugged at his tie. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Okay. What do you need?”
Instead of backing off at once, Coop held his position for another ten seconds—until he was confident the man realized they were through playing games. Then he straightened up and folded his arms across his chest. “We need to talk to your desk clerks, check your guest records for the past week, and review video if we discover anything suspicious. We may also need to talk to your housekeeping staff.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
Reaching over, Coop shoved the man’s phone in front of him. “Do it now.”
At one in the morning, David Callahan gave up any hope of sleeping.
Swinging his legs to the floor, he sat on the edge of the narrow bunk in his quarters. He’d had no updates from the FBI or embassy security in the past two hours, meaning there was no news. He k
new the investigation was focusing on the motel chain Monica had referenced, and he could only hope the terrorists would buy the FBI some time by honoring their promise to keep her alive until the noon deadline.
Long before that, however, he had a decision to make.
Restless, he rose and moved to the small desk in his room, grappling with his impossible situation. What recommendation should he give when he met with the secretary of state in seven hours? Though he’d been hoping . . . praying . . . for wisdom and guidance, the solution to his dilemma continued to elude him.
He picked up a pen and pulled a sheet of paper toward him, flipping on the desk light. Perhaps if he put his thoughts on paper it would help. That technique had served him well in negotiation situations. Few people knew that his renowned extemporaneous eloquence was a sham. Prior to diplomatic sessions, he always developed and practiced key points verbatim.
He scribbled some notes, but he couldn’t focus on his meeting with the secretary of state. Instead, he found himself thinking about what he would say to Monica if she sat across from him now. Pulling a clean sheet of paper toward him, he jotted a few thoughts. A few more. Began to write in earnest.
Thirty minutes later, when the shrill ring of his phone pierced the silence, his hand jerked, sending a squiggle across the page. He dropped the pen and snatched up the receiver, his heart pounding.
“Callahan.”
“Bob Stevens. I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I just heard from Les Coplin. They think they’ve identified your daughter’s location.”
Gratitude, relief, hope, anxiety . . . David couldn’t even identify the flood of emotions that cascaded over him.
“Tell me everything you know.”
“Stop it there.”
At Coop’s command, the FBI technician froze the frame on the front desk video from the Harrisonburg Motel 6, capturing a man with his head low, his features shaded by the brim of a hat.
“That has to be him.” Coop leaned forward, resting his hands on the table that had been set up in the empty warehouse they’d commandeered as a tactical operations center half a mile from the motel.
“I can’t tell for sure if he’s Middle Eastern.” Mark scrutinized the image, checked the registration. “The name doesn’t fit the ethnic background, either. Joe West.”
“If he’s our man, the name’s a fake. And notice the gloves. He wasn’t taking any chances about leaving prints.”
“He did a good job keeping his face angled away from the camera too,” Mark observed as he watched the video.
“Suspicious in itself. But the desk clerk we interviewed said he looked Middle Eastern. And consider the rest of the facts. He checked in two days ago and is still there—with a co-worker no one’s seen. He asked for a quiet room at the far end of the building. He paid in cash. And housekeeping told us the Do Not Disturb sign has been on the door since he arrived.”
“I agree it looks suspicious. But it’s not conclusive.”
Expelling a frustrated breath, Coop shot Mark an impatient look. “It’s all we have. None of the guests at the other two locations raised any alarms. Most were one-night stays. The clerks said none of them looked Middle Eastern.”
“You’re assuming our suspects have darker complexions.”
“They’re terrorists. Affiliated with a kidnapping in Afghanistan. Do you think we should be looking for guys who are blond and blue-eyed?” Coop glared at his partner.
“Hey.” Mark lifted his hands, palms out. “I’m just trying to play the devil’s advocate. If we make too many assumptions, we could overlook critical pieces of information.”
A beat of silence passed while the two men regarded each other.
“Sorry.” Coop rubbed his neck. “But we don’t have the luxury of time. I think we have to draw some reasonable conclusions and proceed on that basis. However, I’m open to better ideas.”
“I think you’re on the right track. But I don’t want to move so fast we make mistakes. We’re not going to get a second chance at this.”
That sobering truth helped center Coop. They’d have one opportunity to get Monica out alive. They couldn’t blow it. And thorough, logical preparation was the key to success for this operation, as it was for all their missions.
“I agree we need to confirm Monica is in there before we take any action. But in the meantime, I want our team ready to move.”
Pulling out his BlackBerry, Coop punched in Les’s number, watching Mark during his brief conversation with Quantico.
“They’re on their way.” He slipped the phone back into its holder. “Les says the story just broke on national TV. He doesn’t want to alert the media to our location so they’re coming in by Suburbans rather than chopper. He’s bringing the rest of our assault team, plus three guys from one of the sniper teams. ETA is two hours. He wants an ops plan ready when he gets here.”
“Les is coming?” Mark gave him an incredulous look. The HRT commander never went on missions.
“Yes. White House pressure, I suspect.” But the chief’s presence was fine with Coop. Les had been a stellar HRT operator, and he was a decisive leader. Coop couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have as mission commander than the Bulldog.
Especially when the stakes were this high.
One hundred and twenty-two minutes later, at 5:34 p.m., the warehouse doors swung open to admit two blacked-out Suburbans. Before the first vehicle came to a full stop, Les Coplin emerged. Cigar clamped between his teeth, he stepped back into his field commander role with reassuring ease.
Spotting Mark and Coop, he wove through the FBI personnel already at the warehouse, leaving the HRT operators to retrieve their gear. “Okay, give me an update.” He planted his knuckles on his hips and squinted at them.
“We think they have Monica in the last unit at the end.” Coop gestured toward a video monitor that had been set up in the command center. The camera was focused on the unit he’d referenced. “There are two people registered in the room. A field agent has taken over front-desk duty and is telling potential guests there’s no vacancy.”
“How many people are registered now?”
“Ten of the rooms are occupied. All toward the front of the motel,” Mark responded.
“We need to clear them out.”
“Agents disguised as housekeepers are doing that now. We’re transporting guests off-site but leaving their cars in place. We’ve had local law enforcement close off the road and secure the outer perimeter, and we have agents on covert surveillance. One of them set up the exterior video feed we’re watching.”
Les peered at the screen. “Is that their car?”
“That’s our assumption,” Coop said. “We tried to get a read on the license, but it’s caked with mud and illegible. However, the size of the car fits the profile of the tire tracks the ERT found.”
“Do you have a blueprint of the facility?”
“Yes.” Coop led the way to a table where the detailed drawing had been spread out, pointing to the schematic as he spoke. “There’s an air duct on one side of the last room. We plan to snake a fiber-optic camera through the ductwork to get a look at what’s happening in there.”
“How are you going to cover any noise?” Les chewed the cigar to the other side of his mouth.
“We’re placing two agents in the adjacent room, posing as a couple with a baby. We’ll send them in with some audio of a baby crying and they’ll turn up the volume on the TV. That should mask any noise from the duct while they get the camera in position. We’re setting up a feed over there.” He gestured to a second video monitor off to the side, where two technicians were focused on their task. “As soon as the agents are in the room, we’ll also have audio. They’re going in with a stethoscope mike.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ve already got one of our language specialists on standby. She can interpret if the conversation isn’t in English.” Les scanned the cavernous room, zeroing in on the special agent in charge of the Richmond office. “I n
eed to talk with Dennis. Brief your team on the setup. We’ll regroup in a minute and get the snipers in position. Once the video feed comes in and we verify that Monica Callahan is in there, we’ll talk about an assault plan. What’s the timing on a data feed from the room?”
“The agents are on their way. We should have audio and video in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Sounds like everything is covered. Get your guys up to speed.”
Les headed across the room, and Coop waved over the other five members of their assault team. No matter the amount of planning, in the end success or failure would come down to the actions these men took in the space of a few critical seconds. There was a razor-thin margin for error.
As the team assembled around him, Coop knew he was surrounded by the best in the business. They’d worked as a cohesive, well-oiled unit for years, amassing an impressive success rate with high-risk operations.
And he didn’t intend for this one to tarnish that record.
19
The muffled sound of a slamming car door echoed in the silent motel room with the same impact as a gunshot. Without moving from his computer, Nouri drew his pistol and glanced at Zahir, motioning toward the window as a second car door slammed.
Noiseless as a stalking panther, his partner rose and eased the drape open enough to see out without being seen. “It’s a couple. With a baby. They’re taking luggage out of the trunk.”
The door to the adjoining unit opened. The muted sound of voices came through the wall.
“He’s bringing in more luggage. And some sort of collapsible baby pen.”
The door shut again. Zahir let the drape fall into place and exchanged a look with Nouri. “I don’t like this. Why have they put someone in that unit now, after two days?”
The baby started to cry. Within seconds the muffled sobs swelled to a piercing wail.
“Perhaps that’s the reason.” Nouri reholstered his gun. “The desk clerk may not have wanted the baby to disturb the other guests.”
Against All Odds Page 21
