Right, along with Alex.
“Your gun,” Wainscott said.
And there it was. Alex could shoot her way out of this, but she would wound or kill a Met inspector and the head of MI6.
Not exactly a career move.
Or she could cooperate, bide her time, and wait for the right opportunity to act. She still had to find Jack, and maybe they would lead her right to him.
So, Alex drew the SIG with two fingers from behind her, kneeled, and placed it on the floor. Inspector Wainscott put Alex in plastic zip cuffs, took her satchel, then she and Grant led her to the service elevator at the edge of the small lobby.
Inside, she caught Wainscott eyeing her. Smiling again, Alex nodded toward her chest pocket.
Wainscott took the badge from the pocket. “I should shoot you for that alone. Where’s Burke’s?”
Alex shrugged.
“On with it.” Grant nodded to the hallway.
They took the lift to the garage, where they led Alex to a waiting car—a white Range Rover that looked much like Lockard’s—with MI5 Agent Burke behind the wheel, grinning beneath his Lennon shades.
Excellent. Three on one now. Alex’s prospects were dimming along with the blackening sky. A Hendricks would have been good right about then. Maybe a double.
“Well, well, nowhere to run,” Burke said out the open driver’s window. “No riots to incite up here now, are there?” Wainscott turned away, as Alex realized Burke’s English accent had suddenly disappeared and he sounded firmly American.
Son of a bitch. Not MI5, after all.
Alex climbed inside, and Wainscott sat next to her. Grant sat up front.
Wainscott flipped through Alex’s sketchbook. “Not half bad. Where’d you get them?”
Alex ignored her, stared out the window.
Grant turned around. “Now, Alex. About that attaché.”
Burke dialed his cell and, after a moment, said, “We’re on the way to get the briefcase. If I don’t call you in thirty minutes confirming possession, kill Pope.”
Turning to look out the other window, Alex said, “I’ll take you to it.”
Thirty-Four
Draganic squinted against fat snowflakes that slapped at the windshield like dead moths. The damn storm threatened to push him right off the Schönriedstrasse pass. He was glad he’d left when he did. It had taken almost four hours to travel the seventy miles. If he’d waited until after sunrise to leave, he would have missed the shot at Finance Minister Lory.
Literally.
His throat ached with anger about the uncontrolled circumstances. Here he was, closer to more money than God—ten times more than he ever had before—and it was under threat of being royally fucked up by the government. Again. The goddamn institution. Play by the rules and all you got was a good solid bending over. Take it right there like everyone else, they’d say. He and Randeep would not only lose the money, though, they would be sent to prison for securities violations. Trading in the markets when Draganic had been banned.
Speaking of Randeep.
The little dothead was nowhere to be found. He was probably crying in the corner over his own monumental fuck-ups, refusing to answer his phone. If it weren’t for Draganic stepping in to fix his problems, Randeep would be up there with Nick Leeson for worst trader in history. Still, Draganic wanted to speak with him one more time, be sure that the trades would work if he went through with this. If not, then Draganic would be forced to use Plan B. Find Lockard and take back the money by force. Unless.
Had Randeep already double-crossed him? Was he with Lockard now?
Goddamn all of them.
Draganic reached for his phone in the passenger seat. As he leaned over, he swerved into the other lane, where two bright oncoming lights blinded him. A deep, bellowing horn sounded and he jerked back upright.
Draganic spun the wheel right—the blaring horn fading behind him—but he overcompensated, causing the BMW’s right bumper to scrape the snow and send a stream of powder up into the windshield. He turned the wheel left again and lost control of the car, spinning around three full times until the back end bounced off the railing, and the front end plowed into the snowbank, jerking him to a halt.
His heart racing, Draganic gripped the wheel with both hands and dropped his head.
He was getting sloppy, perhaps too anxious with the day ahead of him. He wasn’t nervous about killing, of course—he’d done that plenty of times before. No, what concerned him was time. He hadn’t had enough of it to plan this properly. Plus he was being fueled by emotion and he knew it.
Dangerous in this line of work. A dose of emotion could give someone an edge, but too much could blind them.
Easing the BMW out of the snowbank without spinning the wheels—thank God the 8-Series kept the rear-wheel drivetrain—Draganic pulled back onto the highway. Then his mind began to play tricks on him, making him smell almond butter. Strange. Perhaps the rush of adrenaline from the wipeout was making him hungry.
Having settled on this explanation, Draganic drove the rest of the way to Bern, trying to think of nothing at all.
By the time he arrived at the MetroBern Hotel, Draganic had calmed himself and felt steady again. After pulling into the valet line, he studied the Federal Palace across the street.
There would be no motorcade and though Councillors could use Army security detail if they wanted personal protection, they almost never did. Draganic had learned this on a segment of BBC’s Panorama about Lory that aired last May. In televised special, Lory emphasized that even though he had been elected Swiss Financial Minister—a position that paid the equivalent of five hundred thousand US dollars per year—he was still like any ordinary Swiss citizen. He drove the same seventeen-year-old black Mercedes Benz, and he never used a driver. They even showed his shit-box car on television. Furthermore, Lory regularly used the Monte Rosa Suite to rest and prep the day of public appearances at the Palace. Right here at the MetroBern Hotel.
What were they thinking, these politicians?
Draganic exited the BMW and handed the keys to the valet.
“Name?” the man asked, his red puffy hood pulled over his brow.
“Lockard,” Draganic said, handing over the keys.
The man reached in to take the duffel bag, but Draganic grabbed the bag himself. “I don’t need assistance.”
Draganic walked away from the valet, feeling the man’s gaze burning into his back. He didn’t care. He would never see that man or this hotel again. All he had to do was finish today’s work and transfer the money by nightfall. Then it would be done.
He walked through the automatic, double glass doors. The lobby was a welcome sight. Designed in some sort of New Age contemporary style, with granite floors and light wood furnishings, it had an open and spacious feel.
“Good morning,” a tall blonde behind the front desk greeted him. “Reservation?”
“Evan Lockard,” Draganic said. “I have forgotten my wallet, though. I trust you will take cash?”
“Certainly, but we will need the credit card for a deposit.”
“I am by myself, and will be gone first thing in the morning. You will never know I was here.”
“I am afraid this is hotel policy.” She flashed a magazine smile.
Draganic pulled ten US one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and handed her five of them. “This is for you.” He handed her the other five. “And this is for a room number six-twelve.”
Then, careful to keep the scar from her view, he turned his head slightly and flashed his own smile.
Three minutes later, Draganic stood at the double French doors to the opera balcony of room six-twelve. A boring courtyard view, but this did not matter because the door to the room sat directly across the hall from that of the Monte Rosa Suite. A perfect view from the peephole.
Now all Draganic had to do was wait.
He checked his watch and calculated the time until he expected Lory to arrive. It would be in one hour,
at most. Lory would want to enter the building a good two-hours before the announcement to prepare, perhaps freshen up for the cameras.
Staring at the hands on his watch, Draganic remembered Natasha and his eyes suddenly glazed over.
She would have slept late after drinking a whole bottle of Bordeaux and would have a typical headache. She would wander into the kitchen, half naked and half asleep. While cursing Draganic for this or that, she would reach for her purse across the counter. He could see her, opening her purse, taking out the carton of ridiculous pink-and-gold cigarettes, maybe cursing him again, one more time.
“I’m sorry, Natasha.” He actually said the words out loud. “But you can’t have a divorce.”
You can have this instead.
Natasha stood before the full-length mirror on her side of the walk-in closet, wearing nothing but a pair of spandex yoga shorts. She turned left and right. She sucked in her stomach and raised her chin. She picked up one magazine and then another. She flipped through the pages and compared herself to the women inside. She stopped on a full-page shot in Vogue. Her ass was not that different from Megan Fox’s.
And Natasha was older.
She dropped the magazine and cupped her breasts. More than a handful each, they were fantastic and she knew it. It was important to know your assets as a woman—what you could use and what was tradable. How else would you get what you wanted in life?
All in all, she looked good. Not perfect yet, but good.
And very fuckable.
Yes, she was ready to be single again, and now that she had her evidence from Mr. Lockard, she would demand the divorce. Zoran would throw a fit when he heard what she wanted for alimony, but he’d get over it. He had come into a large sum of money doing whatever he was doing with that Evan Lockard, and they had hidden it away somewhere. Sure, she would get some from Lockard for helping him, but a hundred thousand would hardly last a few months.
She needed more.
She would have to double back on Lockard until either he or Zoran agreed to cut her in on the deal. It would be a small price to pay for her not to turn them in to the authorities. Zoran would do anything to stay out of The Hague. And Lockard? Well, he was not fit for prison, that man. Like a bison, he needed to roam free.
It would be painful, yes, all the yelling and the bitter battle of a divorce, but soon it would be over. And she would find herself a nice young boy toy to keep her company, someone to enjoy her newfound wealth with her. No one serious, but someone to play with, like a professional fùtbol player. Maybe a dark Italian boy. Yes, that would be it. She would go straight to Milan and shop for a new dress and a new boy.
Not bothering to put on clothes—she’d turned the heat up to eighty when Zoran left—Natasha walked down the stairs and went straight to the kitchen. All the talk about money and her future had made her tingle and she needed a cigarette.
Entering the kitchen, she wrinkled her nose. Something had soured in here. It smelled like rotten eggs. Holding her breath, she pushed the steel trash bin into the mudroom. Who knew what that ape ate this morning? Probably boiled eggs and kraut.
Once a Serbian, always a Serbian.
Natasha tapped out a pink pastel cigarette from the box of Sobranie Cocktails and held it to her nostrils.
That smelled delicious.
She strode over to the stovetop and put her hand on the dial. Nobody was here to scold her for the so-called filthy habit of lighting her cigarette with the open flame. And nobody would ever be able to tell her not to again.
As she smiled at that and twisted the dial past High, she heard a single click of the electric sparker—and saw the lower oven propped open with a wine cork. She tilted her head, thinking, That is strange. How did that…And then the burner clicked a second time.
The blue flame erupted from the stovetop, engulfing her and the oven for a single moment.
Then the entire room exploded.
Thirty-Five
Naked, Jack had pushed into the far corner of the empty room, using the internal walls as insulation. Still, he shivered like a starving dog. He’d slid in and out of consciousness and wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. Two nights? Three? Was it early morning? Afternoon? At one point, he’d woken to the gurgling sound of birds and thought he was back in New Cross. The pigeons’ coos had settled him back then, when he’d been locked in the eves of the crumbling townhome. When he’d disobeyed Papa.
His despot grandfather.
But like Alex, Jack wasn’t damaged. He had been a different person then, living a separate life from this one. He’d found himself a little more isolated than others. Perhaps losing parents at a young age did that to you. He knew he hesitated before opening up, rarely forming any real personal bond—which was the main reason Edgar had tasked him with watching Alex. “Just get close enough to see if she’s okay. She doesn’t seem to have any close friends, any confidants. It think it’s abnormal.”
“No men?” Jack had asked, intrigued.
“Not too close,” Edgar had warned him.
He wasn’t sure if he’d purposefully disobeyed that warning or merely discarded it along the way, but he wasn’t sorry he’d done it. A man would kill for that kind of woman.
At least Jack would.
As he had that thought, the door clanked with the deadbolt being disengaged from the other side.
Jack sat up, readied himself again. One last battle.
Lockard swung open the door. He wore black pants and a black field jacket. One hand was wrapped in silver duct tape up to the wrist, and a bag of ice was taped tight around the wound. The other hand held the HK45, aimed at Jack’s chest.
“On your knees, face the wall. Hands over your head.”
Shivering, Jack turned and complied, while gathering the last of his reserves for the final fight.
But Lockard just cut the tape from his wrists. Then he dragged a pile of clothes into the room with a foot. After kicking them across the floor, he pointed the pistol at them and then back at Jack.
“We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
Jack kept himself from looking back as he grabbed the clothes, and Lockard left the room.
He’d soon have the chance to deliver some payback of his own.
Thirty-Six
From British MI6, to Swiss Federal Intelligence Service, to Bern’s newly formed Swiss Special Intervention Unit, reports of an imminent terrorist attack by a man named Zoran Draganic had traveled through the channels at light speed. It was most likely a bomb, but perhaps a direct affront to a member of the Swiss Council. Rolf Brunner, the lead tactical officer of the counterterrorism unit called Enzion, used the twelve-and-a-half-minute drive of the armored vehicle approach to the suspected location to prepare his team for the intervention.
Not enough, he worried. Not even for this team.
Rolf cursed President von Zeller. If the politico had half the sense of a military leader, he would call off the press conference. This would eliminate the problem.
Sure, they had trained in all sorts of environments and for all kinds of operations, but this was asking a bit much, even for Enzion. Rolf’s team was charged with detonation intervention once Swiss Intelligence had located the suspected terrorist. Meanwhile, Stern, the hostage-rescue and VIP-protection unit, was designated for a bomb sweep and security lockdown of the Federal Palace. The problem was, on strict instructions from Intelligence, from here on out, there would be no contact between Enzion and Stern. Apparently, Intelligence was worried its own communication could somehow be intercepted and throw the whole intervention down the tubes.
So Enzion and Stern were both going in dark.
Rolf ascended the last half flight of stairs of the MetroBern Hotel and held up a hand, signaling his team to stop. The other six members, all dressed in black tactical outfits with their face shields lowered and holding their SIG 551 double-magazine assault rifles, halted with the abruptness of a salute.
Rolf pointed to the two officers with the ba
ttering ram and signaled them forward to his immediate right. He motioned for the officer holding the long-range laser microphone to flank his left.
Rolf nodded, and the mic man eased the dish out around the corner and pointed it at the door. He held up a finger. Listening.
He shook his head once. Nothing.
Rolf had to choose. Go forward and pounce, hoping to catch the suspect by surprise, or wait. Listen a bit longer and see if they could determine his approximate location in the room, if there were others with him, and whether he had his finger on the button of an explosive. Intelligence was certain this was Draganic’s plan. Why else rent a room under an assumed name at a hotel located directly across from the palace entrance? Proximity was key. Draganic needed to be close enough to detonate whatever device was inside the federal building. A modified mobile phone detonator would be ineffective within those stone walls. It had to be some sort of RF signal. Unless Draganic had planted the explosive inside the suite across the hall, the one that Finance Minister Lory always used. No secret, that. But then, why not just step out and shoot Lory? Either way, Rolf and his men had to intercept Draganic before he acted on any plan.
Staring at the mic man, Rolf put a finger to his own ear. Anything?
The mic man shook his head again, but then he cocked it. Held up a hand. Something. He nodded vigorously. Something important. He held up one finger.
Draganic was alone.
He put his hand to his ear, fingers spread, like he was holding a device.
Draganic was on the phone.
He pointed to the sky.
A mobile phone.
Okay. Rolf adjusted the team again, bringing the officer with the full body shield in front. Then the battering-ram men. Three riflemen in a triangular formation behind him, Rolf at the front of those. He signaled that they would listen and be at the ready. From this corner, they were approximately seven and a half feet from Draganic’s door. They could cover that and be in the room in three seconds flat. All Rolf had to do was give the signal.
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