“Those were practice runs?” J. J. asked.
“Maybe. Data, get me command. Polo, get on the horn with your people.”
“Then what?” Rich said.
“Then we hightail it out of here.”
CHAPTER 18
PRESIDENT TED HUFFINGTON SCOOTED to the edge of the limo’s backseat and peered through the bulletproof glass. The driver stopped the presidential limo right on target. In a moment one of the Secret Service Protection Detail would open his door, and he and his wife, Marni, would move from the limo to the covered walkway. The cover, a bright red canopy, had been added to the side entrance to block the view of a sniper—not that a sniper could find purchase on any building within sight of the Miramare Hotel Grande.
The door swung open; Huffington exited the vehicle and slipped into predawn air, Marni just a step behind. Secret Service agents bracketed them and led them up a red carpet to the side entrance door. On either side of the carpet stood a row of Naples police officers dressed in dark blue uniforms with white gun belts and a matching diagonal support strap. Every man faced out, watching for movement that might indicate danger.
A tall man with ebony skin, prematurely gray hair, and a Secret Service pin stuck in his suit coat stepped to the president’s side. “I need a moment with you, sir.”
“Why does that statement always fill me with dread, Mitchell?”
“I don’t know, sir. My mother always speaks kindly of me.”
“What’s that set you back . . . a month?” Huffington walked down the first-floor hall. He moved quickly to keep pace with the agents in front. Passing a mirror he saw the image of a sixty-year-old man with gray hair, laugh lines etched into his face, and growing bags under his eyes.
When had he started to look so much like his father?
“Not as much as you might think, sir.”
“Okay. Give us ten minutes to freshen up then come up to the room.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
Moments later Huffington let out a relaxed breath. He’d ditched the dark blue suit and yellow power tie for a dark green Polo shirt and tan slacks. Much better. When Marni came from the dressing room, she also looked more relaxed in her loose-fitting jeans and bone-colored shell top.
She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
The plan was to stay in for the morning and try to catch up on their sleep. Huffington knew it was futile.
Someone knocked on the door and he sighed. “Come in.”
“Oh Huff, open the door.” Marni eased into an overstuffed chair. “It’s the polite thing to do.”
“It’s just Mitchell. It’s how guys communicate. We shout through doors.”
“I’m sure that’ll go over big when you meet the Chinese prime minister next month.”
The door opened, and Mitchell Baker entered. At his side was Helen “Brownie” Brown. A stern-looking woman with chestnut hair that hung to just below her jaw line, her brown eyes had a hardness about them. But then, as the first female chief of staff, she had to be tough. She had an unrivaled intellect, an acid tongue to everyone but the president and his wife, laser-beam focus, and a take-no-captive attitude. It was rumored that she had once made the speaker of the house weep. A fact that made Huffington grin every time he thought about it.
“Hey, Brownie. Early morning suits you.” She didn’t grimace at the nickname. Of course, only he was allowed to use the name.
“If you say so, sir.” Helen closed the door behind them.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were being sarcastic.”
“I would never be sarcastic with you, sir.” And yet . . . her smile seemed forced.
“That a fact?”
“A solid fact, Mr. President.”
Huffington motioned to the sitting area of the luxury suite. Helen and Mitchell took seats on one sofa; Huffington lowered himself into the love seat four feet opposite the sofa.
“Excuse me.” Marni rose from the chair and started for the bedroom area.
“Hang on, sweets.” Huffington turned to Helen. “Any reason Marni can’t sit in on this? Poor thing has to leave every time someone wants to talk to me.”
“I know of no reason.” Mitchell glanced at the woman next to him. “Helen?”
She hesitated and Huffington could tell she was weighing the question. “Of course Mrs. Huffington can stay.” The words seemed uncomfortable to speak.
“Great.” Huffington patted the cushion next to him. Marni approached, then sat. “Okay, I believe you called this meeting, Mitchell. What’s up?”
Mitchell Baker had been the head of the presidential security detail for the last six months and Huffington was glad for it. He possessed a stellar record: ten years in the Navy, eight as a decorated Navy SEAL; five years with the Treasury Department before transferring to the Secret Service division and protection detail. A serious man, he spoke seldom, made his words count, and tried to stay out of the president’s way. Although professional distinction kept him from saying so, Huffington considered the man a friend.
“There may be trouble at the G-20 forum.”
“That’s to be expected. We’ve already discussed this. There’s always trouble. A few years ago 225,000 marched on the G-8 meeting in Gleneagles, Scotland. There will always be protesters.”
“Yes, sir. You may recall that suicide bombers killed over fifty people on the London Underground and on a bus.” Mitchell hesitated. “You are aware of recent suicide bombings in London, Paris, and other cities.”
“Of course.”
“What you may not be aware of, Mr. President, is that there is a covert operation going in Italy.”
“A covert operation? By our people?”
Helen nodded. “Yes, sir. Army Spec Ops. They’re tracking a man named El-Sayyed—”
Huffington swore.
“Ted!” Marni snapped.
He felt his cheeks redden and offered a small grin. “Sorry, hon.” He turned to his advisors. “She hates it when I swear. It’s that Presbyterian upbringing.” He’d told that story uncountable times, but it was still funny to him.
“Who is El-Sayyed?”
There was a hint of concern in Marni’s question. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked for her to stay. There was no need to worry her. Still, she deserved an answer. “A suspected terrorist. No one has been able to lay indisputable proof on the table, but we know he’s funded and perhaps been involved in several events. He’s slimy and that makes him slippery.”
“As I was saying, Mr. President.” Helen once again took control, something she was remarkably good at. “Mitchell has received word that an Army team is tracking El-Sayyed in Italy. It seems El-Sayyed is involved in the recent spat of suicide bombings.”
“Who contacted you, Mitchell?”
“The commanding officer of Army Spec Ops—”
“Colonel MacGregor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man, built like a tank.”
“I’ve never met him, sir. Anyway, he contacted the head of the Secret Service detail. Word then came to me.”
“They think El-Sayyed will try something at tomorrow’s G-20?” Huffington leaned forward.
“The in-country team leader thinks so. They tracked El-Sayyed to a villa outside Rome. The Italians think that he’s massing female suicide bombers to attack Christian sites in Rome.”
“The Italians know about the operation?”
“Not officially, of course,” Helen said. “We assume their president has kept it at arm’s length. Probably wants deniability.”
“Same reason you kept me out of the loop.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Huffington wasn’t angry. It was impossible for a president to be kept up to speed about every military operation. Many things went on without his knowledge or consent. It was why he needed people he could trust making those decisions.
He turned his attention back to Mitchell. “We can’t cancel the G-20. Most of the heads-of
-state are already here, and we’ve let these clowns move us out of our original cities. I’m tired of getting pushed around.”
“We now think that the previous bombings were meant to force a move.”
“What do they hope to achieve by that? The streets are going to be cleared around the meeting area. The Naples police have set up barricades. A dog won’t be able to approach a fire hydrant without security clearance.”
“Yes, sir, I know. We’ve been working closely with local police,” Mitchell said. “We just want you to know that things may move a little more slowly as we take extra precautions.”
Huffington saw his wife’s face blanch, and she placed a hand on his arm.
“Maybe you and the others should postpone the forum.”
“It doesn’t matter when or where we have it, hon.” He spoke softly. “This is a global problem. We have terrorists on our own soil. Mitch will keep me safe. Security details for the other countries will keep their leaders safe. Naples may be the most secure place on the planet.”
Huffington stood and thanked Mitchell and Helen. “I want to be kept apprised of everything. For now, we continue as planned.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Mitchell said.
“Sir, I have several domestic affairs briefings to go over with you this evening.”
“After supper, Brownie. I need some sleep.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mitchell led the way to the door and exited. Just as Helen was about to cross the threshold, Huffington stopped her. “Brownie.”
“Sir?”
“It’s been awhile since I’ve told you how much I respect you and the work you do. You’re the best.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now that I’m aware of the ops, I want to be kept up to speed. Clear?”
“Very clear, Mr. President.”
“IF YOU DON’T MIND me saying so, Capitano, you look like a corpse.”
Aldo Gronchi looked at his aide Lorenzo, who stood in the doorway of Aldo’s office. The sound of early morning traffic pressed into the room from outside the La Stazione di Polizia. “I can see why you are so loved by the women. Who could resist such a tongue of gold?”
Lorenzo looked sad. “I did not mean to offend. I only meant you look very tired. Did you not sleep well last night?”
“Of course I did—for two hours, which is an hour more than I got the night before.”
“Three hours in two nights? That is not good for the health. Try a glass of wine.”
“I’d need the whole bottle.” Aldo set his reading glasses on the desk and rubbed his eyes. He looked up and saw the same weary expression on Lorenzo’s face he saw in his own mirror. “Everyone has an agenda and better idea how to do things. Unfortunately the French security team wants precedence over the British, who feel more entitled than everyone else.”
“And the Americans?”
“Civil, courteous, insistent. Everyone thinks their president or prime minister is more important than the others. It’s impossible to make everyone play nice. Now this.” He tapped a file on the desk. “Suicide bombers.”
“The file is uncertain about their target,” Lorenzo said.
“It doesn’t matter what their target is, people die, sometimes by the dozen. Our job is to make certain none of those people are members of the G-20.”
“Fortunately we already have everything in place.” Lorenzo made a questioning motion toward the chair in front of Aldo’s desk.
Aldo nodded. “Of course. Sit.”
Lorenzo did. “I’ve just returned from inspecting the barricade equipment. Everything is in order. We have experienced men on every street. Every manhole in the area has been welded shut, a task that is easier to do than undo.”
“An old procedure and a wise one. I don’t want to know how much this is costing our government. Euros must be flowing like water.”
“No doubt, sir. I am glad that it is not coming out of my pocket.” Lorenzo straightened. “The teams you sent to the other hotels and office buildings in the area have spoken to everyone who might open a window facing the Grande Hotel di Napoli.”
Aldo picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser end on his desk. “Protestors?”
“Several have applied for permission to assemble, but we know of a half dozen other groups who will show up and make noise.”
“Anyone out of the ordinary?”
“No, sir. The usual antiglobalization groups as well as the people on both sides of the free trade issue.”
“Any change in the estimated numbers?”
“The largest group may reach six thousand. All the rest are smaller. If they congregate in one area, then we may see numbers as high as twelve thousand. The downturn in the global economy has increased frustration.”
“While you were looking at manhole covers, I was meeting with department heads and military leaders. The biggest fear is what one group may do to the other. It will be a miracle if no one gets killed.”
“I like to think Italians are more civilized than that.”
“You remain the optimist, Lorenzo. People are people, and when they get together bad things happen. You have been a police officer long enough to know that.”
“I know it, Capitano. I just find it easier to believe otherwise.”
“I find it beneficial to assume the worst, so let me ask you. How would you attack the G-20 forum?”
Lorenzo shrugged. “We made it impossible for snipers. No one can get close to the building while the meeting is going on. All vehicles will be kept a quarter mile away—except for police, military, and government cars. The hotel’s employees have been screened. Security forces from a dozen nations have reviewed our measures and added their own. I don’t think anyone can make a valid threat. Our efforts are perfect.”
Aldo stared at Lorenzo for a moment but didn’t see the man. Instead, his mind was filled with images of disaster. “I want the perimeter pushed back another two blocks.”
Lorenzo sighed then rose. “I’ll get started.”
CHAPTER 19
THE CELL PHONE IN De Luca’s vest sounded. Moyer watched him retrieve it and place it to his ear. Moyer kept his hands on the steering wheel and snapped his eyes back to the dark road in front of them. Driving a dirt road at night was risky enough, but doing so without lights was insane.
Moyer raised a hand and wiped away a bead of sweat from above his eyebrow. The jog back through the woods to the vehicles they had sequestered was not especially taxing, but it did force a sweat.
The van Moyer drove rocked on the rough road and bounced hard in potholes.
“I think you missed one, Boss,” J. J. said from the backseat. “You going to turn around and try again?”
“How about we tie you to the front of the vehicle and you can warn us when a pothole is coming up?”
“No need, Boss. You’re doing great.”
Moyer glanced in his side mirror and saw the second van following a mere twenty feet behind. If Moyer had to hit the brakes, Shaq would run his vehicle up Moyer’s tailpipe.
De Luca switched off the phone. “Helicopter has something. Probably a vehicle. It’s hidden under a canopy of trees, but the FLIR picked up a heat signature in keeping with a vehicle engine.”
“Where?” Moyer asked.
De Luca punched numbers into a handheld GPS unit. “About five miles ahead and a mile north.”
Moyer thought for a moment. “What about people? Did the FLIR pick up human heat signatures?”
“No,” De Luca said.
“So they changed vehicles,” Pete Rasor said. He sat next to J. J.
“It’s what I’d do,” Moyer said. “I’m not surprised.”
Moyer was about to ask another question when De Luca anticipated him. “The chopper continues to search for any vehicles.”
Moyer was starting to like the man. “They can outrun us, but they can’t outrun the helo.” With eyes still fixed on the dark road, Moyer said, “Colt, bring Shaq up to speed.”
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J. J. acknowledged the order and made the call.
Moyer pressed the accelerator another half inch to the floor.
THE TEAM ROLLED TO a stop about a click from the site where the helo discovered the bus. Although the infrared camera showed no human activity, Moyer wasn’t in the mood to take chances. Dying while on mission was acceptable; dying stupid wasn’t.
He split the team as he had while surveilling the villa and making entry.
“We go in slow and sure,” he said. “Stay focused and don’t shoot unless you’re sure of your target. Clear?” The comments were unnecessary, but they served to focus each man’s attention and give them a second to adjust the flow of adrenaline.
“Move out,” Moyer ordered. He gave Rich a moment to lead J. J., Jose, and Pete to a northerly approach. His would be the longer journey.
“You want me to take point, Boss?” Zinsser asked.
Moyer started to say no, then changed his mind. He had a tendency to be overprotective of any new member of his team. Zinsser was with him instead of Rich, but Zinsser wasn’t a raw recruit.
“Take it, Data. Just don’t fall down any rabbit holes.”
“You know what you get when you pour melted butter down a rabbit hole, Boss?”
“Do I want to hear the rest of this?”
“You get hot cross bunnies.”
Moyer lowered his head. “Please tell me you got better jokes than that.”
“Sorry, Boss. That’s my A material.”
De Luca looked at Moyer. “We’re doomed.”
“Ready to rock, Boss.” He pulled his balaclava over his face.
“Do it.” Moyer donned his black mask.
Zinnser started forward in a slow, careful jog. Moyer followed two meters behind, his eyes straining against the dark.
ZINSSER SOON FEEL INTO a well practiced breathing pattern, forcing himself to inhale deeply and exhale fully. His boots landed in even footfalls. Tempted as he was to fix his eyes on the ground before him, he forced himself to scan everything in front of him. Tripping might be bad; getting a bullet in the head would be worse.
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