But why would someone from Croatia with a difficult-to-track pedigree do that?
It took a little bit of experimenting, but Massina eventually realized that the numbers, when strung together, yielded web addresses. These pages were filled with seemingly meaningless gibberish — encryptions, he was sure. But to decipher them required more firepower than he had in a laptop.
He decided, in the end, to tell the CIA what he had. That meant talking to Demi Ascoldi, who was filling in for Johansen.
He asked if she could meet him in the Box; she countered with a restaurant.
A sure sign that she wasn’t taking him seriously. But he acquiesced. She was on time, at least.
“You’ll find this useful,” he told her, pushing a flash drive across the table as she sat down. “It lists contacts of your subject and some of the people who work with him. They use state-level encryption stolen from Turkey. We’ve left it intact.”
Ascoldi frowned. “Is this why you called?”
“I get conflicting signals from your agency,” said Massina. He hadn’t expected her to do jumping jacks in gratitude, but neither had he expected an antagonistic response. “You want my help, you use my people, but when I do help—”
“Some things are better left to the professionals, Mr. Massina.” She rose. “Thank you for lunch.”
He didn’t bother pointing out that they hadn’t eaten.
Bozzone met Massina outside on the sidewalk.
“Go well?” asked Bozzone.
“Better than I expected,” replied Massina sarcastically.
61
Johnny and Turk ran toward the hotel entrance, hoping that the guards would be inside. But they remained at their posts, crouched under the awning.
“Can we take shelter?” asked Turk.
The answer was a burst from one of the guard’s weapons — fortunately, into the air.
Turk and Johnny retreated back down the block.
“Let’s go in through the park,” yelled Turk.
The bombs and missiles were aimed at the southern end of town a mile away, close enough to break windows and unsettle the ground. Johnny barely kept his balance as he ran behind Turk.
Someone with a machine gun began firing from a nearby roof.
“That’s a waste of bullets,” said Turk, stopping at the gate to the park.
The gate was chained, but there was plenty of slack. Johnny slipped through easily; Turk had to squeeze.
“Gotta lay off the beer.”
They walked a few yards along the perimeter wall, stopping when they saw the low wall at the rear of the patio.
“Christian, any guards back here?” asked Turk.
“Not in view.”
“Where’s Chelsea?” asked Johnny.
There was no answer.
“Christian, you there?” asked Turk. He waited a moment, then asked again.
When there was still no answer, Turk switched frequencies to call the command bunker directly. There was no acknowledgment.
“Probably our relay unit got hit,” suggested Johnny.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s get Chelsea out,” said Johnny.
He started toward the rear of the hotel.
“Whoa, go slow,” said Turk.
“We gotta get her out.”
“She’s not in trouble right now. We don’t want to blow it.”
“Who says she’s not in trouble?”
“Relax. Let’s take this one step at a time.”
“I’m not a relaxing kind of person,” said Johnny. But he knelt back down, waiting to see what plan Turk came up with.
62
Krista pounded the console.
“That’s not going to get the coms back,” said Johansen.
“Why do the Russians always screw everything up?”
“That’s what they do,” said Johansen. “Keep the drones out of the way if they come back.”
“Yup.”
Outside, Kevin Banks had almost finished prepping the UAV that would take the place of the ground dish knocked out by the Russian bombing. Using the UAV had two major disadvantages: it had a smaller bandwidth, which meant less information in real time, and it was easy to detect, as it had to fly over the city.
Johansen stared at the control handset.
“Problem?” asked Banks.
“Forgot the password,” Johansen confessed.
Banks took a step, but Johansen’s fingers took over, remembering the sequence by rote. The plane beeped with an acknowledgment. From there it was easy — a voice command told it to preflight according to its standard checklist; another got it in the air.
They watched the aircraft flutter away, unsteady in the wind.
“The way things are going, I thought it would crash,” said Banks as it finally straightened out.
“Bite your tongue,” Johansen told him.
63
The muscles in Chelsea’s neck tightened as she walked up the stairs behind Shadaa.
Now I’m scared. I can admit it.
Worse than Ukraine.
I should have been more scared in Ukraine. That’s the advantage of being naive.
She gave herself a silent pep talk, not with words but with feints of emotion, a push to be brave without spelling it out:
Johnny and Turk… out there… ready…
The knife beneath my pocket if I need it…
If he is here…
Hope he is here…
She wanted Ghadab to be there. She wanted to be the one to shoot him.
Which she could do, would do, even though they hadn’t even discussed the possibility.
Take the chance!
Shadaa slowed her pace at the landing, then turned to walk down the hall.
Almost there.
Walk. Push everything out of your mind.
Shadaa stopped in front of a door.
His room?
Chelsea involuntarily blinked as Shadaa opened the door.
I should have my gun in my hand.
“My master is very important,” said Shadaa, using English as she stepped into the room.
Empty.
Not here!
Damn!
Chelsea fought against the disappointment.
Time to leave.
“I go,” she said.
“I don’t think so.” Shadaa turned around to face her, a pistol in her hand.
The Russian bombardment had ended; a thick cloud of black smoke rose from the southern side of the city. There were sirens in the distance; here, everything was quiet.
“We go in and have a peek,” said Turk. “Someone comes, we say we’re looking for volunteers to fight the fires.”
It was thin cover, but Johnny didn’t argue.
Before they could start for the wall, a man appeared on the rear patio from the building. He had an MP5. Another came out behind him.
“Wait?” asked Turk.
“No. We need to get her out.”
Turk rose. “Guy on the right’s mine.”