They could. Art turned to his second. “There’s no marking on it.”
“We could tell what model from the book,” Eddie said. “Hell, there’s probably a locksmith around here who could tell us quicker than that.”
“In a while. We can move on it now. This means they drove here.”
That was almost a surety, Eddie thought. “I’d bet on it. And if they drove here…”
“Right.”
Minutes later they had twenty agents redirected to several locations within walking distance of the 818.
The young Irishman set the one Samsonite down on his right and knocked four times as he had been instructed. They said four, didn’t they? After pausing thirty seconds he knocked again, three times. There was no answer, which meant he could proceed. He inserted the key and opened the door to the modest second-floor flat. The front room was furnished comfortably, he noticed, but he did not linger to enjoy the decor. An easy kick closed the door behind him. The hall ahead led to the bedroom, or so it should if his instructions were correct.
They were. He laid the one Samsonite at the head of the single bed, and the other at the foot. The key to the flat was left on the one at the head.
He gave the room a look from where he stood. It was nice. Nicer than anything he’d ever lived in. The colors were peach and blue, and the only window was catching the afternoon light. Back to his duty. He opened the second suitcase and removed its contents: a leather shoulder bag and a cloth sack which held the valued contents. As per his instructions he put the sack into the shoulder bag and closed the case. On his way out he noticed that the flat lacked some of the small things that came only with occupancy. Pictures and the like. This piqued his curiosity but did not break his discipline. He resisted the urge to explore, which was natural, having never been far from Belfast before.
With the brown leather bag slung on his right he exited the flat, locking the door before closing it behind. He could feel the other key in his shirt pocket without having to touch it. But he was nervous and ran a hand up just in case. In case what, you fool? You already locked the bloody door! To himself he shook his head. Iain would have to pass this one on to him.
The other flat was a half a kilometer away. He would leave the shoulder bag there and drop the key in the WC. Then, he would be on his way. The underground would be near, as would a bus stop. He would try the underground, he thought. It would be fun. Just a phone call left to place in a few hours. It wasn’t really work, then, was it, lifting up a telephone? It was all the better, though. He understood the need for a routine.
It’s not too bloody bad, this job.
He looked little like a soldier at the moment. He was, in actuality, much more. The shorts were military-issue swim trunks, but the T-shirt, emblazoned with a neon Nishiki logo on both the front and back, was non-regulation. That was excused, even expected, at the Stockade, the former military jail, which at present, and for the past decade and a half, housed the world’s most elite counterter-rorist force: Delta.
“Gotcha!” Captain Sean Graber blurted out. He had been at Demon Ninja for over an hour already and had, as yet, made it through only two of the twelve known levels. There would be more, he knew. New computer games from the Demon series had never disappointed him.
“Slay a nuclear robot or something?” Buxton asked. He was a lieutenant, right below Graber in team seniority, and he dressed equally as comfortably.
“A dark lord,” Graber answered without looking. “You want a try next, Chris?”
“Yeah, right.” Buxton snickered and went back to his book.
The eight men of Charlie Squad, Special Operations Detachment Delta, had been on alert since 1330 the previous day. That was a precaution and basically it required the team to be near their barracks — the unit rec room in this case — and have their gear ready. The latter was accomplished soon after the alert in the indoor firing range. They all checked the sighting and performance of their three standard weapons. Any special needs would be taken care of as required.
“Captain.” It was Major McAffee.
Graber paused the game and came to a relaxed attention, as did Buxton. “Sir.”
“The rest of your squad, Captain — where are they?” McAffee looked all business. He wore the old-style olive drab BDU — Battle Dress Uniform — but not the favored baseball-style cap.
“Back of the building. I think it’s a game of three on three.”
Blackjack, as the major was informally known, eased his stance. It was his job to ensure instantaneous readiness of the team on alert, and it was doubly important to him since he would lead any team that went into action. He was second in command of the ground forces of JSOC — Joint Special Operations Command.
The major noticed the computer was on, the image of a sword-wielding white knight frozen on the twenty-six-inch screen. “A good guy, I presume.”
Graber looked over his shoulder, smiling away from his superior. “A good guy, sir, of course.” The smile now was obvious to the major. “Good guys are always in white.”
McAffee wouldn’t allow a smile, though he wanted to.
“I’m sure you mean clothing, Captain.” The major’s skin was a dark chocolate brown, and there was a rumor among the team that his nickname was race-related, though they couldn’t figure out how or why. “Or are you referring to my tan?”
“Clothing, sir. Naturally.”
“Good.” The major heaved his chest out exaggeratedly and cocked his head to the side, pretending to examine the blond-haired captain. “You’re looking pale, Captain. Kinda pasty I must say.” His head shook, then he turned and walked out. “That boy’s gotta see the doc,” he said just outside the door, then he was gone.
“That’s one for the maj, Sean,” Buxton said, his own face covered with a wide grin. “Pasty! That’s a good one.”
Graber shook it off and laughed at the exchange. Mock verbal battles could be a hell of a good time. It was the real kind that scared you shitless.
“Okay, level three…watch out!”
On the seventh floor of the Central Intelligence Agency’s headquarters, DCI Herb Landau was at work behind his light oak desk, which jutted out from a wall unit of bookcases and framed the director with the scene of the damp Virginia country behind him. Lines of rainwater trickled along the double window, which ran half the length of the wood- paneled wall and was more a transparent continuation of the wall than a true window. It did not open and its layered, tinted surface made the inclement weather seem more ominous than it truly was. It was the first good rain after summer. Landau had his chair swiveled and was watching the storm.
A knock at the door was a courtesy as Deputy Director, Intelligence Greg Drummond strolled in carrying his soft briefcase, one that he used only inside the Agency’s secure building. It made transferring sensitive files easier and less cumbersome than using the pyro-lock leather-over-steel attaché case required when transporting such material outside the confines of Langley. The DDI’s office was three doors down from the DCI’s, but he was a stickler for security procedures, and dutifully put the copy of the requested file in his case.
His boss smiled when he entered, stretching his hand across the nearly barren desk. Those were two of the things that made working for Herb Landau pleasant: He always greeted you with a handshake when first seeing you for the day, and he was impeccably organized. Work on his desk was in neat, square-edged folders, which found their way back to the file cabinet when he was through with them. Personal items were few. A picture of his wife of fifty-two years, Adella, and one of the entire family: six children, seventeen grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. And there was the clock. It was a gift from his longtime friend, the late president, upon his confirmation by the Senate as the Director of Central Intelligence, and it was as indicative of Landau’s thoughts on decor as anything could be. A simple wooden-cased timepiece, no bigger than a normal windup alarm clock, with two hands and a crescent moon which turned bright at night and dark in the daytime.