Fifteen minutes since the Bureau man had first appeared outside the cabin. They’d let him cool his heels for long enough.
With a nod to Han, Harry cranked the front window open. His hand grazed the packet of C-4 below the window sill. Disconnected, but it could still be detonated at a moment’s notice.
Time to open up a dialogue. “How’s it going, Russ?”
It was him. The older man drew his jacket tighter around his body, turning to face the voice. “I’ve had better nights, Harry, but let’s not talk about me. I’m here to listen to you, to find out what you need. I just want everyone to walk out of here — keep everybody safe.”
“I know, Russ,” the voice replied. “You’re a good man. You don’t want a tactical assault any more than I want to draw down on agents I’ve worked with for so many years.”
Calm. Nichols’ voice was almost dangerously calm. That was another thing he remembered about the CIA man.
“We can resolve this, Harry. Those security officers at Langley — that was reactive, a split-second decision — and you didn’t kill them. I know you feel alone, I know nerves can fray under pressure, but we can bring closure to this without anyone getting hurt.”
There was a laugh from the direction of the cabin. “Correction, Russ. I’m not workin’ this one alone. I’ve got a partner. So you can tell Leah to get her cross-hairs out of my face.”
“Blast it!” Altmann exclaimed, listening to the exchange through her headphones. “How did he know?”
Vic shook his head. “It’s not that hard. He knows our protocols. He knows our people. Leah’s been the HRT’s top sniper for the better part of a decade.”
The woman sighed, looking over at Klaus Jicha. “Get Sgt. Petersen on comm. Tell her to stand by — but do not, repeat, do not take the shot.”
It had taken them five weeks to make the basement of the mosque airtight. Another two to acquire the equipment needed and move it into place.
Jamal al-Khalidi smiled, slipping the gas mask over his head. This wasn’t like nukes. Most of the equipment he’d needed he had secured over the Internet. In times like these, eBay was your friend.
A pair of the shaikh’s Pakistanis entered the room through the hermetically sealed door, bearing a large container between them.
“Just set it down over there on the table,” Jamal instructed in English, switching to Arabic when they failed to comprehend. Didn’t everyone understand English these days?
Snapping gloves onto his hands, the University of Michigan chemistry student walked over, typing in the sequence of numbers of the container’s keypad. There was a buzz and the locks disengaged, allowing him to push open the lid.
He had known what to expect, but his breath still caught at the sight. Four large conical artillery shells lay within, inscribed in flowing Arabic script. He reached in, hefting one of the unwieldy munitions in both of his hands. Weighing in at eighty-four kilograms, the 180-mm shell had been designed to be fired out of the Soviet S-23 howitzer, exported to Quaddafi’s Libya.
And now, with the fall of the tyrant and the rise of the Ikhwan, he held it in his hands. Such power.
His fingers traced the script almost reverently, knowing that what filled the shell was not the ordinary mix of high explosive and shrapnel. Rather, what his chemistry professor would have referred to as pinacolyl methylphosphonoflouridate. Soman.
Nerve gas.
“We have three signatures — here, here — and here,” Klaus Jicha announced, tracing his finger across the thermal image. “It’s reasonable to assume that our two subjects are here, probably conferring. The signature here, in the corner, is likely Miss Chambers.”
“And if you’re wrong, Klaus?” Russ asked, staring at the HRT leader. He didn’t like the way this conversation was heading.
“No one is pretending this is an exact science,” the big man replied, shooting him a look of annoyance. “We can position entry teams at the side and rear — use shaped charges along the wall. As long as we know where our subjects are, it should go down clean.”
“I’d prefer to avoid that as long as possible,” the negotiator interjected, standing there in the middle of the trailer with his hands on his hips. It was an unusually aggressive posture for him. “You and I both know that the tactical solution is always the least desirable. You send in the guys with guns, it introduces too many variables. Just give me a few more hours.”
Klaus shook his head. “Three more hours — the sat goes out of range and we lose our best intel on placement of the subjects. You want to talk about variables? That will be a crap shoot.”
An oath exploded from the lips of Marika Altmann and both men turned to see her staring at the bank of screens covering one end of the trailer. “What’s going on?”
“We’re losing our satellite coverage,” Marika responded. “Looks like a software glitch — the whole feed’s going down.”
“Deliberate?”
The older woman shook her head. “No way to tell — but in a couple minutes we’re gonna be blind.”
Korsakov found himself holding his breath as Viktor continued to type commands into the Toshiba. The kid upturned his can of Coca-cola, wiping the brown liquid away from his lips. Like most of his generation, he seemed to do his best work while in that caffeine-induced high.
At length, he looked up, a broad smile creeping across his face. “It’s done. They are — how they say, blind as bats? As long as the worm remains active and I maintain control of the feed, I can guide you right in.”
The assassin slapped him on the back. “Well done, Viktor. Spasiba.” Thank you.
With a shove, Korsakov forced open the back doors of the Suburban, leaping out onto the snowy mountain road. Despite the cold, he could feel adrenaline flowing like fire through his veins. It was time to make their move.
Things had gotten quiet after the hostage negotiator had disappeared back into the darkness. The wind howling around the western end of the cabin was the only thing they could hear.
“What are they doing?” Carol asked at length.
Harry looked back at her, to where she sat on the floor. “Staging for an early morning assault, most likely. Sometime between zero one and zero three hundred — that’s when the human body goes through its deepest REM cycles. It’s the way I’d do it.”
Han cleared his throat. “You going through with this, Harry?”
It was a good question. That didn’t change the answer one bit. “Of course. There aren’t many other options, are there?”
The SEAL shook his head. “You’re talkin’ about killing federal agents, Harry. For the love of God, these are our people.”
The worst of it was, he was right. “If you want to go out and give yourself up, I won’t hold it against you,” Harry replied, watching his friend’s eyes closely. “You’ve not broken any laws — feel free to say that I took you hostage as well.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Han retorted, anger creeping into his voice. Dangerous ground there. “I’m talking about you — running E&E from the feds is one thing. Trading shots with the HRT is a whole new ballgame. We need to get the two of you out of here.”