One had to love modern technology…when it worked. And right now, the GPS locator on the tractor-trailer Nasir abu Rashid had been driving wasn’t.
Marika swore angrily, giving the computer screen in front of her a murderous look. Too much caffeine had her on edge. It had taken all day to convince the company to turn over their GPS records to the Bureau, only to have the signal trail die in central Colorado.
The alert had already gone out to the Denver field office and they were mobilizing half of the FBI team in Dearborn to fly into the region.
She took another look at the screen. The Rockies — the most forboding mountain range in the continental United States. And somewhere in those mountains, the trail of a terrorist sleeper cell had run cold.
Russell came bustling into the room at that moment, a small bag over his shoulder. “We’re going,” he announced without ceremony. “The S-A-C has given his approval.”
That was, in itself, a surprise. Maybe her career wasn’t over…just yet. “How soon do we leave?”
“Ten minutes. They’ve got a 737 on the runway at Detroit Metropolitan.”
It was dark when Kranemeyer left the Alibi Club, night enfolding the city like a heavy garment. Rain was falling, mingled with sleet — slippery beneath his dress shoes. On the way back to his Suburban, he passed a panhandler on the street, the sign in his hands reading “Homeless Vet.”
Was he? It was hard to say — for every veteran the government had left abandoned on the streets, there were two more using the claim of service as a meal ticket. More deceit, in a city full of it.
There’s no going back, Barney. Not once you’ve started down this road.
Kranemeyer pushed the senator’s words away as he levered himself up into the SUV, forcing himself to focus on the task ahead.
One thing and only one thing mattered. It wasn’t justice, there was none to be had in this world. Right and wrong…those were issues to be decided at a later date.
They did this to my men in Cambodia, Coftey had said, gazing into the open flames of the fireplace. Sent us out into the night and abandoned us. Never again.
The DCS sat there for a long moment, in the darkness of the vehicle, sleet tapping against the windshield like a ghostly finger.
It was a personal failure. He was the spymaster, and he had never even suspected Shapiro, much as he might have disliked him. God only knew how many lives had been lost because of it.
Reaching inside his unbuttoned jacket, he retrieved the H&K USP from its holster, his movements slow and methodical as he screwed a suppressor into the muzzle. Practiced.
He caught a glimpse of his own face in the overhead mirror, hellishly illuminated in the red taillights of a passing car. An implacable Ares.
Do whatever you need to do, Barney — know that I have your back, all the way. Just don’t let him walk.
The slide of the semiautomatic slid forward with a metallic click, chambering a cartridge.
Kranemeyer laid the weapon on the passenger seat beside him and shifted the Suburban into drive.
No one was walking away from this…
“Nyet. Nothing.” Korsakov shook his head in disgust, speaking into the phone. The store surveillance feeds had been effectively useless. “Two people made the snatch.”
He paused, listening to Andropov on the other end of the line. “They knew what they were doing — beyond that I cannot say. The license plate of the van wasn’t visible from the angle of the camera. Da, I do have some idea of how many gray panel vans there are in LA…we passed eight of them on the way here.”
It was maddening, the assassin thought, placing a hand against the hood of the SUV as he leaned forward. Finding Andropov’s son was not part of his contract. Capturing Chambers was…which was why he had already dispatched Yuri and the rest of his team back to San Francisco to stage for the assault.
“Da, I think it’s a very good possibility that they could be involved.” Whether they were or not wasn’t Korsakov’s affair. It would put him one step closer to completing his primary mission. He listened for another long moment, his frustration building.
Viktor appeared at his side, laptop in hand, gesturing for his attention. “What is it?”
His eyes focused in on the documents displayed on-screen, and in that moment, everything changed. A maze of deeds and lease agreements, seeming dead ends leading back to one indisputable conclusion.
“Yes, yes, I’m still here,” Korsakov stammered, in response to Andropov’s query. “I have received new intelligence…the house in the Tenderloin — it belongs to the Russian consulate. It is an FSB safehouse.”
Taking on the Americans was one thing. He had been on their radar for years — some of the best contracts available required that he work at “cross purposes” to them. But this…
His employer was still talking. And making less sense. His years of wealth and power seemed to have inured him to reality.
“That’s all very well for you to say,” Korsakov retorted, punctuating his words with an oath, “but I don’t have the luxury of retiring to Tahiti in the arms of a brainless and buxom American. When all of this is over, I still need to work in Eastern Europe and I can’t do that if the FSB is hunting me down. No, it is my concern.”
Korsakov motioned to the boy to get back in the car, lowering his voice as he interrupted Andropov one final time. “Listen to me, Valentin. You have six hours. Find a way to remove the FSB protection from Chambers and the CIA officer — or find a new contractor.”
Nerves. Omar reached out to grasp the metal of the railing as he moved onto the last flight of stairs, only too aware that his fingers were slick with sweat. Even as the moment approached, Satan seemed determined to test his faith.
He glanced up the stairs into the eyes of the shaikh, trying to push past the doubts. To this war a strong man may offer his courage…
That the shaikh was strong was not in question — but still. The black man shook his head, attempting to banish from his mind the image of their leader there in the club, alcohol in his hand and a prostitute at his feet.
Haram. Forbidden since the days of the Prophet. Were they all to be damned in the end?
A low rumble passed overhead, the railing vibrating under Omar’s hand as the building shook around him. Putting his doubts aside, he charged up the final few steps, reaching the side of the shaikh just as he pushed open the roof access door.
Cold air struck Omar in the face as he stepped out onto the flat roof, gravel crunching beneath his feet. The roar of jet engines buffeted his ears and he looked up to see the receding landing lights of a huge jumbo jet — that unmistakable symbol of American power — heading in for final approach to McCarran. It was close enough to see the landing gear extending from its massive belly.
He looked over to see the shaikh smiling there in the darkness. “Abu Kareem told me of your…reservations regarding our operation,” the Pakistani said softly, reaching out to place a hand on Omar’s shoulder. “I respect a man who knows his limitations — and understands how best he can serve the will of Allah.”
He hoped that his doubt did not show in his eyes. Following the teachings of the Prophet was a limitation?
The shaikh turned abruptly, his eyes darting fire as he strode to the edge of the roof, looking out over the City of Sin. “You will have only one shot — and you must not miss. Can you do this?”