He had just finished eating when he heard vehicles pull into the parking lot. Looking out the window, he saw a dark van park. The driver got out and bent down as though he were tying his shoe. He then walked over and got into a dark sedan that promptly drove away. As anxious as he was to see the contents, he had decided to wait until it was late in the evening. He did not want anyone to notice that he was no longer an elderly gentleman.
He turned on the television in time to catch the local evening news. All of Baltimore was abuzz with the impending arrival of the president of the United States to honor the governor of Maryland. With any luck…
The flight up to Nome, Alaska, was routine. Starr spent the trip in the copilot seat beside Christman and continued to learn more about flying the jet. Phillips was on her computers and spoke little. It was obvious she still felt responsible for the group being discovered. Styles spent the trip exercising. Christman had made arrangements for a private hangar, and Phillips had secured rooms at a Ramada Inn just opposite the airport. Once again, she booked four rooms to continue a random choice. When the plane was stowed in the hangar, three Ford Explorers were dropped off, the keys left in the ignition.
"Those for us?" inquired Christman.
"Yes," replied Phillips.
"Why three?"
"I want to stop doing patterns. Just trying to be cautious," she responded.
"Good idea, Phillips," agreed Styles.
By the time the four had checked into their rooms, it was past time for dinner. Phillips had said she preferred to have room service, as she had work to do. The three men decided to go to the in-house restaurant. They had requested a large table. After having their orders taken, with all deciding on cold beer, Christman brought up Phillips.
"I think she's blaming herself for us getting made."
"Wasn't her fault," said Styles again.
"We know that, but she's having a hard time buying off on it," injected Starr.
"Yeah, that's her. Best thing we can do is just leave her alone. She's not real big on cheering up," offered Styles.
"One thing for sure, I'm not sure what she's working on right now, but I'll bet she's kicking its ass, whatever it is," stated Christman emphatically.
"No doubt," agreed Starr. "So what's the schedule for tomorrow?"
"I want to check out that helicopter service in person. If she hasn't already done so, which would surprise the hell out of me, we'll have Phillips do a search on them," said Styles. "Might not be a bad idea to try to keep her busy with her computers. That's the one thing that might get her back on her game."
Both Starr and Christman nodded in agreement.
After the three had enjoyed their steak dinners, they retired to their rooms. Though it was a little after ten in the evening, Styles called Phillips. "Hey, mind if I pay you a quick visit?"
"No, I'm just doing my thing. I'm in 416."
"I remember. Be right there."
Arriving two minutes later, he knocked softly on the door. It opened, and she invited him in.
"What's this about?" she asked.
"No big deal. I just want to make something clear. Darlene, you are unbelievable at what you do. This team would not have accomplished what it has without you. Not even close. We all have our roles, we all do them well, but not one of us can do everything. I know you are kicking yourself about being made. It wasn't anything other than a bad coincidence. It happens. Don't get me wrong; this isn't some damned pep talk. I know better than that. I just want to be sure you stay focused. I've said before, you don't have one fucking thing to prove to anybody. Catch the drift?"
Phillips was quiet for a few moments before she spoke, choosing her words carefully. "Normally, Styles, I'd probably get pissed at you for saying that, but I know it's not any kind of a 'feel better' speech or whatever. It's about looking out for the team, not about me. I get it. I also respect you for coming out and saying so. No problem on my end. I've found out some good info that we'll go over in the morning. I'm putting it all together now. I'm good, so how about letting me get back to work?"
"You got it. Good night." He stopped as he was leaving because Phillips spoke up.
"Thank you. Your confidence in me means more than you can imagine. I know that is something that, especially with you, has to be earned. I'm not afraid to tell you that does make me feel good and, most importantly, that I've earned my right to be here."
Styles walked up to her, placed his hand on her shoulder, and said firmly, "That you have done." With a simple nod, he turned and walked out. Heading back to his own room, he walked slower than usual, his mind going off in several directions at once. Back in his room, Styles was a little miffed he'd eaten so late. He did not like working out after just eating, so he did the next best thing. He cleaned his .40-caliber Beretta.
Sirhan al-Razar was so excited he could not sleep. The previous evening, when it was very late and activity had virtually ceased around the Quality Suites motel, he had sneaked out to the van, retrieved the key, and entered. He was pleased that the interior lights had been shut off. A crate was in the back. It was marked "Fragile — Handle with Extreme Care — Antique Glass." There was a DeWalt cordless driver in its black plastic carrying case behind the driver's seat. He grabbed the screw gun, which already had a star bit in place, and proceeded to unscrew the top and remove it. He was working by the light of his cell phone along with the lighting of the parking area. Inside were three smaller crates that had padlocks installed. He removed a key ring from his pocket and proceeded to unlock the top crate. He carefully removed the lid. He stared at what was inside, a Russian SA-18 third-generation infrared shoulder-fire missile. This was a highly sought system. Its passive guidance system emitted no signals, which made countermeasures difficult. It also had the ability to recognize and reject flares. It was great for bringing down airplanes up to ten thousand feet. It was perfect for bringing down a helicopter. He had memorized the firing sequence for this unit. He stared at it for over thirty seconds before replacing the padlock and screwing the crate top back into place. Then he very carefully scanned the entire area before slipping out of the van and coming face-to-face with a young man who was obviously quite drunk.
"Hey, man. You got a few bucks you could loan me?" he asked.
Sirhan al-Razar was instantly guarded. He knew what he had to do. "Yes, I could give you twenty dollars if that would help."
A smile came across the young man's face. "That would be great."
"It is in my front pocket. Let me get it for you." He reached out with a bill that was concealing a switchblade knife. As he was handing the twenty over, he thumbed the button upward, releasing the blade. As the drunk reached to take the bill, al-Razar dropped the bill and sank the blade up to the hilt just below the breastbone, upward into the man's heart. The man slumped to the ground, twitching twice, and died. Al-Razar looked around, checked all the windows of the motel, and was satisfied no one had seen him. He quickly dragged the body to the end of the motel to a large commercial Dumpster. Opening the half lid as quietly as possible, it appeared the Dumpster was about three-quarters full. He hoisted the body up and into it. He then reached around and covered the body with large black plastic garbage bags. He then lowered the lid back into place and retreated back to his room. He sat in a chair, staring at a noiseless television. He was literally quivering with nervous excitement.