“You will not make it out,” Noboru said.
Tanner swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “Did you kill Ohira?”
Noboru nodded. “Good shot, yes? I should have killed you, too. It would have been easy.”
“Lucky for me your judgment isn’t worth a damn. What about the crew of Toshogu? That was you, too?”
“Hai.”
Twenty seconds…
“And the woman? Sumiko?”
“Hai. She fought, that one. Perhaps if you hadn’t brought her into this—”
“One more thing: You did all this on Takagi’s orders?”
“It was my honor to—”
“That’s all I needed to know.”
Tanner raised the .45 and took aim. In that last second, Noboru’s eyes went wide as he realized what was happening. He’s surprised, Tanner thought. The stupid son of a bitch is surprised. He thought he was going to have it his way.
Briggs shot him once in the chest. Amazingly, Noboru took the slug and managed to stay upright. Dumbfounded, he looked down at the oozing wound, back up at Tanner, then toppled onto his side.
The timer clicked past thirteen seconds. Tanner turned and ran.
He scrambled up the ladder, through the hatch, and was almost at the sliding door when the first charge exploded. The floor heaved beneath his feet. He stumbled and fell. Behind him, a gout of flame shot from the hatch. When it cleared, the floor of the alley was gone, a gaping hole in its place.
Almost simultaneously, blinding white flames erupted in both the clean rooms. The Plexiglas began bubbling. Tanner watched in amazement as the machinery first glowed red, then white, and then began melting like hot clay.
He stumbled to the door. A wave of heat washed over him. His pack burst into flames. He shrugged it off and kept going. He felt a stab of pain in his calf, turned, saw a chunk of flaming Plexiglas plastered to his pants. Knife… knife! He unsheathed it and began hacking at the material, slicing skin and cloth until the pant leg fell away. He crawled through the door and rolled into the hall. Even here, the heat was intense. The Lexan walls were sloughing away, revealing the stone beneath.
He pushed through the pressure door, turned right at the T-turn, and ran for the main door. Behind him came another explosion. He looked back. The ceiling was gone, and through it came an avalanche of rubble and dust and smoke.
He groped for the door handle, heaved back, and charged into the passage. He ran forward until he collided with the ladder. He mounted it and began climbing hand over hand. At the top, he pulled his upper body onto the floor.
At the far end of the bunker, the ceiling was plunging into the crater below. A car-sized chunk of concrete crashed to the floor beside him. With a shriek of steel, the ladder tore free and dropped into the darkness. His legs swung free, and he started to slide back. He scrambled for a handhold, found one, and pulled himself up.
All around him, jagged cracks were opening on the floor. He tried to stand, but collapsed. The pain in his leg was nearly blinding. He began hopping one-legged toward the nearest gunport, eyes fixed on the sunlight peeking through the vines. It seemed miles away. Keep moving, a voice in the back of his head said. The floor was crumbling now, falling away behind him. Five feet from the gunport, he tripped and fell. Pain burst behind his eyes. He began dragging himself forward. Not gonna make it, he thought numbly. Not gonna—
And then a hand thrust through the vines and reached for him.
He grabbed it.
39
Latham and Randal were reviewing the previous night’s stakeout reports from Greenbelt, Glen Echo, and the Marriott Key Bridge. “Looks like Vorsalov went to bed early,” said Randal. “The Arabs stayed up late playing cards and watching I Love Lucyreruns. How about Fayyad?”
“Straight home from the Marriott. No visitors, no outgoing calls. How about his mystery woman?”
“No luck. We only got half the license tags. We’re running them now.”
“Hmmpf… What’s this?” Latham said, turning a page. “The call into Fayyad’s place? Late last night, lasted fifty seconds. Here, listen to this… ‘Caller: You met with our friend? Fayyad: Yes. You approve of his plans? Caller: I do. You will assist him, I assume? Fayyad: If it is what you want.’” Latham looked up at Randal. “What do you make of that?”
“Don’t know.”
Latham turned to the report’s conclusion. “ ‘Voice analysis of caller indicates a Middle Eastern man, approximately fifty to sixty years of age, well-educated. Caller in position of authority. VA suggests significant stress. No significant background noise. Call traced to public telephone exchange in Nicosia, Cyprus.’”
“So what then?” asked Randal. “Vorsalov has taken over from Fayyad?”
“And Fayyad doesn’t like it. Something’s changed, Paul.”
“Like what?”
“Think about it: What’s Vorsalov do best? He runs agents.”
“Right. And Fayyad is a terrorist. So, what are they doing together?”
“They hired Vorsalov and Fayyad at the same time. Maybe Yuri started off as a consultant, and now he’s here, running the show. They wouldn’t bring him in for a simple terrorist op.”
“Not likely.”
“So maybe he’s here as a controller. If so, that means sooner or later he’ll have to start having some face-to-face meetings.”
Latham’s prediction turned out to be prophetic. That night he was sitting down to dinner with Bonnie when the phone rang. It was Randal. “You may have called it, Charlie. He’s moving.”
“Which one?”
“Clyde.” For brevity’s sake, they’d given Fayyad, the Arabs, and Vorsalov code names. Vorsalov was “Clyde.”
“Are we set up?
“For now. If he starts dry-cleaning, we might need more bodies.”
“I’m on my way.” Latham hung up, took a gulp of milk, and smiled at Bonnie. “Sorry, gotta go.”
“So I gather. More bad guys?”
“More bad guys.”
For the next hour, as Latham waited at headquarters and listened to the radio traffic, Vorsalov led them on yet another tour of Washington and its environs.
At 9:30 he left the Georgetown Pike, pulled into Great Falls Park, and parked beneath a giant oak. The park, though usually closed, was open for a Boy Scout night hike. The lot was full, 80 to a 100 cars.
“Smart boy,” Randal said. “Hiding in plain sight.”
“You said the park’s usually closed,” Latham said. “How do you know?”
“Charlie, I have a teenage girl. When I found out this place is a prime makeout spot, I did my research.”
“Ah, the joys of fatherhood. You’re on scene, Paul. What do you think?”
“If we mingle in, we might just get it covered.”
“Do it. I’m on my way.”
An hour later Latham was sitting with Randal on a fire road at the park’s edge. The surveillance teams reported Vorsalov was still in his car. “How’s our coverage?” asked Latham.
“Could be better. We can see cars coming in but not where they park.”
“Can we put anybody on the pike?”
“Too open.”
Another twenty minutes passed. Twenty-four cars entered the lot; sixteen left.
One of the surveillance teams called in: “Another car pulling in.”
Then a moment later: “Command, Clyde has just flashed his headlights.”