"So what do you make of it?" he asked, gesturing at the TOP SECRET folder in front of him. It seemed a ridiculous way to label something that was really secret. "A hijack?"
"Unlikely. There are at least seventy being trained in that camp."
"Maybe a series of hijacks?"
"Perhaps, but it doesn't seem likely. They're being trained as an integrated team. It's more like a commando raid."
"An embassy?" He hoped not. Well over a hundred million dollars had recently been spent on improving security at U.S. diplomatic missions abroad, but he knew full well that this had been designed with security as a top priority, and modifications were difficult to implement while at the same time staff carried out traditional diplomatic and consular duties. There was also the problem of modern firepower: bulletproof glass in windows and reception areas and armor plate on vehicles were not enough when a pocketful of explosives, properly placed, could bring down the front of a building or transform an armored vehicle and its occupants into bloody scrap.
It's still a large group for an embassy," she said. "The normal practice is to infiltrate small picked teams. It's just not that easy to deploy seventy armed terrorists. In fact, that's one of the most puzzling aspects of this thing: how are so many people going to be put in place without being spotted at the airport checks and borders? It is not as if these seventy are all new faces; on the contrary, it's a select team. We have records on many of them."
"If I weren't a diplomat," said Noble, "I'd suggest we take them out at source — a preemptive surgical strike, Israeli style."
"Bomb Libya?" said the assistant. "No way. The President would never agree."
"Not to mention the political fallout that would result. Our European allies do so much business with Libya and the rest of the Arab world that they regard a certain toleration of terrorism as an acceptable price. And they have a point: terrorism gets publicity, but it doesn't actually kill many people or cost an impossible amount. Seen on a wider scale, it is tolerable."
"Unless you're a victim," said the assistant.
Noble glanced at the report again. "I see our source thinks this thing will probably go down in May." He smiled. "Every cloud has a silver lining. If the source is right, I won't be here. The hot seat will be all yours. I'm going away from all this hassle to visit my son at school and do a little quiet fishing." He played an imaginary fishing rod back and forth and mentally landed his fly precisely on target. He could almost feel the wind on his face and hear the faint splash of an oar and the squeak of an oarlock as the gillie adjusted the drift of the boat.
"Where are you going?"
"Ireland," he said, "the west of Ireland."
"Aren't you worried about security there?"
"Not for a moment. There is major terrorist activity in Ireland all right, but it's mostly confined to the North and strictly the Irish versus the Brits, or variations thereof. Even in the North foreigners are left alone, and the rest of Ireland is peaceful. If I may draw a parallel, being worried about the crime rate in New York is no reason not to visit this country; you just steer clear of New York."
What a pity he's going away so soon, thought the assistant; he's almost hooked. The softly-softly technique was working, but a month apart could overstrain it. Well, she still had three weeks or so to land her catch. She crossed her legs slowly and with a perceptible rustle. His eyes flicked up to hers.
Good. Now she had his full attention.
* * * * *
Absentmindedly Ivo circled his right wrist with the fingers of his left hand and felt for the silver bracelet Klaus had given him. He twisted the bracelet backward and forward against his wrist until the skin was red. He didn’t notice the pain. He was thinking about the man he had seen with Klaus, the man who had disappeared with Klaus, the man who had probably killed him.
Over the last few days he had talked to everyone he could think of who had known Klaus in the hopes of identifying the man with the golden hair, but without success. Now he sat in the Hauptbahnhof waiting for the Monkey to return from Zurich. The Monkey had worked much the same market as Klaus, and from time to time they had sold their services together when that was what the customer wanted. The Monkey had one great talent apart from those he displayed in bed: he had a photographic memory for numbers — any sort of number. Klaus used to say he could keep a telephone book in his head. His record of the license plates of all his past clients could be a gold mine when they got older and fading looks forced them to diversify into a bit of blackmail. Ivo couldn't imagine being older.
The only trouble with dealing with the Monkey was that he wasn’t just stupid; he was stupid, stubborn, and a congenital liar. If he wasn’t treated just right, he might clam up even if he did know something. And if he didn't, he might pretend to, and that could be just as bad. The Monkey could well need some persuading to tell the truth, thought Ivo. He didn't like violence and wasn't very good at it, but finding Klaus's killer was a special case. He stopped rubbing the silver bracelet and put his hand in his pocket. He touched the half meter of sharpened motorcycle chain nestled there snugly in a folded chamois. He would threaten to scar the Monkey for life. The Monkey would listen to that; his looks were his stock in trade.
Passersby gave the grubby figure sitting cross-legged on the floor a wide berth; his clothes were ragged, he looked dirty, and he smelled. Ivo didn't mind. He didn't even notice. He thought of himself as a knight-errant, a knight in shining armor on a quest for justice. He would succeed and return to Camelot.
Sir Ivo. It sounded good.
* * * * *
She kept her eyes closed at first; her head throbbed and she felt nauseated. She was conscious of something wet and cool on her forehead and cheeks. It gave some slight relief, thought the effect was transitory. Confused and disoriented as she was, it struck her that her position was uncomfortable. She thought she was in bed, or should be in bed, but when she tried to move, she could not, and it didn't feel like bed.
A wave of fear ran over her. She tried to make herself believe it was a dream, but she knew it was not. As calmly as she could she made herself come fully to her senses. She began to accept what initially her mind had rejected as impossible: she was bound, hand, foot, and body, to an upright chair — and she was naked.
The damp cloth was removed from her face. She had expected to feel it against her throat and neck, but its cool caress was withheld. Instead, she felt something cold and hard around her neck. There was a slight noise, and it became tighter. She could still breathe, but there was some constriction; it felt rigid, like a collar of metal.
Panic gripped her. For a moment she choked, but as she fought to bring herself under control, she found she could breathe, albeit with difficulty. She tried to speak, but no words came out. Her mouth was sealed with layers of surgical tape. She recognized its faint medicinal smell. It was an odor she associated with care, with the dressing of wounds and the relief of pain; for a moment she felt reassured as she tried to believe what she did not believe: that she was safe. The seconds of sanctuary passed, and suddenly her whole being was suffused with terror. Her body shook and spasmed in panic but to no avail. Her bonds were secure, immovable in the face of her every effort. Resistance was pointless. Slowly, reluctantly, she opened her eyes.