He managed to clear his mind and found that the two cops inside the hotel were busy interviewing an elderly couple, asking them about a vehicle. Relieved that he had a few minutes, Reisch returned to the task at hand. He looked down at Yaeger, sprawled out in the snow between the BMW and the pickup next to it. He was concealed but not very well, and he would be completely visible after Reisch had taken the BMW. He bent down to the cop and slowly rolled him beneath the wheels of the Ford. It took longer than it should have, and a sense of urgency began to grow in him. Finished, he kicked snow over the unconscious cop and returned to the BMW. It was a long shot, but he tried the doors anyway. Fate was still on his side, and he smiled after finding the rear passenger door unlocked. He pushed aside the car seat and reached up to unlock the driver’s door. Yaeger had rolled further beneath the pickup, and Reisch could feel his mind begin to stir.
The German quickly walked around the car and got in again. Time was running out. He found the ignition wires and started the car as expertly as an inner-city car thief. The radio sprung to life, and it took him a moment to turn it off. He felt the other cops on the move and Yaeger regaining consciousness. The car slipped into gear as the young cop began to struggle beneath the Ford, throwing off his cover of snow and rapping his knuckles against the truck’s exhaust pipes. Reisch backed away, but the car was cold and stalled. He started it again, but only after a few more precious seconds had elapsed. He gunned the engine, and the motor began to purr smoothly.
Yaeger struggled to his feet, grabbing at the sedan doors. His eyes were wide with confusion, surprise, and fear as he struggled to free his weapon. Reisch struggled in turn with his lame right arm; he had slid the gear selector past reverse and into neutral and was having trouble pushing it back into the correct gear.
Yaeger raised his weapon and started yelling for Reisch to get out. His hands were shaking visibly.
Reisch found reverse and flew past the officer. Yaeger fired into the passenger-side window, shards of safety glass showering over him and Reisch. Twice more he fired at the fleeing German. The last bullet ricocheted across Reisch’s upper right arm. He barely registered the pain as he quickly shifted into drive. Yaeger tried to block the way, his weapon pointed through the windshield directly at Reisch’s head in a perfect police academy tripod stance. Reisch barely registered driving over the young man as he spun his way out of the parking lot.
Chapter 17
They sure know how to travel, thought Nathan Martin. He was the only passenger aboard the Gulfstream G550; the two marines who sat together in the back of the jet didn’t count. He quietly played with all the buttons in the console next to him. He knew he should still be angry. They had threatened him and then interfered with the workings of his department. It was this violation that still made him fume, but damn, this was exciting. Never once, in all his years of travel, had he ever flown first class, and now he was flying to a secret meeting in a multimillion-dollar jet.
“Hey, Colonel, how much do you suppose this plane cost us taxpayers?” Martin loved to play the liberal card. It was part of his image, but image was all it was now. Nearly four decades of work in the real world had erased any semblance of idealism. Human society would never fully mature so long as humans were involved. There were long spells in his life when he had more respect for the special pathogens he tried to eradicate than for the people he tried to cure.
“I really wouldn’t know, Doctor, but it is my understanding that your taxes are specifically earmarked for the purchasing of army latrines. So, on behalf of a grateful nation, I thank you,” Colonel Scott Simpson said with a deadpan expression.
Martin laughed out loud. “Never let it be said that I didn’t give my all for my country.” Simpson was beginning to grow on him. He wasn’t the stereotypical army automaton. He actually had a personality, and there was an outside chance that he could even think on his own.
Martin watched the clouds go by. Occasionally they opened enough for him to see the earth far below them, revealing all the tiny ant-people in their tiny ant-cars living in their tiny ant-cities. “So can you tell me now where we’re going?”
Simpson responded by getting up and retrieving his briefcase. Martin watched as the marine officer walked up the aisle and sat in the seat opposite him. “What I’m about to tell you is beyond classified. As such, you are required to sign a non-disclosure agreement. If you violate this agreement, we will know, and we will arrest you. Do you understand this?” Simpson’s voice conveyed no emotion, but still managed to be threatening.
“I do, and I assume that if I decide not to sign this, you will execute your presidential order, or perhaps just toss me out the door?” Martin smiled, trying to get Simpson to lighten up.
“I have not been given that option, Doctor.” The colonel handed Martin a single sheet of paper.
Martin took the letter. “You have to learn to relax, Colonel,” Martin said absently while reading through the page. “Have you got a pen? Security took mine back at the airport.”
Simpson’s only response was to hand Martin a ballpoint pen.
Martin scribbled his signature and returned the pen and paper back to the colonel. “Okay, I’m listening,” Martin said, becoming serious.
“A little more than seven years ago, the United States attacked and destroyed a terrorist compound in Libya. We had reliable intelligence—”
“Reliable intelligence? For God’s sake, not that excuse again,” Martin said with contempt.
“Doctor, neither of us is here to have a geopolitical debate. Your views on past events are a matter of public record and have no bearing whatsoever on the here and now. I need you to focus on what I am saying and keep your personal opinions to yourself.” Simpson’s eyes bore into Martin.
Martin accepted the rebuke; he knew he had made an illtimed and inappropriate comment. “I’m sorry, Colonel. Please continue.”
“A network of Arab extremists had rather blatantly built a camp in the southern desert and began to train in full view of our satellites, which was somewhat unusual. They are usually more circumspect about their activities. It was a small camp, much smaller than others throughout the region, and seemingly of little concern. At first, we thought that this represented a shift in the Libyan government, back towards state sponsorship of such activities; later we found that that was not the case.
“No one seemed all that eager to deal with them, so for a long time they went about their business, and we simply watched them. In an ideal world, we would have demanded that the Libyans handle the problem, or conversely, allow us to deal with it. However, neither side had enough political will, so the camp remained.
“Just about eight years ago, we began to hear rumors that this camp was more than it seemed. Eventually, someone took an interest, and a disturbing pattern of activity was found— unusual purchases, deliveries of electrical and mining equipment, but most importantly, medical equipment.” Simpson paused and reached into his briefcase. He retrieved a folder and passed it over to Martin. “These are some photographs taken inside the camp seventeen days before it was destroyed.”