Still, some of the tangos had been seen on the platform with other weapons, Uzis and even American-made M-16s, and in poor light, the SD3s weren’t that dissimilar from the weapons carried by the bad guys. People tended to see what they thought they ought to see, so the silenced subguns probably wouldn’t attract any attention. Anyone who caught sight of the SEALs as they walked around on the platform superstructure would assume that they were comrades. All they needed to do was walk in as though they owned the place, instead of sneaking around like commandos.
No problem. It was all part of the SEAL knack of blending into their environment.
And Murdock was about to put that knack to a brutal test.
Once they reached the upper levels of the platform, MacKenzie would take out the radar, while Murdock and Roselli tried to find an isolated tango to question. A quick-and-dirty interrogation or two was the only way Murdock could think of to verify that the object suspended from the crane was, in fact, the terrorist bomb. With luck, and the appropriate threats, they could even find out how it was fused, and whether or not there were booby traps on the thing.
Whatever they learned would have to go out over the satellite net; Johnson and Sterling would handle that… as well as keep an eye on the terrorist sentry post on Bouddica Bravo.
Then, when all the rest was complete, Murdock was determined to find Inge Schmidt, somewhere within that imposing fortress towering above him.
And they had to pull it all down by 2230 hours — forty-five, no, make that forty-four minutes from now — when the joint British, American, and German assault went down.
Movement caught Murdock’s attention, high overhead, on the fourth-floor level of the living quarters. He froze in place, raising one warning hand to stop Roselli and Mac behind him. His breath caught in his throat. Two men were walking around the corner from the west side of the building, and between them was a woman, blindfolded and handcuffed.
It was hard to tell at this distance and at this angle, but Murdock was certain from the skirt, the blouse, and the matted blond hair that it was Inge once again. The group was only in sight for a moment or two. Murdock watched in helpless fury as the men led the woman up the outside ladder from the fourth level to the fifth, then ushered her through a door off the top-level catwalk after exchanging an inaudible comment or two with the guard there.
Swiftly, Murdock plotted the movement against the mental map he carried of the complex. That brief glimpse of Inge had been a damned lucky break; three SEALs could have spent hours searching the labyrinth of rooms and passageways that was the living quarters for the platform personnel before finding her. Even now, all he knew was that she was still alive — for the moment, at least — and being held somewhere on the structure’s top deck.
The rest of the mission — verifying the position of the bomb, taking out the radar, gathering other intel and getting it to the assault force — would have to come first.
But when all of that was done…
In all that time since they’d picked her up on the street outside her Riisselsheim apartment, they’d not asked her a single question, told her they were demanding ransom, or even threatened her directly with death, and her capture was beginning to seem more and more senseless, a random, brutal, and arbitrary interruption of her normally orderly life.
After dragging her off the trawler, they’d taken her first to a large recreation area somewhere deep within the facility’s third level, tossing her in with a large number of hungry, dirty, miserable, and thoroughly frightened BGA employees. Less than an hour later, however, her captors had returned for her, leading her away to a tiny cabin on the fourth level and locking her in. Two men had come to her new prison at dinnertime, but instead of bringing food, they’d handcuffed her as they had in the van, then blindfolded her and led her step by step with rough hands gripping her arms. They’d walked a long way… down an echoing, empty passageway, turning right, then left again. For a short time, they’d been outside. Despite the blindfold, Inge could sense the difference in the light, could taste and smell the salt in the air, could feel the cold bite of the wind on her bare skin. They’d gone up a steeply climbing ladder, with her captors tightly holding her arms to keep her from falling. Up one level, and then they’d gone inside again, down another corridor, and finally into what she’d sensed was a small room.
Roughly, they’d removed her handcuffs, forced her down into a straight-backed chair, then shackled her wrists once more behind her, pinning her in the seat.
She waited for what seemed like hours, though in fact it was probably only a minute or two. Then she heard the door open to her right, heard footsteps, felt the movement of air as someone leaned over her.
“Good evening, Fräulein,” a man’s voice said, speaking German with the precise fluency of a native. From the trace of an accent, she guessed that he was from eastern Germany somewhere. “How is your head?”
She didn’t answer, but she listened with a fierce concentration to the voice, to his movements, to the sense of his presence, somewhere to her left.
“From what I’ve been told,” the voice said, “you crippled one of my men back in Rüsselsheim. And this afternoon you just missed crippling Johann. He was upset about that.”
“I wish I’d killed him,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true. That, incidentally, is the reason for the handcuffs. I would prefer that you keep those pretty hands to yourself for the time being. And if you attempt to kick me or one of my people now, we will have to tie your feet as well. I think it better if we can have a more dignified discussion, yes?”
Dignified, with her helpless and blindfolded? The irony nearly brought a wild laugh from her throat. She was, she realized with a new stab of fear, frighteningly close to the thin, ragged edge of hysteria.
“In any case, I wish to discuss with you your meetings with some Americans last week.”
“Go to hell.”
“Now, now. Dignified, Fraulein. Remember?
“You are Fraulein Inge Schmidt,” the voice went on after a moment, speaking as though reading from a file. “A civilian employee, level ten, of the Bundeskriminant. You initially began training with the GSG9, but failed your preliminary physical evaluation. You are currently assigned to the BKA’s data-processing division and work as liaison between the GSG9 and other law enforcement agencies and the computer network known as Komissar. You see, Fraulein, we know all about you. We want you to describe your contacts with the Americans.”
“If you know so much about me, you can describe them yourself.”
The man sighed. “I really would like some answers, Fraulein. You were seen in the company of American Navy SEALs. We want to know what they were doing in Wiesbaden, and we want to know precisely what you told them.”
“Fuck yourself,” Inge told him, turning her head toward the sound of that hateful voice.
“Hardly necessary, my dear,” the voice said reasonably. She felt something — fingers? — brush her cheek and flinched. “Not when you are available, eh?”
“Rather cheap melodramatics, threatening me with rape,” she said. She forced a bitter laugh but the threat shook her nonetheless. She already felt used, violated. She hoped her captors couldn’t tell from her voice what she was feeling… or sense her dread of what might happen next. She thought, from the feel of it, that her blouse, torn by that bastard in the van, must be hanging open, and wished she could close it up now.