“It’s stored in the hidden cargo hold. They’d have to tear the plane apart to find it.”
“Good man,” Deion said. “I knew there was a reason we kept you around.”
“Seriously, Deion. They are tearing planes apart. What should I do?”
“Let me conference in the Crystal Palace.”
A few minutes later and Clark and Kryzowski were up to speed. “I don’t know how I’m going to get us out of Switzerland,” Deion finished as a pair of Zürich police went whizzing by in front of the IKEA. “Things are hot. Gohl knows I’m involved. How many black men can there be in Switzerland?”
He glanced around the empty parking lot. Nobody had taken notice of the van, but it was only a matter of time. “We’re not safe here.”
“Hot Dog needs to take off for London,” Clark said. “His flight plan is already on file. Even with the gear hidden, there’s a chance they might eventually find it. They must not find the Battlesuit.”
“The cargo hold—” Kryzowski started.
“It’s too risky,” Clark said. “Steeljaw’s orders.”
“Why isn’t he on this call?”
“He’s meeting with his superior,” Clark said.
“With the… with him,” Deion said.
“Yes,” Clark said. “The video of John’s escape is making waves.”
“We need an exit strategy,” Deion said, “so that we don’t cause any more waves.”
“There is something,” Kryzowski said. “The CIA used to do it during the Cold War.”
“The Cold War?” Deion asked.
“It’s been a few years,” Karen said, “but I’m positive it will work. It will take a few hours to get it in play, and then at least six to get it from Munich to Zürich.”
“I’m not liking the sound of this.”
“Get back to the safe house,” Clark said. “Try not to get caught. We’ll have you out by the end of the day.”
Deion shook his head.
Easier said than done, especially when I’m the only black dude in sight.
“Time to go,” the voice said.
John struggled to open his eyes. The room was dark, but light peeked from under the far door. “Where — where am I?”
Valerie stood over him. “You don’t know?”
He groaned. Every body part ached, especially the stump of his left leg. “I hoped I was in Heaven, but I hurt too much for Heaven. Maybe the other place…”
Valerie smiled wanly. “Christ, John, you look like death warmed over.”
“What time is it?”
She glanced at her watch. “Almost noon.”
“Noon?” he asked in disbelief. “What happened to getting out of the country?”
“Things have taken a turn for the worse,” Valerie said.
He noticed the dark bags under her eyes. “What’s happened?”
“Deion was going to create a diversion, but the Swiss police are everywhere.”
“How far are we from the airport?”
“About two miles.”
“Two miles? Surely we can make that.”
“There’s something else,” Valerie said. “A hacker group posted a video of your escape on the Internet.”
His tongue suddenly felt too big for his throat. “What?”
“It’s grainy. There’s no way anyone can identify us.”
“When a secret group becomes public? It’s a bad thing, Valerie. A very bad thing.”
Valerie frowned. “It’s worse. They claimed we’re the ones who killed Holzinger. They know we’re US operatives.”
He groaned. “Sounds like they got some of it right.”
“But they’re wrong about Holzinger. We didn’t kill him. Or Katrina Reinemann.”
A cold ball settled into his stomach. “We were set up. This wasn’t about oil prices. They were killed to smoke us out.”
“It appears likely.”
John sat up, rolled to his side, and vomited on the concrete floor.
“Jesus, John!”
He heaved for several seconds, then the vomiting slowed until there was nothing left but saliva. “Great. Two innocent people dead and we’ve been made. How much worse could it get?”
“Now that you mention it,” Valerie said slowly, “we’ve found another way out of the country.”
Her face was pale, and that made his stomach churn again. “I’m not going to like it, am I?”
“No,” Valerie said. “You’re really not.”
Chapter Seven
Barbara Novak tapped her Jimmy Choo pumps against the scuffed gray carpet. An officer had escorted her in and unceremoniously dumped her in a back office, far away from the hustle and bustle of the director’s office, with nothing but a half-cold pot of coffee. She poured another cup, added creamer, and took a sip. It was bitter, and she pushed the cup away in disgust.
Thirty minutes passed before the director of National Intelligence strode into the room. Jim Kellerman had the broad shoulders of the Texas State football star he had once been. Time had given him the start of a paunch, but she still found him attractive.
“Barbara,” the director acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”
She rose and put on her best fake smile. “Jim. Thanks for meeting with me.”
He gave her hand a perfunctory shake and motioned for her to sit. “My assistant said you were adamant…”
“Sorry about that. I needed to meet in person, and she wasn’t helpful.”
He took the chair across from her. “Really? Is this the same issue you grilled the D/CIA about?”
“Jim—”
“That’s Director,” Kellerman said.
“Director,” Barbara acknowledged frostily. “How did you know about that?”
“Don’t insult me. You called Simmons and asked about Switzerland. He wouldn’t give you the time of day, so you thought you’d go over his head.”
“What’s going on, Jim?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kellerman said. “We have a chain of command—”
“Don’t yank my chain, Director,” Barbara hissed. “Did we have anything to do with Switzerland? You’re the DNI. If anyone knows, it would be you.”
“I can’t say.”
“You can’t say, or you don’t know?”
“Barbara—”
“I’m not some lowly senator, Director. I’m the Minority Leader. I’m supposed to be briefed about these things.”
Kellerman leaned back in his chair. His face softened, and he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“That’s—”
“I don’t know,” he said. His voice had lost some of its confidence. “Do you know what that means?”
She started to speak but caught herself. He waited as she put the pieces together. “You’re saying that there are operations that the DNI is not aware of.”
He placed his hands on the table. “Do you know how exhausting it is to have this place swept for bugs?”
“Bugs?”
“Electronic bugs,” Kellerman said. “It’s tedious. I have the building swept every week, even though it takes valuable resources and money, yet every week we find bugs.”
“Where do they come from?”
He shrugged. “A few were Israeli, a few Russian. Some might have been British. We caught one of our own with a French bug.” He raised his hand and shushed her before she could speak. “He didn’t even know about it. It was in his shoe, for God’s sake.”
She let that sink in. “And the rest?”