The wallscreen split into two different views. The left side continued to show the whirling landscape of rooftops presented by the helicopter cam. The right side of the screen showed local police units driving through streets crowded with onlookers reluctant to give way.
‘Where’s this feed coming from?’ Dawson asked.
‘WNN News, sir,’ technician answered. ‘The World News Network had a live broadcast in the area. They were covering Brad and Angelina’s-’
‘Who’s the reporter on the ground there?’
‘Her name is Davina Wilson.’
A small inset appeared on the wallscreen and showed a publicity headshot of a pretty African-American woman in her early twenties.
‘Find out everything you can about Davina Wilson,’ Dawson ordered.
In the street, police officers ran to the wrecked SUV with weapons drawn. Dawson thought they looked well trained and professional. Several onlookers started shouting and pointing into the alley as if the police officers couldn’t see the helicopter hanging overhead for themselves. A group of officers split off and sprinted for the alley.
Dawson cursed. If the gun-happy shooters aboard the helicopter didn’t kill Lourds, the local police might. At the very least, they would arrest him.
That wouldn’t make the vice-president happy.
‘Get me that pilot,’ Dawson said.
‘Yes, sir.’
Out of habit, Dawson shot his cuffs and adjusted his jacket. Sartorial elegance was his preference, the armour he wore among politicians. It also impressed the little people. The fact that the pilot would never see him didn’t matter. If Dawson was going to talk to the man, he was going to know that he looked his best.
Another inset image, this one of the pilot, a man in his late thirties, showed up on the wallscreen. Close-cropped blonde hair stood out against his dark skin. His eyes were too close together and a long knife scar marred his left cheek.
‘What’s this man’s name?’ Dawson asked.
‘Metternich, sir. Johan Metternich. He’s a South African mercenary currently in Istanbul while assigned to a pharmaceutical corporation smuggling blood diamonds out of his native country.’
‘We’ve used him before?’
‘Yes, sir. Three times on other operations. The Brits and Chinese have used him as well. He’s been a solid asset. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t cause problems and hasn’t failed yet.’
He’s also still alive. Dawson knew that was more telling than anything else in the mercenary’s resumé.
‘Okay, patch me through to him.’
Almost immediately, the up close and personal hammering of the helicopter’s main rotor filled Dawson’s hearing. The bull-roar of the fully automatic weapon punctuated Dawson’s presence aboard the helicopter.
‘You’re risking our package.’ Dawson kept his voice calm.
‘Who is this?’ the South African asked.
‘I’m the man who cuts your cheques. If our package gets damaged in any way,’ Dawson threatened, ‘not only will you not get paid, but I’ll also put a bounty on your head. Do we understand each other?’
Metternich growled curses. ‘We’re not going to hurt your package. He’s still alive and breathing.’
The helicopter swung round so the nose cam pointed down into the alley. Lourds and the woman ran to the other end where a sedan glided to a quick stop.
Dawson covered the microphone with a hand and looked at the technicians. ‘Who’s in that car?’
‘Checking, sir.’
Another window opened up on the wallscreen, then zoomed in on the vehicle registration plate at the back of the sedan.
‘It’s registered in Istanbul.’
‘Then find out who it’s registered to.’ Dawson cursed vehemently and turned his attention back to the action.
‘Who’s in the car?’ Metternich demanded.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Dawson said. ‘They’re in our way. I want our package.’
‘If they’re not part of the package, that makes it easier.’ Metternich raised his voice. ‘Take out the car.’
On screen, Lourds halted as men boiled from the back of the sedan.
Machine-gun fire opened up again as the helicopter canted to the right. The heavy-calibre rounds strafed the wall beside the sedan. Two of the men from the ground vehicle raised machine pistols and opened fire.
‘I’ve got access to the second camera now, sir.’
‘On screen.’ Dawson shifted his attention to the new image.
The second camera, placed in the helicopter’s cargo area, offered a view forward. Metternich occupied the pilot’s seat. Two gunmen crowded the cargo door with heavy-calibre machineguns; they were firing.
Dawson took a deep breath and let it out. He told himself that the op was going to play out just fine. But they hadn’t run one this hot in years. Whoever Lourds was, whatever he represented to the vice-president, he’d better be worth the risk they were all taking.
Bullets from the men beside the sedan crashed through the helicopter’s Plexiglas shield. Metternich cursed ferociously and struggled to bring it under control. The aircraft swung out over the rooftops and the alley was obscured.
‘Get on the skids,’ Metternich ordered. ‘We’ll strafe them on a straight run.’
The two gunmen moved out to either side of the cargo area and clambered out onto the skids. They hunkered down into position as Metternich piloted the helicopter round to approach the sedan once more.
‘I want that package,’ Dawson growled. ‘Unharmed.’
‘We’re going to get it for you,’ Metternich said. ‘Just shut up and let us do our job.’
Dawson covered the microphone and made a mental note that Metternich was going to get a bullet instead of payment for this one. His insolence, never mind his proximity to the vice-president’s pet project, rendered him expendable. Dawson took satisfaction in that.
As the helicopter swung back into the alley, Dawson spotted two marked police cars speeding up from the other end. A sinking sensation formed in the pit of his stomach.
One of the men stopped firing, yelled hoarsely, and pointed at the back of the sedan. One of the new arrivals pulled a rocket launcher from the vehicle’s trunk. He settled it over his shoulder and aimed even as Metternich tried to pull up from the attack run.
The helicopter filled with flames and the cameras went offline.
4
Off Istanbul Cd
Yesilkoy District
Istanbul, Turkey
15 March 2010
Stunned, Lourds watched the helicopter go to pieces in the sky above the alley. Flaming wreckage flew in all directions. Some of it dropped onto the rooftops, but a lot of it fell into the alley. The cacophony of explosions and their echoes rolled through the confined space and physically battered him.
Still on his feet, but only because he hadn’t thought to throw himself to the ground, Lourds ran his hands over his body. As far as he could tell, he was still in one piece. But he didn’t think he was in a good position to know for sure.
By the sedan, the man with the rocket launcher calmly reloaded his weapon. Sirens shrilled behind Lourds. When he turned to look back, he spotted two police cars on the other side of the flaming debris. The wreckage blocked them from approaching.
Lourds turned and fled back toward the policeman. He raised his hands and shouted, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’
The doors on the police car opened and two officers squatted down behind them with guns drawn.
Lourds repeated his entreaty in two different languages and was on his third when Kristine tackled him. Her arms encircled his knees and he plummeted forward just as the police opened fire. The bullets passed overhead within inches.
Kristine slithered up his body and settled on top of him in a prone position.
‘You’re going to get yourself killed,’ Kristine shouted into his ear. ‘You must have some kind of death wish.’
She slapped the back of his head.
The man with the rocket launcher fired again. This time the round streaked for the police car. The police officers had just enough time to abandon their positions before the explosive slammed into the vehicle. The car flew up from the ground and flipped over backwards. As the vehicle lay rocking like an overturned turtle, flames wreathed it.