Roth exhaled. His lips curled into a smile.
“Thank you, Herr Junger. I’ll see you this afternoon with further instructions. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Two o’clock, sir. It is on my agenda.”
Roth hung up, still grinning. He might actually sneak out of this predicament after all. For months he’d been stuck between that proverbial rock and a hard place, ending with his journey deep into the godforsaken Libyan desert, to barter with the devil himself. But now there was an end, an escape. And maybe even a profit. He was a man on top of the world.
As he turned away from the phone, Roth swore he heard someone call his name. At first it merely struck him as odd. Only when he saw the stern, heavy-set man closing in from his right did the alarms go off. Roth instinctively veered away, but then a hand gripped his arm on the other side, a grip that made him feel like an animal whose limb had just been caught in a steel trap. The second man was not as big as the first, but he was smiling in a most congenial, discomforting fashion. Roth hoped for a moment they might be some sort of airport security, but then the one with the smile opened his jacket lapel slightly to reveal an ugly handgun. He spoke in Hebrew and said simply, “Come with us, Mr. Roth, or we will kill you.”
Roth was stunned. He was so close. So close to wealth and freedom. He felt himself being shoved along, back outside the terminal, one brute on each elbow.
“Who are you?” he asked desperately. “What do you want?”
Neither answered. The men steered him toward a car, a big sedan, and the back door swung open as they approached. Roth panicked. He saw a policeman directing traffic some distance up the curb. He tried to cry out, but at that moment there was a crushing blow to his solar plexus. He doubled over in pain, and nearly did a somersault as he was thrown into the back of the car.
Face down on the floorboard, he tried to catch his breath as the car lurched forward. Heavy boots stomped on his back and legs, holding him down. The car surged ahead, winding through a series of turns. He tried to talk again, but the only response was a quick kick to the back of his head. His hands were tied behind his back, and then a black cloth hood was wrestled over his head. He was frantic now, wondering who these people were. There were a number of possibilities. None of them good.
The car stopped suddenly and he heard a loud noise, like a jet engine nearby. Roth was hoisted out of the car to a standing position. He could see nothing through the hood, but now the noise was excruciatingly loud. He was shoved and guided a few yards, then literally lifted off his feet and pulled upward, his legs bashing over a short set of stairs. Someone yanked him again to a standing position and shoved him back until he fell into a soft chair. He felt bindings being secured around his legs and chest. Seconds later came the unmistakable whine of jet engines rising to full power. The acceleration pressed him back into the soft leather seat. He was on a plane. But going where? And with who?
For a few minutes there were no new sensations. The drone of the engines, the draft from an air vent overhead. But he could tell someone was there, watching him. Without warning, the hood was yanked roughly off his head. Involuntarily, Roth’s eyes shut tight, but then he opened them slowly and all became clear. Two men sat staring at him. Two instantly recognizable faces. The former Prime Minister of Israel and the former Head of Mossad glared with daggers of contempt. Pytor Roth knew he was in deep hara.
Christine arrived at the cafeteria to find a madhouse. If Scotland Yard was weathering a typhoon of an investigation, this was the eye of the maelstrom. A narrow refuge where the harried staff could find nourishment, companionship and, if they were really fortunate, a few moments peace.
Her escort, this one a grim, brooding type, parked himself at the door while she lined up at the coffee stand. They’d been granting her more freedom, and Dark confided earlier that she’d be released “soon.” Christine suspected that meant after this morning. The clock on the wall read 9:09. An hour to go. If only she could quit looking.
She took her fix in a Styrofoam cup, black, and searched for an empty table. Nothing was open, but then a familiar face emerged on the far side of the room, waving her over. It was Big Red. His real name, she’d found out, was Simon Masters. Until today, he’d worked the morning shift as her guard. And he was unquestionably her favorite. Yesterday they’d chatted for much of the morning. He was an affable fellow, with a wife and three small children at home. It had been a pleasant diversion to hear how his kids attacked him every time he came in the door. She could easily envision him falling to his knees while three preschoolers climbed onto his wide shoulders, turning Daddy into a sturdy, yet malleable piece of playground equipment.
As she weaved toward him, Christine noted one disturbing difference from the previous day. Masters was wearing some kind of combat uniform. A heavy vest, a belt bristling with gear, and a radio with a wire that ran to one ear. All of it was black.
“Hello, miss.” He insisted on calling her “miss.”
“Good morning, Simon.”
“Sleep well?”
She shrugged.
“Today’s the big day, is it?”
“Yes. What’s with all the armor?”
Masters looked uncomfortable. “Listen, this place is crazy. Me and my mates have a private room in back. It’s much quieter. Would you like to join us?”
“It has to be better than this,” she reasoned.
He signaled to her escort at the door. The man gave a thumbs up and moved to the coffee line himself. Masters then led Christine into an adjoining room, which was indeed quieter. The only occupants were five other men dressed identically to him. They noted her arrival, a few nodding, then went back to their conversations. A wide window at the back gave a panoramic view of a large helicopter outside, settled on a rooftop pad. The pilots were in place, standing by.
“What is all this, Simon?”
He sighed. “It’s the Rapid Response Team. I’ve been put in charge.”
“Response? Response to what?” Christine suspected the helicopter was loaded down with weapons. “Is this about David?”
He nodded. “We’re on standby. If anything … happens, we’ll be called in to find him.”
“Find him? You mean kill him!”
Masters said nothing.
She sat at a table, set down her coffee, and closed her eyes. “Oh, Simon. I’m sorry,” she recanted. “This isn’t your fault.”
He pulled a chair next to hers, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know this is difficult for you, miss. I truly do. If anything happens and we get called in, I promise to do all I can.”
She nodded. “I know you will. I’m glad it’s you, Simon. I just wish that I could talk to him once more.” She studied her coffee cup. “Do you remember the other day, what happened between me and that Israeli man in the hallway?”
He nodded.
“He told me something. Something that could change David’s out-look entirely. But there’s no way for me to tell him.”
“Would you like to tell me? In case I run across him?”
She smiled forlornly, “Thanks, Simon. But honestly, I don’t think he’d believe it unless it came from that fellow or me.”
Christine spotted another clock on the wall. Did every room in this damned building have one? she wondered. It was 9:20.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Moustafa Khalif could see it in Mohammed Al-Quatan’s face. He felt it himself. Awe. Sheer amazement. It had been that kind of day.
To begin, Al-Quatan had pulled into the fishing docks of Tripoli with a 10 kiloton fission device (arriving well in advance of morning prayers, he’d noted, as if it were an omen). At that same moment, Khalif had been in a private meeting with the Great One himself, who was speechless when told what this small group of state guests had managed to do. From there, the Great One had taken over. He agreed with Khalif. There was only one place to keep such a thing, and arrangements were made immediately to transport it by military helicopter.