KNIGHTSBRIDGE, LONDON.
On Brompton Road, directly across from the entrance to Harrods, three men waited in a van, elaborately marked with the name The Scotch House. The electronic equipment inside was far beyond the ken of mortals who could barely read their television manuals. The walls of the soundproof vehicle had three tinted windows above the equipment on both sides. Those looking outside could see clearly, those outside looking in saw nothing. The man currently by the curbside window was the black MI-6 officer named James. His eyes roamed the area around the public telephone booth while his two companions kept checking their dials and the sonic grids with the weaving green lines, their headsets in place.
"There he is," James said, sharply but calmly.
"Which one?" A middle-aged technician in shirtsleeves raised his eyes to the window.
"The chap in the gray suit and the regimental tie, with a newspaper under his arm."
"He doesnt look like either of the two you described in the Soho joints," commented the third, a slender, bespectacled man, swiveling in the street-side chair and partially rising from his electronic panel. "More like a tight-a.s.sed loan officer in a bank on The Strand."
"He very well may be, but right now hes glancing at his watch and moving toward the booth.... Look! Hes just spotted a woman h.e.l.l-bent on getting there first!"
"Good lad," said the shirt-sleeved man, grinning. "Hes probably a rugby player; he d.a.m.ned near body-checked the old girl."
"Shes p.i.s.sed, all right," noted the slender colleague operating the street-side equipment. "Shes looking daggers at him, she is."
"Shes also in too much of a hurry to stand there making a scene," said James, concentrating on the disagreement between strangers outside. "Shes heading for the booth down the street."
"Ninety seconds to program scan," erupted a voice from a speaker on the curbside panel.
"Recheck your Washington line," ordered the MI-Sixer.
"D.C. Special Force, are you there, old chap?"
"Ready and waiting, London."
"Is our frequency still confirmed as being free of all intercepts?"
"Right down to the last static pebble; revolving astronauts couldnt pick us up. But wed like to wing whatever we get to the police in the surrounding areas so we can dispatch personnel to the trace faster. Well simply call it Priority Red, no mention of the particulars beyond the descriptions of the subjects."
"We have no problem with that, D.C. Go ahead."
"Thanks, London."
"All channels switch to activate," said the black MI-6 officer. "The program scans begun."
Silence.
Eighty-seven seconds pa.s.sed and only the quiet breathing of the three intelligence personnel could be heard. Suddenly a womans voice, amplified by the speakers, pierced through the accompanying undercurrent of static.
"Ashkelon, it is I!"
"You sound tense, our beloved daughter of Allah," said the bemused voice thirty feet from the van in Knightsbridge.
"It is tonight-early tonight, my devoted one!"
"So soon? We have much to be thankful for and were ready! Youve worked with amazing speed."
"Does that surprise you?"
"Where youre concerned, nothing surprises me. I have only astonishment at your capabilities. Are there any particulars we should be aware of?"
"None. Just stay by your radios. When you hear the news, be prepared to act. Governments everywhere will be called into immediate session. There will be chaos throughout the capitals, ma.s.sive disorder. Need I tell you more?"
"I trust not, for darkness there still means darkness here. Darkness and disorder are searchlights for those desirous of a kill. Quite simply, protection is in disarray; it cant be otherwise, for nothing and everything is expected. Disarray."
"You were always one of the wiser men-"
"Wait!" The man in the gla.s.s telephone booth suddenly focused his eyes to his left.
"Jesus Christ!" cried James of MI-6 inside the van, binoculars held to his face. "Hes staring at us!"
"Get out of wherever you are!" roared the voice thirty feet away over the speakers. "The windows, theyre opaque, black! Get out, theyre tracing you!" The man in the dark business suit dropped the telephone, raced out of the booth, dodged the heavy traffic on Brompton Road, and disappeared into the crowds entering Harrods.
"G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" shouted the agent named James. "Weve lost him!"
"D.C., D.C." repeated the curbside technician. "London calling, come in, please, weve got an upset at our end."
"We know all about it, London," said the American voice over the speakers. "We hear what you hear, remember?"
"And?"
"Weve got a lock, it just came in. Its a hotel at Dulles Airport!"
"Excellent, old chap. Youre moving in, then?"
"Not so excellent and not so easy, but were moving."
"Please explain that!" cried the MI-6 officer, leaning over the panel.
"To begin with," replied the American, "the hotels got two hundred and seventy-five rooms, which means two hundred and seventy-five telephones that dont have to go through a switchboard to dial London or anywhere else in the world."
"You cant be serious!" roared James. "Scan the f.u.c.king board!"
"Be realistic, London, its a hotel, not Langley. However, dont blow your gaskets, Dulles security is on its way and will be there as soon as they can."
" "As soon as they can? Why arent they there already?"
"Because Dulles covers some ten thousand acres, and we happen to be in a recession, and a lot of services have been pretty severely cut, like security police in public areas."
"I dont believe this! This is the zenith of emergencies!"
The manager of the hotel at Dulles Airport shot up from his desk, telephone in hand. He had been berating a linen-supply service when the conversation was abruptly terminated by an operator, stating that there was an emergency and he should stay on the line for the police. A firm, cold voice followed, the man identifying himself as chief of airport security. His demands were short and curt. The hotels computers and all elevators were to be shut down immediately, the guests told there was a ma.s.sive electric failure, or whatever was deemed appropriate, but all departures were to be delayed as long as possible, bellhop service suspended. Frantically, the manager reached his secretary and carried out the orders.
Two blocks away, its siren parting the traffic, the first of three patrol cars raced toward the hotel. "What the h.e.l.l are we looking for?" asked the driver. "I cant hear a d.a.m.ned thing!"
"A woman between thirty and forty traveling with a big foreign kid who cant speak English," replied the police officers partner, his head bent down to hear the dispatchers voice over the speaker and through the clamor of the sirens and surrounding horns.
"Thats it?"
"Its all weve got."
"If theyre running, theyll separate, for Christs sake!"
"So we look for the kid, then an anxious female.... Hold it!" The partner shouted into his microphone. "Repeat that, please. I want to make sure I got it right.... Ten-four." The police officer hung up his microphone. "Heres one for you," he said to the driver. "The subjects are armed and considered extremely dangerous, like in instantly fatal. Were going into the front, our buddies covering the grounds, like in fire escapes and windows."
"So?"
"The boys are carrying shotguns, and if we or they can isolate either one, we dont bother with Miranda. We just blow em away."
The white telephone rang in the office of the temporary director of the Central Intelligence Agency. It was the secure line from the Little Girl Blood unit; the head of the electronic operation was icily professional. He insisted on being put through to the new DCI immediately, which, according to the private secretary, was impossible. The man was on an international conference call with the heads of security of three foreign governments, a conference set up by the President himself to show how cooperative the new chief of U.S. Intelligence would be with the countrys allies. It was no time to break into such a call.
"Give your information to me and Ill rush it in to him."
"Make sure you do, its urgent plus-plus."
"Please, Ive been here for eighteen years, young man."
"Okay, hear this. The word is tonight, the Little Girl strikes early tonight. Alert the White House!"
"So were both covered, send an in-house fax up here-immediately."
"On its way, as we speak. Secure, no copy at this end except in computer."
The copy of the Little Girl Blood units information erupted from the secretarys machine.
Scorpio Seventeen lit a match and burned the paper over an empty wastebasket.
Bajaratt slammed the two suitcases shut, shoving whatever clothes remained under the bed. She then raced into the bathroom, soaking a towel and rubbing it rapidly, harshly, over her face, removing all makeup, and picked out a tube of light Cover Girl Base from the toilet articles on the shelf. As quickly as she had removed the makeup, she spread the pale cream over her cheeks, forehead, and eyelids, raced back into the room, and grabbed her veiled hat off the bureau; she placed it on her head, pulled the lace veil over her face, retrieved her shoulder bag from the desk, and picked up the suitcases. She crossed to the door and went out into the corridor, looking up and down the hallway. She saw the obvious near an exit sign.
Ice. Beverages.
She dragged the suitcase from the doorway, pulled the door shut, retrieved the luggage, and ran to the small, neon-lit enclave that housed the ice and the vending machines. She threw the two suitcases into a corner; both would be stolen within the hour, she thought as she stood erect, adjusted her dress and her veil, and walked to the exit staircase.
Four stories below, the lobby was chaotic. The lines were growing longer at the cashiers counters, and the exiting luggage was piling up at the doors and the pavement outside. The Baj understood instantly: Orders had been given. Obfuscate, procrastinate, claim confusion, even a computer shutdown-delay!
Cries were raised about airline departures, countered by others claiming that they should have used express checkouts; a number swore, bolting to the doors, their keys thrown to the floor, yelling phrases like "Sue me!" and "Talk to my lawyer, you incompetent morons!" and "Ill be d.a.m.ned if I miss my plane!" and "Fix your G.o.dd.a.m.ned elevators!"
All was perfect, thought Bajaratt as she stooped over and limped outside to the taxi stand, a frail, delicate, elderly lady needing a.s.sistance. Suddenly a police car, its siren screaming, its lights flashing, swung into the curb, cutting off the first cab; two patrolmen leapt out, glanced into the head taxi, and raced across the crowded pavement toward the entrance, jostling the bodies in their path. Angry roars filled the area; abused and frustrated travelers were at the end of their patience. Then two other police cars arrived, their combined sirens and revolving lights abruptly quieting the mob, replacing the cries of protest with hushed observations of disaster.
The police from the additional patrol cars raced in all directions, across the east and west lawns, each man carrying a shotgun. Perfect, considered Bajaratt as she limped toward the end of the taxi line.
"Please take me to the nearest telephone booth," said the Baj, dropping a twenty-dollar bill through the slot in the drivers bulletproof part.i.tion. "After I make a call, Ill tell you where to drive me."
"Im with you, lady," replied the long-haired cabbie, s.n.a.t.c.hing the twenty dollars from the slot.
Less than two minutes later the taxi pulled to the curb in front of a dozen plastic-encased public phones. Bajaratt climbed out and ran to the nearest unoccupied one. From memory, her extraordinary memory, she thought in satisfaction, she dialed the Carillon hotel and asked for the concierge. "This is Madame Balzini," she said. "Has my nephew arrived?"
"Not yet, madame," said the unctuous voice on the line. "But a package was delivered for you less than an hour ago."
"Yes, Im aware of it. When my nephew arrives, tell him to stay there. Ill join him."
Bajaratt hung up the phone and returned to the taxi, her mind racing. How had London found the telephone schedules? Who had failed or-worse, the worst-who had been discovered and broken?
No! She could not dwell on unanswerable speculations. Only today, only tonight! The signal would be sent across the world like a monstrous, shattering bolt of lightning! Nothing else mattered, only to get through the day.
It had been 2:48 in the morning when Hawthorne left General Michael Meyerss condominium complex in Arlington, Virginia. As he started out the exit drive, he pulled the recorder from his inside jacket pocket, relieved to see that the tiny red light was still on; he rewound the tape for several seconds, pressed the replay b.u.t.ton, and heard their voices. His foot automatically bore down heavily on the accelerator; it was at once a gesture of exhilaration as well as of genuine desire to reach the Shenandoah Lodge as quickly as possible. Everything had worked; he had nearly two hours worth of taped conversation between himself and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff-between himself and the last elite Scorpio.
Meyers had studied him when he first arrived, his gaze a mixture of grudging respect and fury, as a powerful man might observe the corpse of an adversary who could prove more dangerous dead than alive. Tyrell knew the type only too well; they were in abundance in Amsterdam, forever jockeying for the strategic kill, none without immense egos. And Hawthorne had appealed to Maximum Mikes ego, relentlessly playing to it, until, finally, Meyerss gargantuan sense of self could not be denied. The obsequious admirer asking him questions was a worshiping idiot; he could say whatever he liked with impunity, the reverent interrogator his first line of defense, should a defense ever be needed.
The general needed that defense more than he realized, thought Tyrell, turning into the highway. Hawthorne knew that the moment the generals aide opened the door to admit him. On first glance, the heavy subordinate was not unlike the military aide Tyrell had seen from the dark foyer of the Ingersols house, but he was not the same man. He was someone else. A killer had been excused.
Hawthorne drove into the Shenandoah Lodges parking lot at 3:30. Two minutes later he walked into the room where Poole sat wide awake at the desk, the miniaturized electronic equipment in front of him.
"Any word on Cathy?" asked Tyrell.
"Not since we spoke a few hours ago, and Ive called a half dozen times."
"You said she moved a leg. That meant something, didnt it?"
"Thats what they said at first, now theyre not saying anythin except to tell me not to call again, that theyll call me. So to stop from thinkin, Ive been messing around with Langley."
"What do you mean, messing around?"
"Someone picked up your transponder, and its drivin the grid-kids crazy. They keep calling me, asking if were in touch, and I say sure, every now and then, and they want to know why you stopped at Wilmington, Delaware, and then drove to New Jersey?"
"What did you tell them?"
"That the air force obviously has far more accurate equipment than they do, that I thought you were on your way to Georgia."
"Dont mess anymore; and if they call again, tell them the truth-Im here and we have work to do. Which we do."
"The tape?" Pooles eyes widened.
"Get us both some paper so we can take notes." Hawthorne had rewound the tape in the car; he placed the recorder on the bureau. "Here we go," he added as the lieutenant brought them both a legal pad from the supplies on the coffee table, and Tyrell walked to the bed, cautiously lowering himself against the pillows.
"Hows your head?" Poole broke in, stopping the recorder and taking it to the desk.