Next
Exactly two hours after closing it behind him, Jacob Chernow opened the cell door. Shema was standing with her back to the window. He stood in the doorway, his hands at his sides. They stared at each other wordlessly.
"Well?" Chernow finally asked.
Shema remained silent for a moment longer. When she spoke, her voice was low but determined. "I will help you."
They both smiled, though not at each other.
"Thank you," Chernow said in a formal voice, walking into the room. He continued to hold her gaze as he asked, "Where is Raza, Shema?"
She sat down before answering, "Libya."
"Where in Libya?"
She told him.
When she had done so, he did not hesitate. "Good. Let's go." He turned and she followed him from the cell. Tyreen was waiting outside. Fifteen minutes later, dressed in the clothes she had worn at her trial, Shema sat between Chernow and Tyreen in the back of the government car.
Once the car had left the prison, Chernow did not relax for a moment, nor did he allow Shema even half a breathing space between questions. Tyreen scribbled furiously, taking notes on the pad on her knees.
He first made Shema describe the layout of the base, then the villa, then each bunker in turn. He took her through the dawn to dusk routine and then the dusk to dawn routine. He paid particular attention to time: sleeping times, parade times, meal times, and guard-changing times.
Every now and then she faltered, as if the images inside her head were hazy. She would close her eyes tightly as if to concentrate better. Then she would open her eyes and continue in that same calm and controlled voice that pleased him.
Occasionally, he would interject: "You are certain?"
Her response was always the same. A firm nod, followed by amplification of what she had just said.
As the car swept around a curve in the autobahn, Chernow returned to the question of Raza's habits. "When does he go to bed?"
"Not later than midnight."
"Does he lock the bedroom door?"
"No. No one would dare go in."
"Does he sleep alone?"
"Almost never."
"Which side of the bed does he sleep on?"
"By the window. He likes to see the first light."
"Describe the room."
His eyes never left her as she described in turn each item of furniture. Then the relentless questions continued. "Does he keep a gun in bed?"
"He used to keep a pistol under his pillow. There was also a Kalashnikov under the bed. He also kept a box of hand grenades in the dressing table."
The chauffeur accelerated past a convoy of slow-moving lorries.
"Hand grenades?" repeated Chernow.
"Yes. He made them. He's very good at that."
"In which drawer?"
Shema shook her head. "I can't remember. Maybe the second."
"How many drawers are there?"
"Four." She closed her eyes for a moment. "No, three," she said, opening her eyes."
"Good. Now, his office..."
He took her through the villa room by room, insisting she describe the painting of Beirut on the dining room wall, the dark furniture, and leather chairs. Nothing was too small or insignificant for him not to want to know about.
"The floor," he asked suddenly, "what is it covered with?"
"Rugs. He collects them. Sometimes he lays them one on top of the other."
He nodded, as if this was the most natural thing to do with rugs. "Now, the night guards," he continued. "Let's go over them again..."
Working inward from the perimeter, he made her repeat everything she knew about the mobile patrols and stationary sentries on each bunker and in the villa.
She was describing the layout of the parade ground when the car swung off the autobahn and entered the Frankfurt airport perimeter. Minutes later, the Mercedes parked beside the Concorde.
Tyreen and Shema followed Chernow up the steps. The CCO and the flight purser were waiting in the hatchway. Tyreen handed Shema over to the crewman while Chernow went to the flight deck to tell the captain to prepare for immediate takeoff for London.
Chernow then went to the communication center, followed by Tyreen. "Hook up to Tel Aviv," he ordered the CCO. "I want the Prime Minister, army and air force chiefs and their operational planners. Call Danny and tell him to use the War Room." He settled in his seat as he continued to issue instructions. "Route any incoming traffic to Tyreen unless it's Lacouste or a direct sighting of Raza. While you're hooking up, you can screen my messages."
The six-inch monitor between him and Tyreen began to fill with summaries of incoming calls.
General Yertzin had confirmed the transponder would shortly be en route out of Kabul for Tel Aviv on a Soviet Tupolev bomber. Lester Finel had drawn a blank with Asian contacts for Raza. Pierre Lacouste had phoned: the French cabinet was still huddling. Bill Gates had called: he was putting more men into Colombia. The FBI reported that no one fitting Lila's description was in their computers. US Immigration had circulated her description to every entry point to the United States. Wolfie had left news that both the Hardiman children and their mother had died. Postmortems confirmed Anthrax-B-C was the cause in each case. The bottle had been safely recovered by an anticontamination team, who fumigated the school. Miraculously, no one else had touched it. Matti Talim had called with news of Nancy Carson's death. Walter Bitburg had called, twice, asking for an update.
"Thirty seconds to hookup," called the CCO.
Deciding that nothing needed immediate attention, Chernow pressed a button and cleared the screen of messages.
The Concorde had already rolled out to the end of the runway. There was a short pause, then the plane was hurtling over the tarmac. As it banked to the north, onto the screen came a wide-angle view of the War Room in Tel Aviv.
Half a dozen men were grouped on either side of Karshov. Flanking the Prime Minister was the air force chief and the army chief. Nagier sat beside him. Bitburg had positioned himself immediately behind Karshov. Behind the principals were their aides: young, solemn faced; today's note takers learning to be tomorrow's decision makers.
There was a quick exchange of shaloms, then one of several cameras fixed-positioned in the War Room zoomed in on Karshov. "We are all here, Jacob," the Prime Minister said. "And listening."
Chernow stared steadily at the small camera mounted above the screen, transmitting his image via satellite to Tel Aviv.
"Raza has a secret base in Libya," he began matter-of-factly. "Almost certainly that was where he planned the entire operation. There is every chance he is there now. I propose therefore that we destroy the camp."
There was a collective gasp in the War Room, followed by mouth-to-ear whispering. Bitburg's eyes had started to dance as he leaned forward and said something to Karshov.
The Prime Minister waved for silence around him, then hunched forward and gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Attack Libya, Jacob? Please God, I assume you've thought of the consequences? For us. For the whole world."
"It's the one chance to nail Raza and his people," said Chernow steadily.
Bitburg had thrust his face between Karshov and the air force chief. "Excuse me," he said, "excuse me, how do you know Raza is there? This entire area was grid-searched by our own satellites and the Americans. Nothing showed except a few Bedouin and their camels."
"Apart from his villa, the entire base is buried in the sands. And satellites are not infallible, Walter. We saw that in the Gulf."
The lantern-jawed face of the air force chief glanced at Bitburg. "I could organize a surveillance run that'll guarantee to show any stubble on Raza's face."
"If he's there," said Bitburg quickly. "That's the thing, Moeshe. Is he there?"
"We'll only know when we go in, for sure," Chernow said. "But everything I've learned points to his being there. The way he could slip in and out of Athens. Libya was the perfect launch pad for his hotel bombers and to send that woman to Trekfontein."
"Could we know the source of your information, Jacob?" asked Bitburg.
"You'll get a report, Walter."
"Let's not waste time," rumbled Karshov. "We wouldn't be here unless Jacob thought the information was solid."
In the War Room, Danny Nagier looked up from a pad he had been scribbling on. "Libya would give Raza maximum efficiency for his Voice Throw Box."
Karshov looked about him, a dark stubble emphasizing the scar tissue on his face. "That still leaves the basic problem," he said heavily. "Libya. We attack the Colonel and we'll be hammered by what passes for the civilized world. We wouldn't have a pretzel's chance at a wedding of convincing anyone that we were different from Raza."
Bitburg was nodding vigorously as Chernow began to speak. "I propose we let the supreme Leader know what we are going to do, Prime Minister."
This time, the collective gasp from the War Room was reinforced by that from Tyreen beside him and those from the technicians around them. Chernow remained staring fixedly into the camera.
"You want that I call the Supreme Leader and say we are going to bomb the shit out of a piece of his desert, Jacob? Is that what you're suggesting?" demanded Karshov.
"You don't call him, Prime Minister. His friends do, in Damascus, Algiers, and Tunis," Chernow said. "Our allies persuade them to call..."
Bitburg's head craned even farther forward. "Which allies, Jacob?"
"The French. The Germans. They've always managed to keep a line open to Tripoli. They'll see some advantage in playing messenger. All they have to say is the same thing: that Raza must have sneaked into Libya without the Colonel knowing. Play up your point. That our satellites failed to spot anything. Tell the Supreme Leader no one is blaming him."
Karshov had begun to nod. When Bitburg tried to whisper in his ear, the Prime Minister waved him away.
Chernow continued. "Everyone gives the Supreme Leader an identical line --- that no one expects him to use his own forces to deal with Raza, given his stated position that Arab must never fight Arab. But equally, here is an opportunity for him to establish himself to his peers, and to the rest of the world, as the one Arab who takes the long view." Chernow allowed himself a little smile. "Maybe Appleton should call him. He seems to have time on his hands right now."
Karshov's chuckle sounded like distant thunder. "I heard you called the President, Jacob."
"It was necessary, Prime Minister."
"That's what I told him." Karshov paused for a moment. "It could work, Jacob. The Supreme Leader is enough of an egotist and pragmatist to see he can come out smelling sweet. And the world will applaud him. The way they used to applaud Saddam for standing up to Iran. Or Hitler for confronting communism in the Thirties. One of he wondrous things about the human race is its ability always to look for the good in evil."
He paused and turned. One of the aides was thrusting a piece of paper forward. Beside him, Tyreen was listening with one hand cupped over an earpiece and the other writing furiously on a message pad. The paper reached the Prime Minister at the same time that Tyreen took the sheet off the pad and thrust it into Chernow's hand. He scanned the words and looked at Tyreen.
Her lips were compressed tight and her blue eyes blazed with anger as she gave a small nod in confirmation.
Chernow looked back at the screen.
"You've heard?" asked Karshov.
"Lacouste just told me."
"Damn the French!" roared Karshov. "Damn them, damn them, damn them!" He looked around him. "The French," he continued, "have decided to release the Feydeheen. They've asked to go to Tripoli, and Libya's agreed to accept them on humanitarian grounds. The French are flying them out, courtesy of Air France, on their flagship 747."
The stunned silence in the War Room was broken by the air force chief. "We can't just sit back and let those terrorists fly away like this! In a week, they'll be back on the West Bank killing our people. I can have our planes intercept that 747 long before it's in Libyan airspace."
Chernow remembered the air force chief had been a good pilot. But he should never have been given a job that needed more than looking through crosshairs.
The army chief turned to Karshov. "Better yet, we bring them here and put them on trial. They've all got outstanding indictments. And we've done it before!"
Chernow shifted in his seat. "That time, we only had to deflect one DC-3 passing on the edge of our airspace, Sol. We're talking here of forcing an Air France 747 to fly half the length of the Med. We'd probably have to fight the entire French air force if we did that."
The army chief lanced belligerently into the camera. "So what are you suggesting?"
"That we let them go. All the way to the camp. We deal with them there," said Chernow.
There was complete silence in the War Room.
"When?" Karshov finally asked.
"The early hours of tomorrow morning," said Chernow.
"Tell us, what do you need?" the Prime Minister asked, this time not pausing.
Chernow began to tell him as the Concorde came up to the English Channel.
The ACC had provided the van. With it came a driver, and the technician squeezed into the back with Wolfie and Michelle. The van continued to move through the streets around Paddington Green police station, where Saleem Arish was being questioned by Scotland Yard Antiterrorist Squad officers.
"I don't know how you people survive," said the technician. He was a young man with a ponytail, denim jacket, and granny glasses. He squatted on a stool bolted to the floor.
"You get used to it," said Wolfie. He had wedged himself between two oscilloscopes and had his hands clasped around his knees.
"They're not all out to kill us," added Michelle. "Just most of them." She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, beside the matte black box for tracing telephone calls. Its face was covered with quivering dials.
"I did a spell in Hong Kong," said the technician, his eyes on a monitor bolted to the wall of the van. "I had the same feeling. Arabs, Chinese, they're all the same. Bloody foreigners."
The screen displayed the location and number of every public phone box within a mile radius of the police station.
"Our Johnnie will probably walk a bit," said the technician after a while. "They always like to get a little distance between themselves and the nick."
The van paused at traffic lights, then continued its slow progress through the streets of West London. Outside, it was beginning to rain.
It was already raining in Mexico City when the Aeromexico 737 from Medellín landed. Thirty minutes later, Raza had cleared formalities and was being driven to a cartel safe house overlooking the Plaza of Three Cultures.
The apartment was spacious and airy, and staffed with a housekeeper and manservant who greeted him gravely.
The man handed Raza a leather folder. "Your messages, Señor."
He led Raza to the library, while the housekeeper carried his suitcase to the bedroom. She returned shortly after with a pitcher of freshly squeezed lime juice and a plate of bitter chocolate biscuits. His every whim had been remembered from the last time he had stayed here.
She poured him a glass of the lime juice.
"Go." He waved them away. "I will call if I need anything."
The couple bowed and withdrew. Sipping, he opened the file and began to scan the messages.
The top one was from the Ayatollah, reporting the French had capitulated. Marcel Bolot, the cartel's contact in France, had faxed from Paris confirmation the Feydeheen would be back in Libya by midnight. Once more, the Corsican had shown he had pipelines everywhere.
Nuri had phoned to say Lila had arrived in Sweetmont.
Nadine had faxed to report she was unable to contact Faruk Kadumi in London. There had been no reply to her phone calls, or an acknowledgment to the fax she had sent instructing him to fly to New York once his business in London was finished.
Frowning, Raza picked up the phone and dialed the London number. He let it ring for a full minute, then replaced the receiver.
Matti Talim eased the Lincoln Tour car into the lane for the Sweetmont exit while Lou Panchez riffled through a collection of business cards in a leather case. He squinted at one. "Ossie Oakes. Agent for steel bands," he read aloud. "Where'd you come across him?"
"Miami," answered Talim, his eyes not leaving the road.
"You know anything about representing steel bands?"
"No. But I like their music."
Panchez shook his head and continued his riffling.
At JFK, they'd been insurance company loss adjusters finalizing the claim on Muktar Sayeed's cab. They'd shown his photo up and down the cab lines and asked if anyone had remembered seeing him at the airport on the day he'd died. No one had.
"How about the Sure-Grip Tire Company?" asked Panchez, extracting a couple of business cards.
"Perfect," said Talim. "They're having a hard time. It would be natural for them to want to check on a double blowout."
"But suppose Day-Nite doesn't use their tires?"
"I already checked. They do."
Panchez shook his head again.
Thirty minutes later, they found the turning to the Harmoos estate. They showed their cards to the guard on duty in the hut and then parked in front of the mansion.
"Imitation Gone With the Wind," murmured Panchez.
"Looks like he transplanted the White House," said Talim as they walked toward the front door.
"Bet you everybody says that," grinned Panchez as he pressed the bell.
The door was opened by a maid. Her eyes were dull black and tired, her body beneath the uniform thickening. Talim had seen belly dancers go like that after retiring.
"Yes. What you wish?"
Talim decided the accented English was Algerian. "We'd like to speak with Mr. Harmoos, ma'am," he said, showing her his card and briefly explaining the purpose of their call.
The maid hesitated. "He's not here."
"When's he due back?" asked Panchez.
"Who are you?" demanded a man as he came around the side of the mansion. He held a rifle casually in one hand, the way Talim had seen Feydeheen hold a weapon. He brusquely told the maid in Arabic to return to her work. He then put out his hand toward Talim. "Your ID." He reinforced the demand with a deliberate motion of the rifle.
He inspected their cards in turn. "This matter is over," he said.
"We'd just like to ask a few questions," explained Talim. "How long the tires had been on Mr. Sayeed's cab, service checks, that kind of thing."
"It will only take a few minutes," added Panchez helpfully.
The man hesitated. Mr. Harmoos had said no one was to be allowed into the house when Ismail and Lila were here. But they were in the basement, in the makeshift laboratory. And Mr. Harmoos would not be back from Florida for another day. Better to answer the questions of these infidels now than have them return when he was here.
"Nice gun," Talim said, nodding at the rifle.
"I like to shoot. Many woodchucks here," said the man shortly. He then motioned them forward with the rifle. The gesture, Talim decided, was half reluctance, half anger.
They stood in the mansion's hallway. Bronzed heads on marble plinths and several hand-painted urns were positioned on the carpet. Doors led off to other parts of the house.
"We need to establish that what happened to Mr. Sayeed's car was not a manufacturer's fault," began Talim.
"It was an accident. Come." He laid the rifle against a wall and led them into he study of Rachid Harmoos.
Talim looked about him appraisingly at the fine leather-bound books and the paintings. "Quite a collector, Mr. Harmoos," he said, his voice filled with proper respect.
"Yes," the man grunted. He went to the desk and picked up a folder. "The report of the accident. Mr. Harmoos likes to see everything." He opened the folder and began to read rapidly. He looked up. "The tires were fitted two months before the accident. They were checked at five hundred, then a thousand miles. The cab was serviced a week before Sayeed died." He closed the file. "A tragedy. The police say all is okay."
Talim nodded pleasantly. "It certainly looks like it."
"Thanks for your help," added Panchez.
The man led them out of the study.
Talim smiled at a woman standing in the hall. "Good day, ma'am," he said politely.
Lila looked at them, but said nothing until Nuri had shown the infidels out.
Nor did Talim and Panchez speak until they were well clear of the estate and heading back toward the expressway.
"I'd have liked to break that pop gun over his head," Panchez finally said.
"Harmoos keeps a regular little army," responded Talim. "As well as the guy in the hut, I spotted six more in the trees. Plus what's probably in the house."
They drove a while more in silence.
"What do you make of the woman?" asked Panchez.
"Bad, as in evil."
They drove past a Swift Renovations truck parked off the road. The man behind the wheel appeared to be asleep.
"She looked more Italian than Arab," Panchez said, glancing at the truck.
"She's Arab, right enough. And you only get those eyes when you've done your share of killing." Talim reached for the car phone. "I'll call the truck and give them a description."
"He's coming," said the technician to Wolfie and Michelle.
"I have him visually," called out the driver.
The van slowly passed the entrance to Paddington Green police station as Saleem Arish emerged.
The technician was all business, checking the dials and switches and plugging in cords. He handed Wolfie and Michelle headsets with lip microphones. "The ACC wants you," he said.
"Our Johnnie's crossing the street," reported the driver. "And passed his first telephone box."
The ACC's voice filled the headsets. "He's a tough bugger. Cocky as hell. All he'd admit to was a little pilfering. But totally denied everything about the perfume. We'd bailed him on a holding charge. Receiving stolen property. Once you're finished, we'll throw the book at him."
"Fine," acknowledged Wolfie.
"Looks like he's trying to find a cab," said the driver.
Michelle swore quickly in French.
"No, hold it. He's decided to walk."
The technician glanced at the screen. "There's a phone box at the end of the street."
The driver passed Arish.
The technician started to punch buttons on the console, whistling softly and tunelessly.
Michelle and Wolfie watched the dials quiver and then steady.
The van parked fifty yards beyond the phone box. The driver got out and walked into a newsstand. He seemed to be in no hurry. He returned with a pack of cigarettes. "He's in the box," he reported, getting back into the van.
"I have him dialing," said the technician. He pressed a switch on a reel-to-reel receiver on the floor beside him. The tape began to revolve.
Through their headsets. Michelle and Wolfie heard the sound of the digits being dialed by Arish.
"An 081 call. Harrow area," murmured the technician into his lip mike.
"Zero-eight-one," came the acknowledgment through the headsets. "Locking on now."
In the room above an army recruiting center in North London that they had made their headquarters, the GCHQ technicians were using their equipment to trace the call.
The phone was ringing.
"Hello," said a soft voice in the headsets.
"Effendi?"
"Saleem! Where are you?"
"The pigs arrested me."
In the van, the reel recorded the silence.
"Why did they let you go?"
There was a moment of laughter in the headsets. "Because I told them nothing."
"What did they want to know?"
"About the bottles. I have to go to court in the morning. But I told them nothing, Effendi..."
"Listen. You remember that address I gave you?"
"The apartment block?"
"Yes. Go there. I will speak to you there."
"Effendi, I told them nothing."
"I understand. Just do what I say." The click of Effendi hanging up was amplified by the recorder.
Moments later, the driver called out. "He's got a cab, going the other way!"
The van surged into the street, turning against the traffic as it did so.
"Oh, Christ!" shouted the driver.
His braking was sufficiently violent to send Michelle and Wolfie pitching into the technician. Then the van stopped, its bonnet only inches from a delivery lorry.
In the time it took the driver to reverse and move around the lorry, the cab with Arish had disappeared.
Her coughing woke Miriam Cantwell. It had not been there when she'd finally drifted off to sleep. Her whole body ached when she turned to look at her bedside clock. She'd managed to doze for two hours.
The drawn blinds bathed the room in a soft light, soaking into the walls, touching each piece of furniture.
She felt thirsty but cold. She wished Matti Talim was here. When she'd called his apartment, a strange man had answered and said he wasn't available. She'd left her name, and said it was important he should call.
She wanted to tell him about Nancy Carson's autopsy. The Anthrax-B-C had destroyed her vital organs, infiltrating lungs, liver, and kidneys. Miriam had never seen anything like it before.
The pathologist had been so shaken that when he'd been siphoning out Nancy's blood, the tube had slipped in his hand and the blood had spumed out of the high-speed suction pump. Miriam was certain they'd both stepped back from the tube without any blood touching them. Nevertheless, they'd stopped and gone to the scrub room, changed their gowns and face masks, and once more scrubbed up with a germicidal solution. After they'd put on fresh sterile clothes, the pathologist had sprayed the area around the table with more germicide.
Miriam brought a hand to her throat. It was sore and the skin felt rough. She managed to stagger to the bathroom and flicked on the light. She inspected her neck in the cabinet mirror. There was a blister on her neck.
"Oh, sweet Jesus!" she groaned, staggering back to the bedroom.
As she reached for the phone, a great cough rose up from her chest, forcing a trickle of blood out of her mouth. She collapsed on the bed, too ill to notice she had dislodged the receiver from its cradle.
In the flat's living room, Faruk Kadumi continued to stare at the fax machine. In his mind, it had become a symbol of the growing terror that gripped him.
Every time the machine had rung, it was to deliver another unnerving message. First, there had been orders from Raza's woman instructing him to fly to New York as soon as possible. He had ignored her demands to acknowledge, completely convinced now that the machine was under surveillance. Hi belief had been fueled when the police had once more knocked on the flat's door. Since then, the telephone had rung repeatedly. But he had been too frightened to answer.
The fax had delivered a second message ordering him to fly to New York. He had been instructed to send his flight details to Nadine. The message was signed "Ahmed." It was Raza's pseudonym.
Kadumi had also torn that paper into pieces and flushed them down the toilet. The phone had continued its intermittent ringing, the noise further fraying his nerves.
Now the fax machine had been activated again. He watched the paper begin to emerge and, even from across the room, he recognized the neat, handwritten Arabic. He waited until the transmission was complete before walking over and tearing off the sheet.
He had begun to tremble as he read the words aloud, as if somehow their awful portent would be lessened. "The deliverer will call shortly," he murmured, "and you will deliver him without fail in the name of Allah. The rest will be taken care of after you have left this land of the enemies of God."
Once more, the phone was ringing.
Coming into the city, Matti Talim called Miriam Cantwell's number on the car phone again. It was still busy. He came to a decision.
"I'm going to stop by," he told Lou Panchez.
Fifteen minutes later, Talim parked outside the apartment block on the corner of 41st and Third. Ten blocks over rose the tower of City Center.
Miriam had given him a key a couple of months after they'd started dating. He'd sometimes come over and cook dinner on those nights they decided to sleep in her bed.
Opening her front door, he stepped into a small hall completely covered with black and white prints. They overlapped each other and scenes on the ceiling ran on down the walls. The prints stuck to the floor were covered with a clear fixative to protect them.
"Miriam?" he called, poking his head into the living room. Its ivy-patterned wallpaper and matching cushion gave it what she called her civilized jungle look. A breeze ruffled the drapes.
He crossed the room to the bedroom door and pushed it open. He blinked quickly to adjust to the gloom.
In the light spilling from the bathroom, he could see Miriam sprawled face down on the bed.
"Miriam," he whispered, "you asleep?"
She groaned. He switched on the top light and saw the blood dribbling from her mouth. Saw that, and the sores on her neck.
"Matti... can't breathe," she gasped. A deep cough began to work its way up her body.
"Don't talk," he begged, reaching for the phone. He dialed City Center and told the operator whom he was calling about, and why. She said an ambulance was on its way.
Fifteen minutes later, Talim was running to keep up with Miriam's gurney as it was wheeled through the Emergency Room in a tight group of doctors and nurses. One held an oxygen mask over Miriam's face. Another a pole supporting the inverted plastic bottle and tube inserted in her vein.
"The Pentagon delivery means we have enough PEG-enzyme to treat her," said the Emergency Room Director.
"Anyone else down?" Talim asked.
"The pathologist."
"On the Nancy Carson autopsy?"
The Director squinted at him. "Yeah. How'd you know that?"
"Miriam told me about Nancy."
The gurney swung through the door leading to the MICU.
"I've already had Necropsy sealed off. The army's sending a decontamination squad," the Director said.
They reached the MICU's doors. The Director turned to Talim. "Sorry, this is as far as you go."
The MICU's doors opened and closed on Miriam Cantwell.
The phone had stopped ringing. But the silence in the flat had only increased Faruk Kadumi's nervousness. He had packed his bags and placed them in the hall, clear of the letterbox so that no prying eyes would see them. Then he had taken the Browning from the cupboard and screwed on the silencer. He had shoved the gun in his waistband, and sat down in the living room to wait. In the past few minutes, he had sniffed the last of the of the ether. It had not really helped.
He tried to remember what the small-arms instructor at the training camp had said about taking a firm grip, tensing your calf muscles and always aiming with both eyes open. The man had never said anything about how silent was a silencer.
When it came, the knock on the apartment door was soft and hesitant.
Kadumi could feel the last effect of the ether disappearing. He stood up and walked to the door. The knocking came once more, this time accompanied by a low urgent voice. "Effendi sent me."
Kadumi opened the door.
Saleem Arish brushed quickly past, closing the door behind him. He stood uncertainly in the hallway. "Has Effendi called?"
"No."
"He will phone," said Arish, peering at the luggage in the hallway. "You are going away?"
"Yes."
Arish sighed. "I wish I could." He walked into the living room, glancing around, then going to the window. "A nice place." He turned from the window. He stood, stupefied.
Kadumi remained in the doorway, holding the pistol in both hands. "Come away from the window," he said.
Arish's mouth worked, but no words came out.
"Move!" said Kadumi more sharply.
"Why?" Arish managed to ask. "Effendi will make you..."
"Move!"
Arish began to walk toward Kadumi, hands extended as if in supplication. Kadumi retreated into the hall. Arish advanced, his eyes darting. He stood in the doorway.
"Turn around!" ordered the doctor-turned-gunman.
"Please, no..."
"Turn around!"
Arish did as he was ordered. "Please," he whispered. "I have money. Much money..."
Kadumi walked forward and placed the silencer against the back of Arish's head. He pulled the trigger. There was a small sound. Then Arish fell to the carpet. He made no other movement.
Kadumi stepped over the body, went to the kitchen, and replaced the gun in the cupboard. Next, he lifted the lid of the freezer. The neat rows of vials were frozen solid. Thawed, they would be enough to cause a terror that would compensate for the fear he had felt since coming to this land of infidels. He closed the lid.
Then, once more stepping over Arish, he returned to the hall and picked up his bags. He paused to listen at the door, then released the catch and stepped outside. Moments later, he had reached the street and hailed a cab to take him to Heathrow.
The safe house on Foley Street had been transformed by the time Jacob Chernow, Tyreen Mackenzie, and Shema arrived from Northolt in the ACC's car.
The half-dozen technicians Tyreen had gotten from MI6 had arrived and established communication lines with the US Navy headquarters in Ruislip, with Sixth Fleet HQ in Naples, and with the Department of the Navy in Washington. Since Wolfie and Michelle had returned, a link had been established with the GCHQ technicians in North London and their headquarters in Cheltenham. A separate radio link had been established with the USS Independence. The carrier was presently moving at full speed toward the coast of Libya. There were also permanently open lines to Danny Nagier in Tel Aviv, and with Matti Talim's apartment in New York.
The atmosphere was one of determined swiftness. Men spoke cryptically into telephones as they evaluated or conveyed information.
During the drive, the ACC had questioned Shema about the hotel bombers. She had given him names and descriptions, which he had called in to the Yard. Now, in a corner of the flat, he continued to probe her, this time about Raza's sleeper agents in Britain.
"He'll need a network to distribute this anthrax," said the ACC. He sounded nervous and depleted.
Shema looked at Chernow.
He included them both in his sudden smile; to assure the ACC that he understood about his tensions, to reassure Shema he knew she would go on doing her best.
"Many of them students," she began. "They are usually paid by the cabal. They mostly come to learn the language."
Tyreen picked up a phone. She gave an order to begin checking every language school in the country for Arab students. She repeated the order, then held the phone out to the ACC.
The ACC took the phone and identified himself. "You heard her --- every one." He handed the phone back to Tyreen and turned back to Shema while Tyreen continued to issue further instructions.
"How about safe houses?" he asked. "Flats, a room above a shop? Anywhere?"
Shema frowned. "I only came to London once."
"Where did you stay?"
"The Regent Palace."
The ACC did not bother to hide his frustration.
Shema closed her eyes. "Wait. There's a place... I remember... it was on the road to the airport. When I left for Geneva, I stopped to collect an envelope..." She opened her eyes and looked at Chernow. "I am sorry, Jacob. I cannot remember the name of the road."
"Was it a main road?" pressed the ACC. he glanced at Chernow and Tyreen. "The chances are the safe house is still there." He turned back to Shema. "Can you remember what it looked like inside? A piece of furniture? Wallpaper or curtains?"
"I am sorry." Shema shook her head. "I cannot remember."
The ACC breathed out heavily. "Damn it, we're depending on you!" he said, his voice rising. "There could be hundreds of thousands of people out there about to die."
"I am trying to remember," said Shema quietly.
"Then try harder!" snapped the ACC. "There's someone out there with enough poison to turn this city into a wasteland. I want him caught before he does!"
"We all want him, Harry, for sure," said Chernow gently.
The ACC blinked his eyes tiredly as he looked at Shema. "Sorry."
"You're doing fine, Shema," said Tyreen, laying a comforting hand on the other girl's shoulder. A quick toss of her head directed Chernow's attention to Wolfie, who was standing beside a technician and waving at Chernow.
"It's the GCHQ people," explained Wolfie when Chernow strode over. "They've located Effendi's number. It's a flat in Harrow-on-the-Hill. They've surrounded it."
"No one's to go near until I say so," ordered Chernow crisply just as Tyreen joined him.
Wolfie grinned. "I've already told them."
Michelle turned from one of several VDUs set up in the living room. "Cheltenham says one of those incoming faxes was from Libya. The other from somewhere between Mexico City and Panama. They've narrowed down the receiving area to between Hammersmith and the Great West Road."
Tyreen was already striding back to Shema. "The Great West Road? Was that the road?"
Shema closed her eyes once more. After an age, she opened them and said, "Yes. There was an apartment block. We could not park. So I walked."
"Try and remember," urged Tyreen. "How far did you walk? What did you pass? Shops? A pub?"
Shema shook her head. "I'm sorry. It was three years ago."
Chernow turned to the ACC, who had already picked up a phone. "Get every man you have into that road. Into every building. Into every room. Tell them they're looking for fax machines."
"And to check every deep freeze," added Tyreen. "And if they come across any bottles of perfume, not to touch them."
Chernow turned back to Shema. "I'm going to get you driven down that road. It's surprising what comes back when you see something again."
The only visible signs of security Faruk Kadumi could observe in the Heathrow terminal area were the armed policemen patrolling in pairs, each cradling an Uzi. His bag checked, he felt calmer. In less than an hour, he would be airborne and bound for Paris. Once he was there, he would be able to think clearer, make a phone call to Libya, and try and discover why he must go to America. In the meantime, he would go through Immigration at the last possible moment. Raza had said once in the departure area, you are confined; there is no way out until your flight is called.
Kadumi continued to pace before the bank of telephones along one wall. He would leave making the call to Effendi as long as possible. But it had to be made.
Half an hour had passed. In that time, Chantal Bouquet had taken Danny Nagier's seat in Tel Aviv. Nagier was now heading south into Egypt in the lead Two-12. With him were fourteen commandos. Close behind were the other five helicopters, each carrying the same number.
"The Egyptians have set up a refueling stop at El Alamein," Chantal was saying on the phone. "They'll also provide a fighter escort all the way to the Independence."
"Make sure they get properly thanked," said Chernow.
"Karshov's personally calling Cairo," replied Chantal. "But are you sure eighty-four men are enough?"
"We used less at Entebbe. And I'm counting on surprise. I'll also have Moeshe's people flying shotgun," replied Chernow. "And I'm getting a little special help from the Brits." Tyreen Mackenzie had arranged that last one; it was the same help he'd received from the British for the raid at Samarra, on the eve of the Gulf War.
Behind them, one of the technicians was saying something to Wolfie. Across the room, the ACC was speaking to Tyreen in the patrol car driving Shema along the Great West Road.
"They've started calling the Colonel," continued Chantal. "After some blustering, he's taken it very well. Appleton's going to call him to say that when this is all over, he can expect an invitation to the White House."
Chernow grunted. "The surveillance net over Tripoli in place, Chantal?"
"An hour ago. There's a NSA K-12 and our own Watchboy. Also what the Independence is putting up. The Colonel so much as whispers a word to Raza and we'd hear."
"Jacob!" called out Wolfie urgently. "We've got a break out at Heathrow. A call to Effendi's apartment."
Chernow hung up and strode over to Wolfie. "What is it?"
Wolfie glanced at a notepad. " 'The deliverer has been delivered.' An Arab voice, male and cultured. Could be middle-aged."
"Effendi say anything?"
Wolfie grinned. "No. But he's been busy on the phone ever since, repeating the same message, 'Collect and deliver.' They're trying to trace the calls right now."
"They get a location from where the airport call was made?"
"Terminal Two, ground side. He could have walked over from One or Three to make the call and walked back again. Or just taken a bus to Four."
Chernow shook his head. "He sounds nervous, Wolfie. Just the message. As if he's scared of being traced. Someone like that would want to stay close to his departure point. What's going out of Two in the next thirty minutes?"
Michelle began to type furiously at her VDU. A replica of the flight departure schedule at Heathrow appeared on her screen. "A couple of charters..." she began.
"He'll go scheduled flight," interrupted Chernow.
"There's a Lufthansa to Hamburg, Iberia to Barcelona and Malaga, Tunis Air..." continued Michelle.
"Get me their passenger manifests," Chernow told Wolfie. He stood behind Michelle and watched the flight numbers continue to appear on the screen. "And those for that KLM to Amsterdam, Swissair to Geneva, and Air France to Nice and Paris," added Chernow.
Wolfie relayed the instructions into his phone.
Chernow glanced toward the door. Tyreen and Shema had returned. Both women shook their heads. He smiled at them to hide his disappointment and turned toward the men speaking quietly to their counterparts in Israel, Italy, the United States, and on board the Independence.
Passengers on Air France 619 to Paris passed the last security hurdle before takeoff --- the scrutiny of the Special Branch officer standing beside the agent's desk in the final departure lounge. Faruk Kadumi risked a smile. The officer nodded pleasantly, his eye already on the next passenger in line.
Kadumi took a seat in the lounge.
Tyreen Mackenzie stood beside a fax machine with Shema, watching the Tunis Air manifest emerging. They scanned it quickly. Shema shook her head. Chernow handed the sheet to a technician and instructed him to transmit it to Lester Finel's computers.
Another manifest began to appear.
AF 619 eased back from the ramp and began to move out through the maze of taxiways to the runway.
Buckled in his seat, Faruk Kadumi stared out of the window. He felt the engine surge, then the Airbus began to speed down the runway.
Half the flight manifest for AF 619 had emerged when Shema grabbed Tyreen's arm. "Him!" She pointed to a name.
Tyreen looked at the name. "Faruk Kadumi? Who is he?"
"A doctor. He treats Raza's Feydeheen."
Tyreen called to the ACC. "We've got a prime target on the way to Paris. Can we recall the flight? It's Air France 619."
"I'll try," said the ACC doubtfully. "But it being French, we'll have to go through Paris. It'll probably have landed by then."
Tyreen reached for the nearest telephone and began to dial. "Pierre?"
"Oui?"
Tyreen told Lacouste what she wanted done.
Fifty-five minutes later, AF 619 touched down at Paris-Orly. Ten minutes later, it reached its gate. It took thirty more minutes for Faruk Kadumi's baggage to appear and for him to clear Customs inspection.
As he stepped toward the exit doors, two men emerged on either side, quickly converging on Kadumi. The older, a man in a sober suit, introduced them both. "Police, doctor. Please come this way." With the practiced ease of having performed the maneuver many times, they took his bag, at the same time lightly placing a hand each on his arms.
The incident did not go unnoticed by one of the baggage handlers. He had been instructed to watch for Faruk Kadumi and to hand him his ticket to New York. The handler called Marcel Bolot in Marseilles. The Corsican faxed the villa in Libya. Nadine retransmitted the message to the cabal's safe house in Mexico City.
As Raza had already left, the manservant did what he was instructed. He faxed the message on to Nuri at Sweetmont.
Realizing the significance of Faruk Kadumi's arrest, Nuri immediately faxed the office of Ayatollah Muzwaz. From there, a fax message was sent to Bolot instructing him to ensure Faruk Kadumi was freed. A sum of one million francs was promised for this service.
Fifteen minutes elapsed between the handler's call and the financial inducement being offered.
Five minutes later, the Concorde swept out of a leaden sky and landed at Charles de Gaulle airport with Chernow, Tyreen, Michelle, Wolfie, and Shema.
During the short flight, Chernow had been informed that Danny Nagier's force had reached El Alamein and the Independence was on station. The small British SAS contingent was due aboard soon. The CIA had teams in Mexico City and Panama looking for Raza. In Tel Aviv, work had begun on the transponder. In Sweetmont, surveillance had started on the Harmoos estate. There was no change in the condition of Miriam Cantwell. When Matti Talim had told him, Chernow hadn't known what to say.
Pierre Lacouste was waiting at the foot of the steps as Chernow and Tyreen emerged from the cabin. The others had been told to rest on board in preparation for the long night ahead. The pilot was already clearing a flight plan to Malta.
"How are things?" asked Chernow as he reached the tarmac.
Lacouste spread his hands "We're mostly keeping him hot and cold." They walked toward Lacouste's chaffeured Citroën.
"When do the Feydeheen go?" asked Chernow as the car sped across the tarmac and through a gate in the security fence.
Lacouste smiled sourly. "Tonight at eight. Air France had a job getting a crew. They feared your people might try something. So we're giving the jumbo a full presidential escort."
The car swept out of the airport and onto the ring road.
"That wouldn't have stopped us," said Chernow.
Tyreen looked out of the window. The rush hour was beginning. The chauffeur reached under the dash and pulled out a police flashing light. He reached out of the window and stuck it on the car roof. As the Citroën swung onto the emergency lane, a revolving blue beacon began to charter its course.
"What's your psychiatrist say?" asked Chernow.
"Usual jargon. That he's stimulus prone, and with a strong element of blunting of normal emotional responses." Lacouste glanced quickly at Chernow. "Ideally, he'd like more time, Jacob. A couple of days in that box of tricks, and our psychiatrist reckons Kadumi would remember things he never knew he'd even forgotten!"
Chernow sighed at what might have been. "Time we don't have, for sure."
They rode in silence for the rest of the way to the aerial-festooned complex in the Paris suburb of Tournelles, to the headquarters of the Service of External Documentation and Counterespionage. Most people who worked there called it the Swimming Pool due to the close proximity of a public baths.
The psychiatrist was waiting when they emerged from the lift into the sub-basement. He had a Chinaman's way of smiling, the wrinkles around his eyes remaining undisturbed. He bowed quickly and formally. "Professor Wang," he murmured in accented English. "I am pleased to meet you. Will you come with me." He turned and led them to a small, cluttered office. There was a smell of chemicals; Tyreen glimpsed a pharmacy through a half-open door.
"Did the stuff from Tel Aviv help you, Professor?" asked Chernow, leaning against the wall. Before leaving London, he'd asked Chantal Bouquet to put together everything they had on terrorist personality types.
Professor Wang sighed. "He's outside the usual parameters. Older, more sophisticated. He's also a doctor." He turned to the desk and picked up a file. "I've taken what we know and tried to produce in him folie de doute by increasing emotional stress."
"Hot and cold," said Lacouste cheerfully.
The professor nodded gravely. He handed the file to Chernow, murmuring as he did so, "A surgeon... it's really very sad."
"It was his choice," said Chernow, scanning the few entries French Security had assembled on Faruk Kadumi. He handed the file to Tyreen. "How long before I can get to him?"
"Soon. Come, I will show you." The professor led them from the office down the corridor. He opened a hatchlike door at the end. Beyond were a couple of doors set into the wall.
"Control room," explained the professor, indicating the large table-height console in the middle of the room. Set in a wall was an observation panel. "He can't see or hear us." He motioned for Chernow and Tyreen to join him at the panel.
In the cell beyond, Faruk Kadumi pulled a blanket around his shoulders, trying to keep out the cold.
"The control of physical stimuli is very important," continued the professor. "Change in temperature weakens resistance. Right now, he's going to feel like he's in an icebox. You watch." He turned and walked to the console, pressed several buttons, and checked the settings on the dials. Satisfied, he rejoined Chernow and Tyreen.
They could see Kadumi's breath in the air as he stumbled to the cell door and beat with his hands on the ice-cold steel, moaning to be released. Then, wrapped in his blanket, he slumped on the thin mattress and continued to shiver and half-sob.
An alarm bell rang on the console. Professor Wang made fresh adjustments. "Come, we'll wait in my office. It won't be long now," he promised.
In the cell, the cold had been replaced by an equally unbearable furnace heat. Perspiration ran off Faruk Kadumi's body and his hair was matted to his skull. The heat seemed to seep from the walls and floor, drying his lips and throat. The cell had also become darker, the solitary light in the ceiling now the merest glimmer.
Something was happening above him; a faint whirring sound began to fill the cell. Kadumi stared fearfully up into the gloom.
Openings had appeared in the ceiling. From them suddenly came lights so bright they burned into his skull. He felt as if his eyeballs were being shriveled. Then the searing, terrifying light vanished as instantly as it had appeared.
In the semidarkness, the heat once more began to be replaced by the chill.
There had been a period of silence in the office when the telephone rang. The professor listened and then handed the receiver to Lacouste.
As he listened, his face began to darken. "Plastique?" he asked once. "How many?" He listened for a few more seconds before putting down the phone.
He then turned to the others. "They have started again. Little bombs near the Petit Port and Place St-Michel," he said bleakly. "Thank God, no one was killed. They gave a warning this time."
"Perhaps it's to serve notice on your government not to change its mind, Pierre."
"They've already moved the Feydeheen to the airport," said Lacouste.
The professor lifted his arm to look at his watch. "He is ready, please," he said in the soft voice that reminded Chernow of a mortician he'd met once in Hong Kong.
Chernow told the professor what he wanted. While the professor went to the pharmacy, Chernow told Tyreen what he wanted of her and her special abilities.
After going to the control room to adjust the cell's lighting to normal brightness, the professor opened its door.
A blast of icy air swept over them as Chernow and the others entered. They aligned themselves along one wall, saying nothing, only staring at the disheveled and pathetic figure slumped on the mattress.
"Hello, Dr. Kadumi," said Chernow in Arabic as he stepped forward. "You know why you are here."
Faruk kadumi stared at him as if in a stupor. "You know me?" he finally asked.
Chernow nodded sagely. "I know everything about you. Effendi told me. I know all about you and Arish."
Kadumi continued to look at him slack-mouthed. "Who are you?"
Chernow again ignored the question. "I know all about the perfume bottles," he continued in the same level, steady voice, as if he was reciting facts that could not be in dispute. "Raza has failed, of course," he added. "You are part of that failure." He took a step closer, judging the distance between intimidation and domination.
"I don't know what you're talking about," began Kadumi, struggling to sit up.
"Yes, you do. I know about your faxes. About what happened to the girl in Athens. And Lila. You have been betrayed by many people."
"No!" Kadumi's scream pierced the cell. "No! You lie! You are a Jew! A filthy Zionist trying to trap me!"
Chernow stared at him impassively. "You will answer my questions?"
"No! Never!"
"Very well." Chernow turned to the others and nodded. Tyreen came forward and pinioned Kadumi to the mattress, handling the heavier man as easily as a mother handling a newborn infant. From a pocket, the professor produced a syringe and a vial, its cork securely in place. He removed the cap from the needle and drove it through the cork into the tube and drew off a quantity of colorless liquid.
"We recovered this in Athens," Chernow told Kadumi, giving the syringe a sideways glance. "There's enough Anthrax-B-C here to kill several hundred people. You will be injected with it, then left here to die."
The professor stepped toward the bed, holding the hypodermic upright and steady so as not to release a drop.
"No!" screamed Kadumi, struggling to break the grip of the girl holding him down.
Lacouste stepped forward to help Tyreen, then stopped at a small gesture from Chernow. He stared, amazed to see how easily the slender girl was handling the man who had to outweigh nearly two to one.
Kadumi's struggles seemingly had no effect on the girl as she easier rolled the heavier man over and forced his head against the mattress, turning it so that he faced Chernow.
There was a sudden smell of urine as Kadumi lost control over his bladder.
Chernow crouched beside the bed. "Dr. Kadumi, I must inform you of certain facts," he said in a suddenly deliberately dull and bureaucratic voice. "No one know you are here. You have disappeared off the face of the earth. No one can stop what is now going to happen to you." He remained crouching for a long moment, studying Kadumi's face as if he wished to remember it forever.
The professor was standing behind him, syringe poised.
"Do it," said Chernow abruptly, rising in one swift, unbroken movement.
"No! What do you want to know?" screamed Kadumi, trying to get free but still unable to break free of Tyreen's hold. "Please, do not do this! Please, oh please..." He began to sob uncontrollably.
Chernow continued to stare down without pity at the bed. "The truth, Dr. Kadumi," he said softly. "I want the truth. Do you understand?"
After a while, when the whimpering stopped, there was a tiny nod from the bed.
Chernow nodded in turn to Tyreen, who released Kadumi and stepped back. However, she remained alert, ready to either step in or draw her Walther PPK.
"Very well. Where did you stay in London?" began Chernow, turning back to the prisoner.
When he heard, Lacouste stepped out of the room to call the ACC.
They had been going for an hour. The only pause had been for Chernow and Lacouste to escort Kadumi to the toilet, where they had watched him change into the fresh underwear the professor had mysteriously provided. He had also adjusted the heat in the cell to make it pleasantly comfortable. Afterward, the psychiatrist had emptied the syringe of the distilled water.
A numbed acceptance had descended over Faruk Kadumi. He knew. This man knew everything. The relentless, driving voice told him that. Yes, the man knew. And so did the silent girl, the one who had held him down with the strength of a dozen men.
Building from one question to another, Chernow had meticulously and speedily discovered exactly how and where the Anthrax-B-C had been prepared. He had made Kadumi sketch the inside of the bunker and place it in relation to the villa. He had been pleased to see it matched what Shema had described. He had then taken Kadumi through his time in London up to the shooting of Arish.
"I had to kill him," whispered Kadumi.
Chernow nodded. It didn't matter, not right now. "Who are the collectors?"
"I don't know."
Once more, Chernow returned to the bottles of perfume. "How many did you prepare in Libya?"
"A hundred."
"And they were all taken to Athens by the Greek girls?"
"Yes. Except the one Lila took to Trekfontein."
"That was the same potency as the others?"
Kadumi nodded.
Tyreen leaned back against the wall, calculating. One to South Africa, three to England, at least one to the United States. That still left ninety-five unaccounted for. How many had been destroyed in the tanker fireball? Based on what had happened in Trekfontein, there could still be enough anthrax to kill half a million people.
"How many bottles were you supposed to receive?" asked Chernow, continuing the questioning.
"I was not told."
"And what targets?"
Kadumi shook his head. "I was not informed."
Tyreen glanced at the door. Lacouste had come and gone again.
"Why were you going to America?" asked Chernow.
Kadumi once again shook his head. "I was not told."
"Were you going to Sweetmont?"
Kadumi stared at him tiredly. "Where?"
Chernow moved from against the wall. "Rachid Harmoos. Were you told about this?"
Again, Kadumi shook his head. "I know him, of course. But I do not know what he has to do with this."
"Ayatollah Muzwaz? Is he purely the money?"
"I don't know."
Chernow stared at him. Faruk Kadumi was still telling the truth. That was why it was an effort to conceal his own disappointment.
Tyreen glanced at the door again. Lacouste was back at the door, beckoning. He was white-faced with more than anger. He had a piece of paper in one hand.
"It is finished," said Lacouste in a fierce whisper when Tyreen joined him in the corridor.
"What?"
"He's being released. Here!" He thrust the paper before her. "The order is signed by the Ministe of Justice personally."
Tyreen glanced at the paper. "Why, Monsieur Lacouste?"
"There was a call to the President's office to say there would be more bombs unless he is freed. The President immediately ordered that he is to go with the Feydeheen. There is a car waiting." He pointed to the two uniformed policemen waiting outside Professor Wang's office. "They will escort the prisoner to the airport."
Tyreen went back inside the cell to break the news to Chernow.
"I'm sorry, Jacob," Lacouste said. "I only hope you had enough time to get as much as you could. I really feel bad about this."
Chernow looked at him. "Don't blame yourself, Pierre."
Neither man saw Tyreen's clenched fists. She wished she had somebody's throat in them. She just wasn't sure whether she wanted Faruk Kadumi's throat or that of somebody in the French government more.
Ninety minutes later, Shema sat squashed between Chernow and Tyreen in the front of a Follow-me truck parked inside the heavy police cordon thrown around the Air France 747 on the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle. On the way to the airport, Chernow had briefly stopped at a specialist shop Lacouste had recommended.
"Remember each face," said Chernow, as the Feydeheen stepped from the airport bus and climbed the stairs to the plane. Before they disappeared, each gave a ritual clenched fist salute. Only Faruk Kadumi hurried on board without any bravado.
As the aircraft rolled out, Chernow directed the truck driver to take them over to the far side of the airport where, beyond another security cordon, the Concorde waited.
After they boarded, Chernow handed Shema the pair of throwing knives he had bought earlier.