Fred scowled, but he studied the picture for a few more seconds. Finally, he shrugged. “I guess that’s okay,” he mumbled.
“Good,” Maggie said. “Steve, Brent, and I go in along this side of the property.” She traced a line down the property’s border that would keep them well clear of Biddle’s guards.
“We need to spread out before we go through those trees,” Kosinsky said, indicating the trees that screened the cottage. He reached for the infrared close-up taken earlier that day. It showed a sharp green glow in the trees and two duller glows beneath the cottage roof. “There are three of these guys, one posted outside.” He pointed to the brightest glow. “He’ll almost certainly have night vision.” He glanced up at Maggie and Brent. “Until we get the fires going, he’ll be able to see us like it’s daylight.”
Maggie nodded. “I’ll come in here.” She pointed to a spot that put her furthest toward the center of the property. She pointed to the middle of the stand of trees. “Steve comes in here.” She pointed to a spot along the property line. “Brent, you’re here.”
“No,” Brent said. He pointed to the spot she intended to take, the one that was most exposed and therefore most dangerous. “This is mine.”
“You haven’t had the training,” Kosinsky offered.
“Too bad,” Brent said. He pointed to the map, moving from the middle of the property outward. “I’m here,” he said. “Maggie here, and Steve, you’re right here on the property line.”
There was an uneasy silence, but Maggie finally nodded then glanced toward an oversized squirt gun that lay on the ground. It was nearly as big as a rifle, a brand that advertised its ability to squirt fifty feet. “Still working?” she asked Brent.
Brent picked it up, pumped up the pressure and shot a long stream into the darkness. He’d come up with the idea when they’d passed a Wal-Mart. Initially, it had seemed insane, but the more he’d thought about it, the more sense it made. By now, the gasoline had been inside the squirt gun for nearly thirty minutes and the plastic pieces were still holding up. It was only a matter of time before they started to soften, but if they lasted this long, it was more than enough. They’d purchased five of the squirt guns along with a set of walkie-talkies and an extra long stepladder.
“One more thing we have to talk about,” Kosinsky said. “If the bad guys hole up in the cottage, we call in reinforcements and we call the security company and order them to stand their people down. But if they come out shooting—which they may—what are you gonna do?” He was looking directly at Brent, but then he swung his head toward Maggie. “A terrorist that’s worth half a shit will kill you in a heartbeat, so what are you gonna do?”
He turned back toward Brent. “You say ‘drop the gun,’ he’ll kill you, so you don’t say anything. You shoot him. I’m talking about killing a guy in cold blood before he has a chance to shoot you or me or Maggie. Can you do that?”
Brent tried to hold Kosinsky’s stare. He’d never aimed a gun at another human being, much less pulled the trigger, but he thought about Harry. “Yes,” he said, his voice firm.
Kosinsky turned to Maggie. “This goes against every bit of law enforcement training you’ve ever had. Can you do it?”
“I think so.”
“Don’t think. Be sure.”
Maggie took a deep breath, exhaled. “I’m sure.”
“When the guy goes down, shoot him again, close up, in the head. You can’t afford a wounded guy crawling around.”
Brent cleared his throat. “What about you, Steve? Are you sure?”
Kosinsky gave him a humorless smile. “I did six years in the Special Forces before I became a cop. I don’t like it, but I’m very sure.”
Maggie picked up one of her walkie-talkies, turned it on, and nodded for Fred and DeLeyon to do the same. “Okay, Fred, any shots fired, you toss your Molotovs and run. Once you’re safe, call the security company and tell them to keep their people at the house. Under no circumstances are they to wander around the property. DeLeyon, you get your ass straight into Oyster Bay. Report a fire and shots fired at the Biddle estate. Afterward, call the FBI and the Nassau County Police. Got it?”
Fred and DeLeyon nodded.
“Okay,” Maggie continued. “Situation number two: no shots fired and I give you two clicks, “she said, pushing the Talk button on the walkie-talkie twice as she said it. “That means no terrorists, so no Molotovs, no phone calls, and no cops.” She waited for more nods. “Okay, last situation: no shots but three clicks. It means we’ve got trouble. Throw the cocktails and call for help. Any questions?”
“Let’s assume we find no terrorists,” Brent said. “We go get Biddle, right?”
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “But get it through your head—the guy’s got company.” She pulled another sheet of paper from beneath the satellite photo. It was the interior and exterior schematic of a large boat. “This is a Hatteras like Biddle’s,” she said. “There’s probably a fifty percent chance the missiles are onboard, so everyone ought to be familiar with the layout.”
Brent gave the diagrams a quick glance and thought back to a few times when the seas were too rough for fishing and he and Harry had helped friends do maintenance work on larger yachts. He hated the prospect of chasing people through the tight passages and blind passageways of a boat’s interior.
Suddenly the lights began to go out inside the McDonalds. He checked his watch. Ten past midnight. He didn’t have the patience for any more planning. “Let’s get this show on the road,” he said.
FIFTY-EIGHT
LONG ISLAND, JULY 2
BIDDLE SQUEEZED HIS HANDS INTO fists as the gates of his estate swung open. Abu Sayeed had taken Faith hostage! The thought sickened him, buffeted him with guilt and rage. This was his fault! Even worse, the change he’d felt when he slapped Anneliës was still there, and that, too, sapped his confidence.
The car started to move again, and Biddle tried to refocus. As they came around the first curve, he saw the octagonal guard hut and felt a surge of reassurance at the sight of his personal security. His guards knew nothing about the Arabs, of course, yet having them on the property evened things considerably.
A low-wattage light burned inside the guardhouse, and on closer inspection he could see that the building was empty. He squinted into the surrounding darkness. The man was probably nearby smoking a cigarette or taking a leak, but nonetheless he didn’t like it. He expected Anneliës to stop, lower her window, and wait for the guard, but she kept going.
“Stop the car!” Biddle demanded.
Anneliës didn’t look at him. When Biddle reached for her arm, she jerked it out of his grasp. “This is what you wanted!” she hissed. She hit the accelerator, and they picked up speed. The lights along the driveway began to rocket past.
“I’m giving you an order!” Biddle shouted, but he didn’t dare touch her again. They were hurtling toward the fork that would take them left toward the cottages. Anneliës did not slow. The Range Rover yawed as she jerked the wheel, and the tires slid off the pavement and across the grass.
“What in God’s name—?”
She wrested the car back onto the blacktop. Biddle was at a loss. Anneliës loved him! She wanted to spend her life making him happy! Also, wasn’t Abu Sayeed putting his whole mission at risk? Biddle had given him a chance to kill the President of the United States! No terrorist would jeopardize such an opportunity!
Anneliës wouldn’t even glance at him. Her face was grim and hatchet-like in the glow of the dashboard lights, the face of someone he had never met.
He reached out and put his hand on her arm again, gently this time. “Please talk to me.”