"Your analysis is depressingly correct. By identifying most of the bodies and finding out where they were booked to fly, we know that professional terrorists are on their way to Minneapolis-St. Paul, Los Angeles, Houston, Salt Lake City, Kansas City and Seattle."
July 13, 1602 hours, St. Paul, Minnesota
FBI agent Tim Williams looked at his partner Carlos Sanchez. Sanchez shrugged. Neither of them liked the assignment, but orders were orders. They would delay the flights from Boston and try to question the passengers. That was routine, but why was a civilian keeping an eye on them? A licensed private detective at that. It was degrading. Williams glanced at the detective. Not hard to glance at.
She was a small woman. She looked as though she was in her early twenties, but there was a poise, a sense of experience. She wore her hair long, and brushed until it gleamed. The makeup was subtle. It could afford to be; she had big dark eyes that could drive a man wild. A good figure, too. Williams tore his eyes away to get his mind back to the unpleasant assignment.
"Miss Blancanales," Sanchez said to the woman.
"Friends call me Toni," she said.
"Miss Blancanales," Sanchez continued, "we can't stop every passenger from these flights and say 'Are you a terrorist?' What do you expect us to do?"
"Well, Mr. Sanchez, you might pay special attention to anyone who doesn't wait for his or her luggage, or whohas to read tag numbers in order to identify it," Toni said.
Williams reflected that it was a solid suggestion. If the terrorists killed for the airline tickets and bookings, they would have no use for any luggage thatwas checked. He hastened to agree with the woman and save Sanchez from having to do so.
"A good suggestion, Miss Blancanales. We'll do that."
"Thank you," she answered. Then she spun on her heels and walked away, later standing far enough from the agents not to be associated with them, but close enough to observe. The location was not lost on Sanchez.
"Fink dame," he muttered under his breath.
There was no more time to simmer. The flight they wanted was in and the first passengers were trickling into the terminal building. Of the first half dozen, two men and a woman headed straight for the exit. With an uneasy glance at Toni Blancanales, the two FBI men moved to intercept the three.
All three were calm. Too calm. Each asked if they were under arrest. Each insisted that they had an important appointment and could not be delayed. Finally, each insisted that they be charged or released. Williams glanced at Sanchez.
"Do we hold them?" Williams asked.
"On what grounds?"
"Come off it, Sanchez. You know we can always dream up a reason. These three are too smooth for my taste."
Sanchez shrugged. "Let's lay it on the queen and let her decide." He glanced at where the female detective had been watching. She was no longer there. "Hell, she doesn't even care enough to stick around. We've got no grounds to hold them."
Sanchez turned back to the three. "Go ahead," he told them. "Sorry to have had to delay you."
The trio hurried out of the terminal. Just as the doors closed behind them, Toni came from the other direction.
"I managed to look into the baggage that's supposed to belong to two of them," she told the FBI agent. "The clothing couldn't possibly fit."
Sanchez turned dull red. "You can't search baggage without a warrant," he bellowed at her.
People stopped to stare at them.
"For Christ's sake. Cool it," Williams warned his partner.
"Where are they?" Toni demanded.
"We had no reason to hold them. I let them go," Sanchez said in a lower tone of voice.
"You did what!"
"Listen, lady," Sanchez said, obviously deciding the best defense was an offense. "If you went into luggage without a warrant, I'm arresting you right now."
Toni ignored the threat. "You'll never find a witness," she told Sanchez. "My firm supplies the security here. When I read about innocent people being killed by those terrorists, I'll be thinking of you."
She turned and stalked away.
Sanchez watched her go, before leading the way to the agency car. He threw the keys to Williams, and then hunched himself low in the passenger seat.
"So will I," he muttered to himself. "So will I."
14
July 13, 1738 hours, Kansas City, Kansas
Carl Lyons watched the twelve men come out of the terminal building and divide into three taxis. The drivers stowed the heavy dunnage bags, two per cab, in the trunks and the cars pulled out in procession.
Lyons spoke into a microphone. "That's our boys. Let's follow them."
From a van farther along the road, Gadgets acknowledged. "We have them in our rearview mirror."
Lyons pulled his rented T-bird in behind the three cabs. He could see the van ahead, innocently leading the way. Pol would be driving, Gadgets keeping track of the quarry and the communications.
After a few miles the cavalcade turned into a doughnut-shop parking lot. Terrorists clambered out of all three taxis and went inside. Lyons saw the van pull over to the curb, three blocks ahead.
"Keep a parallel track," he told Gadgets over his radio. "If you stop and then pull back into the parade, they'll spot you for sure. It shouldn't be too hard. We know where they're headed."
"We know where we thinkthey're headed," Gadgets answered.
"That'll have to do. Hold position until you see them start up. Then get out of sight. Something smells here. I'm going to go in."
Lyons pulled into the parking lot and went in. He noticed that only some of the terrorists were buying coffee and doughnuts. Those who were were getting them to go. One man was at the pay phone.
Lyons bought some doughnuts to go. About that moment, the guy on the telephone finished his call and headed for the door. Immediately the other eleven followed.
Lyons wandered back to his car and continued the pursuit. The base of his neck was tingling. He did not like that telephone call.
Lyons spoke into the microphone. "Gadgets?"
"Running one block south."
"Cut in the afterburners and get there fast. Got EVA two or three blocks away. I think one or both of us is being led down the garden path."
"We're gone."
Lyons slapped his jacket, checking the positioning of the big Python. It rode comfortably in the custom breakaway clip under his left arm. He then reached over the seat, dragged a large salesman's sample case into the front seat, and undid the catches.
At the next traffic light, he slipped on a bandolier filled with clips. He also had time to strap a thigh holster and Ingram to his left leg. The light changed and he hurried to close the gap with the three taxis. At one point he held the car straight while he jammed a clip into the Atchisson Assault shotgun. He levered a round into the chamber and set the piece back down within the case.
Ahead, the caravan had sped up. If Lyons's figured the map correctly, they were five minutes from the old, four-story department store that WAR used as a barracks and training center.
When the cars ahead picked up speed once more, Lyons knew he had been spotted for sure. He began to close the gap. Rush-hour traffic was starting to thin out and the Thunderbird was more maneuverable than the taxis. Lyons felt it was better to push them than let them get away too easily.
The cars turned into an alley that ran along the side of the HIT headquarters. Lyons turned in after them, hoping to use the car to bottle them in a dead end.
Just as he committed himself. Gadgets squawked over the radio. "Don't go into the alley beside the building. It's a set."
Lyons jammed on the brakes and thumbed the radio button at the same time.
"Too late. I'm in."
"Try to make it into the building," Gadgets said as Lyons dropped the microphone.