When he turned around, the awning had been removed and he was staring at a spidery-looking beast about six feet in diameter with six rotors, each about eighteen inches long, and a pod underneath the thing. His explosives man was on his back, inching under the machine with a flashlight. After a moment, he came out with a piece of wire and a small cylinder in his hand.
“Detonator removed,” the man whispered into his microphone, then stood up and looked at the drone. “We’re never going to get this thing into the helicopter — it’s too big.”
Quentin lifted one leg of the thing and was surprised at how light it was. He unhooked his cable, looped it around one of the machine’s legs twice, and clipped it to itself. “Pilot, this is number one. It’s too big to go inside — we’re going to have to carry it dangling.”
“Roger,” the pilot replied.
Quentin pressed his remote control, the cable tightened, and the machine lifted off the roof and began to rise. When it was six feet below the chopper, he pressed the button again, and it hung there, suspended. “Number one to crew, I need another cable.”
The litter carrying the twins was lifted aboard and secured, then Quentin was winched up and helped inside. “Count off,” he said. The men stated their numbers. “Pilot, let’s get out of here,” he said.
The helicopter rotated ninety degrees and began to climb. Quentin sat down beside Millie, unclipped his cable, and fastened his seat harness. “Hi there,” he said.
She put a hand on his cheek. “Welcome back,” she replied.
In Washington, Lev leaned out of the helicopter and peered at the thing dangling below them as they flew over the rooftops of the city and began climbing. He hadn’t expected it to be so big. He made his way over to the litter and looked at the unconscious Ali Mahmoud in silk pajamas, strapped into it. “All right,” he said into the headset, “let’s head for Dulles.”
Forty minutes later at the military terminal the chopper descended by inches until the drone could be unhooked and removed to a hangar, then the litter was carried to the waiting jet. The sleeping Mahmoud was removed from the litter, strapped into a seat, and handcuffed to the armrest, across from where the two Dahai pilots sat, opposite the two CIA guards who would accompany them to London. One of them reclined the prisoner’s seat, then put a blanket over him and a pillow behind his head. “Sleep tight,” he said.
Up front in the cockpit, two CIA officers were completing their checklists. Lev tapped one of the guards on the shoulder. “When he wakes up, tell him that he has been declared persona non grata by the secretary of state of the United States of America. His embassy will be notified.”
Lev left the airplane and walked back toward the hangar, unbuckling gear and handing it to one of his men. Inside, the others were gathered around the drone. “It’s big, isn’t it?” one of them said.
“Bigger than we planned for,” Lev replied. He looked back and watched as the Dahai jet taxied away. He got out his cell phone and pressed a button.
“This is Phillips.”
“It’s Lev. Mission complete here. How about you?”
“All is well.”
“The airplane is taking off now. It will be there in about seven hours. You got the twins?”
“That part was easy — they were sleeping on the roof, next to the drone.”
“Well done, Special Agent. You’re going to do well out of this.”
“Thanks, but not as well as you, sir.”
Lev laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. When are you coming home?”
“Can I have a couple of days?”
“We’ll teleconference at three PM London time for debriefing. After that, you can take as much time as you want.”
Millie called Holly, who was already up. “It’s done,” she said. “On both ends — all of it. The airplane is on its way to London.”
“That is perfectly wonderful,” Holly said. “When are you coming back?”
“Can I take a couple of days?”
“Sure. I’ll see what I can do about an aircraft for you two.”
“You’re a good boss.”
“You’re a good kid.” They hung up.
At Langley, Lance Cabot thanked Lev Epstein, then sat, sipping coffee and waiting for his call to his Yemen station chief to go through. Finally, the phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Carter, Director.”
“Scramble.”
“I am scrambled.”
“Ah, Carter. Tell me about your contact with the leader of the Dahai Freedom Brigade — what’s his name?”
“We’re not sure, but he answers to Habbib. A good man, sir. If they’re ever able to dislodge the sultan, he’ll be in line for the leadership.”
“I believe we supplied him with a dozen Russian SA-7 shoulder-fired missiles a few weeks ago.”
“We did, sir.”
“What sort of guidance system?”
“Laser-operated, sir. You lock on, then let it go.”
“Range?”
“Six miles target detection, four miles engagement range, up to twenty thousand feet.”
“Can you get in touch with your man?”
“We also supplied him with an encrypted cell phone.”
“Ring him up and tell him there will be an irresistible target arriving at Dahai International at seven this evening, local time. It’s a G-450, painted white, tail number Delta Alpha 004. I believe the wind is forecast from the north today, so the flight will fly the ILS 36 approach. The initial approach fix is out over the sea, about six miles from the threshold of runway 36 and four miles from the beach. We’d like it to fall in deep water.”
“Can I tell him who’s aboard?”
“Three of the sultan’s favorites.”
“He’ll like that. Shall I offer him an incentive?”
“Tell him if he hits the mark, we’ll wire a million dollars to whatever account he likes.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
“I knew you’d say that. Oh, and tell him not to shoot down an airliner, will you?”
“I’ll tell him to take along his binoculars.”
“And tell him to be sure to issue a statement saying that the Brigade takes responsibility. We want him to have all the credit.”
“I’ll see that he does, sir.”
“Thank you, Carter.” Lance hung up and poured himself another cup of coffee.
63
It was broad daylight when Millie closed the curtains in her suite at the Connaught and climbed into bed with Quentin. “You’d better still be awake,” she said, snuggling up to him.
“Wide awake,” he said, fondling a breast and kissing her.
“You didn’t want to stay and see the Dahai jet off?”
“Ian can take care of that. I’m right where I want to be.” He rolled over on top of her. “We have until two-thirty, when the car comes to take us to MI6 for our debriefing teleconference.”
“Then we’d better get started,” she said, guiding him inside her.
It was after midnight before Stone crawled into bed, tired enough to be glad he was alone. He fell immediately into a contented sleep.
He woke at six-thirty and ordered breakfast, then got into a hot shower. He was eating breakfast in bed at seven, when he turned on the CBS Morning News. A banner was spread across the screen: BREAKING NEWS!