"I don't understand how the girls are connected to this," Gereg said as she sat down at her desk. She pushed a button and a panel slid back, revealing photos on a large screen recessed into the wall.
"Through these two Saudis — Jawhar and Akil."
Gereg shook her head. "I know that, but Dublowski's daughter getting grabbed? Seems to be too much of a coincidence." She reached into a drawer and pulled out a file folder and threw it on the desk. "That's what I've been able to gather on the two brothers. They've been kidnapping girls for a while. Some they kill, some they take back home."
"You've known—"
Gereg held up her hand, cutting Parker off. "No, I haven't known diddly about this. I just got this report from the Israelis. A comrade of mine in Tel Aviv is very concerned about Saudi terrorists having two briefcases of VZ nerve gas."
Parker opened the folder. Her eyes widened. "Who's this?" She held up a photo.
"Their mother."
Parker pulled a printout from her briefcase. "Look at these girls. They're the ones we know are missing in Germany."
Gereg glanced over. "They look like a younger version of the mother. Petite and blond." She tapped the rest of the file. "According to this, the boys hated their mother and their father. Maybe they're taking out their hatred against Mom on these girls."
"Maybe," Parker agreed, but something about that didn't sit quite right with her. She looked at the photo once more. "Except for Terri Dublowski," Parker noted. "She doesn't look like the others."
Gereg nodded. "That's interesting, isn't it? Almost like someone wanted Dublowski involved — and through him, you and Thorpe. And through you," she added with a twist of her mouth, "me." She typed into her computer. "Let me check on something." A couple of seconds later, she had her answer. "The request to put Thorpe back on active duty went through the office of the reserves in the Pentagon, but it originated here. Someone here wanted Thorpe on active duty."
"Hill is no longer national security adviser," Parker said. "He would—"
"There's someone who was Lane's protégé." Gereg was still typing on her keyboard.
"Who?"
"That's who." Gereg pointed at the screen. "That's an intercept from the Direct Action operations center. We spend more time, resources and energy spying on each other here than on foreign countries. The CDA, Chief of Direct Action, is a man named Hancock. His brother was one of the CIA men killed in Lebanon by Thorpe and McKenzie. I have no doubt that Hancock blames me for the SO/NEST team being on that beach, even though he never informed me of the operation. And he definitely blames Thorpe for his brother's death."
"Hancock was in line to be the director until Operation Delilah, which he was running for Hill, blew up in his face. He's a very dangerous man."
There was action on the screen that diverted Parker's attention as she tried to assimilate everything Gereg had just told her. "What are they doing?"
"Hancock has a Direct Action Team — DAT — on call in Sarajevo. He made a point of asking the director a couple of days ago to do just that."
"Then he knew something was going to happen?" Parker asked.
Gereg laughed without any humor, a low rumble from deep in her throat. "Knew something? He doesn't just know things, he sets things up. Cut through everything that's going on, and somewhere back there, you'll find the long reach of Mr. Hancock and behind that, Mr. Hill. Our old friend is still out there pulling strings."
"Can the Direct Action Team stop the VZ?"
"I hope that's what Hancock has planned. Even Hancock wouldn't go so far as to let nerve gas get loose." She paused. "At least I don't think he would."
"What can we do?"
"For now? Just watch. This hand has already been dealt."
Chapter Twenty-seven
Terri woke to the sound of shouting and boots tramping down the corridor. Doors slammed open, the steel thudding against concrete. A girl screamed and Terri ran over to the door and pressed against it, listening. A man was yelling in a language she had never heard before.
Terri fell into the hallway as her door was suddenly jerked open. A boot swung and hit her in the ribs, knocking the air out of her lungs. She scuttled away from the boot as it swung once more at her. Several men in light-colored camouflage had the other girls in the corridor. The man who had just kicked Terri reached down and grabbed her by the neck, hauling her to her feet.
She kicked him and earned a throttling in retaliation. Terri gasped for air as the man's hand tightened down, cutting off the flow of air to her lungs. With bulging eyes she stared into his dark-skinned face.
She realized she was going to die; that this was the last minute of her life. She kicked with weakening legs, feeling them strike his body, but there was no loosening of the hand around her neck.
She didn't want to die. That was the only thought that resonated through her mind. Her vision was fading, the sounds becoming muted.
A man's voice rose above the commotion, screaming something in the strange tongue.
The hand released and Terri collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath. She felt the boot kick her once, twice, a third time, but she didn't react; she was so grateful to feel the oxygen in her lungs, to know she wasn't going to die.
She looked up. A tall man was striding down the corridor, yelling at the men in camouflage. This man wore a dark green uniform, with numerous badges on it and gold epaulets. She could see guards kicking the other girls, all of whom were on the floor like she was.
With a kick to get her attention, the guard who had choked her gestured for her to stand up. Terri got to her feet and the guard threw her back into her cell, slamming the door shut.
Terri sank down onto the floor, back against the door. She was hyperventilating, and with great effort she forced herself to stop. She got the breathing under control — barely — and curled up in a ball on the floor, sobbing. She could hear the other girls crying and for once she didn't call out to comfort them. She barely had the strength for herself.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Kiril positioned the SAM-9 missile with a field of fire covering the abandoned railroad tracks. Then he deployed the rest of his men around the embankment with all the hard-earned knowledge he'd gained fighting for the last decade.
He'd already plotted the route they would take south to Sarajevo. IFOR was building up forces around the city, preparing for an offensive against the Serbs. Over twenty thousand NATO troops were now camped within a twenty-mile radius of the city. The thought of what the VZ gas, released from a hill overlooking the city, would do to both the soldiers and citizenry of Sarajevo did not weigh heavily on Kiril's conscience. He had seen too much over the years. He simply wanted it to be over and he knew this was the only way.
He pulled back the worn sleeve of his fatigues and checked the watch strapped to his wrist. The crystal was chipped and cracked, but he could make out the hands beneath — another hour and the Saudi brothers would be here.
Two HH-60 Nighthawk helicopters were lifting off from the U.S.S. Nimitz, blades chopping through the salty air. Sailors watched, wondering who the black-uniformed men on board were. Since arriving on the ship four days ago, the men had stayed to themselves, totally ignoring crew members, test-firing exotic weapons off the edge of the flight deck and generally acting — in the words of one chief petty officer — like "bad asses."
An Apache gunship followed the two Nighthawks and the three aircraft headed due east — toward "Indian" country, as the pilots who overflew the Balkans called that airspace.