"I guess this here's the right side of the tracks," Homer Johnston observed. "Lotsa windows, Dieter."
"Ja, " the German sniper agreed.
"Where you want. us, boss?" Homer asked Chavez.
"Far side, both sides, cross fire on the chopper pad. Right now, people, and when you're set up, give me radio calls to checkin. You know the drill."
"Everything we see, we call to you, Herr Major, " Weber confirmed. Both snipers got their locked rifle cases and headed off to where the local cops had their cars.
"Do we have a layout of the house?" Chavez asked Altmark.
"Layout?" the Austrian cop asked.
"Diagram, map, blueprints," Ding explained.
"Ach, yes, here." Altmark led them to his car. Blueprints were spread on the hood. "Here, as you see, forty-six rooms, not counting the basements."
"Christ," Chavez reacted at once. "More than one basement?"
"Three. Two under the west wing-wine cellar and cold storage. East wing basement is unused. The doors down to it may be sealed. No basement under the center portion. The Schloss was built in the late eighteenth century. Exterior walls and-some interior ones are stone."
"Christ, it's a frickin' castle," Difg'observed.
"That is what the word Schloss means, Herr Major," Altmark informed him.
"Doc?"
Bellow came over. "From what Captain Altmark tells me, they've been pretty businesslike to this point. No hysterical threats. They gave a deadline of midnight for movement to the airport, else they say they will start killing hostages. Their language is German, with a German accent, you said, Captain?"
Altmark nodded. "Ja, they are German, not Austrian.
We have only one name, Herr Wolfgang-that is generally a Christian name, not a surname in our language, and we have no known criminal-terrorist by that name or pseudonym. Also, he said they're of the Red Workers' Faction, but we have no word from that organization either."
Neither did Rainbow. "So, we don't know very much?" Chavez asked Bellow.
"Not much at all, Din. Okay," the psychiatrist went on, "what does that mean? It means they are planning to survive this one. It me s they're serious businessmen in this game. If they threaten to do something, they will try to do it. They haven't killed anyone yet, and that also means they're pretty smart. No other demands made to this point. They will be coming, probably soon-"
"How do you know that?" Altmark asked. The absence of demands to this point had surprised him.
"When it gets dark, they'll be talking with us more. See how they haven't turned any lights on inside the building?"
"Yes, and what does that mean
"It means they think the darkness is their friend, and that means they will try to make use of it. Also, the midnight deadline. When, it gets dark, we'll be closer to that."
"Full moon tonight," Price observed. "And not much cloud cover."
"Yeah," Ding noted in some discomfort when he looked up at the sky. "Captain, do you have searchlights we can use?"
"The fire department will have them," Altmark said.
"Could you please order them brought here?"
"Ja… Herr Doktor?"
"Yes?" Bellow said.
"They said that if they do not have those things done by midnight they will begin to kill hostages. Do you-"
"Yes, Captain, we have to take that threat very seriously. As I said, these folks are acting like serious people, well trained and well-disciplined. We can make that work for us."
"How?" Altmark asked. Ding answered.
"We give them what they want, we let them think that they are in control… until it is time for us to take control. We feed their pride and their egos while we have to, and then, later, we stop doing it at a time that suits us."
Ostermann's house staff was feeding the terrorists' bodies and their egos. Sandwiches had been made under the supervision of Ffrchtner's team and brought around by deeply frightened staff members. Predictably, Ostermann's employees were not in a mood to eat, though their guests were.
Things had gone well to this point, Hans and Petra thought. They had their primary hostage under tight control, and his lackeys were now in the same room, with easy access to Ostermann's personal bathroom - hostages needed such access, and there was no sense in denying it to them. Otherwise, it stripped them of their dignity and made them desperate. That was inadvisable. Desperate people did foolish things, and what Hans and Petra needed at the moment was control over their every action.
Gerhardt Dengler sat in a visitor's chair directly across the desk from his employer. He knew he'd gotten the police to respond, and, like his boss, he was now wondering if that was a good or a bad.thing. In another two years, he would have been ready to strike out on his own, probably with Ostermann's blessing. He'd learned much from his boss, the way a general's aide learns at the right hand of the senior officer. Though he'd been able to pursue his own destiny much more quickly and surely than a junior officer… what did he owe this man? What was required by this situation? Dengler was no more suited to this than Herr Ostermann was, but Dengler was younger, fitter…
One of the secretaries was weeping silently, the tears trickling down her cheeks from fear and from the rage of having her comfortable life upset so cruelly. What was wrong with these two that they thought they could invade the lives of ordinary people and threaten them with death? And what could she do about it? The answer to that was… nothing. She was skilled at routing calls, processing voluminous paperwork, keeping track of Herr Ostermann's money ably that she was probably the best-paid secretary in the country - because Herr Ostermann was a generous boss, ways with a kind word for his staff. He'd helped her and her husband-a stonemason-with their investment the point that they would soon be millionaires in their own right. She'd been with him long before his first wife had died of cancer, had watched him suffer through that, unable to help him do anything to ease the horrible pain, and then she'd rejoiced at his discovery of Ursel von Prinze, who'd allowed Herr Ostermann to smile again…
Who were these people who stared at them as though they were objects, with guns in their hands like something from a movie… except that she and Gerhardt and the others were the bit players now. They couldn't go to the kitchen to fetch beer and pretzels. They could only live the drama to its end. And so she wept quietly at her powerlessness, to the contempt of Petra Dortmund.
Homer Johnston was in his ghillie suit, a complex overall type garment made of rags sewn into place on a gridded matrix, whose purpose was to make him appear to be a bush or a pile of leaves or compost, anything but a person with a rifle. The rifle was set up on its bipod, the hinged flaps on the front and back lenses of his telescopic sight flipped up. He'd picked a good place to the east of the helicopter pad that would allow him to cover the entire distance between the helicopter and the house. His laser rangefinder announced that he was 216 meters from a door on the back of the house and 147 meters from the front-left door of the helicopter. He was lying prone in a dry spot on the beautiful lawn, in the lengthening shadows close to the treeline, and the air brought to him the smell of horses, which reminded him of his childhood in the American northwest. Okay. He thumbed his radio microphone.
Lead, Rifle Two-One."
Rifle Two-One, Lead."
"In place and setup. I show no movement in the house at this time."
"Rifle Two-Two, in place and set up, I also see no movement," Sergeant Weber reported from his spot, two hundred fifty-six meters from Johnston. Johnston turned to see Dieter's location. His German counterpart. had selected a good spot.