The decision came more easily than Crockett expected. In the end, it was too dangerous. He couldn’t risk the lives of fourteen men or the downing of the two Chinooks.
“I’m on my way,” he said. “Just got to snap some pics for the record. The boys in D.C. are going to want to see this. Mark these coordinates and call for another team to get up here ASAP.”
Crockett hustled back into the tent and began firing off pictures with his digital camera. He concentrated on the missile itself, and was sure to get close-ups of the serial numbers on the tail and the belly. Finally he crawled back into the ditch and lay on his back staring into the guts of the missile.
Inside, pressed to the wall, was a square packet the size of a pack of cigarettes wrapped in green plastic. A slim aluminum baton was inserted into the packet, with wires running to an LCD timer. He’d worked with similar devices before and knew at once what he was looking at, and that he was in danger. He hit his helmet light and twisted his head to read the display.
The numbers on the LCD timer attached to the half-kilo charge of C4 plastic explosives read 0:00:06.
Six seconds.
“Evac immediately,” he radioed the pilot, amazed at how calm his voice sounded. “I’m fucked.”
Captain Kyle Crockett did not try to get away. Eyes open, he watched the timer count down to zero. There was a flash, then darkness.
He felt nothing.
41
Frank Connor took the news stoically and, except for a sudden and nearly unnoticed grimace, with no outward show of emotion. He was a veteran of too many campaigns to fear that all was lost. One battle did not a war win- or lose. Sitting in his office, Peter Erskine at his side, he listened dispassionately as the helicopter crew chief relayed the facts of the failed mission.
“Captain Crockett radioed that he believed enemy combatants were in the vicinity just before he was killed by an explosion on the ground.”
“Mine? IED? Grenade?” asked Connor. “Can you give me any more detail?”
“It wasn’t no mine or grenade,” said the crew chief in a slow Texan drawl. “We were hovering directly above him, telling him to get his ass back into the wagon. The flight conditions were horrendous, Mr. Connor. Half the guys had already thrown up, and Major McMurphy, our pilot, wanted to get the hell out of there. We’d used up more than half our fuel just trying to find the bad guys. Anyway, there I was yelling for Crockett to exfil and suddenly he radios back for us to get the hell out of there. He must have seen what killed him, ’cause three seconds later the place went up. Ask me, it was C4. Had that bright orange color to it. The friggin’ blast nearly took us out of the sky, I kid you not.”
“What do you mean, the place? Was he inside something?”
“Yessir. A tent. Didn’t I tell you? That’s why he went down there in the first place. There was some dang tent right there on the mountainside.”
Connor shot a glance at Erskine and said, “He found the damned thing.” Then, to the crew chief, “Did he tell you what was inside the tent?”
“No, sir. Didn’t say anything, just that he was sure the bad guys were close by.”
“Did you have any indication that the combatants were in the area beforehand?”
“We caught a blip on the infrared screen for about twenty seconds, but when we got closer it was gone. We turned on the spotlight and Captain Crockett saw the tent flapping in all that wind.”
“Were you able to confirm that the heat signature belonged to a human?” asked Erskine.
“No, sir. Like I said, it was just a blip. Coulda been anything, but you tell me what kind of animal might be out in that kind of blizzard. Only a goddamned Marine’s crazy enough. I’ll tell you that for free.”
Or my best operative, bent on retrieving a WMD, thought Connor. “Did you see anything on the ground afterward?”
“Nothing but fire. Crockett was gone, too. But there must have been something inside that tent. Our helo took a hard shot on our belly. When we landed I found a piece of steel three inches square dug into our skin. If it had hit the rotor, we would’ve been toast.”
“Shrapnel, maybe?” asked Erskine.
“No, sir. Wasn’t shrapnel. This was heavy milled steel, least an inch thick. That’s all I can tell you.”
Connor requested that the crew chief remove the steel and send it to Division by courier, then sat up in his chair. “How soon can you mount a mission to get back up that mountain?”
“That’s up to Sergeant Major Robinson, but the weather has to clear first. Ask me, I don’t see the need. Whoever was up there is long gone by now.”
Connor ended the communication. It was late in the afternoon in northern Virginia. He looked out the window and noticed for the first time that it was a lovely day. He stood, thinking of Crockett and wondering what the Marine had found.
“She’s got it,” he said.
“You can’t be sure,” said Erskine. “We have no idea what was in that tent.”
“I’m not in the mood for the devil’s advocate routine, Pete. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, and that boy’s death is weighing on my conscience. If there was a tent on that mountainside, then Emma put it there while she was retrieving the nuclear warhead from that missile. She blew the evidence to kingdom come, just as I expected she’d do. Sometimes I think we trained her too well.”
“Would you like me to call the secretary?”
Connor turned on Erskine. “And say what? One of our agents has been turned by terrorists and is in possession of a WMD? Because if I do, that is the day this agency ends. No, Pete, this is still our play. We made the decision to handle this thing. We’ll do it to the end or until someone takes it away from us. I don’t trust anyone else with this.”
Erskine frowned sourly. “Frank, I think it’s time we took this to someone higher up. Someone with more resources.”
“We already had this discussion,” said Connor. “Resources take time, and that’s the one commodity we do not possess.”
“But-”
Connor silenced Erskine with a liverish glance. “We can still get this done.”
Erskine slumped in his chair. “So what’s the next move?”
“Get me a plane to Zurich. I want to talk to Jonathan Ransom.”
42
Seated in the passenger seat of Chief Inspector Marcus von Daniken’s Audi sedan, Jonathan was immediately aware of a heightened tension in the air. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and von Daniken was driving out of Gstaad, down the valley toward Saanen. The sky was blue and cloudless. A bold sun turned snow-covered meadows into fields of sparkling diamonds. Yet one look at all the stony faces and Jonathan could be forgiven for believing he was headed to a funeral.
Von Daniken was taciturn even by his usual curt standards. He spoke to Jonathan with looks, not words. Get in. Buckle up. Sit still and be quiet. A rainbow-striped hot-air balloon lifted off from the field next to them, joining two others drifting over the peaks. No one said a word. Jonathan glanced at the rear seat. Danni met his gaze, then looked away. Like him, she was dressed in jeans, a fleece jacket, and a parka. Her jewelry was a memory. The earrings, bracelets, and wedding rings had all been packed away and left at the hotel, along with the ghosts of Mr. and Mrs. John Robertson. It was just Danni and Jonathan again, teacher and pupil, and he wondered if he’d been incorrect about her and if the attraction was not mutual.
The first indication of a change in the atmosphere had come upon her return to the restaurant the evening before. Jonathan had noticed immediately that her face was slightly drawn, her acting skills nowhere on display. Without explanation, she’d insisted they leave immediately, saying only that he needed his rest. Things were no better at the hotel. If anything, her demeanor cooled from icy to glacial. Attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. He’d woken at three a.m. to find an empty space in the bed next to him. Rising, he’d found her at the salon window, staring at the crescent moon.