Emma tilted her head toward Jonathan. “Just for him.” She waited until von Daniken had given her husband a pistol and two clips of ammunition, then continued. “There will be men posted around the house. Get as close as you can, then hit them with the lights and the siren. That should spook them. After the attack on the decoy, they won’t be expecting us.”
“The man in charge of this? Is his name Austen?”
Emma didn’t answer.
“Can you speak with him?” von Daniken continued. “Will he listen to you if you tell him that we have his compound surrounded?”
“No,” said Emma. “He only listens to one voice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that he won’t stop. Not now.”
Von Daniken radioed the SWAT captain with instructions to bring his men to Lenkstrasse by the rear route as quickly as possible and to expect gunfire.
Just then, Hardenberg pulled up in a white Audi police cruiser. Von Daniken opened the door. “Do you have a car?” he asked Emma Ransom.
“It’s up the road in back,” she answered.
“Good luck, then.”
Von Daniken climbed into the rear of the Audi. Kurt Myer, hefting a Heckler & Koch submachine gun, sat in the passenger seat. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t fired one of these in a while,” he said, looking over his shoulder.
“How long?” asked von Daniken.
“Not ever.”
“Give it to me.”
Myer handed von Daniken the machine gun and he chambered a round and set it to full automatic. “Aim and pull the trigger. You’re bound to hit something. Just make sure it isn’t one of us.”
Myer grabbed the machine gun and set it on his lap.
“Pull up Lenkstrasse on your navigation unit,” von Daniken said as the car accelerated.
Hardenberg input the address. A map appeared on the screen. Lenkstrasse was a ruler-straight stretch of road bordering the city park. The home in question sat at its northern end, at the point where it ran around the far side of the park. “Go the back way,” said von Daniken.
The car negotiated the streets of Glattbrugg, crossing under the freeway before commencing a steep, curving climb up the hillside. Von Daniken called the airport. It took four minutes until he was connected to the tower. He identified himself. “What’s the status of El Al 8851?”
“Coming in twenty minutes early,” responded the flight controller. “Posted for a seven forty-five arrival.”
Von Daniken eyed the onboard clock: 7:36. “Contact the pilot and tell him to abort the landing. We have a verified threat against the aircraft.”
“He’s sixty kilometers out on initial approach. He hasn’t reported any problems. Are you sure?”
“We have every reason to believe there will be a ground-based attack directed against El Al Flight 8851.”
“But I haven’t had any notification from the head office…”
“Do it,” said von Daniken in a quiet voice that brooked no defiance.
“Yes, sir.”
Von Daniken hung up. Sixty kilometers. If the smaller drone he’d seen in Lammers’s office had a range of fifty kilometers, one this size could go ten times as far. If they didn’t succeed in stopping the unmanned aerial vehicle before it took off, it would be too late.
“There’s a roadblock ahead,” said Hardenberg.
“Go around it. You’ve got room on the shoulder.”
“Should I hit the siren?”
“Wait till we’re closer.”
Hardenberg eased the Audi off the road and onto the snow and hardscrabble alongside it. The car rocked gently. “Easy, easy.”
“No problem,” said Myer as the Audi regained the pavement. “I told-”
The windshield exploded, showering the cabin with glass. Bullets raked the car. A tire blew, and the Audi sagged to one side. The radiator exploded in a hiss of steam.
“Get down!” shouted von Daniken. A moment later, he was struck by something warm and wet. He wiped his face, and his hands came away coated with gore. Kurt Myer lay twisted between the seats, his face a pulp of bone and gristle.
Hardenberg threw open the door and commando-crawled to the rear of the vehicle. Von Daniken eased open the door, counted to three, then scrambled into the forest. He threw himself to the ground, his face buried in the snow.
The gunfire died down, an occasional shot flicking ice into the air.
“Call Captain Berger,” he yelled to Hardenberg.
“My phone’s in the car.”
Von Daniken felt in his pockets. He’d dropped his own phone somewhere during his unceremonious exit. He drew his service pistol and fumbled with it until he’d managed to chamber a round and make sure that the safety was off. He swore under his breath. His watch read 7:42. He picked up a new noise coming from the top of the hill. It was the drone’s jet engine coming to life.
He looked around him. The house was thirty meters directly uphill from him. It was a modern building, cantilevered over the hillside, supported by great steel pylons. The windows were dark, lending it an abandoned feel. He knew better.
He raised his head for a clearer view. A bullet struck a tree ten centimeters away. He dug his cheek into the snow. Night vision goggles. Of course. How else could they see him in this damned dark?
“Run down the hill,” he said to Hardenberg. “You’ve got to warn the others.”
Hardenberg sat with his back pressed to the rear bumper, his face bluer than ice. “Okay,” he said, but he didn’t budge.
“Stay behind the car and they won’t be able to hit you,” von Daniken went on.
Hardenberg stirred. He swallowed and his shoulders gave a giant shrug. He set off, crawling on all fours backwards down the road. Von Daniken watched him retreat. Five steps. Ten. Stay down, he urged silently. Hardenberg crawled a few more meters, then raised his head tentatively.
“Low,” von Daniken whispered, patting the air, signaling for him to keep down.
Hardenberg misinterpreted the motion and began to stand.
“No,” shouted von Daniken at the top of his lungs. “Get down!”
Hardenberg nodded hesitantly and continued to walk down the hill. A bullet struck him in the head and he collapsed onto the cement.
“Klaus!”
Von Daniken rolled onto his back, sick with himself.
84
Captain Eli Zuckerman adjusted the trim on his ailerons and eased back the throttle as a prelude to disengaging the autopilot. Flying a passenger jet had become so automated that once a plane’s onboard computers were programmed with a particular flight’s data-destination, cruising altitude, maximum allowable ground speed-the aircraft could literally fly itself. The only time Zuckerman felt himself in full control of the aircraft was during takeoff and landing, a total of thirty minutes per flight. The rest of the time, he was basically a technician monitoring all the instruments and making sure that his first officer kept up with ground communication. It wasn’t exactly the job he’d dreamed of when he’d left the air force so many years ago as a red-hot fighter jock with twenty-one kills during three wars.
Zuckerman hit the disengage button. The plane shuddered and dipped as he took manual control. Easing the yoke left, the A380 began a gentle turn to the south. It was a clear night, ideal flying weather. He could see the city’s lights in the distance, and farther off behind it, a great black emptiness that was the Alps. He trimmed the flaps and the aircraft began its slow descent to Zurich Flughafen.
“Sixteen minutes to touchdown,” said his copilot.
Zuckerman stifled a yawn. As expected, it had been an uneventful flight. He checked his watch-fifteen minutes to landing-then glanced at the first officer. “So, Benny,” he said. “What are you thinking for dinner? Wiener schnitzel or fondue?”