A colossal explosion rocked the air, and in the blink of an eye the Lynx was gone. In the face of the blast wave, it was all Mother could do to hold on.
The wreckage of the first Lynx tumbled down the side of the tower—flaming, smoking.
It landed on a grassy strip at the base of the tower with a massive metal-crushing whutnp!
Mother looked over at the second Lynx helicopter, the one that had shot its buddy out of the sky . . . and saw its pilot.
Book II.
His voice came over her earpiece. 'Hey there. I picked this baby up on the roof. Unfortunately, the pilot was a reluctant seller. I was wondering where you'd got to.'1
'Ha-de-fucking-ha, Book,' Mother said, hauling herself up into the fifth elevator. 'How about getting me off this damn tower.'
'Be happy to. But can you get something for me first?
Mother charged through a corridor on the 39th floor, leading with her Colt.
The place was a mess. Bullet holes lined the walls. Anything made of glass had been shattered.
If the IG-88 team was still here, they weren't showing themselves.
'It's back near that internal staircase,' Book's voice said in her ear. 'The room where we found Rosenthal. It must be some kind of interrogation facility.'
'Got it,' Mother said.
She could see the doorway near the top of the curving stairs, hurried into it.
She was confronted by a two-way mirror that looked into an adjacent interrogation room. Two video cameras peered through the mirror. Thick manila folders and two digital video tapes lay on a table nearby.
'It's an interrogation centre, all right,' Mother said. 'I got files. I got DV tapes. What do you want?'
'All of it. Everything you can carry. Plus anything with Majestic-12 or CincLock-VII on it. And grab the tapes, including any that are still in the cameras.''
Mother grabbed a silver Samsonite suitcase lying on the floor and stuffed it with the files and digital video tapes. The two cameras also had tapes in them, so she grabbed them, too.
And then she was out.
Out the door and up the fire stairs to the roof.
She hit the roof running, dashed out into the rain, just as Book landed his Lynx on it. She climbed inside and the chopper lifted off, leaving the smoking ruins of the King's Tower smouldering in its wake.
OFFICES OF THE DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE
AGENCY,
SUB-LEVEL 3, THE PENTAGON
26 OCTOBER, 0700 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(1200 HOURS IN LONDON)
Dave Fairfax's boss caught him as he was leaving his office to go to St John's Hospital and find Dr Thompson Oliphant.
'And just where do you think you're going, Fairfax?' His name was Wendel Hogg and he was an asshole. A big guy, Hogg was ex-Army, a two-time veteran of wai in Iraq, a fact which he never failed to tell people about.
The thing was, Hogg was stupid. And in the tradition of stupid managers worldwide, he (a) clung rigidly and inflexibly to rules, and (b) despised talented people like David Fairfax.
'I'm going out for coffee,' Fairfax said.
'What's wrong with the coffee here?'
'I've tasted hydrofluoric acid that was better than the coffee here.'
Just then, a small waif-like young woman entered the office. She was the mail clerk, a quiet mousy girl named Audrey. Fairfax's eyes lit up at the sight of her—unfortunately, so did Hogg's.
'Hey, Audrey,' Fairfax said, smiling.
'Hi, Dave,' Audrey replied shyly. Others might have said she was plain, but Fairfax thought she was beautiful.
Then Hogg said loudly, 'Thought you said you were leaving, Fairfax. Hey, while you're doing a Starbucks run, why don't you
get us a couple of grande frappacinos. And make it snappy, will ya.'
A million witty retorts passed through Fairfax's brain, but instead he just sighed. 'Whatever you say, Wendel.'
'Hey,' Hogg barked. 'You will address me as Sergeant Hogg or Sergeant, young man. I didn't take a bullet in Eye-raq to be called Wendel by some spineless little keyboard-tapper like you, Fairfax. 'Cause when the time comes, boy, to stand up and stare into the enemy's eyeballs,'—he threw a cocksure grin at Audrey—'who would you want holding the gun, you or me?'
Fairfax's face reddened. 'I'd have to say you, Wendel.'
'Damn straight.'
And with an embarrassed nod to Audrey, Fairfax left the office.
EMERGENCY WARD, ST JOHN'S HOSPITAL,
ARLINGTON, USA
26 OCTOBER, 0715 HOURS
Fairfax entered the ER of St John's, went over to the reception counter.
It was quiet at this time of the morning. Five people sat slumped like zombies in the waiting area.
'Hi, my name is David Fairfax. I'm here to see Dr Thompson Oliphant.'
The desk nurse chewed bubble gum lazily. 'Just a second. Dr Oliphant! Someone here to see you!'
A second nurse appeared from one of the curtained-off bed-bays. 'Glenda, shhh. He's out back catching some shut-eye. I'll go get him.'
The second nurse disappeared down a back hallway.
As she did so, an exceedingly tall black man stepped up to the reception counter beside Fairfax.
He had deep dark skin and the high sloping forehead common to the inhabitants of southern Africa. He wore big fat Elvis sunglasses and a tan trenchcoat.
The Zulu.
'Good morning,' the Zulu said stiffly. 'I would like to see Dr Thompson Jeffrey Oliphant, please.'
Fairfax tried not to look at the bounty hunter—tried not to betray the fact that his heart was now beating very very fast.
Tall and lanky, the Zulu was gigantic—the size of a professional basketball player. The top of Fairfax's head was level with his chest.
The desk nurse popped a bubble-gum bubble. 'Geez, old Tommy's popular this morning. He's out back, sleeping. Someone's just gone to get him.'
At that moment, a bleary-eyed doctor appeared at the end of the long 'Authorized Personnel Only' corridor.
He was an older guy: grey-haired, wrinkled face. He wore a white labcoat and he rubbed his eyes as he emerged from a side room putting on his glasses.
'Dr Oliphant?' the Zulu called.
'Yes?' the old doctor said as he came closer.
Fairfax was the first to see the weapon appear from under the Zulu's tan trenchcoat.
It was a Cz-25, one of the crudest submachine-guns in the world. It looked like an Uzi only meaner—the ugly twin brother—with a long 40-round magazine jutting out of its pistol grip.
The Zulu whipped up the gun, levelled it at Oliphant, and oblivious to the presence of at least seven witnesses, pulled the trigger.
Standing right next to the big assassin, Fairfax did the only thing he could think to do.
He lashed out with his right hand, punching the gun sideways, causing its initial burst to strafe a line of bullet holes along the wall next to Oliphant's head.
People ducked.
Nurses screamed.
Oliphant dived to the floor.
The Zulu backhanded Fairfax, sending him crashing into a nearby janitor's trolley.
Then the Zulu walked—just walked—around the reception desk and into the staff-only corridor, toward Oliphant, his Cz-25 extended.
He fired ruthlessly.
The nurses scattered out of the way.
Oliphant scrambled on his hands and knees into a supply room that branched off the corridor, bullet-sparks raking the ground at his toes.
Fairfax lay among the shattered janitorial supplies from the trolley he'd slammed into. He saw a bag of white powder that had been on the trolley: 'zeolite-chlorine—industrial-strength