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Now Chopra sat in the hotel room, palming sweat from his forehead and rubbing his tired eyes. He still had Heidi’s blood on his left shirtsleeve. He was listening to the Snow Maiden speak on the phone while Hussein sat in a chair, watching a movie on the television. Chopra had been reading the tourist literature, something about a festival going on all week, sponsored by Favarger, a famous manufacturer of Swiss chocolate.

Abruptly, the Snow Maiden marched into the room and said, “I need to ask some questions about the gold and the vault.”

“How much longer do you think we’ll cooperate?” Chopra asked.

The woman rolled her eyes. “I’ll shoot you in the leg or the arm, and you’ll come around.”

“I won’t. I’m ready. Shoot me.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes.

Chopra tried to imagine himself a martyr for his cause, but all he saw was a frightened boy who’d allowed his bicycle to be stolen.

“What do you need to know?” asked Hussein, muting the television.

“We’re assuming the main vault is located in the old Multi Commodities Centre.”

“Yeah, it’s there,” said Hussein. “Almas Tower. There are a lot of other ones, too. It’s easy to get confused.”

“Exactly how much gold?”

“That I don’t know. Chopra?”

Chopra spoke through his teeth. “Hussein, our country needs us. We cannot go along with this anymore.”

“I’m ordering you. You work for me. You do what I say. I’m the sheikh. Tell her.”

Chopra took a deep breath.

The Snow Maiden drew her silenced pistol and jammed it into his bicep. “This will hurt.”

“Chopra, you stupid old man, tell her!” cried Hussein.

After a few more breaths, Chopra lowered his head in defeat. He was too weak, too fearful of the pain. He was a coward, and he cursed himself for that.

Her voice came through a hiss. “Tell me about the gold.”

“Tell her!” Hussein cried again.

Chopra answered, but he would not face her. “There are between five hundred and seven hundred gold bars.”

“How much do they weigh?”

“A lot. Four hundred troy ounces each.”

“In kilos?”

“About twelve each or twenty-seven pounds each. Heavy. There’s silver there as well. Each bar is worth nearly half a million U.S. dollars.”

“So we’ll obviously need trucks. Heavy moving equipment.”

He glowered at her. “Obviously. And you’ll need friends to move all that gold, friends you’re willing to keep alive and not throw away like garbage.”

“Shut up.”

“Why did you kill her? She seemed like a sweet woman. An innocent. And you just shot her.”

“You want to know why I killed her? Because I was starting to like her. Now tell me about the security system.”

“Go on the Web. I’m sure you can learn all you need to know…”

She jabbed the pistol deeper into his arm.

“It’s the usual. Very complex biometrics: iris patterns, fingerprints, facial readers, blood vessel authentication, and blood flow sensors, all combined with traditional password protection and token codes. The live fingerprint authentication alone includes four biological markers of pulse, blood pressure, body temperature, and the capillary patterns in the skin to verify fingerprints by analyzing ridges of the print as well as the depth of the valleys between the ridges.”

“I’ve bypassed those systems.”

“Not these. You can’t make a photocopy of someone’s thumb and use it. Or even a gel copy. These are quite literally the best in the world.”

“Which is where you come in.”

“Well, you should know the Al Maktoum family wouldn’t simply rely on those measures alone. The sheikh was an eccentric.” Chopra smiled darkly.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you should expect the unexpected.”

“No, I’ll expect you to get us inside.”

Even as he’d spoken, Chopra was already formulating a ruse, but he could not put forth the plan without the young sheikh’s help — and therein was his greatest challenge.

“He’ll get us in,” said Hussein. “And I’ll get you the data on the oil reserves, but only if you get me something to eat.”

“So you’ll give away your nation’s assets — all for one meal.”

The boy shrugged. “Half the gold and one meal. I’m starving.”

“I’ve already ordered,” said the Snow Maiden. “And new clothes will be here shortly. You’ll both shower and change.”

“What you’re attempting is quite huge,” said Chopra. “And have you considered the radiation? Exposure has been limited to less than eight hours without full NBC suits.”

“Who do you think you’re dealing with here?”

“I don’t know. I ask. You never answer. Why don’t you tell me? Are you terrorists?”

She chuckled. “Hardly.”

“Then what is your purpose?”

“Well, that’s philosophical, isn’t it?”

Chopra stiffened. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Then you can just listen,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “When I was a little girl, my father told my brothers and me a story about an old woman who lived in our town, and she was tired and old and couldn’t afford to eat, so she would go into the market and steal some bread or soup, or people would give her a handout. She got caught stealing some potatoes one day, and they hauled her off to jail. And my father never saw her again.”

The Snow Maiden just sat there, staring through him, reliving the moment.

“Was she put to death?” asked Chopra.

“I don’t know. I don’t think my father knew, but he never trusted the government after that. And he taught us to be afraid of the police.”

“Why does this bother you?”

“Because one day, I’ll be that woman, and they’ll lock me away because I stole some potatoes, and that will be my life.”

“I’m here to change that young man, to make him recognize that he was not born to live an ordinary life. He will change. It’s never too late.”

The Snow Maiden just looked at him, as though yearning for change herself.

* * *

Thirty-six hours later, Brent, his team, Thomas Voeckler, and Schoolie rendezvoused with the USS Florida in the Gulf of Oman, fifty miles south of the strait. The small-boat personnel transfer between their cruiser, USS Gettysburg CG-64, and the Virginia-class nuclear submarine took place at 0300. All boarded the nuclear submarine and were issued thermoluminescent dosimeters worn on their belts. The units, about the size of a deck of cards, measured their total radiation dosage while onboard and were worn at all times. This wasn’t the first time Brent had taken a ride aboard one of the JSF Navy’s finest, but Thomas was new to it all, so the others took turns ribbing him over his naïveté and hundred questions.

They were all given a refresher course in life aboard a submarine, and Brent had been escorted to the captain’s stateroom by the ship’s XO.

Commander Jonathan Andreas was seated at a fold-out desk, working the touchpad of a small computer. Andreas, who couldn’t be much older than Brent and had salt-and-pepper hair, gestured to a chair. “Have a seat, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Our lockout trunk is good for nine, so you’ll have to lock out in two evolutions. My SEAL chiefs will provide the training to your newbies. They’ll also deliver all of your heavier gear, including your combat suits, with our wet vehicle. You’ve seen one of the SDVs in action, I assume?”

Brent nodded. The older-model SEAL Delivery Vehicle was a torpedo-shaped craft that cut through the ocean at six knots and expedited the transfer of a team’s worth of gear. Brent was thankful for the help. Anything they could do to decrease their infiltration time was welcome. Two full evolutions of the lockout trunk was going to slow them down already, and it was his intention to establish an effective web of observation posts in and around Dubai before the Snow Maiden arrived. It all sounded excellent in theory. It always did.