Blaze of Glory (25 page)

“Why not just pop her and beat feet out of here?” Rich asked.

“A dead woman can’t give us answers. Besides, she said that even if we shoot her, the bomb goes off.”

Zinsser took a step toward the door. “I need to get in there.”

“No you don’t.” Moyer’s tone stopped Zinsser cold. “I’m ordering you guys out.”

Zinsser squared off. “Look, Boss, if there’s a remote detonator, then a radio is involved. That makes it in my bailiwick—mine or Pete’s. Look at him. Does he look in any condition to do this?”

Moyer stepped to the side to look at Pete. Before he could turn, Zinsser pushed past him and walked into the room.

CHAPTER 27

ALDO GRONCHI CROUCHED ON the hot asphalt as hundreds of pairs of feet landed near him. Screams choked the air. Several people tripped over him as they stampeded past. Beneath him, sheltered between his legs and arms, lay an eight-year-old, red-haired girl, who screamed in terror—the same scorching terror he felt.

Pain raced up his leg as a bulky man stepped on his right ankle, then crashed down next to him. A second later the man was on his feet, swearing in Italian, and running with the pack.

“Stay still, little one. Stay still.” Could she even hear him? His ears rang from the sound of the explosion. He tried to force the images of flying body parts from his mind.

When he received word that more protesters than expected had shown up and they were moving closer to the barricades, Aldo had gone to take charge of the operation. Fifteen minutes after he arrived, he felt the ground rumble and heard a distant explosion. The second explosion was much louder and much closer.

The crowd reacted by running from the sound, the heat, and the bloody carnage, overrunning the barricades and the men who manned them. To Aldo it seemed as if he had been swept up in a wave, not of water, but of human flesh. Before he could issue an order, he went down. The little girl tumbled near him. He’d been a cop too long to wonder why anyone would be so stupid as to bring a child to a place like this. Someone tripped over her and landed hard on the macadam. Aldo scrambled to the girl, intending to pick her up, but the crowd thickened and rising proved impossible. He did the only thing he could: cover her with his body. Sheltering her made him a target—a larger obstacle to the fleeing crowd.

For several long minutes Aldo was certain the crowd would trample him into the street, leaving a dead and flattened version of himself. Aldo’s mind told him the human stampede lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like days had passed.

“Are you hurt, Capitano?”

A young officer helped him to his feet. Aldo picked up the girl, who continued to wail. Placing a hand on her head, he pulled her close. “I don’t think so.” He looked at the officer and could tell the man had taken a beating. His uniform was torn in several places and covered with dirt. “You?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

Aldo guessed he was lying, being brave for his commander. “Take the girl.” The man did.

Turning slowly, Aldo took in the scene. It looked like a battlefield. Wounded people lay on the grass, the sidewalks, and in the streets. As he walked past the wounded, he pulled the radio from his belt. He didn’t want to walk this direction but knew he had too.

Broken bodies gave way to burned and dismembered ones.

Aldo paused long enough to vomit.

“WE SHOULD CLOSE THE gate.”

Lorenzo stared at the Naples police officer. The man was right. They had just received a report that a large crowd was headed their way. He glanced at the open maw that led to the hotel’s underground parking, then hesitated.

“Sir?”

The flower van emerged, driving slowly, and pulled up the ramp.

“Of course. Close the security gate.”

The officer raced to the opening while Lorenzo opened the barricade to let the van pass. He refused to look inside.

In the distance the ululations of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars rose skyward along with a tall column of black smoke.

Lorenzo looked up at the tall hotel. “Any moment . . .” He drew his handgun and placed the muzzle next to his right temple.

He thought of his daughter—then pulled the trigger.

“ARE CHRISTIANS SUPPOSED TO do that?”

J. J. looked up and saw Zinsser approaching, then returned his attention to the zipper that ran down the front of Delaram’s maternity dress.

“You shouldn’t be here. It’s unhealthy in this room.”

“So I hear.” Zinsser stepped closer. “I figured you could use some help.”

J. J. gently pulled the zipper down until it reached its stop. “You figured wrong. I’m the demolition guy.”

“Getting a little territorial, aren’t you? I’m the electronics guru.”

“If this goes south, pal, you’re going to be more goo than guru. I can handle this.”

Zinsser stepped behind Delaram and pulled the dress free of her shoulders. He let it drop to the floor. “By the way, who am I undressing?”

“My name is Delaram.” Her voice shook.

“Nice to meet you, Delaram.” Zinsser didn’t offer his name. He stepped around to face her. J. J. had taken a step back. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s a good thing Agent Baker didn’t get his way.”

“I take it he wanted to . . .”

“Shoot me in the head?” Delaram said. “I wish he had.”

“If he had,” J. J. said, “we’d all be dead.” It took all the courage he could muster to step forward. Delaram stood straight and unmoving, dressed only in her underwear, the dress she had been wearing puddled at her feet. “I’ll disable the radio receiver first.”

“Sounds good,” Zinsser said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Leave. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Forget it.” Zinsser pointed at the round vest strapped to Delaram. “What do you see?”

“We don’t have time for questions. Abasi could be about to push the button.”

“Who?”

“Someone Delaram mentioned.” J. J. reached for the radio.

“Hang on a sec. See the wires that run up the shoulder strap?”

J. J. looked up. “I missed that. Tamper mechanism?”

“I don’t think so. They’re attached to the motion detector.”

“Is that true, Delaram?”

“I don’t know. They made me practice putting on the vest, but this time they did things I couldn’t see. They put a bag over my head.”

“I can’t wait any longer. Take off, Zinsser, I may not get this right.”

Zinsser ignored him.

Delaram began to shake, then sway.

Zinsser slipped behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “Get busy, Colt. She’s going to pass out.”

J. J. laid a hand on the receiver. Duct tape held it in place. J. J. removed the tape and gently pulled the receiver away. Two insulated copper wires ran from the back and into the bulging vest. “The great thing about plastic explosive is how pliable it is.” J. J. bit his lower lip, grabbed the wires, and yanked.

“We still alive, J. J.?” Zinsser asked.

“So far . . .”

Delaram’s knees gave way and her head rolled to the side. Zinsser grunted. “Put some speed on, J. J.”

J. J. didn’t waste time with words; he turned his attention to the gray box he had determined was the motion detector. Zinsser bent under the dead weight of the woman.

“It looks simple. All I have to do is keep it level as I—” J. J. removed the tape that held the device in place. He saw a small glass tube filled with a yellow bubble, like a carpenter’s level. The bubble was for the user’s information during installation. The real sensors would be electronic—probably a mercury switch.

“You praying, J. J.?”

“Haven’t stopped.”

“Good. God’s more likely to listen to you than me.”

J. J. gently pulled the device away with one hand. Unlike the radio receiver, this device had two long, pointed metal pins protruding from the back. The pins had been pressed into the explosives.

“So far so good.”

“Maybe for you. Can I set her down?”

“No. I don’t trust the designer.” He unbuckled the straps that held the vest to Delaram’s form. “Okay. Let me hold her and you unbuckle the back of the vest.”

J. J. placed a hand on each of Delaram’s arms and squeezed. It was an awkward position and Delaram’s dead weight made her as heavy as a large sack of rocks. It was his turn to grunt.

Zinsser had the vest unbuckled in seconds and slipped it forward, then let it drop. Together they lowered the unconscious woman to the floor. J. J. returned to the vest and checked for any source of ignition he might have missed.

“Can I start breathing again?”

“Sure,” J. J. said. “I think we’re safe now.” J. J. sat on the floor and lowered his head onto his knees. Just a few minutes ago twenty of the world’s leaders were within seconds of death.

“You okay, pal?”

“Peachy,” J. J. said. “Just peachy.”

ERMANNO GRECO RECEIVED THE radio call as he banked his F2 Typhoon to the west. To his left, from an area just a mile or so from the coast and the
Miramare Hotel Grande,
rose a thick coil of black smoke. Ermanno could see orange-red flame scratching at a nearby business. A half dozen fires blocked the streets. A few blocks further south, flashing red lights told the pilot something else was going on—something bad.

He resisted the urge to fly over the area. He had been given a mission, and nothing else mattered. Ermanno throttled up.

“Feet wet,” he said as his craft crossed over the shore and streaked over the ocean. He spoke with a casualness that belied the pounding of his heart.

He had been given a detailed description and had no trouble finding the long, white yacht racing on a collision course with the marina on the ocean side of the hotel. Gunboats from the Italian navy bore down on the vessel from the south and the north. Each had twin 50-caliber rapid fire cannons on the bow. In moments they would be in range to open fire.

Ermanno eased the stick forward, lowering the nose, and set his sights on the yacht. He strained his eyes to see who, if anyone, stood at the wheel. He was too high and moving too fast to make a determination. He had no trouble, however, seeing the twenty or so people on the deck frantically waving at him. Their behavior made clear their terror.

Ermanno radioed base. “The yacht carries about twenty people. I think they’re trapped onboard.”

He was told to make another pass. As he did, several of the men and women pressed their hands together as if praying. They were pleading for help.

Nausea began to burn his stomach. He feared the order that might come his way.

On the next pass the northernmost gunboat reached the yacht and fired a round of tracers over the bow. The yacht continued on course and gave no sign of slowing.

“Flight Command, Eagle Two, the gunboats have fired warning shots. No change.” He imagined someone on the gunboats was giving the same report to their superiors.

“Standby Eagle Two.”

Seconds dripped by. Ermanno flew a mile out to sea, then began a sharp turn. The g-forces pressed him to the side and back in his seat.

“Eagle Two, you are directed to make a low flyby for observation.”

“Roger. Beginning flyby.”

Ermanno skimmed a hundred feet above the swells of the Bay of Naples. He slowed to just fifty kilometers above his stall speed. This time he could see the fear on the faces of the passengers. Not one looked older than twenty-five. He saw no one at the upper helm. Perhaps the captain was in the control area in the cabin, but if he was, why didn’t the people on deck do anything to stop him?