Hostile Intent (32 page)

At that moment, Devlin’s phone rang.

He didn’t move, but only looked at Milverton, who nodded. “Maybe it’s your girlfriend.”

Carefully, Devlin pulled the BlackBerry out of his breast pocket. It was still ringing. “It’s her,” he said.

“Well, bloody talk to her,” urged Milverton. “Never let it be said that I was not enough of a gentleman to allow the condemned a last tender moment. Who Dares, Wins.”

Devlin pressed the Talk button, at the same time he hit the “Sym” key. “I’m having the nicest chat,” he said into the phone as he electronically swept the room. “I think a vacation in France would be lovely. Yes. Some historic little town tucked away in a valley where we can drink absinthe and make love….”

He was right: the motion sensors were being controlled from the laptop. Blind the laptop and he just might have a chance. Let’s see just how good he was.

Milverton laughed and signaled for him to wrap it up.

“Good-bye, Maryam,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

Milverton let out a chuckle. “Very touching. And now, for the last time, I ask, what is she to you?

Devlin realized he was serious. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Then you’re fooling yourself. She’s a dream, the dream of the prisoner in the condemned hold. You think that this time it’s going to be different, but when they string you up and drop the trap, you’ll realize as your neck snaps that it was all a fantasy. Blokes like us, we spend our lives not trusting anybody but ourselves and our weapons, and then some skirt comes along, the one with our name on her arse, and down we go. Happens to the best of us. And you and I…we are the best.”

Now or never.

Devlin leaped, rolled, firing four shots from the semiautomatic Glock as fast as he could. No time for niceties, just marksmanship. The laptop’s LCD screen shattered. He was that fast.

So was Milverton. The return fire nearly took his head off. Then the lights went out. That much he expected. The strobe light, he didn’t. Like a seventies’ disco, but brighter and more blinding. Illuminating the target, which was him.

He charged, hit the sofa, and flipped it over, ducking beneath it as the shots rained down. Mentally, he calculated the trajectory. Milverton was slightly above him, on a stairway, seizing the high ground, firing down. His temporary refuge was now a killing field. He had to get out of there.

Frontal assault. It was the only way.

He managed to get just enough purchase, just enough leverage, to shove the sofa in Milverton’s general direction. The motion caught his eye, then his aim, then his fire.

Big mistake.

The Glock still had plenty of ammo left.

The whirling strobe died first. Then he put a perfect multi-round shot group where his senses and his experience told him Milverton would be.

He was wrong. Milverton was that fast.

Milverton landed on him from behind, clawing, tearing, scratching. Devlin was knocked to the ground by the impetus.

Knives. He had none. And Milverton, he knew from experience, would have several. The first order of business was to protect himself. The killing thrust would come almost immediately. He rolled…

And took it right in the shoulder. Deep, slicing through the trapezius, the supraspinatus, and the head of the triceps. More than deep enough.

He was prepared for the pain. He welcomed it.

For it froze Milverton’s knife hand, just long enough…

He came up firing.

He could hear Milverton groan as his insides were shredded. It would take him an agonizing while to die.

Which meant he was more dangerous than ever.

No time to relax. Dead wasn’t dead until dead was dead.

He shot him again. He could hear the man’s agonized breathing, then a scrabbling as he moved, clawing his way toward something.

Toward the computer, its shattered screen casting off sparks. But it was still dangerous—as dangerous as Milverton.

In his pain, a vision of the dying FBI agent came to him. The woman, whose name he never knew and never would know, her face turned to his, her last question on her lips: “Who are you?”

Another unanswered question.

Ahead, he heard a crashing. Of things swept away, to the floor. Of desperation as Milverton lunged for the laptop. “You’re too late!” came the voice in the darkness. Big mistake.

His last shot followed the voice trail, striking Milverton square amidships. He fell.

Time to end this.

Devlin dove, landing hard on Milverton’s back, full force. He could hear the spine break.

“Get it over with,” said the paralyzed man lying beneath him. The pain must have been agonizing. Devlin could feel the involuntary twitching, as the body’s neuromuscular system shut down. It would not be long now.

“No luck,” he said. “I’m not that nice a guy.”

“Who are you?” begged Milverton, still clutching the laptop beneath him.

Devlin popped another clip into his weapon. “The codes. I need those codes.”

“Fuck you!”

“Not interested. You’re done. You’ve never done a single worthwhile thing in your whole life. Now’s a real good time to start.”

Whether he had touched his conscience or whether it was the beating of the wings of the Angel of Death, Milverton suddenly softened. “Trade,” said the dying man.

“Trade,” soothed Devlin.

“Save her…” Milverton released the laptop.

“If I can,” said Devlin, grabbing it. “The codes?”

The light was going out in Milverton’s eyes. “Bernard, Malachy…” he whispered. The pain must have been excruciating, but the SAS man was a tough guy to the end.

Devlin patched the laptop into his PDA and punched what had to be the codes: 1146–1139.

Bernard. Malachy. The years of the Second Crusade and the Malachy prophecies. Things that obviously meant something to Skorzeny. What the hell were they dealing with here? A madman, yes, but a special kind of madman. A madman whose battle was not with the world, but with God.

He had been right all along: the “terrorist” angle was just a smokescreen. St. Bernard, St. Malachy, the passage from
Revelation
that Milverton had quoted to the President…There was an apocalypse coming all right, but it didn’t have anything to do with the Hidden Imam or the Second Coming.

Milverton was telling the truth. The message flashed:

OVERRIDE SEQUENCE. ABORT Y/N?

He had time. Just enough time. He looked back at Milverton.

“Where is she? Where’s Emma?”

He could just barely hear the words. “With her.”

He took pity on him.

Devlin turned the sofa upright, lifted Milverton off the floor, and laid him down, gently, on the couch. “Die in bed, O my brother,” he said.

He tossed the flat, took everything that was useful, including the hard drive, set the charges—SAS could pick up the rubble later—and downed his beer.

There was a picture of a beautiful woman on Milverton’s desk. At last he understood what had happened to Emma.

He memorized the face and laid the picture over Milverton’s dead heart.

C
LAIRVAUX
P
RISON

Emanuel Skorzeny got into the elevator that would take him down to Level Seven, the most secure part of the prison. It was the French equivalent of the Supermax facility in Colorado, reserved for the most dangerous inmates in the country.

Ilyich Ramirez Sanchez, the notorious “Carlos the Jackal,” was lying across his bunk with his back to the cell door, smoking a cigarette. France having succumbed to the antismoking hysteria that had swept the West, it was against the law to smoke in any public building, which included the prisons. But when cigarettes were outlawed, only outlaws would have cigarettes, and Carlos was living proof of the proposition.

“What’s up, Manny?” Carlos asked him in English, without preamble. He still had a very strong and pronounced Latin American accent.

Skorzeny hated to start a conversation without preamble. And he really hated it when Carlos called him Manny. “How are you today, Monsieur Ramirez Sanchez?”

Carlos rolled over and deigned to look at him. It infuriated Skorzeny that he, one of the most powerful men in the world, had to take such insolence from a man like Ramirez Sanchez, but there it was. Luckily, this would be the last time he would have to spend in the man’s company. Even though they’d known each other for decades, they were business associates, not friends. “I don’t hear no noise.”

“This far underground, and this far away, I doubt that even your keen ears will pick up any sound. You’ll certainly hear the reports, however.”

“You’d be surprised what I can hear way down here,” said Carlos. “Anyway, I never had nothing against the Americans—”

“That’s because you’re a mercenary, not an ideologue. Even with a name like Ilyich.”

“I want to fuck up the Arabs. For what they did to me.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you kidnapped the OPEC delegates in Vienna. You made some powerful enemies back then.”

Carlos snorted and chain-lit another cigarette. “Look who’s talking. When word of this gets out, your life ain’t going to be worth jack shit.”

Skorzeny smiled. At last, he had this churl at a disadvantage. “Of course word is going to get out. It’s supposed to get out. It’s my ship. I learned a long time ago that it is far better to be feared than loved. And the increase in my investments—”

“Easy for you say,” said Carlos, looking bored. “Even if you richer than God, nobody fucking loves you. Don’t you know the old song? ‘Money can’t buy me love.’ I think that was the Beatles.”

Skorzeny was to remonstrate with this savage that somebody indeed did love him, that she was waiting for him, desiring him, lying in his bed right now…but this was no time to lose focus.

“Anyway,” continued Carlos. “There are plenty of Arabs in here. North Africans, Algerians. The place is filthy with them.”

Carlos rose and padded over to his crude shaving mirror. It wasn’t a real mirror, of course, not one made of glass. More like a reflective surface, embedded in the wall. He put his hand on it and pushed—

The sound of voices, wafting from somewhere. Spooky.

“This used to be the cellars of the old abbey. Where the monks could hide out, get drunk, fuck around, whatever. But they built it so they could hear what was goin’ on upstairs. ‘Whispering galleries’ or some shit like that. Amazing what those medieval guys could do with no electricity. You can hear a fish fart in the pond. Anyway, I pay off every month for the authorities to leave it alone.”

Skorzeny could hear the voices quite clearly now, rough voices speaking in French, Arabic, Urdu, Chinese, Vietnamese…the mother country’s violent progeny. “You’re a powerful man, Monsieur Ramirez Sanchez.”

“Yeah, well,” said Carlos, “look where it got me…. Anyway, what you want? I guess if you’re here, the shit really is about to hit the fan.”

Skorzeny wished he had some water in which to wash his hands. Just being near this man made him feel unclean. “I wanted to tell you”—here he was, off-balance again—“that it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. What we’ve done together, this day—”

“Or else you scared of something.”

Skorzeny despised it when anyone interrupted him, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. His power was useless here. “The only thing I fear is the beating of the wings of the Angel of Death, and I intend to postpone that as long as possible.”

Carlos sat back down and looked Skorzeny over. “Yeah, well, from the looks of you, that won’t be all that long. You still scared of that kid whose parents you killed. You and those Arabs.”

This was hitting uncomfortably close to home. “We all…took part in that conversation. You, me…the American.” Skorzeny was referring to Seelye.

“And that’s why he fucked you. ’Cause you fucked him. Everybody guilty, and everybody gotta pay. Way of the world. Me, I’m already doing it. You got a ways to go.”

Skorzeny tried to control his rising anger and anxiety. “You’re wrong. That boy is dead. If he wasn’t then, he is now. Our plan is going to work—”

“What’s in it for you? More money? Ain’t you got enough?”

“Revenge is what’s in it for me. And altruism.”

Carlos laughed in his face. “That’s a good one. You keep telling yourself that.”

“Euthanasia, then,” said Skorzeny. Why was he on the defensive?

“That’s a big word for murder, Manny.”

That did it. Skorzeny actually raised his voice: “How many times do I have to tell you—”

“What’you going to do about it, baby? Have me killed? One word from me and every porch monkey in this joint gonna be looking to fuck you up. So why don’t you shut up and listen for once in your sorry-ass life?”

This was getting out of hand. “Listen to what?” demanded Skorzeny. He had better things to do than to sit here and—

“Listen to this,” said Carlos, holding up a hand for silence.

The voices had stopped. That much he could tell. Skorzeny strained his ears, to pick up whatever it was that Carlos was hearing.

And then he heard it.

Thwack thwack thwack
…It was like the beating of wings.

But it wasn’t angels. It was helicopters.

“I think you got company,” said Carlos, lying back down on his bunk. “It was a real pleasure doing business with you, Manny. Have a nice day.”

C
LAIRVAUX
P
RISON

“Eddie Bartlett” brought his MH-60/DAP Black Hawk down low and fast. The United States didn’t have bases in France any more, not since de Gaulle had withdrawn from NATO, but American ships still put into port in the south of France and so he had come aboard the USS
Heliotrope
near St. Paul-de-Vence, where the Black Hawk was gassed and good to go.

There was no flak over French air space. Not that he had expected actual gunfire, but usually the French got a serious wedgie whenever the Americans looked crossways at them. This must be a very special occasion.

He put the whirlybird down right on target, in the middle of the yard, which had been cleared in advance. God, it felt good to be flying one of these babies again.

He had two passengers: Hope and Rory Gardner. But he was thinking about Jade. She always wanted a helicopter ride. “When you’re all better, honey,” he thought to himself. Then the two of them would go up and spread Diane’s ashes over the Pacific.

There—there was the woman he’d been told look for. It had to be her. But who was that with her? A girl.

“Oh, my God!” screamed Hope. “Oh, my God. EMMA!”

The rotors were whirring for a fast take-off. The woman on the ground couldn’t hear her.

“It’s her! It’s Emma.” Hope threw her arms around Danny’s neck and hugged him. “You found her! You—”

A bullet smashed into the side of the Hawk.

Danny leaned out the side of the helicopter, motioning for them to run toward him. The girl started to run—unsteadily, groggily, but she was running.

Rory saw his sister. “Come on, Emma!” he shouted.

Several more bullets pierced the Black Hawk. Who was shooting at them?

“Get down!” shouted Danny.

“Come on, Emma!” shouted Rory again. This time, she might have heard the sound of her brother’s voice. She looked up. She stumbled and fell.

A bullet pinged off the main rotor. A sniper, for sure. But where was he?

“Emma!”

Rory jumped from the chopper and sprinted across the yard.

“Rory!” screamed Hope. Danny grabbed her before she too could jump. Then he reached for a weapon—

—a Brügger & Thomet TP-9 machine pistol. One of the ghetto gang-bangers’ machine pistols of choice. But unlike those clowns spray-painting the side of a Burger King in Baldwin Park, he knew how to use it.

Still, who was he supposed to shoot at? Danny scanned the yard. No guards to be seen.

WTF? Rory had stopped running.

He was gesturing, gesticulating. Not at anybody in particular, but at the heavens themselves.

“Come on!” he was shouting. “Shoot me! But let her go! She’s my
sister!”

Rory was dead. That much Danny knew. The fatal shot would come any second now…

Nothing.

Emma staggered into her brother’s arms.

Nothing.

Danny made ready to take off. The rotors whirred faster now.

Besides, there was still that other woman on the ground. Who the hell was she? He was supposed to grab the kid and get the hell out of there as fast as possible.

Fuck that noise.

He didn’t want to take off. He wanted to fight. It was payback time.

The Brügger spat suppressing fire.

The Black Hawk started to rise.

Come on, kids, goddammit. Come on!

The first thing Skorzeny saw was Amanda, lying where he had left her.

But no Emma. No Pilier.

He was still standing there, in his private quarters, when he was hit from behind.

Punches, raining down, like the Lord’s burning wind. Two blows, one each, to the kidneys. Something cut his legs out from underneath him. Falling, he lashed out with a kick.

Another punch, this one more painful than the last. Skorzeny fumbled for one of his pockets. For the canister. He cracked it. A simple vial, like the vial they had given him when he was a child. In case the Russians caught him. Or the Americans. Death before dishonor.
Meine Treue ist meine Ehre
. My Faithfulness Is My Honor.

He managed to roll over as the capsule cracked. Struggled to his feet, a handkerchief over his mouth. He thought he could hear Carlos laughing at him, mocking him, from his cell in Hell.

The man fell back. His mouth, too, was covered. The cyanide had failed.

Only one chance now—

Rory and Emma ran for Danny’s chopper. And then the gunfire began again. Not directed at them. Directed at
him
. And this time, it meant business.

Smart, very smart. Wait for them all to get on board. Then take them out.

Too close quarters to use the Black Hawk’s armaments. This was supposed to be an in and out, only necessary force.

There—up on the roof. A big, powerful man with a very nasty looking gun. The Brügger & Thomet was not accurate at this distance. He had to get closer.

Danny turned to Hope—“Grab ’em and duck!” he shouted.

She reached…reached…

Emma first, tumbling into the spinning chopper. Rory still on the ground.

A round punched through the interior. Time for evasive action. Danny got the Hawk into the air.

“Rory!” screamed Hope. “You can’t leave him—”

Another round. This one just missed Hope as she leaned out.

Only one chance. Straight up, as fast as possible.

Hope grabbed Rory.

The next shot missed.

Hope and the kids were thrown to the floor of the helicopter by the G-forces.

Danny threw the bird into a controlled spiral. It would take an ace, a Tom Powers, to hit them now.

Hope threw up. Emma passed out. Rory whooped.

“Hang on!” shouted Danny, throttling back.

Suddenly, the Hawk dropped thirty feet. Danny pulled it out of its dive and rammed it forward.

The sniper was trying to reload. The Black Hawk was closing fast.

The sniper brought the barrel up. Danny was looking right down it.

Shit! He wasn’t going to make it.

Skorzeny slid across the floor. The rapidly dissipating gas cloud was between him. His hands fumbled for the release lever, just by the foot of the bed. This was going to hurt, and hurt bad, but at least he had a chance to survive.

He grasped the catch—

Something grabbed at his feet. He lost a shoe.

Skorzeny had to see. He turned. No doubt about it. It was him. The demon child he had sought so long, the one whose parents he had killed, the one whose presence he had sensed all these years, the one who, he knew, would someday try to take his revenge. The one man who posed him real danger. Seelye’s revenge.

“I am the Angel of Death,” said Devlin.

The slide opened. The old cistern, which he’d had retrofitted as an emergency escape hatch, yawned. He might break an arm, but the drop wouldn’t kill him. It was his only way out.

Half his body dove over the side. But the man’s iron grip still held him. “You’re ruined,” he said.

Skorzeny slid a little farther into the well.

“The EMP device has been neutralized. The
Clara Vallis
has been boarded. There’s not a country on earth that will harbor you now, you son of a bitch.”

Skorzeny wriggled, willing himself away from this monster—a monster he had in part created.

Danny yanked the Hawk to the left just in time. A bullet nicked the canopy and ricocheted off. If he was lucky, Danny would have just enough time to right the helicopter and get off a shot.

He jerked it back to the right. He could see the sniper now. He reached for the machine pistol.

Not enough time. Not enough time. Then—

The rifle dropped from the man’s hands. Wounded, the sniper screamed.

Another shot hit him. But he wouldn’t go down.

There—the other shooter. The woman.

Time to finish this.

Danny flew the Black Hawk up his ass.

The TP-9 spoke at nearly point blank range.

The sniper fell, bouncing off the roof and plunging to the courtyard below.

M. Pilier’s last thought, as he died, was that he finally was rid of Emanuel Skorzeny.

Skorzeny balanced on the precipice.

“Was all this just about money?” said the man, clutching him, clawing him, pulling him back. But the pain from the knife wound was too great. He was losing him.

“When everything else is gone,” gasped Skorzeny, kicking out one last time, and catching Devlin in his wounded shoulder, “what else is there?”

As Devlin winced in pain, Skorzeny broke free.

He plunged into the well, and vanished from sight.

Devlin watched the Black Hawk as it soared into the sky. Out the window he could see a broken body. The guards were already dragging it away.

He looked around the room. The richest man in the world, taking refuge in a cell.

In the end, what else was there?

Her voice, from the doorway. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. He was numb.

She rushed to him. “You’re bleeding.” She ripped away his shirt. He could feel himself fading. “Hold on, Frank,” she said.

“My name’s not Frank.” He managed to force a painful smile. “Who are you?”

“I’m your guardian angel,” she said.