In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, midnight had arrived and with it the start of the magnificent Easter celebrations of the Greek Orthodox faith. The building was thronged with worshippers of all Christian denominations as the Patriarch of Jerusalem celebrated Christ’s resurrection, on the very spot of the tomb He so triumphantly vacated. Amid shouts of “Christ is risen… He is risen indeed,” the glory of the resurrection and the conquest of death were celebrated in a service of matins that echoed around the 950-year-old building in an act of worship that embodied both the awesome power of faith and the glorious joy of life.
Kurt Vermulen bore no physical wounds. To his shame, he had been taken without firing a shot. So now he sat in the back of what had been his Land Cruiser, appropriated by the man who had so expertly defeated him, a man who introduced himself as Dusan Darko.
“We have a meeting,” Darko said, looking up from the front passenger seat and watching Vermulen in the rearview mirror as he spoke. “A friend of yours, Mr. McCabe. He is paying me twenty million, U.S., to deliver the suitcase to him. Perhaps you can pay me more. I am always interested in making a better deal. It is not too late.”
Vermulen said nothing.
“I guess not,” said Darko. “In that case, I will have to deliver you to Mr. McCabe. He will decide what to do with you then. I am sorry about your men, that they had to die. Please understand-it is just business. I have no bad feelings against you. I love America, great country. You do not want to talk-I understand. You have much to think about. Cigarette?”
Darko lit up. His driver was already smoking. Vermulen could see the orange glow of burning cigarettes in the truck ahead of him. No one in Serbia seemed too bothered by the risk of lung cancer or heart attacks. But then, men at war rarely did. They assumed they wouldn’t live long enough to catch a disease.
Vermulen was trying to work out how he had allowed himself to fall for the trap McCabe had set for him. The old man had played him right from the start, drawing him into plans that seemed insane to him now. Spending months chasing after nuclear bombs, hiring thieves, leading men into mortal danger-what had he been thinking? Maybe they’d been right, back in Washington, the people who’d tried to tell him, as politely as they could, that the grief of losing Amy had driven him off the rails.
Yet he hadn’t been wrong about the things that really mattered. He still believed, as passionately now as ever before, that his country and its allies were ignoring a terrible danger, refusing to recognize enemies who worshipped death, hated freedom, and happily sacrificed their own lives for the sake of killing others. Next to that malignant insanity, his own actions had seemed entirely rational. He had at least tried to raise the alarm.
And he’d been right about Natalia, too. Part of him, the old intelligence agent, had always wondered whether her arrival had been too good to be true. Poor Mary Lou had died, then this vision had appeared on his doorstep: Looking back, he knew it was too pat, too convenient. But even accepting that, he had no doubt that Natalia’s love for him was genuine. Countless times he’d asked himself whether he was just an old fool, letting himself be seduced by a beautiful young woman. Perhaps it had been that way at the start. Perhaps she had been pretending then. But not now. With every day that had passed, his certainty had grown. He was, at the very least, right to trust in her.
Only one aspect of the whole disaster still remained a mystery to him. He couldn’t see why McCabe had double-crossed him. He must have had something in mind all along, a purpose for his treachery. But Vermulen could not comprehend what that might be. And if he found out, what difference did it make? He’d been a professional soldier long enough to know defeat when he tasted it.
So that was how the plane had disappeared.
Carver was crouched in the long grass beside the runway at Pristina airport. It ran north-south, along a narrow valley, with mountains on either side. At the north end all the regular airport buildings were clustered: the control tower, terminal, aircraft hangars, and oil bunkers. But Carver, driving with his lights off, had followed a service road to the very southern end of the runway. There, a taxiway left the main runway and ran due west to a broad tarmac apron at the base of a peak that rose thousands of feet into the darkness. It was only when Carver left his truck parked away from the road, and crawled through the grass to the high wire-mesh fence topped with razor wire that lined the taxiway, that he saw that the mountain’s rock face was actually pierced by a pair of massive, camouflaged steel blast doors. As he watched, a helicopter came in to land on the apron, waited while the doors rolled open to reveal a giant hangar, dug into the hillside, and taxied into the cavernous opening. Once it was inside, the doors rolled shut again, but not before Carver had caught sight of an executive jet, its belly distended by a slight bulge just aft of the wings. That was McCabe’s plane, and it either had its deadly cargo, already sitting like a malignant fetus in its metal womb, or was waiting to receive it.
He needed to get inside. But before he could even think about breaching the doors, he had to penetrate the perimeter fence. The service road curved around toward the hidden air base, but access was only possible through a guarded checkpoint, manned by two sentries. The fence even ran across the taxiway, with a wheeled section that could roll back whenever a plane was cleared for landing or takeoff. Signs at regular intervals indicated that the perimeter was patrolled by dogs.
The only way in was through the main gate. Carver was steeling himself to make a frontal attack, knowing that he would have to kill the sentries, when he saw headlights, away in the distance, coming in his direction. He dashed back to his truck and watched as three vehicles went by: two open trucks, with men sitting in the cargo areas at the back, and one Land Cruiser. He let them get a ways down the road, then swung his truck in behind them, the lights still off.
As the first of the trucks pulled up by the checkpoint, Carver turned on his lights and pulled up at the end of the line. One of the sentries walked up to the driver’s door of the first truck. Carver took out his gun, screwed the silencer onto the barrel, and put it within easy reach on the seat to his right. Then he put on the CD player headphones, gritted his teeth, and pressed play again.
Rap had turned Carver into an old man. To him the music sounded like a tuneless, incoherent cacophony and the only words he could understand were the obscenities. He’d spent too long on parade grounds and assault courses, being shouted at by rabid sergeant-majors whose capacity for verbal abuse and physical violence would put any street braggart to shame, to be impressed. But duty called.
Finally the sentry came up to his window. Keeping his face in the shadow inside the cabin, Carver stuck his hand out of the window and handed over Krasnic’s I.D.
The sentry asked him something. Carver did not reply.
The sentry tried again. Carver leaned toward him, pointing at his ears and jerking his head in time to the beat. He grinned like an idiot and shouted, “Straight Outta Compton, yeah!!” in what he hoped was a vaguely Serbian accent.
The sentry looked at him blankly for a second, and then he saved his own life. He grinned and started jerking his head, too, in time to the sibilant beats hissing from Carver’s earphones. Then he handed back the I.D. card and waved him in.
The other vehicles were already halfway across the tarmac apron, and the blast doors were rolling apart to greet them. Carver hit the gas and took his place in the line, turning off the music with a sigh of relief and a loosening of shoulders that, he suddenly realized, were hunched up with tension. Something about the blaring in his ears, the sensation of inescapable noise, had really disturbed him. His teeth were grinding, his body sweating, and he felt weirdly disturbed, as though that noise had triggered a reaction to some dark, shapeless memory lurking below the surface of his mind.
And then he drove into the hangar, and all thoughts of his own issues were forgotten as he looked around in wonder.
A vast space had been hollowed out from the living rock of the mountain. In the foreground, McCabe’s jet was parked by the newly arrived helicopter: two splendid machines, worth millions and capable of extraordinary feats, yet in these surroundings they looked no bigger or more significant than toys. The hangar stretched back as far as Carver could see. In the distance, more jets were lined up in neat rows, at least two squadrons’ worth of Yugoslav Air Force fighters: old-fashioned MiG-21s, their nose cones poking out of stubby, stocky bodies, and much newer MiG-29s-sleek, hungry twin-tailed raptors.
A man in ground-crew overalls directed Carver to park his truck in an area to the left of the entrance, next to the other three newly arrived vehicles. As Carver drove up, he saw men springing down from the backs of the trucks, dressed in a motley assortment of combat fatigues, denim, leather jackets, and even sportswear, but all carrying weapons. Most of the men stayed by the trucks, leaning against them and lighting up cigarettes in blithe disregard for the vast amounts of aviation fuel that must be stored nearby. But one of them, responding to an order shouted from the Land Cruiser, walked across, his gun slung around his shoulders, opened one of the rear doors, and dragged out a bedraggled, blond-headed figure by his cuffed hands. It was Vermulen. So McCabe really had double-crossed him. Carver didn’t feel much sympathy. A man as astute and experienced as Vermulen should have seen it coming. But he was alone, so at least he’d been smart enough to leave Alix somewhere safe. That was something.
A second man emerged from the other rear door of the Land Cruiser. He had swept-back black hair and the sort of Italianate looks whose impeccable grooming suggests that the owner will never see a face he loves as much as his own. The man wore his smugness like expensive aftershave as he walked around to the back of the vehicle, a shockproof aluminum case in his hand, and watched while a battered brown leather suitcase was removed with extreme caution by two more armed men. They placed it on a long-handled, two-wheeled cart and pushed it away, still supervised by the Latin loverboy, toward a line of offices ranged against the far wall of the hangar, at least fifty yards away.
The Land Cruiser produced one last passenger, with a phone clamped to his ear. He concluded his conversation and strode briskly toward the man pushing the trolley, giving instructions as he went. This, thought Carver, must be Darko. He was certainly the man in charge. Vermulen, meanwhile, brought up the rear, doing his best to maintain an upright, dignified posture as he walked with his captor’s gun pressed into the small of his back.
Carver watched as two shaven-headed men emerged from one of the offices to meet the little procession. They were wearing shades, with ear-pieces in their ears, the unmistakable look of private security goons who want to pretend they’re U.S. Secret Service. Their jackets bulged with the clear presence of weapons. The goons watched as the line of men, plus the cart, made their way in. Then they closed the door and stood outside it, arms folded like nightclub bouncers, doing their best to look menacing.
Wankers, thought Carver to himself. But the men had given him an idea. From the moment that Jaworski told him to stay out of this “domestic matter,” he had assumed that the Americans were planning some kind of stunt to recover the bomb and take out McCabe, Vermulen, and anyone else who got in the way. But he wasn’t going to sit around with his thumb up his arse, waiting for the Seventh Cavalry to ride to the rescue. He’d let McCabe get away from him once, and it wouldn’t happen again. That much he’d decided back at the roadblock. He’d also known, in principle, what he wanted to do.
Now he’d worked out precisely how he was going to do it.
The three Black Hawk helicopters flew due south from Tuzla, the pilots pushing their performance to the limit, covering seventy-five miles in a little over twenty minutes, before they turned southeast toward the border. They crossed from Bosnia into Montenegro just south of Foča and followed the Tara River southeast toward the airport at Slatina. The helicopters hugged the valley floors, skimming the treetops, hurdling power lines, and skirting the edge of the hills and mountains of that craggy terrain, avoiding towns and villages like night creatures shying from human contact. Kady Jones was in the third aircraft, with the explosive-ordnance-disposal team. She’d been talking to the team leader, agreeing on the protocols under which they would examine and, if necessary, deal with any bomb they found, when their pilot cut in.
“Okay, folks-we’re into hostile territory. This is where it gets interesting.”
In the White House Situation Room, Ted Jaworski let out a cry of triumph: “Gotcha, you bastard!”
Within the past quarter-hour, an MQ-1 Predator drone from the Tuzla Air Base had arrived over Slatina and begun broadcasting real-time infrared imagery, via the ground-control station at Tuzla, back to the United States. It had spotted the helicopter’s arrival, and then the vivid flare of light as the hangar blast doors opened to admit it. Now that they knew where McCabe was hidden, the mission had become a lot simpler. Within minutes, an army general was in contact with Dave Gretsch, in the lead Black Hawk, updating his orders. Meanwhile, U.S. Air Force officers were readying fighter squadrons across the Balkan theater of operations and the Middle East to intercept and destroy McCabe’s plane, in the event that it took off before the Black Hawks reached Pristina, no matter where in the region it was heading.
When the general had finished with Gretsch, Jaworski got on the line.
“Major, this is Ted Jaworski, from the Agency. Just wanted to inform you that the Brits may have a man inside the airport facility where you will be deploying. He was tasked to get inside, but we don’t know if he made it. The man’s name is Carver. He’s kind of unofficial, not on any list. So don’t hurt him if you can manage it. But it’s no big deal if you do. Take it from me-he won’t be missed.”
Carver walked across the underground hangar thinking, At last, I’m doing my job. After all that had happened, he was back to what he understood: drifting imperceptibly into the lives of very bad people, removing them from the planet, then slipping away again.
The different groups of people scattered about the hangar played right into his hands. Darko’s militiamen mingled with Yugoslav Air Force personnel, while McCabe’s bodyguards looked on, and mechanics and air crew went about their business. No one noticed, still less cared about, Carver.
He’d ripped the two CD player earphones apart and stuck one of them in his ear, letting the wire run down inside his shirt. He was back in his civilian clothes, shades on his face, his gun stuck in the waistband of his trousers, the fisherman’s bag slung over a shoulder. He could be anyone.
His luck just kept getting better. There was a mechanic standing on a ladder at the rear of McCabe’s plane, with his head and shoulders inside the rear equipment bay, pouring hydraulic fluid from a plastic jerry can. Carver stood at the bottom of the ladder and called up, “Hey you!”
The mechanic turned and looked down at him with a puzzled frown.
Carver held up a hand.
“Hold on there,” he said, making the other man wait while he held a finger up to his earpiece, as if trying to hear over the noise in the hangar, then spoke into the wristband of his shirt. “Uh-huh, yeah, I’m on it… I’m there right now… Yeah, I’ll do that. Out.”
He looked back up the ladder.
“Okay now-you speak English?”
The man shook his head.
“Right, well, see if you understand this… You”-He pointed at the mechanic-“off the plane.” He jerked his finger down toward the hangar floor, then repeated the motion, clearly indicating the man should get off the ladder.
The mechanic stayed where he was, uncertain how to respond.
Carver gave a theatrical sigh of irritation.
“All right, then… Plane…” Now he gestured at the aircraft. “American. Me”-he tapped his own chest-“American.”
Could a Serb who couldn’t speak English tell the difference between a real American accent and a bad English fake? Carver would have to hope not.
He repeated his little mantra: “Plane American, me American,” then added, “Me go into plane. You… off the plane.”
The mechanic looked at him, puffed his cheeks, exhaled heavily, then shrugged. He didn’t need to say a word to convey his message: He thought Carver was a jerk, but he couldn’t be bothered even to attempt to argue with him. He climbed down off the ladder.
“Here, I’ll take that,” said Carver, taking the jerry can from the man’s hand.
He went up the ladder into the bay. Laying his bag on the fuselage floor, he finished topping off the hydraulic accumulator. Then he got out his tools: a wrench to loosen the connections of the hot-air pipes, and a wire cutter to strip as much plastic insulation as possible off the wiring bundles in the same. He wasn’t going to hand McCabe another lifeline. This plane was going down hard. And just to underline the point, he left the jerry can, still half filled with inflammable fluid, its top unscrewed, in the equipment bay when he closed up and left.
He made his way back to the truck, sorely tempted just to put that Serb uniform back on and drive out the way he had come, get out before anyone even knew he’d been there. The urge to stay, though, was stronger. He wanted to see McCabe get on the plane, watch it as it roared down the runway, follow its path into the sky. This time he had absolute confidence in the work he’d done. The aircraft was a death trap. The moment the pilot switched on the jets, its fate was assured. He just needed to know that his prey was aboard.
A movement caught his attention. The over-handsome, Italianate man Carver thought of as Loverboy was emerging from the office at the side of the hangar. Behind him came one of Darko’s men, pushing the cart on which the brown suitcase was resting. They walked over to the aircraft, and as they did so, the door in the underside of the fuselage opened to meet them, swinging down until it hung vertically from the aircraft. A metal frame, like a cradle, was lowered though the doorway, coming to a halt about four feet above the ground. There was already a military-green bundle filling the top half of the cradle, which looked to Carver like a parachute in its sack. It took two men to lift the case from the cart and put it into the cradle, while Loverboy supervised the operation. He checked that the case was secure and had been strapped onto the parachute, then signaled to someone inside the plane, and the cradle disappeared back up into the fuselage again, followed by the closing door.
The bomb was loaded.
Francesco Riva returned to the office where Waylon McCabe was waiting. On his way, he passed the Serbian, Darko, who was leaving with a contented smile on his face, like a hyena who has fed well. Riva opened the office door and went in, followed by the two armed guards who’d been standing outside.
“You done?” rasped McCabe.
It was apparent to Riva that this was a very sick man, one close to death. His face, always lean, now seemed little more than a skull, barely covered by skin stretched so tightly over the bone that it seemed it might split open at any moment. From time to time an involuntary grimace would cross his face as another spasm of pain shot through him. His shoulders were hunched, his fists clenched. Yet his eyes burned with wild conviction and the men under his command, any one of whom could have killed him with a single blow, were still held completely in his sway.
“Yes,” said Riva. “The weapon is securely loaded in the bomb bay at the rear of the aircraft. It is not yet armed, but the radio control has been set with the correct code sequence. Once the plane has taken off, simply press the control switch and it will arm the bomb. When you reach your target, open the door and release the weapon. It will fall to a height of five thousand feet, at which point the parachute will deploy. As you saw, I fitted an air-pressure sensor to the device earlier, before it was loaded. At three thousand feet, this will send an electrical charge that will begin the detonation process. Your target, you said, was just below twenty-five hundred feet. It will, I assure you, be devastated by the air burst from this weapon.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I will depart. You have been very generous, Mr. McCabe. I would like to start enjoying my money.”
McCabe nodded at one of his guards, who stepped across the door, blocking Riva’s way.
“I can’t allow that,” said McCabe. “My conscience would not permit me to deny you the chance of salvation and everlasting life, in the company of Christ and all His angels. You know where we’re headed today? To heaven itself.”
McCabe’s guards murmured, “Amen,” as Riva looked on, too shocked to respond. The next thing he knew, one of the guards was twisting his right arm behind his back with one hand, and pointing a gun at him with the other.
“But you let Darko go!” Riva protested, his voice rising almost to a squeal as his arm was gripped even more fiercely.
“I sure did,” replied McCabe. “The man is facin’ damnation in the fires of hell for his sins of violence, theft, and fornication committed here on earth. His only hope of redemption is to stay here and fight the forces of the Antichrist in the battle that is to come.”
“You’re mad!” Riva cried, twisting his head this way and that in search of anything or anyone that could save him.
Lieutenant General Vermulen had been dumped in one corner of the room. He seemed defeated and demoralized. His wife was sitting right next to him, her body almost touching his, and yet she was a world apart, looking away, her eyes anguished and unfocused, lost in her private thoughts.
“Let’s go, folks,” said McCabe. “Dr. Riva, I want you to know that I’ll be prayin’ for your soul, despite your grievous lack of faith. And, General, I want you to think real hard, in case you got any plans to try to fight. I know you’re a brave man. I guess you ain’t scared of takin’ a bullet. But take a good look at your pretty little wife. ’Cause if you try anything, my boys are under orders to shoot her first, off the aircraft or on it. And believe me, these boys don’t miss.”
Twelve miles out from Slatina, the Black Hawks were preparing for their final approach into Pristina airport. The fighting troops were getting ready to lock and load. The bomb-disposal experts were checking their gear one last time. Kady Jones’s stomach had been doing backflips since they crossed the border from Bosnia. Now she concentrated on steadying her breathing and relaxing her muscles, just as she had done that afternoon on Gull Lake. She had gone head-to-head with a nuclear bomb. After that, she could surely cope with anything.
Carver watched Dusan Darko stride toward his men with a look that suggested he’d just made a very sweet deal. Darko shouted a few words at the men hanging around the parked trucks and the Land Cruiser and they started gathering their gear and loading up their vehicles with a barrage of whoops, cheers, shouts, and backslaps that suggested the bars and brothels of Pristina were in for a busy, but profitable night.
Carver wasn’t one for celebrating once a job was done. He liked to get as far away as possible, find some peace, try to come to terms with what he did: earned his living by making other people die.
Nothing more happened for a minute or so, then the door of the office opened, maybe eighty feet away. A cadaverous, twisted figure emerged and made his way with a pained, shuffling gait right across the hangar toward the airplane. It took Carver a couple of seconds to realize this was Waylon McCabe. The last time he’d set eyes on him, at another airport, on the far side of the world, McCabe had exuded the tough, bullying, loudmouthed power of a malevolent alpha male. Now he looked like a dead man walking. Whether Carver killed him or not, he wouldn’t last till the end of the month. For a moment, Carver felt a twinge of disappointment, almost as if he’d been cheated. He had to tell himself that McCabe wasn’t the issue: What mattered was the bomb hidden inside that suitcase. That was what had to be stopped.
The jets started up, filling the hangar with their high-pitched roar. Carver thought of the air pipes heating up, the temperature slowly starting to rise. The aircraft had become a ticking bomb, counting down to disaster.
And then his world fell apart.
Immediately behind McCabe came Loverboy, held in the grasp of one of the bodyguards. The next pair consisted of Vermulen and his guard. But Carver gave none of them more than a fleeting glance. His entire attention was focused at the end of the line, on Alix.
He whispered to himself, “You’re not supposed to be here.” And then he repeated himself, banging both hands against the steering wheel. “You’re not… supposed… to be here!”
So now what was he going to do?
He could rescue her. If he moved quickly and quietly enough, he could close on the man who was holding her, double-tap to the head. Use a silencer, so the other guards took a fraction longer to react. Hit them, too. Maybe he’d hit the other two prisoners-that couldn’t be helped. With any luck he’d have time to take out McCabe as well.
If no one spotted him running across the hangar with a gun in his hand…
If none of the three armed guards were alert enough to react to his attack…
If McCabe didn’t make it onto the plane and simply fly away alone…
If Darko didn’t object to him blowing away a valued client… And if Darko didn’t take this as the ideal opportunity to take McCabe’s money and his bomb…
Well, then, his plan might just work.
But if any of those possibilities occurred, then he would certainly die, Alix would probably die alongside him, and, far more important than that, the bomb would still be loose in the world.
The American, Jaworski, had told him what was at stake. McCabe was planning to start a war that would lead to Armageddon. Carver did not believe, for a fraction of a second, that the heavens were going to open and Christ would descend to earth just because a religious maniac like Waylon McCabe asked Him to. But he was absolutely certain that thousands, maybe millions of people might die in the chaos McCabe could cause.
Without making any conscious choice, he found himself getting out of the truck, walking around it to where there was a clear line of sight between him and the group following McCabe. They had almost reached the steps to the aircraft. For a second, Carver thought he might have a clear shot as McCabe walked up them. But then one of the air crew emerged from the door of the plane and came down to meet McCabe, taking him by the arm, blocking the line of fire.
Carver could still make the run, though. There was time, just, to reach Alix before the plane doors closed behind her. It tore him up to see her face contorted with pain, the guard leering at her, enjoying the thrill of domination over a beautiful, helpless woman. Screw the odds, screw the bomb, screw everything: Carver wanted to go over and beat the crap out of the ape. He wanted his girl back. He longed for the feel and scent of her body in his arms, her hair slipping between his fingers, her wonderful eyes looking into his, the kiss of her lips. He needed to tell her how much he loved her, how deeply he appreciated the months she’d spent by his bedside, how bad he felt about all the things she’d been through on his account.
He wanted to say how sorry he was that he was killing her.
She was walking up into the plane now. He was staring at her, his eyes boring into her back. She must have felt it because she turned her head and looked in his direction. Just for a second their eyes met. He saw the look of amazement on her face, and then something deeper, a yearning desperation that cut straight to his heart as she cried out, “Carver!”
His reaction was unthinking. He couldn’t help it-he took a step toward her and gave himself away.
It was a pathetic, amateur move. But Carver’s incompetence saved him. He hadn’t even bothered to reach for his gun. So neither McCabe’s bodyguards, nor Darko’s fighters, milling around behind him, started firing. Not that it would make much difference in the long run, the amount of weaponry now pointing in his direction.
Darko nodded at one of his men, who came up to Carver and patted him down. He found the Beretta, removed it, and threw it clattering onto the floor of the hangar.
McCabe had stopped on the aircraft steps. He looked at Carver.
“Bring him here,” he barked, stepping back down to the ground.
Darko snapped out a series of instructions. Carver’s arms were grabbed, a man on either side, and he was hauled across the open space toward the aircraft. Darko was strolling alongside, cradling a gun. His face bore an expression of amusement, rather than hostility, as if he were motivated as much by curiosity as by needing to secure his captive.
McCabe glanced at Alix as the four men got closer.
“So you know this man?”
She said nothing. McCabe grunted dismissively then turned his attention back to Carver, peering at him as he came closer. The look became a stare, then the death’s head face creased into a savage grin.
“Forget it… I know you, don’t I, boy? You’re the reason I’m here.”
Carver stared back at him impassively.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re Lundin… the mechanic.”
“You heard the woman. She called me Carver.”
McCabe coughed violently, then spat a stream of bloodstained phlegm onto the ground between them.
“You fixed this plane, too, boy?” he rasped.
“Like I said, you’ve lost me.”
McCabe ignored Carver’s words. He took another shuffling step, leaning forward so that his face was right up by Carver’s, as close as a lover, whispering in his ear.
“You care to show me what you done?”
“I haven’t done anything,” said Carver.
There was only one way now to save Alix, and he went for it.
“If you don’t believe me, put me on the aircraft.”
Before McCabe could reply there was a shout from the hangar entrance and the guard from the main gate ran in, yelling in Serbian, a desperate edge to his voice.
Darko listened to the frantic jumble of words, then spoke to McCabe.
“He says helicopters are coming, just a few kilometers away. They will be here in two minutes, maybe less.”
McCabe considered this new information. He switched his attention back to Carver.
“We don’t have time to debate this. Guess you’d better just step onboard.”
“No problem,” Carver said.
Then he led the way up the steps, into the booby-trapped plane.
The Black Hawks came in from the northeast, through a gap in the hills, reaching the airport at the terminal end, a mile and a half from the hangar. McCabe’s plane was already on the runway, moving toward them, picking up speed for takeoff.
Major Dave Gretsch ordered the pilots to form up in line abreast, just over the runway, blocking the plane’s way. But the jet kept coming.
One of the choppers was a Direct Action Penetrator model, armed with a Gatling gun. Gretsch ordered it to fire a warning burst over the plane. It had no effect. Now the gap between the plane and the choppers was closing at over two hundred feet per second.
“Shoot to kill!” Gretsch commanded.
The Gatling’s rotating barrels spewed an unrelenting hail of bullets at the onrushing machine, but it hurtled onward, taking on the helicopters in an airborne game of chicken as its nose lifted up off the ground and arrowed toward the night sky.
“Break! Break!” screamed the pilot in the command helicopter, and the three choppers threw themselves sideways, scattering before the roaring plane, not like predatory black hawks, but panic-stricken, fat gray pigeons, their rotors clawing for purchase in air torn asunder by the jet engines’ wake.
The bomb-disposal team was hurled from side to side and buffeted up and down before the pilot was able to regain control.
One of the men shouted, “What the hell was that?”
Kady Jones was still trying to stop her stomach from turning cartwheels.
“I guess that was our bomb,” she gasped. “And I think it was saying good-bye.”
Carver waited until the engines had been turned off, and there was nothing to hear but the rushing of the air outside and the passengers screaming in fear or calling out to their God. The plane was descending fast and it was going to keep going down until it hit the rocky, mountainous earth of northeastern Macedonia. There would be no airstrip to welcome them, no miracle landing. They all knew that. And yet the people around him still strapped themselves into their seats as the pilot instructed, and when the first soft tendrils of smoke wormed their way into the compartment, they reached for the oxygen masks.
As if any of that would make the slightest difference in the end.
Carver had been placed on one end of a three-seat divan that ran along the wall, toward the rear of the cabin. Alix was next to him, Vermulen at the far end. Two of McCabe’s men sat opposite them. The third was guarding his boss and keeping an eye on Francesco Riva. They were up front, in club seats the size of armchairs.
For the first few minutes of the flight, the goons in suits had sat there, pointing their guns at the trio on the divan, scowls on their faces, trying to look mean and intimidating. But any threat they posed had evaporated the moment the pilot announced that they had a problem. Then they just became two terrified passengers in a metal tube dropping out of the sky, each of them thinking about nothing but himself.
It was Carver’s hand that Alix reached for.
“Don’t worry,” he said, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “This isn’t over.”
He helped put her mask on.
“Deep breaths,” he told her. “Get plenty of oxygen into your blood.”
Carver could see Vermulen, looking past Alix at him.
“Who are you?” the general asked, shaking his head in bemusement, as if he were trying to work out how his judgment of people could have gone so wrong. He reached out to Alix, got no response, and sank back into his seat, lost in his own disillusionment.
Carver had no interest in Vermulen’s problems. He was more interested in McCabe, who was staring at a control unit in his hand. Carver saw a grin flicker over the old man’s face as he pressed the switch. Had he just armed the bomb in one last shot at Armageddon? Carver held a mask to his face, his breathing strong and steady, as he now looked across the cabin, through the steadily thickening smoke, toward the two men on the far side. One of them was having problems with his oxygen supply, yanking on his mask, trying to get his partner’s attention. But the other guy was having none of it. He was keeping all his fresh air for himself, one hand on his mask, the other-holding his gun-hanging loosely beside him.
The men were lost in their own dying world. They didn’t even notice Carver as he rose from his seat, crossed the aisle with a single stride, wrenched the gun from the limp, dangling hand, and smashed it twice-backhand, forehand-against the pair of naked pink scalps. One of the two slumped forward, unconscious. The other groaned and turned unfocused eyes in Carver’s direction. Carver hit him again, knocking him cold.
He turned back to the divan, now barely visible, even a couple of feet away, reached for his mask, grabbed Alix’s hand, and gave it a sharp tug. She got the message, unclipped her belt, and got to her feet. Carver could see a dark shadow that must be Vermulen looming beyond her. He lashed out with the handle of the gun, felt it hit something, he wasn’t sure what, and the shadow collapsed back toward the chair. Carver gave another pull on Alix’s hand, leading her back to the very rear of the cabin.
As they staggered through the acrid fumes, Carver felt the tremors running through Alix’s body, She was beginning to choke. He was coughing, too, his eyes watering, his nose and throat burning.
Three paces took him to the lavatory door, and then he was gulping down oxygen from the mask dangling over the toilet bowl.
Carver handed the mask over to Alix, pausing for a second to make sure she could still hold it steady over her mouth and nose. Then he left the lavatory and stood by the bulkhead that divided the passenger compartment from the bomb bay, desperately turning the wheel that opened the hatch. There was an audible click as the lock disengaged and a moment of truth as the door was flung open and a blast of thin, freezing air roared into the cabin, instantly condensing all the moisture in the atmosphere and turning it into an impenetrable fog.
The aircraft’s dive became even deeper and the fuselage swayed one way and the other, like the weight at the end of a pendulum, as the pilots struggled to maintain control.
Carver reached out and grabbed Alix, dragging her after him as he squeezed through the cramped, steel-ringed hatch, both of them banging heads, shins, and elbows, almost forcing exclamations of pain and wasting precious oxygen. Agonizing seconds stretched by as the hatch was closed and locked again to slow down anyone else who realized that their only hope lay in the bomb bay.
Now Carver was kneeling, hands reaching out through the freezing, poisonous fog, fingers stretching, searching, because there had to be a way of opening the doors manually, a fail-safe in case the electrical control in the cockpit didn’t work. And there it was, a handle, on top of a metal rod, waiting to be pumped up and down. Desperately he set to work.
For a moment, the doors remained shut. Carver pumped the lever two or three more times steadily, then frantically again and again as he felt his lungs begin to burn, eyes flare and then water, his muscles giving way.
Then doors were opening, letting in a gale that drove the smog from the bomb bay; air that was bitterly cold, but rich and clean enough to breathe in desperate inhalations between hacking, retching coughs. But the pumping never stopped, up and down, pain shooting through arms, shoulders, and back with every motion of the handle, until the bay doors were wide open and the earth was dimly visible down below.
Above it sat the bomb, a drab brown case, crudely strapped to a parachute, cradled in its metal frame. A lever on the frame disengaged the bomb from the cradle-just as well that those blind, grasping hands had clutched the pump handle first.
Carver’s eyes darted around the bay, settling on bungee cords looped around hooks on the wall, there to secure the legitimate cargo that the engineers who adapted the aircraft naïvely assumed would be in the plane. He grabbed a cord and looped one end around one of the straps that linked the bomb and parachute, knotting it tight. Then he held Alix close to him, her arms wrapped around his waist. She gave him a little squeeze back as he passed the cord around them in a figure eight, before tying that off, too, forming an umbilical link with the bomb.
The whole aircraft was shaking more and more as it failed to respond to the crew’s commands. There couldn’t be long before they lost control completely and the descent turned into a freefall.
Suddenly there came a motion from the front end of the bay, the turning of the small metal wheel. Someone was there, on the other side of the bulkhead, trying to get into the bay, and the hatch was opening to reveal Vermulen. He must have recovered and grabbed the other bodyguard’s gun. Now he had it out and was firing, the barrel jerking randomly with every convulsion of the doomed plane, bullets ricocheting off the bomb cradle and the aircraft’s own metallic ribs.
There was one last, great spasm as the cables snapped. Carver heard Alix give a muffled cry of surprise and felt her body give a sudden jerk. The plane lurched into its death dive, Vermulen was flung back against the bulkhead, and now there was nothing to do but wrench the lever and then put his arms around her head to protect it as gravity took over and the bomb, the parachute, and the two entwined lovers were hurled out, crashing through the cradle into the yawning void, hurtling toward the ground at two hundred miles an hour.
The parachute was set to open at five thousand feet, slowing the descent of the bomb before its detonation over Jerusalem ’s Temple Mount. But the hills and mountains of northern Macedonia rise as high as fifty-five hundred feet. The earth was rushing ever closer and suddenly Carver heard himself shouting wordlessly in frustration and fear as he realized that nothing that had happened in the past few minutes had made any difference.
The hard, unyielding mountainside was just seconds away now. Carver held Alix’s body even closer to him, unable to see her eyes in the darkness. But as the final moment of impact drew near, and his mind refused to shut down, he screwed his own eyes tight shut, so that the explosive impact of the plane, maybe eight hundred feet away, was only heard, rather than seen.
Closer, closer still… And then there was a sudden jolt, enough almost to tear clinging arms from their shoulder sockets, as the parachute finally opened, no more than three hundred feet above the ground, barely enough to decelerate the bomb and the two people tied to it as they struck the ground and went tumbling over and over, striking rocks and plowing through undergrowth, down a narrow ravine until they finally came to a halt in the soft, damp earth beside a mountain stream.
Carver had suffered a hairline fracture in one ankle and badly sprained the other. The pain that stabbed through him with every breath told him that several of his ribs were cracked.
He reached over and untied the rope that connected them to the parachute harness and the bomb. As he loosened the loop around his waist, Alix rolled away from him. She came to a halt on the ground next to him, lying on her front, her head tilted away from him, motionless. He spoke her name, but there was no reply.
At first he assumed she’d been knocked cold by their fall down the hillside. And then he realized that his hands were covered with something wet and dark. For a second he thought it might be mud. He prayed it was mud. But then he realized that his chest was covered with it, too, and he knew that it must be blood.
“Oh, God, no…” he moaned, and he patted his hands over his body, desperately hoping that they might find the wound that had produced the bleeding. That could happen. You got cuts sometimes, deep ones, and just didn’t feel them.
But Carver had not been cut. He knew that.
So then he looked across at Alix and the moonlight cast a gray wash over the ragged, purple-black hole, high up by her shoulder blade, that could have been made only by Vermulen’s gun. Carver placed a finger to her throat, feeling for a pulse… and it was there, not a steady beat, but a delicate, barely perceptible flutter. He listened for the bubbling, sucking sound of a lung wound and heard nothing. That was some relief at least, but not much.
The entry wound was much bigger and messier than Carver would have expected, as if someone had punched a fist right into her. The bullet must have already been deformed by the time it hit her, maybe by a ricochet off a metal surface. That would explain why it had lodged inside her, instead of going straight through and hitting Carver as well. He tried not to think about the internal havoc the misshapen slug had caused. Even if it hadn’t hit any vital organs, she’d lost a lot of blood and more was still pouring from her.
Carver pulled off his shirt, ignoring the stabs of pain from his battered rib cage, and ripped it into strips. Then he gently lifted Alix into a sitting position, wincing as she gave a soft, semiconscious moan, and took off her shirt, exposing the shredded skin, splintered bone, and gaping flesh torn from her back. He crumpled one of the fabric strips into a wad and pressed it against the wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood. He used the other strips to improvise a bandage around her shoulder to hold the wad in place.
It was, at best, a temporary measure. If Alix did not receive proper medical attention soon, she would die. All he could do now was take her body in his arms and hold her. He spoke to her quietly, telling her all the things that had gone unsaid for so many months. There were occasional moments when he thought she might have heard some of what he said, as she blinked or twitched her lips, but that wasn’t the point of his words.
He was still sitting there when the Black Hawk found him. It landed on a patch of flat ground not far away, and he saw the beams from the flashlights slicing through the darkness as the people walked toward him. Then there was a figure standing in front of him and a hand on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
It was a woman’s voice. He glanced up and saw a slim, petite civilian, looking ill at ease in army combats.
“Yeah,” said Samuel Carver, though the word was sighed as much as spoken. “We’re just fine.”
Then he rose to his feet, with Alix still cradled in his arms, and started limping down the ravine toward the waiting helicopter.