The interior of the Blue Lion Pub was paneled in mismatched sheets of dark wood, all nail-gunned into place, many of them warped. The effect was more utility shed than pub. Alice had chosen the Blue Lion for its view across Broadway onto West 112th. She’d been sitting by herself in a window booth for half an hour, nursing a pint of Guinness while immersed in a copy of the free weekly she’d taken from the pile in the entryway. Or so the wizened barkeep and three solitary drinkers were meant to think.
Really she was using the neon Rolling Rock bottle in the window as camouflage of sorts while watching the Perriman Appliances building. Earlier she’d followed Cranch there from the heliport. The night vision lenses in her otherwise superfluous eyeglasses allowed her to see him admitted from the dark vestibule to the Perriman reception area by a young man who wore a powder-blue Columbia rugby shirt-but probably was no Columbia student. Although baby faced, he had that boxy build indigenous to ex-military contract agents.
Her job now was to determine the right time to send in her backup unit, augmented shortly after Cranch’s arrival by sixteen SOCOM weapons and tactical specialists, all of them in dark gray Nomex jumpsuits with body armor vests, Twaron/Kevlar helmets with protective face covering, night-vision goggles, gas masks, and combat steel-reinforced boots. They were armed with either nine-millimeter Heckler amp; Koch MP5 submachine guns or Remington 870 shotguns. All carried semiautomatic handguns as well. Their tactical aids included a battering ram, flash bang grenades, Stingers, tear gas grenades, and-probably most useful of all-extension poles with mirrors on the ends for looking around corners without putting the looker in the line of fire. If the Clark exfiltration went according to plan, they would need to fire only a couple of paintball guns. The paintballs were packed with oleoresin capsicum, an upmarket pepper spray.
Alice had no expectation that things would go according to plan. In her experience on such ops, Murphy’s Law was a good-case scenario. Her “go” order was to be decided by a number of variables and protocols perhaps best summed up, by her backup unit’s chief, as “whenever you feel the time’s right.”
Shortly after the tactical team arrived, she’d watched Fielding enter the vestibule, then use a key to admit himself to the Perriman offices. She itched to send a couple of troops rappelling through a plate glass window and into the rogue’s face, but the time still wasn’t right.
A few minutes later, a lanky young man who reeked of the Farm prodded in Charlie. Given what Alice had gleaned of his travails, Charlie appeared in great shape. She again refrained from issuing any orders; Drummond still might be en route or somewhere else altogether. Also, she could afford to hold off because Cranch needed time for his act.
When four men parked a van, studied Perriman as if casing the place, then broke into the neighboring apartment building carrying a fifth man who appeared to be unconscious, she still lacked sufficient cause to order in her team. Upon hearing faint but unmistakable bursts of AK fire, however, a vegetable would have known it was time.
“It’s Desdemona with a green light,” she said into her cell.
“Desdemona, we’ve just been ordered to go home,” came the voice of her backup unit’s chief.
“You’re kidding? By who? Nick Fielding?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, on conference with the interim national security advisor.”
“What about our cable to HQ?”
“Pending investigation by the inspector general. Meanwhile, our top brass were briefed by the director of the CIA and now they’re basically telling us, ‘Yeah, Nick Fielding’s supposed to be a bad guy-it’s his cover.’”
Alice was incredulous. “Great, he’ll probably win an award,” she said.
Before she could begin to ask any of the questions flooding her mind, the bell on the pub’s entry door jingled. Two young men in Columbia sweatshirts strolled in.
“Hang on,” she whispered into the phone. “Looks like a couple of boys are about to hit on me.”
Sure enough, the young men wandered toward her booth. They wore no coats though the night was arctic. In all probability, she thought, she’d been hit-listed at Echelon or the like. They’d rushed from wherever they’d been lurking when she made her cell phone call.
“We need to talk, Ms. Rutherford,” said the stouter of the two.
“Sorry, angel, you got the wrong girl.”
“It’s okay, Alice, we work for the same uncle you do.”
She believed him. The issue was the thinner man’s hand, inching past his hip and toward the back of his waist.
“I’m not Alice Rutherford, but I’m looking for her,” she said. “I’m Rita Hayworth-Thomas, with National Recon. Here’s my ID.” She flung a cardboard coaster.
Hardly an air-cushioned Bicycle, it wobbled in flight. It slapped the thinner man in the wrist, barely inhibiting him as he drew a silenced SIG Sauer. But it caused a slight delay, allowing her to loose the Beretta from her shoulder bag and fire first. Her bullet hit his knee as he fired. He fell into the next booth, vanishing behind the high seat back. His round bored past her shoulder and into the top of her seat back, creating a cloud of sawdust.
The other man produced a SIG as well. She shot at him while diving for the cover of the bar. When she came down, her head exploded-or felt like it had. The world began to fade. Just before it went black, she glimpsed the barkeep standing over her, gripping a baseball bat.