Brothers In Arms (41 page)

After a moment’s consideration, Ray decided it was a good idea. It would take too long for Payne to get up to speed with team considerations; there were other people who could do that.

“All right,” Ray said. “You act as the focal point for the info coming in, work with our analysts till we have something credible. Then you’re adviser to the shooters. And you’re still in at the kill.”

“That makes sense.”

“You seem surprised.”

“No, just relieved.”

The two men laughed.

“You’ll work out of here till we have something,” Ray said. “I’ll set you up in a secure conference room down the hall. You have walk-in access to me twenty-four/seven. We’ve got aircraft standing by to take us wherever we need to go, whenever we need to.”

“That’ll work.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Payne drummed the fingers of his right hand on the plush leather arm of his easy chair. “What about Dale?”

Of course he’d want to know about Dale.

“He’s being worked on at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, by one of the finest neurosurgeons in the world,” Ray said. “We’re sparing no expense to get him taken care of.”

“The surgeon on the plane said he doubted Dale would make it. Too much time had passed with the bullet lodged . . .”

“We’re hoping for better than that. That’s why we’ve got the best on it right now.”

Payne nodded slowly. “I wonder how he’d feel if he knew you were footing the bill.”

“There’s some history there, as you seem to know already.”

“What happens after the surgery?”

“No matter what he thought, Dale was always one of us. We take care of our own. If he doesn’t come out, then he goes to a skilled critical-care facility we own outright, where he gets the best attention possible for as long as he lives. If he does come out of it, he’ll be given rehab and everything he needs will be provided. We’ll see to it.”

“I don’t have the history you two have,” Charley said. “All that sounds good to me. I’d hate to see him dumped in a VA facility for life.”

“Never happen. Not to one of mine. Dale was like the prodigal child. It was just a matter of time before he came back.”

“As long as he’s tended to. I’d like to be able to see him, if we have time.”

“I don’t know that you’ll have the time. But it’s not far, and you’ll have a driver. But you need to get your mind around what’s in front of you.”

“Done.”

“Then let’s go to work.”

Things happened. The conference room down the hall from Ray’s office became crowded with extra tables laden with computer monitors, fax machines, and telephones. Every inch of spare space on the tables and chairs became littered with computer printouts, fax sheets, stale cups of coffee, and the remains of sandwiches. Charley sat in an orthopedic executive chair at the head of the largest table, carefully leafing through the reports that poured in from border crossings all around the US. The Immigration Service and Customs were busy
looking for the face of Youssef bin Hassan and scanning passports for the false names Charley had pulled from Ahmed bin Faisal, and they updated the task force constantly.

But there was nothing. Yet.

Satisfied with how things were working, Ray slipped out of the building and met his driver in front. During the drive to Johns Hopkins, made lengthy by the maddening Beltway traffic, Ray stared out the window and thought through all the things that needed to be done yet in this operation.

At the hospital, he spoke briefly to the attending physician, then went into Intensive Care, where he stood at the foot of Dale Miller’s bed. The young operator’s head was swathed in bandages, and his eyes were closed. Both hands lay at his side, his left hand pierced by multiple IVs that hung from a stainless-steel tree beside the bed. Monitor leads ran from his chest and head to the panel above the bed, and a tube was inserted into one nostril.

“You look like hell, Dale,” Ray said.

He reached out and gently patted the comatose man on his foot.

In a hotel in the Red Light District that catered primarily to prostitutes and their customers, where renting a room by the hour was common, Youssef had carefully prepared his equipment. The atomizers were already labeled as breath freshener, and he made sure the vials contained only scented water. The small vials of actual smallpox agent were carefully placed into a condom, then placed inside another for additional padding before he lubricated the bundle with K-Y Jelly and inserted it into his rectum. He grimaced at the unpleasant feeling in his bowels. He stuffed himself with prescription-strength Lomotil, available over the counter in Amsterdam, ensuring that his bowels would remain frozen for the flight across the Atlantic. Youssef checked himself in the mirror, satisfied with everything except for his slightly stiff walk. He’d have to work on that.

The boarding and flight were uneventful. The security people hadn’t given him a second look, dressed as he was now in a dark gray summer-weight business suit, concentrating instead on the scruffy young backpackers, many of whom still reeked of marijuana. The next hurdle was Canadian Customs. The passport he presented was one of several he’d obtained while in Amsterdam; it was an American passport in the name of Roy Hunter, a name his controllers
wouldn’t know. It was an additional measure he’d taken to ensure his security.

The Canadian Customs inspector, a surly looking gray-haired man whose belly bulged beneath his too-small uniform shirt, looked at the passport and then at Youssef. Roy Hunter wasn’t a name he was looking for, and he had only his intuition and experience to guide him.

“Purpose of your visit?”

“Vacation,” Youssef said.

“How long are you staying?”

“Just two weeks.”

“You’re coming from Amsterdam?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“Home to New York,” Youssef said. “Then it’s back to work.”

The customs inspector gave Youssef a lingering look, then nodded curtly. He stamped the passport and handed it back. “Have a nice visit, sir.”

“Thank you,” Youssef said, putting the passport in his inside coat pocket.

In a rest room near car-rental kiosks, he removed the bundle of smallpox vials and relieved himself. The bundle of vials went into a spare plastic bag he’d reserved for just that purpose. Then he picked up the rental car he’d reserved over the Internet, and drove south and east, crossing the border into Buffalo. The Border Patrol officer at the crossing made a cursory examination of his passport, glanced at his face, and made a notation of his license plate. Youssef left the car in the long-term parking at Buffalo’s small airport, and from the terminal caught a public bus downtown, where he found the Greyhound bus station and paid cash for a one-way ticket to New York City. He got directions to a nearby Motel 6, where he checked in, paying cash once again. He took out the vials of smallpox he’d carried, then carefully replaced the canisters of scented water with live agent. The atomizers seemed heavier in his hands.

The next day he rode the bus into downtown New York. It was
a long ride, and Youssef enjoyed looking out the window, watching the rolling countryside of rural New York slowly morph into the built-up city. From the bus station it was a short cab ride to Penn Station, where he bought an express-train ticket for Washington, DC’s Union Station. The train arrived after midnight, but he had a reservation at a small business hotel near Union Station. One night there was enough. Tomorrow he would disappear into the anonymous world of the youth hostel.

Across town, at the International Youth Hostel, the tired girl at the front desk looked up as someone came through the front double doors. A woman, her jet-black hair cut in sharp bangs across her forehead and the rest falling straight to her shoulder, came in lugging a single overstuffed duffel bag.

“Hi,” the dark-haired woman said. “Can I still get a single room or is it too late?”

“No, we’ve got plenty,” the girl said. “Are you an IYH member?”

“Yes, but I’ve lost my card.”

“That’s all right. Cash or charge?”

“Cash.” The dark-haired woman pulled a handful of bills from her jeans pocket and held it out. “Take what you need, I’m still learning the money.”

“Where are you from?” the girl asked, plucking eighteen dollars from the sizeable wad.

“Amsterdam,” Isabelle Andouille said, flipping the ends of her black wig away from her face. “My flight just got in. I’m looking forward to my visit.”

Charley grew restless in the confined conference room. The smell of stale coffee and hot office equipment oppressed him, so he called for a driver to pick him up at the front of the building.

“I’m on the radio with a cell phone backup,” he said to the severe-looking assistant Ray had lent him, a bone-thin youngster in his early twenties. “I should be back in an hour or so.”

“Yes, sir,” the assistant said, looking up from the sheaf of computer printouts he was poring over. “I’ll tell Mr. Dalton when he returns.”

A driver, casual in a leather bomber jacket and khakis, sat inside a black Lincoln Town Car outside the front entrance to the nondescript office building that housed the operation. Charley tapped on the glass, and climbed in front beside the driver.