Primary Target (1999) (15 page)

"Hold on a second," Adair said, then cupped the phone receiver in his hand and turned to face Macklin. "Mr. President, I don't think we have to be concerned about our plans triggering retaliation from the terrorists."

Macklin slowly turned and gave Adair a puzzled look. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The terrorists just declared war on us," Adair said as a frown creased his forehead. "We're looking at the results of the first salvo. Travis Morgan and a group of terrorist experts were on that plane."

"Damn," Prost suddenly blurted. "Dalton and Sullivan were booked on the same flight, but canceled to wait for a call from me."

Silence suddenly filled the room as all eyes again turned to the president.

"Farkas?" Macklin asked.

"It's highly possible," Prost replied.

Overwhelmed with grief and anger, the president's eyes reflected blazing fury. "If it's true, they've made a serious mistake." Macklin's rage was reaching the boiling point when he looked at General Chalmers. "If this crash was the work of terrorists supported by Iran, I want those gutless cowards to pay a severe penalty."

Chalmers nodded his head. "They will, Mr. President. They will."

Global Response Center, McLean, Virgini
a
Behind a heavy door on the nondescript sixth floor of th
e
CIA headquarters, the stunning revelation about Khaliq Farkas had sent a chill through the command post for clandestine war on terrorism. While computer screens flashed dispatches and warnings, secure phones rang with alerts from operatives at overseas locations. With its array of video monitors and high-tech workstations, the antiterrorism center looked remarkably like a state-of-the-art military command center. A small group of dedicated analysts studied dozens of up-to-the-minute spy-satellite photographs while nineteen counterterrorism specialists monitored the continuous flow of highly classified information about the whereabouts of Farkas and other widely known terrorists.

In a secluded executive conference room, the director of the CIA spoke by secure phone to a senior foreign intelligence official. The conversation was loud and strained. No one, not even field operatives who observed Farkas on a daily basis, could explain how he was still in Tehran at the same time as he was seen flying an A-4 Skyhawk in Wyoming. Embarrassed by the professional blunder, the director finally had to admit that Farkas had deceived them once again. His stand-in was a carbon copy.

Chapter
14

Athens, Greece
.

After spending an exhausting night in Dallas, Scott and Jackie arrived at Ronald Reagan Washington Nationa
l
Airport late the next morning. Pressed for time, they hurriedly packed their gear and caught a flight to Kennedy International Airport. With only minutes to spare before departure time, they boarded Olympic Airways Flight 412 bound for Athens and immediately fell into a deep sleep. The bright sun was high overhead when their Olympic Airways 747 landed at the international airport. Using passports and credentials provided by the CIA, they quickly cleared customs and secured transportation from the airport, then checked into a luxury hotel with a spectacular view of the Acropolis.

While Jackie unpacked her luggage and indulged herself with a warm bath, Scott took the time to thoroughly inspect one of his custom-designed black parachutes. The chute's rectangular "ramair" canopy provided Dalton a high degree of control and accuracy after a precision free fall. Using night-vision goggles, and a wrist-mounted Global Positioning System satellite navigation instrument, Scott consistently landed within three feet of his target.

After a quick shave and shower, Dalton called Hartwell Prost and received a thorough brief on the status of the pre-
p
ositioned equipment needed for the rescue mission. They also covered emergency contingencies and, once again, the subject of identification. Scott and his team would go in sterile. No one would carry any form of ID or wear any type of identifying jewelry or clothing.

In addition, all articles of clothing and footwear had to be free of identifiable tags or logos. As far as the White House and the Agency were concerned, Scott, Jackie, and Greg were mercenaries with no ties to the U
. S
. government. The two helicopters and the single-engine airplane they had at their disposal were not insured and were not registered with any agency or government. In addition, the Bell LongRangers and the turboprop Cessna Caravan didn't have serial numbers on their airframes or engines. They had been written off as either destroyed or lost at sea.

When he was satisfied that his jump gear was in order, Scott took a leisurely nap, then went to the rooftop restaurant and requested a table with a panoramic view of the city. After he was seated, Scott enjoyed a Chivas and soda while he waited for Jackie. When she entered the elegant dining room, her trim figure and striking good looks stopped a number of conversations. Smiling pleasantly, she caught sight of Scott and spoke quietly to the maitre d' as she walked toward Dalton's corner table.

He rose from his chair and greeted her with an approving smile. Wow. "That's a very nice dress."

"Thank you," she said, noting the warmth of his smile. He seated her, then gave the waiter a slight nod. "How about a drink before dinner?"

"Sure," she said with a hint of a smile. "I could use one." "Rough day?"

"I just can't seem to get the crash off my mind. Every time I think about it, I visualize Eddy's face twisted in sheer ten ron" Jackie's pain was still fresh, but she maintained control of her emotions.

There was a slight pause while Scott considered Jackie's comments. "I know," he said in a comforting voice. "I can't stop thinking about Farkas, the innocent people he killed, and divine intervention--why we were spared at the last moment."

The waiter took her drink order and she turned her attenLion to Scott. "What's the latest from Washington?" she asked in a deliberate attempt to change the subject.

"Greg will be arriving early in the morning. After he gets here, a Navy helo will fly us out to the container ship. Two LongRangers are already onboard the ship."

"Two?"

"That's right. Hartwell believes in having spares whenever possible. And, like we requested, both helos and the jump plane have extended range tanks mounted inside the cabins." "That's a relief," Jackie remarked, smiling vaguely at Scott. "What about my gear and the NVGs?"

"Hartwell assured me that everything you requested is there, including night-vision goggles, plus UHF and VHF radios."

"I'm impressed."

"Hartwell doesn't miss much," Scott declared. "After we drop you off on the ship, Greg and I will continue to Cyprus. The airplane has already been flown to Larnaca and topped off with fuel, so we're ready to launch on arrival."

Jackie smiled at Scott's contagious enthusiasm. "Any problem with getting permission to operate out of the international airport?"

"None whatsoever." The answer was simple and direct, emphasizing his expertise in covert operations. "The State Department explained that we're investigating the feasibility of starting an air-cargo service."

Jackie chuckled. "Surely they don't believe that."

"Hey, it gives everyone plausible deniability if anyone brings something up later. The airplane left the island and never returned. No one knows anything, except that it had a problem and disappeared. End of feasibility study--end of mystery."

"Let's hope it is that simple," Jackie coolly observed while their eyes met briefly.

"It usually is," Scott said as he arched his shoulders in a flexing shrug.

A hint of a smile touched her lips. "Usually--but not always," she challenged. "We can't know the odds."

"I guess I'd have to agree with that." Dalton's expression reflected a sudden concern. "Jackie, what do you think about changing our plans?"

"What?"

"I think we should eliminate the practice run and rendezvous."'

"Why?" she asked with a suspicious frown.

"Intuition," he said with a confident smile. "We need to be unpredictable--just in case someone is telegraphing our movements."

"I can't argue with that," Jackie admitted, eager to launch the rescue effort. "I just hope Maritza is still at the compound."

"So do I," he said firmly. We may be risking our lives for nothing.

She caught his eye. "If one of those crazies has a bad day, she could pay the ultimate penalty before we even get there." Scott recognized the wayward direction her thoughts were taking her. "We have to keep the faith."

"I know," she murmured, understanding yet not liking the situation. "I'm just afraid she might be on her way to Tehran."

Dalton's thoughtful look hinted of compassion. "Unless we receive new information from Maritza, we have to assume that she's still there. I know she's a personal friend, but we can't afford to become distracted by what could happen."

Her eyes narrowed. "What would you do if Greg O'Donnell was in Maritza's place?"

"I'd follow my own advice," he replied easily, not rising to the obvious challenge. "I'd concentrate on doing my job right and try to increase the chances of succeeding."

They paused while Jackie's drink was delivered to the table.

"You have a point," she agreed, then looked him in the eye. "I'll be there when you need me," she said confidently. "I won't let you down."

"If I had any doubts about you, I wouldn't be here." Scott paused while another couple was seated nearby, then changed the subject. "Hartwell gave me an update on Farkas," he said in a hushed voice. "A security camera caught him on video at DFW."

"And?"

"Apparently, he feigned car trouble on the perimeter of th
e
airport and hitched a ride with the driver of an airline catering truck."

"That figures," Jackie lamented.

"Since he was wearing an airline captain's uniform," Scott continued, "and had an official-looking ID badge, the driver never questioned anything. He drove the little bugger right through a service gate, then drove him to the boarding bridge leading to the cockpit of Flight 1684. According to a baggage handler who was near the jet, Farkas got out of the truck and leisurely sauntered up the stairs, then entered the jetway and boarded the plane."

"Wait a second." Her eyes studied his with a certain skepticism. "He would've needed a key, or some kind of code, to enter the jetway. You can't just walk up and open the door."

Scott eyed her and glanced around the room. "We're talking about the master," he reminded her with unabashed ease. "The bag smasher said the guy used a key to enter the jetway. Farkas obviously had done his homework."

"Or," Jackie asserted, "someone did his homework for him. It's amazing what money will buy these days."

"Yeah, that's true. The guy who saw Farkas went on loading bags and didn't think anything else about it. After Farkas planted the explosive--they believe it was Semtex, his favorite--he came back down the outside stairs and walked through the baggage-handling area. That's where the security camera tagged him. Once he cleared the area, he entered the concourse and probably wasn't far from us when he triggered the bomb."

"Amazing," she said with restless energy. "Absolutely amazing. How did he get out of Dallas?"

"No one knows."

"Did they find the A-4?"

"No," Scott said lamely. "They checked every airport within two hundred miles. No one saw anything that even vaguely resembled an A-4. My guess is he flew to Dallas in a run-of-the-mill plane."

"He might have arrived on a commercial flight," Jackie said as she attempted to conceal her frustration.

"I doubt it." Scott shrugged. "That would present too muc
h
of a risk, and he wouldn't have been able to manage his time as well."

A frown crossed Jackie's face. "I can't believe he just vanished after our accident."

"Neither can I. The taxi--or what was left of it--was found about a mile from where we were, but he hasn't been seen since."

"That figures," she said, then absently stirred her drink with the straw. "Did Hartwell have anything to say about the crash?"

"Yes. They listened to a copy of the ATC tapes--from the tower and departure control. The first officer was in mid-sentence with the controller when the bomb was detonated. I have no doubt that the bomb was in or near the cockpit, because it incapacitated the pilots and instantaneously destroyed the radios. Forty-six seconds later the airplane slammed into the ground at approximately 380 miles an hour."

Scott reached for his drink. "Hartwell believes Farkas was going for a trifecta; he planned to bring down an airliner, kill a major segment of our terrorist experts, and take us out at the same time."

They remained silent for almost a minute, both thinking about how close they had come to dying.

Jackie finally broke the silence. "We have to stop him," she urged in mild outrage.

"I understand your feelings," Scott said patiently. "I feel the same way, but right now our job is to rescue Maritza. She may be able to give us a lot of information about Farkas, including where we might find him."