Blaze of Glory (15 page)

“THAT FITS.” COLONEL MAC sounded sleepy. Tess had sent him an encrypted e-mail, then called a half hour after she finished her call with Inspector D’Aubigne. Since they were talking over an unsecure line, most of the conversation was done in innuendo.

“Fits? How does it fit?”

“Someone recently suggested the same thing.”

Someone?
“Anyone I know?”

“I believe you met, recently. He’s a neat freak. Fingernail clippings drive him nuts.”

Fingernail clippings.

“You don’t wear pink fingernail polish, do you?”

“Pink? You probably mean coral, and no, I wear a dark red. Coral is so yesterday.”

Colonel Mac laughed. “Women and their war paint.”

“Is he enjoying being on the road?” Tess bit her lip to keep from asking about J. J. and the others.

“So far. I think he’s a little bored.”

Tess took that to mean that the team was safe and had not been in an armed conflict.

“Boredom can be a good thing.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Boredom is temporary.”
Death is permanent.

“I know exactly what you mean. Keep me in the loop.” Colonel Mac hung up.

“And you keep me in the loop too,” Tess said to the dial tone.

DE LUCA STEPPED INTO the den where Moyer paced like a hungry cat. Waiting was not his strong suit. “What ya got, Major?”

The Italian straightened. “The license number comes back to a 2008 eighteen-seat Irisbus mini. It’s a rental out of Rome.”

“I don’t suppose it came equipped with a tracking device.”

De Luca shook his head.

Zinsser looked up from the computer. “Eighteen seats tells us something.”

“True. A man doesn’t rent an eighteen-seat bus for four or five people.” He turned his attention to De Luca. “What about the helo?”

“It should be airborne in the next few minutes.”

“In that case, we need to be ready to rock.” He walked to a spot behind Zinsser. “How you doing, Data?”

“It’s going to take more time than we’ve got to recover more than a handful of files. I did find one thing interesting. The computer is on a network. It recently accessed a teleconference site. I bet the Major could make a call and find out where the other end of the teleconference is located.”

“Make it happen. I want us on the move in fifteen. Got it?”

“Got it, Boss.”

THE PAIN IN DELARAM’S thigh grew. She ran a hand along the back of her leg and the inside of her thigh. The gentle touch felt like another beating. Her right leg had swollen over the last hour, and the rough road only made things worse. It was clear they had left the private road for a dirt path better suited for a four-wheel drive than a boxy minibus. Every few moments one corner or another of the vehicle would drop into a pothole and bounce out, jarring her and the other passengers. Each bump sent nails of pain through her hip and up her spine. At times she had to cover her mouth to keep from crying out. She might be helpless, but that didn’t mean she had to give them cause for satisfaction.

She shifted in the seat, seeking a less painful position. She gave up trying to be comfortable. If she could just move from excruciating pain to mere horrible discomfort, she’d consider herself lucky.

Lucky. She had always considered herself fortunate. Born to a well-to-do family, free to attend the best schools, encouraged to travel the world without a care, she had a life most of the world would envy. No one would envy her now. Parents held halfway around the world, subject to beating and most likely awaiting their execution. Their only hope rested on her willingness to kill herself and a few dozen innocent bystanders.

Delaram had been in the Italian countryside several times before and believed it to be some of the most beautiful scenery she had seen. Now, outside her window scrolled a twilight land of nearly black gloom; a stygian panorama.

Dark as it was outside, the mood in the bus was darker. The women sat in silence. Occasionally, someone would sniff, and she knew they were fighting tears. Like her, they had not only their lives to lose, but those of their loved ones also.

More than ever, she wished the bomb vest she had been wearing had been set to go off when she pressed the button. She would have killed herself, her captors, and, yes, the other girls, but maybe she might have saved many more lives. At least she wouldn’t be sitting in this bus.

Despair darkened the night and thickened her depression. Like a ping-pong ball in a tornado, her thoughts flew in tight circles of ever-increasing speed. She tried to force her mind onto a single track, to hold one image, one question, one hope, one anything, but she failed at every attempt. For a few seconds she thought of her battered parents; for the next few seconds she thought of her impending death; the next few moments made her focus on the hatred she felt for the men who were doing this; every once in awhile, she thought of the other women.

The bus shuddered to a stop, and Delaram felt the tires skid in the dirt. The men in the bus rose. One turned to them. “Everyone—out.”

“MEXICO?” MOYER FROWNED. “AGAIN with Mexico. I don’t get it. What does Mexico have to do with our mission?”

“I can’t say, Boss.” Zinsser stood next to Moyer, who had joined the others in the basement workshop. “Data made a few calls and I searched the computer. We confirmed that a teleconference occurred with someone in Mexico.”

“Do we know who?”

“No,” De Luca answered. “It was routed through several countries. Whoever did it has someone who knows how to manipulate the Internet.”

“I found something else,” Zinsser said. “I was able to reconstruct some pictures.”

“Pictures of whom?”

“Not who, Boss; pictures of what. The pictures were screen captures of satellite services. You know, like Google Maps. There were pics from several servers including a private company. All satellite shots of the same place.”

“And that place is . . .”

“Naples, Boss.”

Moyer felt the blood drain from his face.

“Yeah.” Zinsser’s expression was grim. “I had the same thought.”

“What?” J. J. looked from one to the other. “I’m not making the connection.”

“G-20. Didn’t I hear that it had been moved to Naples?”

“G-20?” J. J. frowned at Moyer.

“Group of Twenty. It’s a gathering of government leaders. They meet from time to time to discuss economics.”

“I thought it was the G-8,” Rich said.

“It used to be the leaders from the top economic powers: Canada, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Russia, the United Kingdom, and the United States. It started back in the mid-seventies. The number changes from time to time.”

Zinsser ticked off the countries on his fingers. “Brazil, China, India, and Mexico have been included. This meeting includes several countries from South America and a few others.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What? You think Shaq is the only one who reads?”

“You think these guys are thinking of doing something at the G-20 meeting?” Shaq asked.

Moyer thought for a moment. The puzzle pieces in his mind began to assemble. “It could be. Think about it: women bombers struck a hospital, a school, a fashion show, and the like. Bombers usually try to do their work in crowds, but each of these involved entering a building. It’s one thing to set yourself off in a religious procession or an open air market, but to do so in a building presents challenges.”

“Those were practice runs?” J. J. asked.

“Maybe. Data, get me command. Polo, get on the horn with your people.”

“Then what?” Rich said.

“Then we hightail it out of here.”

CHAPTER 18

PRESIDENT TED HUFFINGTON SCOOTED to the edge of the limo’s backseat and peered through the bulletproof glass. The driver stopped the presidential limo right on target. In a moment one of the Secret Service Protection Detail would open his door, and he and his wife, Marni, would move from the limo to the covered walkway. The cover, a bright red canopy, had been added to the side entrance to block the view of a sniper—not that a sniper could find purchase on any building within sight of the
Miramare Hotel Grande.

The door swung open; Huffington exited the vehicle and slipped into predawn air, Marni just a step behind. Secret Service agents bracketed them and led them up a red carpet to the side entrance door. On either side of the carpet stood a row of Naples police officers dressed in dark blue uniforms with white gun belts and a matching diagonal support strap. Every man faced out, watching for movement that might indicate danger.

A tall man with ebony skin, prematurely gray hair, and a Secret Service pin stuck in his suit coat stepped to the president’s side. “I need a moment with you, sir.”

“Why does that statement always fill me with dread, Mitchell?”

“I don’t know, sir. My mother always speaks kindly of me.”

“What’s that set you back . . . a month?” Huffington walked down the first-floor hall. He moved quickly to keep pace with the agents in front. Passing a mirror he saw the image of a sixty-year-old man with gray hair, laugh lines etched into his face, and growing bags under his eyes.

When had he started to look so much like his father?

“Not as much as you might think, sir.”

“Okay. Give us ten minutes to freshen up then come up to the room.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Moments later Huffington let out a relaxed breath. He’d ditched the dark blue suit and yellow power tie for a dark green Polo shirt and tan slacks. Much better. When Marni came from the dressing room, she also looked more relaxed in her loose-fitting jeans and bone-colored shell top.

She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

The plan was to stay in for the morning and try to catch up on their sleep. Huffington knew it was futile.

Someone knocked on the door and he sighed. “Come in.”

“Oh Huff, open the door.” Marni eased into an overstuffed chair. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

“It’s just Mitchell. It’s how guys communicate. We shout through doors.”

“I’m sure that’ll go over big when you meet the Chinese prime minister next month.”

The door opened, and Mitchell Baker entered. At his side was Helen “Brownie” Brown. A stern-looking woman with chestnut hair that hung to just below her jaw line, her brown eyes had a hardness about them. But then, as the first female chief of staff, she had to be tough. She had an unrivaled intellect, an acid tongue to everyone but the president and his wife, laser-beam focus, and a take-no-captive attitude. It was rumored that she had once made the speaker of the house weep. A fact that made Huffington grin every time he thought about it.

“Hey, Brownie. Early morning suits you.” She didn’t grimace at the nickname. Of course, only he was allowed to use the name.

“If you say so, sir.” Helen closed the door behind them.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were being sarcastic.”

“I would never be sarcastic with you, sir.” And yet . . . her smile seemed forced.

“That a fact?”

“A solid fact, Mr. President.”

Huffington motioned to the sitting area of the luxury suite. Helen and Mitchell took seats on one sofa; Huffington lowered himself into the love seat four feet opposite the sofa.