Blaze of Glory (23 page)

“Just so long as we don’t include caffeine on that list. I like my coffee.”

“Addict.”

The president chuckled. “Don’t get too cocky. I know about that sweet tooth you have.”

“Mr. President.” Mitchell motioned to the elevator cab.

Huffington and Helen entered and faced the doors.

“Any questions about the schedule for this afternoon?” Helen asked.

“Enter the dining area on the second floor at 11:30; chat it up for a few minutes with a few of the other leaders . . .”

“Don’t get drawn into any debates.”

“Have I ever allowed that to happen?”

“Let’s see, at the G-8 in Tokyo, you and the Chinese president delayed dinner by fifteen minutes by refusing to take your seats. Global warming, I believe it was.”

“That’s why we have these meetings. It’s how things get done.”

“I agree . . . just don’t do it again.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“That’s better.”

“Hey, Mitch. I want you to meet the new leader of the United States of America: Helen Brown.”

“President Brownie. I like it.”

Helen cut him a glance. “You wouldn’t be so snide if you weren’t packing heat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned back to her boss. “And next?”

“The mayor of Naples will say a few things, welcome everyone. At noon, lunch will be served . . . what am I having? Not chicken I hope.”

“Fish.”

“Swell. Fish.” He frowned.

“It’s black bass. You like black bass.”

“I pretend to like black bass; I’d rather have a steak.”

“Maybe for dinner. What happens after lunch?”

“We hear from Japan, then the UK. Afterwards there will be a short press conference. I’ll tell the world how well things are going.”

“Sounds like you’re ready. I’ll be there to root you on.”

The elevator opened and Huffington checked his watch, then followed Mitchell from the cab.

THE CAPACITY OF WESTERNERS to consume alcohol at any hour of the day never ceased to amaze Tony Nasser. True, they had begun drinking at an earlier party and just continued through the morning hours. The massive yacht bobbed in increasing swells of the open ocean. He glanced at his watch—11:30. Forty-five minutes ago he had turned the yacht on and crept along an easterly course. The Naples skyline was visible two miles in front of the bow.

For several hours the luxury craft moved through the water, loud music playing from the sound system. Nearly naked women and shirtless men danced to tunes that made Nasser’s ears hurt.

He glanced to the north and saw what he had been waiting for: a twenty-foot sailboat. It flew a solid blue flag.

It was time.

Nasser stepped into the interior bridge and inserted a key into a recently installed lock. Before turning it, he removed a small transmitter and entered a five-digit code into the keypad. His mind played the image of a timer below decks coming to life—a timer attached to a dozen metal barrels of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil—an explosive mix used by Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols to bring down the Alfred P. Murray Federal Building in Oklahoma City. They managed to kill one-hundred-sixty-eight people in 1995. A few improvements had made Nasser’s explosive mix even more effective.

Glancing out the window, Nasser saw a man on the sailboat pull in the skiff it towed behind and enter it. Timing was everything. He waited until he saw the skiff start for his location. A roar overhead drew his attention. The military jet that had been circulating the city passed through the cloudless sky on another pass.

Nasser waited another two minutes then slipped into a bright orange life jacket. He returned to the control panel and turned the key. The yacht’s engine roared to life and the large craft began to gain speed. It had taken workers a week to set up a system that would lock out all the controls. Nasser pulled the engine throttles from the pilot’s panel, something that would have taken a great deal of time had the controls not been previously compromised.

The yacht could be controlled from a station topside, but Nasser had already rendered those controls useless. Thanks to days of planning and preparation, the multimillion-dollar vessel was now an ocean-sailing smart bomb.

Nasser walked onto the back deck.

“Hey Tony, what’s with the life vest?”

“Forget the vest, what are you doing to the engines?”

“There is nothing to worry about my friends. Allah controls everything.”

At the port-side safety rail, Nasser tossed the lockout key into the water. The yacht pressed forward, gaining speed every second. Off the stern the water turned to white froth as the propellers churned the water.

“Good-bye my friends.”

Tony Nasser climbed over the safety rail and dropped into the water.

JUST EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD and standing only four-foot-eleven, Anju Sharma had no trouble disappearing into the gathering crowd six blocks from the
Miramare Hotel Grande.
She pushed toward the center of the mob. She made no attempt to guess the size of the crowd. It didn’t matter. It was in the thousands—thousands of mostly young people carrying signs denouncing the West and the financial tyranny it forces on the world. One month ago she was barely aware of such protests. Anju had even less concern about mob politics now. She had only one task left in her life.

She thought of her home in India.

She thought of her sister and nephew.

She thought of the backpack slung over her shoulders.

FIVE BLOCKS AWAY, TWENTY-THREE-YEAR-OLD Zoya pulled into a Naples fueling station and parked the Renault Megane station wagon next to the pumps.

She slipped from behind the driver’s seat carrying a long, nylon package tie. Inserting a debit card in the reader, she selected the mid-grade gas and inserted the nozzle into the vehicle’s fuel port. She activated the nozzle then passed the nine-inch tie into the handle and cinched it tight. A moment later fuel began to flow into the tank.

Tears flowed down her face as she pulled the nozzle from the gas port and set it on the ground, then watched the gasoline flow into a rapidly growing pool.

A young woman pulled behind her. Zoya could see two children in the vehicle. The mother stopped when she saw Zoya standing in the pool of gasoline.

Zoya made eye contact. “Run.”

J. J., BY HIS count, completed his twenty-third transit across the hotel lobby and down the corridor leading to the first-floor rooms. At the end of the hall, he turned and started back to the lobby and corridor on the other side. What now? Zinsser’s response to the news of his friend’s death was understandable. The man had been through a great deal and now lost the only other survivor of a mission gone terribly wrong. He had a right to be angry, a right to be emotional.

When J. J. reached the lobby, he found a deep, leather chair and lowered himself into it. The lobby was nearly empty. Two men stood behind the front desk chatting. Since the hotel had been closed to others, they had nothing to do but manage whatever requests that came from the entourages accompanying the planet’s top leaders. Occasionally a Secret Service agent walked by, identified by the specialized lapel pins they wore. Out the glass entryway, J. J. saw cars used as barricades lining the street.

The problem with men was that they were emotional cripples. J. J. smiled. The idea was not original with him. Tess had made the observation not long after they met.
“Soldiers are worse. You are taught to suppress your emotions. Do that long enough and you don’t know how to deal with them when they arise.”

She was right—at least partly. Soldiers in battle had to rein in emotion. Thinking was good; feeling could get in the way.

Still, Tess was mostly right. Zinsser was angry, hurt, and alone, and J. J. didn’t know what to do about it. If the roles were reversed, he didn’t know what he’d want Zinsser to do for him.

“This is crazy,” J. J. whispered and rose. Zinsser would come out of it. All J. J. could do was pray for the man and give him his space.

He moved to the elevator. Bored, yet too weary to sleep, he punched the button. The cab stopped at the second floor and the doors parted. Mitchell Baker stepped on.

“J. J., isn’t it? Or do you prefer to be called by rank?”

“J. J. is fine, sir.”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping or something?”

“Can’t unwind.”

Mitchell grinned. “Yeah, I know. I always had trouble sleeping on mission.”

“Shouldn’t you be watching the president?”

“He’s well covered. I have to check the protesters. We have a couple of agents in the crowd. The group is growing larger than expected. They’re also getting noisy. Wanna come along?”

“You bet. It’ll beat pacing the lobby.”

The smell of scores of running computers and monitors and other electronics hung in the air. Some of the faces of the agents were different, no doubt the result of a shift change. J. J. was surprised to see Moyer standing over the shoulder of a woman seated at one of the monitors. “Hey Boss, what are you doing here?”

“I gotta be somewhere.”

Mitchell nodded to a thickly built African-American. “What’s going on with the crowd?”

“The group continues to grow. We estimate about eight thousand. They’re getting pushy, too. The police have moved their riot squad into position.”

Mitchell leaned close to the monitor. “Have you identified the leaders?”

“No. There are a few possibilities, but it looks more like an anarchy group.”

J. J. glanced at another monitor, a closed-circuit video link to a dining room filled with dignitaries. He immediately noticed the president seated near the center of the room, his wife to his left. Someone he didn’t recognize stood behind a podium. Another monitor scanned the room moving from one end to another.

J. J. started to shift his attention to the monitor trained on the protesters when something caught his eye. “Hey Mitch, can you zoom in with these cameras?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought I saw something.”

Mitchell and Moyer walked to J. J. “What?”

“Pan the camera back to the entry.” The technician did. “There. That woman.”

“The pregnant woman?” Mitchell frowned. “She was with the florist. I saw her in the room earlier, setting up the centerpieces.”