Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (92 page)

“Who are you?” Dawkins asked.

“Tech staff,” Russell replied. This is the media gate, right?"

“Yeah, but you're not on my list.” There was a limited number of available spaces in the VIP lot, and Dawkins couldn't just let anyone in.

“Tape machine broke in the ”A“ unit over there,” Russell explained with a wave. “We had to bring down a backup.”

“Nobody told me,” the police officer observed.

“Nobody told me either until six last night. We had to bring the goddamned thing down from
Omaha
.” Russell waved his clipboard rather vaguely. Out of sight in the back, Ghosn was scarcely breathing.

“Why didn't they fly it down?”

“'Cause FedEx don't work on Sunday, man, and the damned thing's too big to get through the door of a Lear. I ain't complaining, man. I'm
Chicago
tech staff, okay? I'm Network. I get triple-time-and-a-half for this shit, away from home, special event, weekend overtime.”

“That sounds pretty decent,” Dawkins observed.

“Better'n a week's normal pay, man. Keep talking, officer.” Russell grinned. “This is a buck and a quarter a minute, y'know?”

“You must have a hell of a union.”

“We sure do.” Marvin laughed.

“You know where to take it?”

“No problem, sir.” Russell pulled off. Ghosn let out a long breath as the van started moving again. He'd listened to every word, sure that something would go disastrously wrong.

Dawkins watched the van pull away. He checked his watch and made a notation of his own on his own clipboard. For some reason, the captain wanted him to keep track of who arrived when. It didn't make sense to Dawkins, but the captain's ideas didn't always make sense, did they? It took a moment for him to realize that the ABC van had
Colorado
tags. That was odd, he thought, as a
Lincoln
town car pulled up. This one was on his list. It was the commissioner of the NFL's American Conference. The VIPs were supposed to be pretty early, probably, Dawkins thought, so they could settle into their sky boxes and start their drinking early. He'd also drawn security at the Commissioner's party the night before and watched every rich clown in
Colorado
get sloppy drunk, along with various politicians and other Very Important People—mostly assholes, the young cop thought, having watched them—from all over
America
. He supposed that Hemingway was right after all: the rich just have more money.

Two hundred yards away, Russell parked the van, set the brake, and left the engine on. Ghosn went in back. The game was scheduled to start at
4:20
local time. Major affairs always ran late, Ibrahim judged. He'd assumed a start time of
4:30
. To that he added another half hour, setting T-Zero at
5:00
, Rocky Mountain Standard Time. Arbitrary numbers always had zeros in them, after all, and the actual time of the detonation had been set weeks before: precisely on the first hour after game start.

The device did not have a very sophisticated antitamper device. There was a crude one set on each access door, but there hadn't been time to do anything complicated, and that, Ghosn thought, was a good thing. The gusting northeast wind was rocking the van, and a delicate tumbler switch might not have been a good idea after all.

For that matter, he realized rather belatedly, just slamming the door closed on the van might have . . . What else have you failed to consider? he wondered. Ghosn reminded himself that all such moments brought up the most frightening of thoughts. He swiftly ran over everything he had done to this point. Everything had been checked a hundred times and more. It was ready. Of course it was ready. Hadn't he spent months of careful preparation for this?

The engineer made a last check of his test circuits. All were fine. The cold had not affected the batteries that badly. He connected the wires to the timer—or tried to. His hands were stiff from the cold, and quivered from the emotion of the moment. Ghosn stopped. He took a moment to get control of himself and attached them on the second try, screwing down the nut to hold them firmly in place.

And that, he decided, was that. Ghosn closed the access door, which set the simple tamper switch, and backed away from the device. No, he said to himself. It is no longer a “device”.

“That it?” Russell asked.

“Yes, Marvin,” Ghosn answered quietly. He moved forward into the passenger seat.

“Then let's leave.” Marvin watched the younger man get out, and reached across to lock the door. Then he exited the van, and locked his. They walked west, past the big network up-link vans with their huge dish antennas. They had to be worth millions each, Marvin thought, and every one would be wrecked, along with the TV weenies, just like the ones who had made a sporting event of his brother's death. Killing them didn't worry him a bit, not one little bit. In a moment, the bulk of the stadium shielded them from the wind. They continued across the parking lot, past the ranks of early-arriving fans and the cars which were pulling onto the lot, many of them from
Minnesota
, full of fans dressed warmly, carrying peanuts and wearing hats, some of them adorned with horns.

Qati and the rental car were on a side-street. He simply slid over from the driver's seat, allowing Marvin to get behind the wheel. Traffic was now becoming thick, and, to avoid the worst of it, Russell took an alternate route he'd scouted out the previous day.

“You know, it really is a shame, messing with the game like this.”

“What do you mean?” Qati asked.

“This is the fifth time the Vikings have made it to the Superbowl. This time it looks like they're going to win. That Wills kid they have running for them is the best since Sayers, and because of us nobody'll see it happen. Too bad.” Russell shook his head and grinned at the irony of it all. Neither Qati nor Ghosn bothered to reply, but Russell hadn't expected them to. They just didn't have much sense of humor, did they? The motel parking lot was nearly empty. Everyone staying there must have been a fan of one sort or another, Marvin thought as he opened the door.

“All packed?”

“Yes.” Ghosn traded a look with the Commander. It was too bad, but it could not be helped.

The room hadn't been made up yet, but that was no big thing. Marvin went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. When the American emerged, he saw that both Arabs were standing.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” Qati said. “Could you get my bag down, Marvin?”

“Sure.” Russell turned and reached for the suitcase that lay on the metal shelf. He didn't hear the steel bar that struck the back of his neck. His short but powerful frame dropped to the cheap all-weather carpet on the floor. Qati had struck hard, but not hard enough to kill, the Commander realized. He was weakening by the day. Ghosn helped him move the body back into the bathroom, where they laid him face up. The motel was a cheap one, and the bathroom was small, too small for their purposes. They'd hoped to set him in the tub, but there wasn't room for both men to stand. Instead, Qati simply knelt by the American's side. Ghosn shrugged his disappointment and reached for a towel from the rack.

He wrapped the towel around Russell's neck. The man was more stunned than unconscious, and his hands were beginning to move. Ghosn had to move quickly. Qati handed him the steak knife that he'd removed from the coffee shop after dinner the previous night. Ghosn took it and cut deeply into the side of Russell's neck, just below the right ear. Blood shot out as though from a hose, and Ibrahim pushed the towel back down to keep it from splashing on his clothes. Then he did the same thing to the carotid artery on the left side. Both men held the towel down, almost as though to staunch the bloodflow.

It was at that moment that Marvin's eyes came completely open. There was no comprehension in them, there was no time for him to understand what was happening. His arms moved, but each man used all his weight to hold them down and prevented the American from accomplishing anything. He didn't speak, though his mouth opened, and, after a last accusing look at Ghosn, the eyes went dreamy for a moment, then rolled back. By this time, Qati and Ghosn were leaning back to avoid the blood that now filled the grooves between the bathroom tiles. Ibrahim pulled back the towel. The blood was trickling out now, and was not a concern. The towel was quite sodden, however. He tossed it into the tub. Qati handed him another.

“I hope God will be merciful to him,” Ghosn said quietly.

“He was a pagan.” It was too late for recriminations.

“Is it his fault that he never met a godly man?”

“
Wash
,” Qati said. There were two sinks outside the bathroom. Each man lathered his hands thoroughly, checking his clothes for any sign of blood. There was none.

“What will happen to this place when the bomb goes off?” Qati asked.

Ghosn thought about that. “This close . . . it will be outside the fireball, but—” he walked to the windows and pulled the drapes back a few centimeters. The stadium was readily visible, and a direct line of sight made it easy to say what would happen. “The thermal pulse will set it afire, and then the blast wave will flatten the building. The whole building will be consumed.”

“You're sure?”

“Completely. The effects of the bomb are easy to predict.”

“Good.” Qati removed all the travel documents and identification he and Ghosn had used to this point. They'd have to clear customs inspection, and they had already tempted fate enough. The surplus documents they tossed in a trash can. Ghosn got both bags and took them out to the car. They checked the room once more. Qati got into the car. Ghosn closed the door for the last time, leaving the “Do Not Disturb” card on the knob. It was a short drive to the airport, and their flight left in two hours.

The parking lot filled up rapidly. By three hours before game time, much to Dawkins' surprise, the VIP lot was filled. Already the pre-game show had begun. He could see a team wandering around the lot with a minicam, interviewing the Vikings fans, who had converted one entire half of the parking lot into a giant tail-gate party. There were white vapor trails rising from charcoal grills. Dawkins knew that the Vikings fans were slightly nutty, but this was ridiculous. All they had to do was walk inside. They could have any manner of food and drink, and consume it in sixty-eight-degree air, sitting on a cushioned seat, but no—they were proclaiming their toughness in air that couldn't be much more than five degrees Fahrenheit. Dawkins was a skier and had worked his way through college as a ski patrol at one of the
Aspen
slopes. He knew cold and he knew the value of warmth. You couldn't impress cold air with anything. The air and wind simply didn't notice.

“How are things going, Pete?”

Dawkins turned. “No problems, Sarge. Everybody on the list is checked off.”

“I'll spell you for a few minutes. Go inside and warm up for a while. You can get coffee at the security booth just inside the gate.”

“Thanks.” Dawkins knew that he'd need something. He was going to be stuck outside for the whole game, patrolling the lot to make sure nobody tried to steal something. Plainclothes officers were on the lookout for pickpockets and ticket-scalpers, but most of them would get to go inside and watch the game. All Dawkins had was a radio. That was to be expected, he thought. He had less than three years on the force. He was still almost a rookie. The young officer walked up the slope towards the stadium, right past the ABC minivan he'd checked through. He looked inside and saw the Sony tape machine. Funny, it didn't seem to be hooked up to anything. He wondered where those two techies were, but getting coffee was more important. Even polypropylene underwear had its limits, and Dawkins was as cold as he had ever remembered.

Qati and Ghosn returned the car to the rental agency and took the courtesy bus to the terminal, where they checked in their bags for the flight, then headed in to check their flight's status. Here they learned that the American MD-8o for Dallas-Fort Worth was delayed. Weather in
Texas
, the clerk at the desk explained. There was ice on the runways from the storm that had just skirted past
Denver
the previous night.

“I must make my connection to
Mexico
. Can you book me through another city?” Ghosn asked.

“We have one leaving for
Miami
, same departure time as your flight to
Dallas
. I can book you a connecting flight in
Miami
.” The ticket agent tapped the data into her terminal. “There's a one-hour layover. Oh, okay, it's only a fifteen-minute difference into
Mexico City
.”

“Could you do that, please? I must make my connection.”

“Both tickets?”

“Yes, excuse me.”

“No problem.” The young lady smiled at her computer. Ghosn wondered if she'd survive the event. The huge glass windows faced the stadium and even at this distance the blast wave . . . maybe, he thought, if she ducked fast enough. But she'd already be blinded from the flash. Such pretty dark eyes, too. A pity. “Here you go. I'll make sure they switch the bags over,” she promised him. That Ghosn took with a grain of salt.

“Thank you.”

“The gate is that way.” She pointed.

“Thank you once more.”

The ticket agent watched them head off. The young one was pretty cute, she thought, but his big brother—or boss? she wondered—looked like a sourpuss. Maybe he didn't like to fly.

“Well?” Qati asked.

“The connecting flight roughly duplicates our schedule. We've lost a quarter hour buffer time in
Mexico
. The weather problem is localized. There should be no further difficulty.”

The terminal was very nearly empty. Those people who wished to leave
Denver
were evidently waiting for later flights so that they might watch the game on TV, and the same appeared to be true of arriving flights, Ibrahim saw. There were scarcely twenty people in the departure lounge.

“Okay, I can't reconcile the schedules here either,” Goodley said. “In fact, I'd almost say we have a smoking gun.”

“How so?” Ryan asked.

“Narmonov was only in
Moscow
two days last week, Monday and Friday. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday he was in
Latvia
,
Lithuania
, the
Western Ukraine
, and then a trip down to
Volgograd
for some local politicking. Friday's out because of when the message came over, right? But Monday, our friend was in the Congress building practically all day. I don't think they met last week, but the letter implies that they did. I think we got a lie here.”