Support and Defend (37 page)

M
OHAMMED
M
OBASHERI
and two other members of his team led Ross and Bertoli through the underground garage quickly and professionally. They had the air of a close protection detail, although the two Westerners with them were most definitely prisoners.

Gianna Bertoli said, “We should stay in the hotel, and let the police deal with them. The Swiss government won’t let the Americans take Ethan. They have no authority.”

Mobasheri shook his head as he walked. “The FBI will break down every door in the building to get to our friend.”

“So we are leaving the hotel?” Bertoli asked.

“Correct.”

“But it’s freezing outside.”

“Your coats, as well as the rest of your luggage, have already been removed from your rooms and will be brought to you immediately.”

“What? Your people have been through my things?” Gianna’s voice echoed in the parking garage. Her tone was caustic with the breach of her privacy.

Mobasheri conferred in Farsi with someone on his phone. Ross asked, “You don’t think the FBI will have people outside?”

The Iranian took the phone from his ear. “The FBI is watching the exits of the hotel. But where we are going there is no hotel exit. I assure you, I have your safe keeping under control. I need you. Keep walking.”

They stepped into a narrow stairwell that was clearly not part of the Four Seasons property and they ascended to street level. When one of the Iranians arrived at a door, he opened it slowly, and he looked out before indicating to the others they should follow.

Ross thought he would find himself on one of the streets outside the hotel, but instead he saw they were in a long narrow courtyard area chock-full of construction. The Four Seasons was actually connected to an entire block of five- to eight-story buildings, and this paved area was closed for renovations. The inner walls of the apartments and office buildings here had all been covered with green mesh to keep the windows safe from the ongoing construction, and since it was a Sunday there was no activity to speak of in any off the office buildings. Ross suddenly felt the uncomfortable sensation of solitude. He’d quickly moved from a hotel floor with dozens of people around to here, completely isolated other than a small group around him he did not trust.

They continued through the outdoor construction area, there was little snowfall here because of the high buildings and the wind. It was clear to Ross the Iranians had set this escape plan up earlier, although he couldn’t guess how they could have known to do so. He expected now they would all head to the street and hail taxis, although he wondered if Mohammed had some other trick up his sleeve.

For the first time he tried to directly resist the Iranians. He stopped walking, and he reached out and took Gianna by the arm to stop her as well.

“Listen to me, Mohammed. I’m not taking another fucking step. You aren’t getting the intelligence. I want to stay here.”

Mobasheri barely broke stride. He nodded to the man on Ross’s left, who slammed his fist into the back of the American’s shoulder, knocking him forward and off balance. As soon as he was able to turn around in hopes of defending himself from another strike, Ethan saw the Iranian had produced a black pistol, and although the man held it at hip level, it was pointed directly at Ross’s chest.

Gianna started to scream, but a second man put his arm around her neck and covered her mouth with his hand. He pulled her onward in a headlock.

In English, Mobasheri said, “I ask everyone to keep moving, please.”

Ethan Ross turned with his hands raised to ward off any follow on blows, and he resumed walking through the quiet courtyard.

C
ARUSO WOULD HAVE GIVEN
six months of his Campus salary to be in the Four Seasons when Darren Albright and the HRT studs took Ross down. He was certain there would be video taken of the event, and it would play in a constant loop on the cable channels back home from a long time. The video might cause problems; he was damn sure the UN and the EU and God knows who else would have an aneurism when they saw it, especially if Albright and company had to go loud in the posh European hotel.

The video will be cool, he told himself, but it would be so much better to be in there watching first hand, so he could see the color drain out of that prick Ross’s face when he realized the rest of his life would be spent in a ten by twelve can in a supermax prison.

But Dom knew he couldn’t be inside. He had to keep his own face out of the constant video loop, and he sure as hell didn’t want Albright to know he was here. He was already thinking about the after effects of this operation, and he didn’t need a guy like Albright any more curious about him and his organization than he already was.

So Dom went back to his bike parked in the lot in front of the Church of the Holy Trinity, and he zipped his jacket tightly and slipped on his helmet. It was snowing heavily now, but he fired up his BMW F 800 GS and drove slowly back toward the hotel, hoping to at least get a glimpse of the tail end of the arrest, protected from both hotel surveillance cameras and the FBI’s watchful eyes by the tinted visor of his helmet.

He motored slowly back through the snowfall, along with the light traffic, staying in the turning lane to make a left in front of the hotel. When he made the turn he noticed three silver SUVs parked across the street along the Rhone River. He thought it likely the vans belonged to the tactical team, and this was confirmed a moment later when he saw men behind the wheels who looked like they had been sent by out central casting. Short cropped military haircuts, muscular necks disappearing into nondescript dark coveralls, and black watch caps.

Dom smiled inside his helmet. The takedown was going on right now in the building on his left. Catching Ethan Ross wouldn’t bring anything approaching the closure he needed to get over the Yacobys’ deaths, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing. Plus, it would dam up the most dangerous leak to the U.S. intelligence community in history.

Dom wanted to park right here by the vans to watch the action, but he saw no movement at the front of the Four Seasons, and he decided he had a couple minutes before Ross was frog-walked out. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, so he stayed in traffic, making the decision to circle the block to eat up some time.

He made a left of Rue Mont-Blanc, and here he saw four more FBI men watching the street. They were across from the hotel, standing in two groups of two, and obviously aware there were exits through some shops at the street here that also had doors that lead to the lobby of the hotel.

Good, thought Dom. HRT wasn’t just going to bum rush the conference, they were prepared with surveillance in case Ross tried to squirt out another exit.

He made another left onto Rue de Cendrier, this was the end of the block, and he looked for FBI back here, but he saw no one. He presumed this meant the stores here, a luxury eyeglass shop and a men’s clothing shop, didn’t have access to the hotel, which was on the other side of the block.

The fat snowflakes made it hard to see more than a hundred yards, but as he reached the corner and prepared to make a left, ahead of him he saw a large white panel van rolling toward him. His first thought was that the HRT team was even bigger than he’d thought. If they had come in three vehicles they could haul as many as thirty-six people.

That didn’t sound right. He wondered if Albright had authority to make arrests other than just Ross; perhaps this white van was a paddy wagon with which the FBI would haul in all the major players of the ITP.

No, Dom decided. It was going to be tough enough for Albright to get away with the American citizen and get him across the bridge to the U.S. consulate. The arrest itself was going to create a massive international incident. Hauling in Swiss citizens, Italian citizens, German citizens.
No,
Dom thought. No way in hell Albright would have the authority to pull off something like that.

He discounted the large vehicle approaching as a coincidence and turned left on Place Kleberg, and immediately he picked out a group of FBI surveillance cars parked near an employee entrance to the hotel and the ramp that went down to a loading bay and the underground parking garage. Their engines were running and there were multiple men in each vehicle.

They had been easy to spot, but Dom cut the guys some slack. At this stage of the arrest the security teams cordoning off the area weren’t worried about maintaining a low profile. They had to be ready to block the exits and support the triggermen in the inside of the hotel if necessary.

Dom passed the vehicles by the ramp to the parking lot and headed back around toward the front of the hotel, hoping Albright and his men would hurry up and end this thing.

Mohammed Mobasheri was in the lead of the group when they arrived at the end of the narrow courtyard. He pushed through a long cut in the green mesh that covered the buildings, then held open a door for the others.

This room was a small and simple office and storage facility for the groundskeeper of the property. A tiny work desk was on one wall, and all around the ten-by-ten-foot room were shelves with equipment, tools, coiled extension cords, and other odds and ends. Against the wall were snow shovels and a gas-powered snow blower on wheels.

At the far end of the little space was another one of Mobasheri’s men. He had a sledgehammer in his hand, and from the looks of it he’d apparently just knocked an impressive hole through the plaster and cinder-block wall. It was three feet high by a foot and a half wide, and it would just accommodate the procession if they passed through it slowly and carefully.

As the Iranian put the sledgehammer on the ground and redonned his black jacket, Mobasheri extended a hand toward the black hole.

“Ms. Bertoli, if you will?”

“Where are you taking—”

“Move!” His shout exploded in the small maintenance room. Bertoli, Ross, and the Iranians all climbed through the ragged portal and into the narrow and dark warehouse space at the back of a men’s clothing store. They took a moment to brush off dust and bits of plaster, then continued out onto the sales floor.

It was a little slow to dawn on him, but Ross decided the moment the gun came out of the Iranian’s waistband that he was now, officially, a kidnapping victim.

He would much rather take his chances with the FBI. The light from the windows at the front of the shop was muted, it was an overcast day with a snowstorm blowing through, after all, but as soon as Ross neared the front door he saw a white panel truck pull up outside.

This was their ride out of here, that much was plain.

But a ride to where?
Ross had no idea.

His first inclination was to make a run for it the second he got out on the street. He was fast enough, and even though he wasn’t dressed for the cold, this was downtown Geneva. It wasn’t like he was up in the mountains. All he had to do was find a cop or an FBI agent or any public space or, just maybe, he could run right into the entrance of the first embassy he came across.

Surely to God the Iranians wouldn’t shoot him in the back if he made a break for it.

As they neared the entrance, Mobasheri stopped Ross by touching his arm softly.

“Clothes. Quickly, I want you to change your clothes.”

Ethan looked around. The store was full of Lacoste clothing. Some of it was skiwear, so he grabbed some thick nylon pants and put them on, then looked for a heavy sweater.

While he did this Gianna Bertoli had grown uncharacteristically silent. It was clear to Ross she realized that she had completely lost control of the situation, and she was scared. Her concern only gave Ethan more incentive to try and get away from these men.

In seconds he had changed all his clothing, even slipping on a pair of rubber boots.

Mobasheri gave him a satisfactory nod, and then one of the Iranian Quds men unlocked the glass door of the clothing store.

Ethan’s heart pounded, and he gulped the warm air of shop. This was his chance.

B
Y HIS SECOND LOOP
around the block, Dom was convinced something had gone wrong on the inside of the hotel. He knew the HRT guys would want to enter the conference quickly and use speed and surprise to overwhelm their target and his security. Every single minute they sat around inside that building was one more minute where some security guard or cop in attendance could throw a wrench into the works.

And just then, as if on cue, Dominic heard sirens coming from the direction of the bridge over the Rhone.

The local police were on the way, and Dom hoped like hell Albright could effect his take down and get the fuck out of here before men with guns and questions showed up to find out what the hell the dozen or so American guys in coveralls were doing milling about the five star hotel.

Just as Dom made his left turn on Rue de Cendrier, the far side of the block from the hotel entrance, he noticed the white van again. It had pulled to the curb next to a men’s clothing shop.

Dom looked back over his left shoulder for the FBI surveillance unit on the street on Rue Mont-Blanc. He could see their cars through the snow, but they were fifty yards away and facing the opposite direction.

Dom slowed, then braked suddenly when he saw the door to the darkened clothing store open and Ethan Ross appeared. He was just a step ahead of a group of several other men and one woman, but unlike the rest of the group, Ross was running like hell.

“No, no, no!” Dom mumbled in astonishment.

E
THAN TOOK FLIGHT
as soon as he was outside, sprinting to the right of door, trying to make it around the front of the van. He clearly surprised Mohammed and his men, because he managed to get ten feet of separation on the sidewalk in just a few bounds. The snow on the sidewalk had been ankle deep, but when he landed in the street he slipped a little on the compact, icy surface, but he managed to right himself and he kept going. He was nearly past the front grill of the white van when the driver put the vehicle in gear and stomped on the accelerator. The van lurched forward and delivered a glancing but powerful blow to the fleeing American, hitting him on his left side, spinning him through the air, and upending him.

Ross crashed to the ground on his back, not fifty feet in front of Caruso.