Hot Pursuit

62

Millie and Quentin’s team crowded into a small briefing room at RAF Northolt. A large-scale map was pinned to the wall, and a red circle was drawn around a house bordering Regent’s Park. Everyone was in black battle dress, full body armor with helmets, including Millie.

The helicopter pilot held a pointer. “This is the plan,” he said. “We’re going to reach this point down the road from the house at a hundred feet, no lights. Our machine is very quiet, but we’ll follow the road as we descend, so that any noise we make will sound like traffic on the ground. Just about here, we’ll hover. At that point we’ll lower you to a visual altitude of about ten feet above the parapet, then we’ll inch toward the house sideways and play a red spotlight on the roof, so as not to interfere with the night vision goggles.”

“Any weapons backup?” Quentin asked.

“A man with a mounted, silenced, heavy assault rifle will stand in the doorway, ready to take out anybody you say. You’ll be in radio contact with your headset, and you will make that call. If anybody points a weapon at you, our gunner won’t wait.”

“How long to get to the house?”

“We will arrive above the house at precisely five AM,” the pilot said. “It is my understanding that the lady is coming along as an unarmed observer and will be strapped into her seat at all times. Are we clear on that?”

“Perfectly clear,” Millie replied.

“You will all remain hooked up at all times, until you enter the building. We’ll give you slack. Your headsets will work inside the house, so try and keep us posted on your progress. Another thing,” the pilot said, “my orders are, if anything lifts off that roof and begins to fly away, I’m to get the hell out of there in a hurry, because there will be incoming. We’ll snatch you as quickly as we can, but you’re going to get a ride while dangling, until we can get you winched up. If you’re still in the house, a van will be parked in the street to take you away, but we can’t help you get out of the house.”

“Right,” Quentin said.

The pilot consulted his watch. “Time to saddle up.”

The men filed out of the building onto the tarmac, where the matte black helicopter awaited, its rotors turning. Millie climbed in first, and an airman belted her into a five-point harness that held her tightly in her seat. “Just turn the knob to release,” the man said, tightening the straps, “but not until we’re on the ground.” Millie nodded.

Quentin and his men hooked onto their cables and sat in the open doors on both sides of the chopper, their feet dangling. They had had only one rehearsal, and Quentin was grateful for that.

The machine lifted off and climbed to a thousand feet, then turned and headed toward London. Two minutes out from their objective and descending, the sound of the helicopter was reduced to a low whirr.

There was a little light in the east, and Quentin could see the park. Then they were down to under a hundred feet, and he saw a man walking his dog. The man didn’t even look up, and that pleased Quentin.

The helicopter came to a stop, hovering, and descended slowly. The rooftop was a hundred feet away, and Quentin could make out the yellow-striped awning. A crewman knocked on his helmet, and he pushed off into space.

In Washington, Lev Epstein, fully suited out, stood in the door of the helicopter and stared at the striped awning a hundred feet away. He slapped the team leader on the helmet, and he and they pushed out the door and started down, each controlling his own cable with a remote control. Lev knew he was too old and too fat to go with them, but he still wanted to.

They touched the roof and ran toward the tent, paying out wire. Lev saw no one else on the roof.

One floor down, in the penthouse apartment, Ali Mahmoud’s eyelids fluttered. He thought he had heard a soft thump above him, but it might have been a dream. He tried to go back to sleep, but his brain replayed the thump. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, opened a drawer, and removed a.45 semiautomatic pistol — loaded, one in the chamber and cocked. He got into his slippers, thumbed the safety down, and padded across his bedroom, into the living room, and out the door into the hallway. The stairway door was a few feet away. He opened the door and listened. There seemed to be some sort of shuffling going on above him. Had one of his people gone up there to check things again? He started up the stairs and as he did, he heard a ratcheting noise from the roof. At the top of the stairs, he put his hand on the door handle, pushed it slowly down, and opened it, taking the final step onto the roof. There were dark shapes moving around, and the canopy was gone. He raised his pistol, but as he did he felt cold steel against his right temple.

“Shhhh,” someone said, putting a hand over his mouth, and his gun was taken from his hand. Something stabbed him in the side of the neck, and he went limp. He felt the sensation of being carried before he passed out.

In London, the red spotlight came on, and Quentin saw two elongated lumps on the roof, between him and the awning. Then one of the lumps sat up, and both of them disappeared under a wave of heavy men. Two men in sleeping bags, he thought to himself. They were held down until the drugs had been administered, and he stepped forward for a look. Blond hair protruded from the bag. He switched on his flashlight and got a look, then at the other one. He spoke into his microphone. “Lower litters,” he said. He turned and watched them come down, then saw them, loaded, go up again and disappear into the helicopter.

When he turned around, the awning had been removed and he was staring at a spidery-looking beast about six feet in diameter with six rotors, each about eighteen inches long, and a pod underneath the thing. His explosives man was on his back, inching under the machine with a flashlight. After a moment, he came out with a piece of wire and a small cylinder in his hand.

“Detonator removed,” the man whispered into his microphone, then stood up and looked at the drone. “We’re never going to get this thing into the helicopter — it’s too big.”

Quentin lifted one leg of the thing and was surprised at how light it was. He unhooked his cable, looped it around one of the machine’s legs twice, and clipped it to itself. “Pilot, this is number one. It’s too big to go inside — we’re going to have to carry it dangling.”

“Roger,” the pilot replied.

Quentin pressed his remote control, the cable tightened, and the machine lifted off the roof and began to rise. When it was six feet below the chopper, he pressed the button again, and it hung there, suspended. “Number one to crew, I need another cable.”

The litter carrying the twins was lifted aboard and secured, then Quentin was winched up and helped inside. “Count off,” he said. The men stated their numbers. “Pilot, let’s get out of here,” he said.

The helicopter rotated ninety degrees and began to climb. Quentin sat down beside Millie, unclipped his cable, and fastened his seat harness. “Hi there,” he said.

She put a hand on his cheek. “Welcome back,” she replied.

In Washington, Lev leaned out of the helicopter and peered at the thing dangling below them as they flew over the rooftops of the city and began climbing. He hadn’t expected it to be so big. He made his way over to the litter and looked at the unconscious Ali Mahmoud in silk pajamas, strapped into it. “All right,” he said into the headset, “let’s head for Dulles.”

Forty minutes later at the military terminal the chopper descended by inches until the drone could be unhooked and removed to a hangar, then the litter was carried to the waiting jet. The sleeping Mahmoud was removed from the litter, strapped into a seat, and handcuffed to the armrest, across from where the two Dahai pilots sat, opposite the two CIA guards who would accompany them to London. One of them reclined the prisoner’s seat, then put a blanket over him and a pillow behind his head. “Sleep tight,” he said.

Up front in the cockpit, two CIA officers were completing their checklists. Lev tapped one of the guards on the shoulder. “When he wakes up, tell him that he has been declared persona non grata by the secretary of state of the United States of America. His embassy will be notified.”

Lev left the airplane and walked back toward the hangar, unbuckling gear and handing it to one of his men. Inside, the others were gathered around the drone. “It’s big, isn’t it?” one of them said.

“Bigger than we planned for,” Lev replied. He looked back and watched as the Dahai jet taxied away. He got out his cell phone and pressed a button.

“This is Phillips.”

“It’s Lev. Mission complete here. How about you?”

“All is well.”

“The airplane is taking off now. It will be there in about seven hours. You got the twins?”

“That part was easy — they were sleeping on the roof, next to the drone.”

“Well done, Special Agent. You’re going to do well out of this.”

“Thanks, but not as well as you, sir.”

Lev laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. When are you coming home?”

“Can I have a couple of days?”

“We’ll teleconference at three PM London time for debriefing. After that, you can take as much time as you want.”

Millie called Holly, who was already up. “It’s done,” she said. “On both ends — all of it. The airplane is on its way to London.”

“That is perfectly wonderful,” Holly said. “When are you coming back?”

“Can I take a couple of days?”

“Sure. I’ll see what I can do about an aircraft for you two.”

“You’re a good boss.”

“You’re a good kid.” They hung up.

At Langley, Lance Cabot thanked Lev Epstein, then sat, sipping coffee and waiting for his call to his Yemen station chief to go through. Finally, the phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s Carter, Director.”

“Scramble.”

“I am scrambled.”

“Ah, Carter. Tell me about your contact with the leader of the Dahai Freedom Brigade — what’s his name?”

“We’re not sure, but he answers to Habbib. A good man, sir. If they’re ever able to dislodge the sultan, he’ll be in line for the leadership.”

“I believe we supplied him with a dozen Russian SA-7 shoulder-fired missiles a few weeks ago.”

“We did, sir.”

“What sort of guidance system?”

“Laser-operated, sir. You lock on, then let it go.”

“Range?”

“Six miles target detection, four miles engagement range, up to twenty thousand feet.”

“Can you get in touch with your man?”

“We also supplied him with an encrypted cell phone.”

“Ring him up and tell him there will be an irresistible target arriving at Dahai International at seven this evening, local time. It’s a G-450, painted white, tail number Delta Alpha 004. I believe the wind is forecast from the north today, so the flight will fly the ILS 36 approach. The initial approach fix is out over the sea, about six miles from the threshold of runway 36 and four miles from the beach. We’d like it to fall in deep water.”

“Can I tell him who’s aboard?”

“Three of the sultan’s favorites.”

“He’ll like that. Shall I offer him an incentive?”

“Tell him if he hits the mark, we’ll wire a million dollars to whatever account he likes.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

“I knew you’d say that. Oh, and tell him not to shoot down an airliner, will you?”

“I’ll tell him to take along his binoculars.”

“And tell him to be sure to issue a statement saying that the Brigade takes responsibility. We want him to have all the credit.”

“I’ll see that he does, sir.”

“Thank you, Carter.” Lance hung up and poured himself another cup of coffee.