Blaze of Glory (21 page)

“The pleasure is all mine,” Moyer said. For a moment he felt he should bow then corrected himself.
The guys would never let me forget that.

“This is my wife, Marni. She’s the real brains of the operation.”

“Not the brains, honey, just the heart.”

Huffington chortled. “If you say so, dear.” He looked back at Moyer and the others. “It pays to be diplomatic at home as well as on the world stage.”

“Yes, sir,” Moyer said.

The president turned to Jimmie. “We could use a few more chairs, Jimmie.”

“I’ll bring some from the dining area, sir.”

“Pete,” Moyer said.

“Yes.” A second later. “Oh. Of course.” He spoke to Jimmie. “Let me help.”

A few minutes later four straight-back chairs were brought in. Moyer and Rich took seats on the second sofa directly opposite the president and his wife. De Luca sat in a leather reading chair. The rest of the team took spots on the dining room chairs. Mitchell stood by the door. It looked like something he did often.

Another knock came on the door. Mitchell answered before Jimmie could take two steps. A woman with dark hair entered. Moyer had seen her on television.

“Ah, glad you could make it, Brownie,” the president said. “Gentlemen, this is Helen Brown, my chief of staff. She may be the smartest person you ever meet.”

“Are you trying to make me blush, Mr. President?”

Moyer guessed the woman hadn’t blushed in many years.

“Of course not. Facts are facts.”

Marni Huffington rose. “Well, I’ll let you talk. I’ll watch Jimmie get your suit ready.”

“Don’t let her fool you. She’s going to watch Italian soap operas.”

“Don’t make me hit you, dear,” Marni said.

“She wouldn’t dare. Mitchell would protect me. Isn’t that right, Mitch?”

“Maybe.”

The comment brought smiles. Moyer admired the president’s ability to put people at ease.

Huffington patted the spot where his wife had sat a few moments before, and Helen sat.

“The sergeant major was about to introduce his team to me.”

Moyer took his cue. He motioned to Rich. “This is Rich Harbison, assistant team leader; Jose Medina is the team medic; Pete Rasor specializes in surveillance and communications; J. J. Bartley, weapons and explosives; Jerry Zinsser, electronics and doubles on communications. Our Italian liaison is Captain Ilario De Luca, of the Italian Army. He’s our in-country intel man.”

The president’s expression saddened. “When I was first made aware of your mission, I failed to make the connection.” He paused for a moment. “You lost a man last year? In Venezuela?”

“Yes, sir. Martin Caraway. He was a good soldier.”

“You did good work down there and got no credit for it.”

“We were just doing our duty. We are proud to serve.”

Huffington nodded. “It’s men like you that make me proud to be commander in chief.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Fill me in on your mission?”

“Sir?”

“I want to know how your mission is going.”

“Excuse me, sir. I just assumed you were being briefed.”

Huffington leaned forward. “Sometimes information is slower than I like, especially when I’m out of country.”

Moyer noticed Helen Brown shift in her seat.

“Yes, sir.” Moyer spent the next ten minutes briefing the president on everything they had experienced since being deployed.

“And you think that El-Sayyed has targeted the G-20?”

“It’s our best guess, sir, and the most important one.”

“The Italians think the target is in Rome. You don’t think that’s important?”

“It’s very important, Mr. President, but not as important as the lives of twenty of the world’s leaders, their spouses, and staff.”

“Good answer.”

“Captain De Luca has maintained contact with his people in Rome and a manhunt is underway.”

Helen Brown spoke for the first time since entering the room. “Agent Baker tells me this facility is the safest place on the planet with the possible exception of Fort Knox. Is that right, Mitchell?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Helen turned back to Moyer. “So why the concern?”

Moyer didn’t like her tone. “We’ve been given a mission, ma’am. My job is to successfully complete that mission as efficiently and secretly as possible. My gut tells me El-Sayyed has targeted this area.”

“Your gut?” Helen smirked. “The president likes evidence a little more solid than a gut feeling.”

“I can speak for myself, Brownie,” Huffington said. “Mitchell?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“You’ve done a few spec ops missions in your day. Given your experience, would you trust the work you and the others have done or the sergeant major’s gut.”

To Moyer’s surprise, Mitchell Baker didn’t respond immediately.

“Is there a problem, Mitch?” Huffington asked.

“No, Mr. President. No problem at all.”

Helen furrowed her brow. “What? Are you saying that Mr. Moyer’s gut takes precedence over months of planning and implantation? You’ve repeatedly told us this location is secure. So what is it? Your skill or his gut?”

Another several moments passed before Mitch said, “His gut.”

“What?” Clearly the president’s chief of staff was nonplussed. “You mean to tell me that the hotel isn’t secure?”

“With all due respect, Helen, I said nothing of the kind. I would stake my life on our preparations. . . . Actually, I’ve staked your life on our preparations. . . .”

“But?”

“Let the man speak, Brownie.”

“Mr. President, as you know I’ve seen my share of military missions. Sometimes all a sailor—soldier in this case—has to go on is his gut. I’ve seen the lives of men saved on gut-level responses. If the Sergeant Major says something is up, I say we take it seriously.”

The president ran a hand over his chin. “I can’t go changing the schedule at this late date, Mitch.”

“Mr. President, I wouldn’t change a thing that we have done. We have done everything possible. As far as I’m concerned, our security is perfect.” He paused to glance at Zinsser. “I’m just saying that we shouldn’t dismiss Moyer’s intuition.”

“So we continue on as planned.”

“Yes, sir, unless something comes up.”

“Why did you look at . . .” The president shifted his gaze to Zinsser.

“Jerry Zinsser, sir,” Zinsser said.

“Why did you look at Zinsser a moment ago?”

Agent Baker hesitated again. Zinsser didn’t. “I mentioned that no security plan is perfect.”

“Really. You don’t trust our Secret Service.”

Moyer tensed and hoped Zinsser was thinking clearly.

“The skills of the Secret Service are legendary, sir. It’s just that all complex systems have weak links.”

“Weak links? Like what?”

Zinsser scooted to the edge of his chair. “The weak links are often overlooked. They tend to be mundane or obvious. For example, not long ago our country—the whole world really—was in a recession. Someone dubbed it Depression 2.0.”

“I remember.”

“Of course, sir. As you know, many businesses went belly-up . . . bankrupt. Hundreds of them. What do you suppose they did with all their paperwork?”

“Destroyed . . . no, they couldn’t destroy it all. Many documents would have to be saved.”

“Yes, sir. Many of them rented storage sheds and filled them to the rafters. Depending on the business . . . let’s say a mortgage broker . . . those documents would contain sensitive material like social security numbers. If I wanted to steal a few thousand identities, I would pay off or threaten one of the workers at the storage company. Most of those people don’t make much money, so a few thousand would go a long way in making someone look the other way.”

“We’ve done background checks on everyone,” Helen said.

“Really? How many employees are in the building right now?”

“Seventy-five,” Mitchell said. “Not one has a police record.”

“Do any of them have a sick child or parent? Do any of them owe bookie money? Are any of them financially stretched?”

“Not that we can tell,” Mitchell said.

“That’s my point,” Zinsser said. “Any one of them could be bought off.”

“I doubt that,” Helen said.

“I don’t. Our history is filled with people who committed traitorous acts. You can start with Benedict Arnold and move forward. Arnold was a war hero and trusted by everyone. Name an intelligence agency or branch of government and I can name someone who sold out.”

“How does that affect what we’re doing here?”

“El-Sayyed is a man of great wealth and influence.” Zinsser pushed back in his seat. “We know that he’s been able to influence women into turning themselves into walking bombs.”

“Terrorists have used religious zealotry to recruit martyrs for centuries,” the president said.

Zinsser looked at Moyer like a child who is afraid they have gone too far. “Finish it,” Moyer said.

“Sir, the female bombers are not religious zealots. They could be anybody.”

Huffington blinked a few times, then looked to Mitchell. “So now what?”

“We’re ready, sir, but I’ll alert the other security teams and the local police to be on the alert for anyone, especially women, who seem out of place.”

The president stood and everyone in the room joined him. “I hope your gut is wrong, Moyer.”

“Me too, Mr. President.”

“Mitch, get these gentlemen some rooms and chow. They look tired and hungry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Forgive me for being rude, gentlemen, but I’m expecting company in five minutes.”

Mitchell opened the door, and Moyer led his men from the room.

CHAPTER 24

ERMANNO GRECO BANKED HIS F2 Eurofighter Typhoon north and took in the scenery of the Bay of Naples: the cerulean water, the soft colors of the buildings lining the coast, the white pleasure craft moored at private docks. Activity at the marina was almost nonexistent. Ermanno could see several large military vehicles blocking access to the service roads and walkways. Two police boats patrolled close to shore; two Italian navy MK V-C Interceptor patrol boats cruised deeper water in lazy circles. Lookouts stood on deck, binoculars to their eyes. In the distance a cargo ship pressed slowly through the water. A cruise ship, which Ermanno guessed was headed to Crete, plowed through the ocean leaving a long, white prop wash in its wake.

Ermanno had only been in the air fifteen minutes after relieving another pilot in another F2 Typhoon. He had several hours of slow patrol around Naples. At least he was flying and even a boring day flying was better than most days doing anything else. What he most wanted to do was push the thrusters to the stops, pull back on the control, and race skyward, but his mission didn’t include flights of daring. He was to patrol and be ready for a problem.

The first part was ironic. Although he flew at just a few thousand feet above sea level, he knew radar would see any approaching aircraft before he did. He was in the air to stop any madman from flying a plane into the building. It had been done before. Several other military attack planes were armed and ready to take to the air on a moment’s notice.

Leveling the aircraft, he began the inbound leg of his circuit. As he did, he took note of one other ocean craft: a large, sleek, white yacht making its way south. It was too distant for him to see with accuracy, but he was certain he saw a group of people on deck. Some looked like women. Ermanno decided he’d take a closer look on the next pass.

J. J. WAS TOO wired to sleep. He had only slept a few hours over the last two days, but instead of feeling exhaustion he was amped. He had just met the president. Wait until Tess heard about that. “The hand you now hold, sweetheart, once shook the hand of the most powerful man on the planet.”

“It’s sweaty.”

The response took place only in J. J.’s mind, but he was certain it was the kind of quip Tess would make. It was one of the things he loved about her: she could give as well as she could take. He was used to exchanging barbs with the guys. It was one of the ways they dealt with the work they had to do.

Agent Mitchell Baker had taken the men to the first-floor restaurant for a hearty breakfast. Rich ate two meals, for which he endured a fusillade of kidding.

After breakfast Moyer dismissed the men to the rooms Mitchell had arranged. Only Pete and Jose took up the offer. De Luca excused himself and had his cell phone to his ear before he had exited the restaurant, no doubt reporting in with his superiors.

J. J. had tried to snag a few winks, but his mind would not shut down. He decided the strong Italian coffee he had consumed with breakfast had been unwise. Television was no good since he didn’t speak Italian, and the only English channel he could find was the BBC showing reruns of
Dr. Who.

Leaving his second-floor room, J. J. returned to the restaurant. The sight of most of his team in one of the booths didn’t surprise him.

“Hey, look who came back,” Rich said. “Sandman refused to visit?”

“He left a note saying he wore himself out trying to put you under.”

Rich waved a dismissive hand. “The guy’s a wimp. Besides, sleep is a crutch.”

Moyer nodded. “You got that right.”