Bull Street (36 page)
Authors: David Lender
“Scotland Yard,” one of them said. They cuffed them both. Milner watched Schoenfeld’s and Delecroix’s faces. He smiled at the surprise, then the anger in their eyes, thinking of Chuck White. His next thought was about getting home to New York in time for dinner with Mary Claire. This thing was over with; he didn’t care about the money, the two years of community service, or the slashing he was taking in the press. Because even if the Feds or the public didn’t accept the concept, Mary Claire believed in redemption.
New York City.
Richard unpacked his boxes in his new office on his first day of work for Milner. His office was on the east side of the main floor, directly across from where Milner’s stereo was set up: Chuck’s White’s old office. Stephanie had placed a vase of lilies with a note from Milner on his credenza; the fragrance was one he knew he would always associate with this day. He also didn’t think it was an accident that Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A was playing on the stereo when Richard arrived. It was supposed to be like this.
The phone rang: Kathy. He knew that morning she planned to walk into George Cole’s office to resign. She was considering her next
move; she’d already interviewed for a job at Morgan Stanley, but was also talking to some HBS classmates about starting a satire magazine.
“How are you settling in, babe?”
“Great.”
“I’m free for dinner at a normal hour if you’re not working late. Either way I’m looking forward to kicking your ass at squash tonight.” She laughed. “I love you.”
Milner knocked and walked in just as they hung up. “Welcome aboard.” He crossed the room and shook with Richard, enveloping his hand in that meaty paw.
“Thanks, Harold.” Richard remembered meeting Milner for the first time in Walker’s reception area, how awed he’d been by him. Richard couldn’t get over thinking how much more impressive Milner was after getting to know him, especially in the last weeks. He was going to learn a lot from this man.
“I’ve got a deal I’d like you to look at,” Milner said, and handed him a one-page spreadsheet. “When I get off my conference call, you can tell me what you think of it. You’ll love it. It’s a high-end stereo equipment company. Tiny, but it’s got great growth potential.”
Richard watched Milner turn and leave, then took in the expanse of midtown Manhattan through the clear glass that formed the entire north wall of Milner’s offices. He looked uptown at the skyscrapers extending into the distance up Park Avenue and smiled.
The End
Excerpt from
Trojan Horse
Horse
A THRILLER BY
Copyright © 2011 by David T. Lender
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
July, Twenty Years Ago. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
Omar pressed the button that activated the lighted face of his watch, cupping his hands so he wouldn’t be detected.
Today is a good day to die,
he recited the mercenary’s creed in his head.
0158 hours.
The others would start to arrive momentarily. He pulled out the Americanmanufactured night-vision goggles and stood in the shadows across the street from the outside perimeter wall of the grounds of the Royal Palace. He felt the chill of the Saudi night. He was grateful for the warmth provided by his German kevlar vest and British army fatigues beneath his robe, the traditional Saudi dress he wore as a disguise. Still, his Russian army boots were ridiculously obvious; the disguise wasn’t about to fool anyone.
He scanned the street from where he knew the others would be joining him. Still no one. His mouth was dry. He fingered the Uzi clipped to his belt on his left hip, the .45 automatic Colt holstered on his right hip. Then behind the Colt the .22 caliber Beretta with its silencer extending through the hole in its holster. Omar was the only one of the team of twelve who carried a Beretta. He was to be the shooter.
Two men walked toward him, shielded by the shadows against the wall. He motioned to them and they gestured back. It was time. The other nine appeared like a mirage in the desert. Each was armed with Uzis and .45 caliber automatic Colt pistols; two carried American M-203 grenade launchers. All were eclectically uniformed and hardwared to defy nationalistic
identification if killed or captured. They waited silently against the wall, listening for the passage of the patrol jeep. It lumbered by, bearing two heavily armed guards.
Omar raised his hand: the “Go” signal. He felt his pulse quicken and the familiar butterflies and shortness of breath that preceded any mission, no matter how well planned. The twelvemember squad crossed the street to the white stucco perimeter wall of the palace. Four faced the wall and leaned against it, shoulder to shoulder. The others performed a series of acrobatic maneuvers and materialized into a human pyramid. The top man silently secured three rubber-coated grappling hooks with attached scaling lines to the top of the wall. Omar was over the top and down the other side in less than fifteen seconds.
While the others followed, Omar pulled off his robe. His heart pounded. He pulled five bricks of C-4 plastic explosive from his pouch and stuck them to the wall in an “X” configuration, aware that his palms were clammy. He wiped them on his robe and again focused on his work. He inserted an electrical detonator in each brick of C-4, and wired them to a central radio receiver that he inserted into the center block of the “X.” By the time he finished, the rest of the team had cleared the wall and removed their robes. They stashed their robes in zippered pouches buckled to the backs of their waists.
Omar squinted at the wall of the palace, illuminated by floodlights, 50 meters away. This area had no first-floor windows. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he looked for guards he hoped wouldn’t be there. He focused on a second-floor window at the junction of the east and north walls.
Be there,
he thought.
Just be there.
Sasha didn’t awaken at 2:00 a.m. as she had intended: she hadn’t slept at all. She glanced to her right at Prince Ibrahim, illuminated in the light from the display of the digital clock. His body moved up and down with the rhythm of his breathing. Sasha had earlier treated him to some extended pleasures in an effort to assure he wouldn’t awaken at an inopportune moment. She smelled the pungent scent of the evening’s energies, felt the smooth silk of the sheets against her naked breasts: sensations that under other circumstances would cause her to revel in her sexuality. Now she felt only the flutter of apprehension in her stomach. She thought of the business to be dispensed with.
The Royal Palace was stone quiet at this hour. Sasha listened in the hall for the footsteps of the guard on his rounds. A moment later he passed. A renewed sense of commitment smoothed a steadying calm down her limbs.
It’s time,
she told herself, and she slid, inches at a time, from the sheets to the cool marble floor.
Yassar will never forgive me.
She breathed deeply, then felt exhilaration at the cool detachment her purpose gave her. She stood, naked, shoulders erect and head back, observing Prince Ibrahim, the man she had served as concubine for three years.
But you don’t deserve to see it coming.
Backing from the bed, Sasha inched toward the closet. The prince stirred in his sleep, inhaled and held it. Sasha froze in place. She felt her stomach pull taut and she held her own breath. The cool marble under her feet became a chilling cold, the silence an oppressive void.
This mustn’t fail.
The prince resumed his rhythmic breathing and she exhaled in relief.
One more cautious stride carried her to the closet. She reached into it for her black
abaya,
the Muslim robe she wore in
the palace. She cringed at the rustle of the coarse fabric as she put it on. The prince didn’t stir. She picked up her parcel from the closet floor, crossed the room and slipped out the door.
At the corridor window, she removed the clear plastic backing from one side of a 2x5-centimeter adhesive strip. The acrid odor of the cyanoacrylate stung her nostrils. She slid the strip between the steel window frame and the steel molding around it, precisely where the pressure-sensitive microswitch for the alarm sat.
She took an electromagnet from her parcel and plugged it into an outlet, unraveling the cord as she walked back toward the window frame. She placed the magnet against the corner of the window frame behind the alarm microswitch and clicked on the electromagnet.
The force of the magnet jolted the molding against the window frame. She endured a count to thirty until the adhesive fused the microswitch closed, then switched off the magnet. She turned the window latch, took a deep breath, shut her eyes, pushed. The window opened.
No alarm.
The face of the man she knew only as the squad leader popped into her view from his perch atop his team, who had formed a pyramid on the wall below. She stepped back from the window. In an instant he was inside, raising his finger for her to be silent, and then turning and attaching one of the grappling hooks to the window frame.
Never mind shushing me,
she thought,
just make sure you know what you’re doing.
Within 60 seconds the other 11 members of the squad stole inside. The rope was up and deposited on the floor and the window closed and latched.
The black-haired girl backed herself against the wall, her palms against the marble. Omar stared into her jet-black eyes, saw her fierce spirit.
That was close,
he thought.
She nearly blew it. Late.
He sensed her excitement in the heaving of her chest, but she appeared otherwise to be in complete control of herself. She raised her chin defiantly. He looked into those penetrating black eyes again.
Black steel,
he thought, and felt a fleeting communion with her. She motioned with her eyes in the direction of Prince Ibrahim’s chamber. He nodded.
Sasha stood with her back pressed against the wall and watched as the team leader made hand signals and head motions to his men. He ordered a group to stand guard, then led most of them down the labyrinthine passageways that rimmed the outside perimeter of the palace toward Prince Ibrahim’s chamber. She watched the team leader disappear from sight around the first turn of the corridor. For some reason Sasha was seized by the premonition that something was wrong. She pushed herself out from the wall, trotted toward the prince’s chamber.
One of the team members, who had spread themselves in pairs in firing position, grabbed her by the wrist as she passed. A bolt of adrenaline coursed through her. She clenched her teeth and shot a glare at the man. His widened eyes showed fear. She jerked her arm away and continued. She was now aware of the exhilaration of life-threat and the calm purpose that drove her.
He’ll never forgive me,
again crashed through her consciousness. It sucked the strength from her, but she kept on. She reached the next turn, the last before Ibrahim’s chamber
and saw the team leader ten feet from the door. At that moment three Saudi guards bustled around the next turn in the corridor. She felt hot blood rush to her face and a charge of anger erupt from her chest. She saw two of the squad members three meters beyond the team leader rear their heads back like horses at the sight of fire, then crouch over their weapons.
Shots hissed from the two squad members’ silenced Uzis. The three Saudi guards were hurled backward in a spray of blood amid the crack of bullets ricocheting off the marble walls. Their bodies hit the floor with thuds. Two more Saudi guards materialized at the same turn, M-16s aimed from the waist. Bursts from their guns flashed stars of flame from their barrels and flattened the two squad members. The squad leader froze, the hesitation of death, five feet from the prince’s door. An instant later twin bursts from the Saudi guards’ weapons slammed him backward into the wall.
