Retribution (9781429922593) (14 page)

At one of the shops in the terminal she picked up a prepaid cell phone before she went down to the Hertz counter and rented a Chevy SUV. Within thirty minutes of landing she was on Highway 50 heading southeast to I-95 and Norfolk.

Naisir had warned her never to have all of her operators in one place at the same time. It was common intel tradecraft that deep-cover field officers usually never knew of the others' presence, and especially never met face-to-face.

But these were not normal circumstances in part because of the enormity of the operation—killing a lot of SEALs within forty-eight hours or less—and because of Kirk McGarvey, the loose cannon that none of them had expected. Killing him for the two million euro bonus did not seem as attractive as it had at first, yet there was no doubt in her mind that he would have to be dealt with.

In fact he had become priority one in her mind: hence the meeting with her five operators who had flown over from Paris, London, Rome, and Madrid separately and were already in place at the Sheraton Waterside in Norfolk.

She had initially contacted the four men, plus Zimmer, to work for her under the Black October Revolution banner. Their job was to take on fairly high-profile assassinations for large, though fair, sums of money for those kinds of things. Finding the six men had been easy because of her underground contacts, and finding the assignments even easier. The business world, especially in Europe and especially in these times of global financial meltdown, needed pruning from time to time. And her people—all German KSK-trained—were eager not only to earn some money but to kill people. It had been their specialty in the Kommandos, and as civilians they had felt useless until Pam came along.

Once her reputation was solid, the ISI had jumped at the chance for retribution. And her Kommandos had also signed on, but with some reservations. American SEALs were in a sense their comrades-in-arms. Yet the challenge of going up against men as well trained as they were was too interesting to pass up. And in the end they were willing to do anything that their paymistress wanted them to do.

She pulled into a rest stop outside of Fredericksburg to use a pay phone to activate her new cell phone. She was back on the highway in less than ten minutes.

By the time she had driven another twenty miles south on the interstate she had telephoned each of her five operators, giving them the same message. She was to meet with them in her suite at seven sharp.

*   *   *

Pam pulled up to the valet parker at the Sheraton Waterside in Norfolk just before six. A bellman took her bag and inside she checked in under the DeLand name paying for four nights in the presidential suite with a platinum American Express card that had been arranged for her by the ISI.

“A package was to be delivered to me this afternoon. Has it arrived?”

“Yes, madam. It has been placed in your suite.”

It was a large leather case that had been sent down from the Pakistani embassy by courier. It contained six Glock 26s with suppressors, six magazines of ammunition for each pistol, and $100,000 in one-hundred-dollar bills, plus six new U.S. passports and supporting documents including driving licenses, family photographs, AAA memberships, and credit cards.

When she was finished at the desk, and her suitcase was sent up, she walked across to the concierge.

“I will be having a meeting with five business partners in my suite at seven this evening,” she told the young man. “I want water and soft drinks, plus sandwiches and other snacks sent up no later than six forty-five. Will there be a problem?”

“Of course not, ma'am. Would you also like beer and wine? The hotel maintains an excellent cellar.”

“No alcohol.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She handed him a hundred-dollar bill, the same amount she had tipped the desk clerk and the bellman, and headed to the elevators. Tipping was so incredibly stupid, but it was expected, especially in the United States. Another on a very long list of things she hated.

 

TWENTY-THREE

Otto arranged for a CIA Gulfstream VIP jet to get them down to Norfolk's international airport. Once they were airborne, McGarvey brought Pete and Wolf up to speed.

“Of the nineteen remaining SEALs, fifteen live in the Norfolk–Virginia Beach area, close to the base where they were trained. Three are still on active duty, presumably on base, but Otto hasn't been able to find out if they've been deployed somewhere. Two others are in the San Diego area, one is down in Tallahassee, and the last one is running a small hotel in the Virgin Islands. St. Thomas.”

“The police still won't help?” Wolf asked.

“Otto keeps trying, but unless there's a legitimate threat, which there hasn't been so far, their hands are tied.”

“But two of them, plus their families were gunned down in cold blood.”

“Your people in Berlin aren't cooperating with Interpol, so our cops still don't have a positive ID on the guy you shot and killed in Florida.”

“Insanity,” Wolf said.

“Welcome to the club,” Pete told him.

“It'll be impossible to keep watch on all of them—even the fifteen in Norfolk—without help,” Wolf said.

“Otto caught us a little break,” McGarvey told them, though Pete already knew. “He convinced all of them that trouble was coming their way right now, and eight agreed to call nine-one-one if something came up.”

“Leaves us seven,” Wolf said.

“Three cars will be waiting for us at the airport. Two of the guys—Dan Lundien and Barry McDougal—live within a couple of miles of each other on Sandbridge Road. You and Pete will keep a watch on them.”

“For how long?” Wolf said. “Twelve hours, twenty-four, thirty-six? We can't keep it up forever. And these guys probably won't stay barricaded in their houses. Kids have to go to school. Wives have to go to the grocery store.”

“It's going down tonight,” Mac said.

“How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

“I'd do it tonight, just in case someone like us convinces the ONI or the bureau or at least the local cops to keep a heads-up.”

“What about the other two?”

“Sam Wiski and Jayson Wonder—Double Shot and Wonder Bread—are next-door neighbors. Wiski lives with his wife and two teenage daughters, but Otto thinks it's likely that Wonder is in the middle of a divorce. His wife and son are out in Seattle.”

“If this goes down tonight, like you think it will, how many shooters do you think the woman has sent?” Pete asked.

“We think that there were five of them,” Wolf said. “Four now, unless there are others we know nothing about, which is certainly possible.”

“They must have good papers.”

“Zimmer did. First-class.”

“So for now let's assume there are at least four guys, plenty to take out the fifteen if no one gets in their way,” McGarvey said.

“It gives us one-in-three odds that someone will come gunning for the four we're going to shepherd,” Pete said. “But if any of them start elsewhere and one of the guys pushes the panic button, or maybe starts shooting back, it could slow them down a bit.”

“Could be there'll be more than four of them,” Wolf said. “And these guys are pros.”

Pete suddenly got it. “He's right. If someone calls nine-one-one, whatever cop shows up could be running into a buzz saw without a clue what he's dealing with.”

McGarvey got on the aircraft phone and called Otto, who was working from his house. “Pete came up with something we need to think about. If one of these guys actually dials nine-one-one, the first responder won't have a clue what he could be up against.”

“Got it covered, Mac,” Otto said. “One of my darlings is watching the nine-one-one systems for the entire area. If a call comes in from any of the fifteen numbers, I'll let you guys know and I'll give the cops the heads-up.”

“Let the bureau and the SPs on base know if something starts to go down.”

“You're sure it's going to happen tonight?” Otto asked.

“Yeah.”

“That's something else that doesn't make a lot of sense,” Wolf said when McGarvey hung up. “I was a Kommando, and I bought into the esprit de corps ethic. I work with guys from my old unit—or at least I did until yesterday. And I'm telling you that if someone started coming after me, my old unit would activate in a heartbeat.”

“The KSK fields some tough guys, there's no disputing it,” McGarvey said. “But it's different on this side of the pond. I know, because I worked with a couple of their teams a few years ago.”

“Your SEALs are tough; they have the reputation. I'm not arguing that point.”

“But the guys who hit bin Laden weren't ordinary SEALs. They were DEVGRU—SEAL Team Six—the cream of the crop. They're recruited from the pool of regular SEALs to train for eight or nine months with what they call the Green Team. A lot of them wash out and are sent back to their old units because they can't make it. And there's no shame attached because everyone in the regular SEALs knows just how impossible it is to graduate.”

“What's your point?”

“By the time those guys make it through their initial training and do the first couple of ops in the field they're the most competent and confident guys in any special ops unit anywhere in the world. They're deployed on average three hundred days a year, and between missions they constantly train. After a while most of them start to believe that they're invincible. On top of all that the guys we're dealing with were all in their thirties when the bin Laden raid went down. Every one of them were seasoned pros. Every one of them came back from the op. One two three, just like clockwork, even though one of their helicopters crashed. That team just jumped to the ground, between the still spinning main rotor, and stayed on mission.”

“They worked as a team.”

“That's right. And right now not one of them can conceive of anyone coming after all of them.”

*   *   *

They taxied over to the private terminal operated by Landmark Aviation. Clifford Blum, the night manager who'd arranged for the three rental cars to be brought over, was waiting for them on the tarmac.

McGarvey told the crew to get some rest but stand by to take off again within an hour's notice, possibly less. “We could be in a hurry.”

“We'll refuel immediately,” the pilot said. “Are we going back to Washington?”

“If I'm lucky, we'll fly down to Miami with an extra passenger.”

The pilot glanced at the black leather bag that contained a sedation kit used to calm reluctant passengers. Otto had it sent over. And it was obvious that the crew knew what it was.

“We'll be here, Mr. Director.”

“Stay frosty,” McGarvey said, and he went down the stairs.

Blum shook his hand. “May I log your flight, sir?” he asked. The aircraft's markings were navy, and the Landmark manager had to be curious about what a navy aircraft was doing landing at a civilian field, but he didn't press it.

“No,” McGarvey said. “Our crew will need to refuel tonight.”

“Will they need help with weather or flight planning?”

“Won't be necessary,” McGarvey said.

“Yes, sir,” Blum said, but he didn't sound disappointed, and he practically ran back inside.

“At least he was convinced to stay out of it,” Pete said.

“All the better,” McGarvey agreed. “Don't take any stupid chances tonight. If it looks as if you're getting in over your head, do a one-eighty and let Otto know. He'll have an open line with all of us, and he'll call whoever he needs to call. If you need to talk to each other or to me, tell Otto and he'll make it happen.”

“These bastards aren't going to get away with it,” Pete said with feeling.

McGarvey gave her a smile. “Watch yourself.”

 

TWENTY-FOUR

The last of the five to arrive at Pam's suite was Steffen Engel, the only one to have been court-martialed out of the KSK—because he'd killed three recruits during CQB drills. Though it was never proved to be deliberate murder, he was cashiered because it had been his obligation as a drill instructor to make sure no serious harm came to his trainees.

“Didn't expect to see you here,” he said.

“I brought your weapons, papers, and walking-around cash,” Pam said. “And I brought something else.”

Like the others on the team, Engel stood under six feet, and except for an almost permanent scowl on his square face and deep-set eyes under thick dark hair, he was unremarkable-looking. He easily passed for everyman wherever he went, and he was just enough of a chameleon to smile pleasantly whenever the need arose. But like a lion he lived for the kill, and even Pam understood that he was a force to be handled with care. It was the main reason she'd picked him from the applicants whose résumés she'd read on
Soldier of Fortune
. If anyone could finish an op no matter the trouble, it was Engel. She didn't like him, but he was perfect for her kind of wet work.

“The operation is on?”

“Yes, come meet the others you'll be working with. They're in the dining area.”

The other four were seated around the table large enough for six: Rolf Woedding, the first she'd hired and the most ruthless; Friedrich Heiser, at twenty-four the youngest of the team; Klaus Bruns, whose mother was Russian and father was East German; and Felix Volker, five eight, the most heavily built of the men, and, in Pam's estimation, completely insane. He actually believed that he was Hitler and Eva Braun's grandson. She never disputed the belief with him.

Volker looked up. “Steffen, I thought I caught a whiff of something rotten coming through the door.”

Engel scowled; it was obvious that he was surprised. “Fuck you too, and the rest of you as well.”

“This is the team,” Pam said, from the head of the table. “I don't much care if you get along on your own time, but for now pay attention because the most important mission of our op is on for tonight.”