Aim And Fire. Cliff Ryder

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ his right hand to clasp Shirazi’s, and as he gripped it, Kate saw a puff of down feathers erupt from the left-hand pocket of his coat as he shot the Pakistani professor in the abdomen. Shirazi stumbled away and collapsed as his two henchmen, their eyes wide with shock, struggled to draw their own weapons. Firing from the hip, the Room 59 operative dispatched the man on the left with two shots to his chest, leaving the third man to sprint to the still-running car. Diving into the driver’s seat, he gunned it and aimed straight for Robert, who had taken his pistol from his pocket and sighted down the barrel at the driver.

      “Somebody tell me that man isn’t playing chicken with a live suitcase nuke in the trunk of his car.” Kate gritted her teeth in anticipation of her operative getting mowed down by the wildly plunging vehicle, but the real-time satellite feed showed a different story.

      Lashti fired one shot as the car hurtled toward him. The bullet punched through the windshield and into the driver’s skull, causing him to slump over the steering wheel. Immediately the car began slowing, and Lashti stepped aside to let it pass. Gravity and lack of acceleration completed his job as the car crunched into the wall of the pass at about fifteen meters per hour, then stalled.

      Exhaling a white plume of breath into the night air, Lashti checked the two men on the ground, ensuring that both were dead and snatching the glasses off Shirazi’s nose as he did. He walked to the car, opened the trunk and lifted out the metal case, carrying it to his Range Rover. Opening the back, he set the case down inside, then slid open a hidden compartment in the side wall of the SUV’s cargo area. He withdrew a device resembling a large, smooth steel can set on its side. It had a handle on top, with two smaller cylinders sticking out of its back, and rested on four short legs. Flipping a power switch, he waited for it to warm up and flipped open the catches on the case. After checking a small display screen, he picked up the device and played the large end over the entire case. Frowning, he did so again, then a third time.

      “This does not look good.” Pai Kun’s normally calm features shared a furrow of unease with their operative, who had flipped open his encrypted sat phone.

      “This is Primary. Go, Alpha,” Kate said.

      “Primary, this is Alpha at Mountainview. The handlers are dead. However, the package is a fake. I repeat, the package is a fake. This is U-235—my guess is from spent fuel rods. I’ll bet the detonation material is also fake, as well. We’ve been scammed.”

      “Alpha, say again—are you sure?”

      “I’ve scanned this three times, and I get the same exact reading. That suitcase nuke is still out there somewhere. Either Kryukov was running a double cross or he thought he had the real thing and didn’t, but if that was the case, it was good enough to fool him, as well.”

      Pai Kun stroked his chin. “If the case and workings are the real thing, and it gave off radiation, why would he have any reason to believe that this was not an operational weapon?”

      “True—assuming he wasn’t pulling the double cross in the first place. Alpha?” Kate said.

      “I’m here. What are your instructions?” the operative replied.

      “Sanitize the area, then head back to Panamik. We’ll put you on Kryukov’s trail as soon as possible. Good work.”

      “Thanks, but not good enough. Will await further instructions in Panamik. Alpha out.”

      Kate killed the connection, her mind racing with possibilities. Did Kryukov double-cross the terrorists? Why, other than the obvious reasons? If he did or didn’t was almost irrelevant. Who has it now?

      She sent a quick message to all of the Room 59 analysts scattered around the globe. “Keep alert for any mention of loose nukes originating either from Russia or Pakistan, no matter how tenuous or far-fetched. Alert me priority with any information you come across.”

      3

      The three bearded men drove through the desert landscape, dotted with the hardy scrub vegetation and stunted trees that looked relatively familiar to all of them. No one commented on the similarities to home, however; they were all completely focused on the job at hand.

      After the slaughter on the deserted road where they had been pulled over, one of the men had loaded the bodies of the two Border Patrol agents into the SUV, driven it into the middle of the desert, wiped it down and set fire to the vehicle. Meanwhile, the other two men had hauled the bodies of the luckless illegals and their coyotes several dozen yards off the side of the road and had cleaned up the truck as best as they could before leaving the scene. The third man had met up with the other two a few miles down the road, and they proceeded together to their destination.

      The farmstead they pulled up to had once been a thriving ranch in the middle of the south Texas plain. It had been abandoned decades earlier, and was now a waypoint on the illegal-immigration highway. Every so often the Border Patrol would stake out the place, and the three men had stopped a few miles away and watched the buildings for two hours until the sun came up. During their surveillance, they took turns performing the predawn prayer.

      When they were satisfied no one was there, they drove the truck up the long driveway, past the leaning, windowless, two-story house, its drab wooden siding stripped clean of every speck of paint by decades of dust storms. At the sagging wooden barn, two of the men got out and walked to the door, machine pistols in hand, and checked the interior. Finding it empty, they waved the truck forward, closing the doors behind them.

      The temperature inside was already stifling, but the men didn’t notice as they pulled on latex gloves and got to work. In one corner was a green tarp, underneath which were cans of spray paint and other supplies. After moving the long box out of the back of the truck, one of the men washed out the back with a strong bleach solution, then soaped it down, as well, finally rinsing it clean. Meanwhile, two of the men wiped off the thick layer of dust, then covered the truck’s lights, windows, bumpers and trim with paper and tape. After the cargo bay was clean, the third man prepped the cans and laid out large decals to complete the truck’s transformation.

      When everything was ready, they spray painted the truck, starting at the front and moving back, taking breaks every few minutes to let the fumes dissipate. Gradually the panel truck turned from white to a flat gray, which dried quickly in the heat. Two of the men methodically covered every inch of metal with the paint, while the third scrubbed blood spatter from the cab’s interior and covered the bullet-torn bench seat with a blanket.

      At noon, they stopped to pray again and eat a lunch of flatbread, hummus and cold falafels. Afterward, they checked the paint job, and stripped off the paper. The third man measured carefully and applied the decals, making the truck appear to be just another vehicle that belonged to one of the hundreds of private companies in El Paso. Lastly, he switched the license plates with ones that had been supplied along with the paint and other materials. He sent the other two to dispose of everything left over, warning them to travel at least a mile away from the building before digging, and to bury everything at least four feet deep.

      Once they were finished, the three men walked around the truck, examining their handiwork. The driver nodded with satisfaction, and motioned for the other two to open the double doors. He drove to the end of the driveway, then went back and helped the other two sweep away the tracks leading from the barn to the road. Taking one last look around, the driver was satisfied that everything looked exactly as it had when they had arrived. He got into the cab, joining the other two men, and drove away, heading down the highway toward El Paso.

      4

      Nate СКАЧАТЬ