Elysee Palace. The world had spun apart at a dizzying rate the last four years, and lines of authority did not run as clearly as they might once have. What was that quote from Yeats? The centre cannot hold. Somebody important had said that to her once. Had it been Wales, perhaps?
Whatever.
If al Banna, or Baumer, or whatever name he was going by now was out and coming for her to work through some kind of ragheaded revenge scenario there was only one thing for it: to get out there and lay her vengeance on him first.
'So when do I go?' she asked.
Dalby leaned over and retrieved his battered briefcase from the floor beside his chair. From it he produced a document wallet.
'You're booked on BA, the 18:35 flight to Tegel tonight. I'm sorry about that. Schonfeld would have been better, but there is a complication. You're not going in as a declared operator, so we'll have to send your equipment beforehand via diplomatic pouch. Gerty is seeing to that right now. You'll be able to get your kit at our layup point in Hermsdorf. There'll be a rental car waiting at the airport, but Berlin Control will swap that over for you when you get to the LUP. You'll have to develop the case yourself after that, I'm afraid. Baumer is a person of interest but not enough interest to justify any more resources at the moment beyond a snatch team when he's identified.'
Caitlin waved off his apology.
'Don't sweat it, Dalby. I still have some assets off the book over there. I won't need backup.'
He regarded her with very obvious misgivings.
'I didn't expect you would have taken it even if it were offered,' he said. 'However, do bear in mind, Caitlin, that while Baumer may be indulging himself in a revenge fantasy, we are not. This is in no way an autonomous operation. Undeclared, yes. But freelance, no. You are there on Echelon business, and we would very much like to have a long chat with Mister Baumer. Isn't that right, Forbes?'
'Oh, yes.' The interrogator grinned. 'Very much.' In the unforgiving light he looked vulpine.
'Well, I can't promise anything, Dalby. Especially if things get out of hand. But believe me, if it means Doctor Frankenstein here gets to stick a plunger full of platypus jizz into the Banana's ass, I am totally up for that. You tell me it hurts like a bastard?' she said, looking at the man in the lab coat.
'Even morphine doesn't help, marm. The only relief is to put them into a coma. Or into the ground.'
'Well, that works for me, too,' she said. 'But Dalby, my word to you. If it is at all possible to drag this sorry motherfucker back to the Cage, his worthless ass is already here.'
'I suppose that will have to do, Caitlin. I understand that it may not be possible, but please do your best. And I would appreciate regular updates, too. Baumer was a significant recruiter, and although his cells are no longer in play, you shouldn't need telling that our European colleagues remain bedeviled by the consequences of the intifada. The Germans in particular, because of their refugee issues. Getting him back here and developing him properly would go a good long way toward improving our links with the federal intelligence lads. He might not be everyone's top priority at this point in time, but he is mine and yours. And as I said, our continental colleagues will always be interested in him.'
Caitlin shook her head. 'You know, there was a time when those guys were our targets, Dalby.'
'I believe I may have already mentioned, Caitlin, that we live in a post-ironic world.'
30
Texas Administrative Division Miguel pondered the odds. Seven men against twenty-three.
Twenty-one now, he corrected himself as he rubbed at the dried, tacky blood on the backs of his hands.
Or rather five men and two boys against twenty-one road agents.
And their camp whores, too.
You couldn't forget them. A man was just as dead with a bullet in his back fired by a woman protecting her lice-ridden rapist as he was shot down by the rapist himself. Miguel Pieraro shook his head slightly, so his companions would not notice. These were not good odds.
He wondered, too, about the mettle of the men he would be fighting alongside. Mormons were not pacifists. Who the hell was in this new world? But neither were they natural killers, unlike the men they were about to confront.
The small group crept forward as stealthily as they could through the tangle of rusted car bodies, waist-high grass, old bottles, and mystery refuse that cluttered the approaches to their goal. They snuck through overgrown suburban yards for the most part, whenever possible avoiding the open streets where they could be spotted more easily. Not that Miguel expected the road agents to have posted lookouts. Nothing of their operation had impressed him so far. They halted at the back of a shed at least a hundred yards from the Hy Top Club.
He carried the Winchester in one hand, and his fingers drummed nervously on the wooden grip. At his hip hung the reassuring weight of the Lupara. Once that dog barked there would be no disguising their intentions. The Lupara was a break-open, sawed-off shotgun loaded with number two buckshot. It was an old Italian weapon, once used for wolf hunting but later taken up by the Mafia in Sicily, and was ideal for clearing crowded spaces of men whose lives and limbs meant nothing to you. Unfortunately, because of the women and the need for silence, he was going to have to be very careful about how and when he used it. That was why he carried a third weapon.
Miguel glanced warily at the two figures to his left, Aronson and the boy, Orin. They were also carrying what looked like heavy clubs in the dark but had M16s slung across their backs. For all that he was wary of the damage his own firearms might do to the women, he was doubly concerned about those unruly cannons. An overlong squeeze of the trigger or poorly controlled aim and half a dozen people could be cut to ribbons regardless of whether they were friend or foe. At least the Mormons had changed from their normal outfit, a white shirt, black tie, and slacks, to dark jeans, shirts, and jackets. Some of them had black or navy blue hooded sweaters, which helped them to blend into the night. They were not camouflaged by any means, but it was adequate; it gave Miguel a spark of hope about them. He motioned them to take a break while he had one last peek at their target.
They all dropped to one knee. A few of them prayed in silence. Miguel could hear a bit of Aronson's prayer.
'Oh, Lord, we pray of thee, give us your strength as we stride forward into battle. We ask that you give us your strong right arm and guide us in our quest for justice…'
Miguel adjusted the night vision goggles to control the bright glow of the burning oil barrels. He scanned the front deck of the club and the driveway to the left, where the agents had dragged couches and recliner rockers from nearby homes to fashion for themselves a handy outdoor party space. He counted eight men in all and two camp whores. As best he could tell, they were all sleeping. There were no signs of the Mormon women. The agents' horses remained tethered in a well-fenced yard a few streets down.
They were not being guarded.
'All right,' Miguel said in a low voice. 'It must be as we discussed back in Leona. Is there any one of you who doubts your ability to do this? It will not be like shooting a man, which in itself is a difficult enough thing to do. This will be much worse.'
He gave Orin a hard stare as he spoke, and the boy blanched but swallowed hard and nodded.
'I-I don't know,' a voice piped up.
'Adam, be still now,' D'Age warned.
'No. It is good,' Miguel said, taking the measure of the young man to whom Sofia had taken a liking. 'Any man who cannot carry this through to the end must speak up now. Once committed, we must not hesitate. To falter in striking is to die. Adam, are you certain you cannot?'
The boy shook his head. He could not have been more than sixteen years old. Miguel had come to know him a little the last two days because Sofia had taken to riding with the boys when she could. Teenagers, he thought. The end of the world and they still cannot bear to be embarrassed by being seen with their parents. Well, at least his daughter was safely hidden away with the women and the horses for now. Adam seemed to struggle to find his voice in the dark.
'It is just that… it's…'
He petered out, sounding ashamed of himself.
