have a plan?”
“No, of course I don’t. All I can try to do is to think like Juba, put myself in his shoes.”
Sybelle got into the conversation to prevent it from getting personal and accusatory. “We are looking at this attack from a combat point of view, Agent Hunt. The enemy sniper, for that is what Juba is at heart, stalked his target, picked it out, carefully planned his attack, and then struck fast and hard. That is standard sniper doctrine.”
“So what the hell does he do next, this supersniper that nobody can find?”
“He’s going to get the hell out of Dodge,” said General Middleton. “We should consider San Francisco only to be the place that he
Another agent knocked and entered the room, handing a message slip to Carolyn Walker as Dave Hunt asked, “Then where would you go?”
Kyle had his hands on his hips, looking thoughtful. “I’d go international again. Run with the purpose of finding a place where I can defend myself.”
Walker passed the message across to General Middleton and told the rest, “Maybe not. We just got word of a sniper attack on a hospital where patients were being taken. Several more people are dead, but cops found the hiding place and IDed the shooter.”
“This says they got him,” the general announced. “Juba’s dead.”
VANCOUVER, B.C.
CANADA
Juba sat in the international departure terminal at the Vancouver International Airport, trying not to look at his wristwatch, nor the clocks on the wall, nor the digital time reminders above the gates. This was the most dangerous part of the trip, a calculated risk that had to be taken. He would be fine in another 24 hours, but until then, the most hunted man in the world was open and defenseless.
There had been no problem getting through the security procedures leading to the departure lounge on level three of the airport because the description being circulated among police and customs officials concerning Juba was of a Briton who had entered the United States as a Dutch businessman. A white man.
He had not shaved since arriving in the United States, had changed his hair color, wore gold-rimmed spectacles, had visited a tanning salon to darken his skin even more, and had put a rubber lift in one shoe to make him walk with a marked limp, which drew attention to his feet instead of his face. No one paid much attention to him in his new identity as a mild, polite college professor from the faculty of agriculture at a university in Damascus. The passport was in order, as were the university identification card and supporting documents such as a lengthy study of Canadian wheat production methods. It had been in place for more than a year, waiting for the time he might need it. The paper about wheat-growing was important to the disguise because it carried the official seal of the Canadian government on the cover, a tacit acknowledgment that he was a trusted academic and accepted by the government in Ottawa about something, even as minor as making bread. That would register on security agents.
Plus, the “terrorist syndrome” had automatically kicked into the consciousness of many people in the airport, albeit subconsciously for a number of them, and they cast suspicious glances at all of the dark-skinned passengers gathering to fly to Damascus, a planeload of Middle Eastern people.
So Juba sat quietly, on his own, reading a news magazine, waiting for the morning flight to Damascus.
Complementing the disguise was his recognition that the expected security crackdown had yet to materialize. It would come, but he had learned as a sniper how to bank time by leaving destruction and distraction in his wake, and time was what he needed most.
The Austrian Airlines flight was called, and Juba boarded when the courtesy announcement was made to allow first-class passengers to get on first. He pulled out the news magazine and put his nose back into it, keeping his peripheral vision busy for possible threats. The herd in coach boarded noisily; then the doors closed and the plane began to move. Ten minutes later, they were airborne.
He was safe for the next twenty hours on the one-way flight. Would the enemy figure out his ruse and escape route before then, and if so, would the Syrians be agreeable to the anticipated demand to seize him at the airport? Escape and evasion is a step-by-step process that could not be planned too far in advance. Syria was the next step, and he would concentrate on that when he got there.
He ordered an orange juice from the hostess, and it was presented chilled, with moisture still on the glass. Draining it in sips, he then asked for a bottle of water. He had to hydrate. In all, Juba was satisfied with the way the mission had turned out, but that part was now history. The San Francisco attack should not only mollify the bidders for the poison gas who might be restless over the death of Saladin, but they would be eager enough again when his next communication was transmitted to resume the actual auction of the formula. Of course, they would not get it, but they did not know that.
It was time for him to turn to the money option while things were falling apart, put the money in safe and accessible places and then vanish. He had years of learning how to become invisible, and this time it would be easy because he had millions of dollars available for the job.
The only real loose end was Kyle Swanson. Shake would never give up, and Juba could not rest comfortably until he killed the Marine. That was the only true option, because no matter what the other authorities might do, say, or decide, Swanson would never let up.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“I don’t fuckin’ believe it,” Kyle exclaimed. “How do they know he’s dead?”
“Says here that he wrote his name in blood on the wall of an apartment he turned into a sniper’s hide,” replied Middleton, passing the note around. “Killed a mother and her little boy.”
“Too easy. Another diversion,” Sybelle said as she read it. She handed it to Shake and told Walker, “No identification on the body itself. We need a picture of the corpse to compare with what we have on Juba.”
Swanson grunted a laugh. “So somebody, they don’t know who, snuck up behind one of the best snipers in the world and put a bullet in his head with a pistol? No way. Run the guy’s prints. This stiff ain’t our boy.”
Walker rapped her knuckles on the table, a nervous, repeated gesture. “Yes. I agree. It does seem too convenient. The problem is that with the stadium attack, law enforcement out there is stretched to the limit and snarled beyond belief.”
The Lizard joined in. “Not only that, the entire comm system is becoming jammed. The time stamps indicate that it had been taking about three minutes for a message to get through. Now it’s more, and the delays are climbing fast as people fight for the available cyberspace. Several relay stations are probably going to shut down soon from traffic overload. Even the military channels and backup routes are busy. The governor has called out the National Guard, and the president has declared a state of national emergency. I haven’t seen it this jammed up since 9/11.”
Walker said, “So communications are slow, and everyone with a badge or a crime kit is busy around the stadium. At least two thousand people have been pronounced dead already, and the figure is climbing fast. I will detail a special team to get a firm identification on this body and take over that crime scene and send us a picture, but it’s still going to take time.”
“How much time?” asked Middleton.
“Dunno, General. We’ll move as fast as possible. Realistically, under the deteriorating conditions out there, it will be a while.”
Swanson ripped a page off of the yellow legal pad before him, balled it up, and flipped it across to a trash can in the corner. It hit the rim and bounced onto the floor. He studied it with resignation and said, “He’s gone.”
