"Looks like you got it right," Peretz said with a crooked smile. He was
examining a fax whose letterhead read Banco Ambrosiano, Geneva. Ramirez
had just passed it over, and the correct account number was there,
together with the amount in dollars. His piece of the money, his bigger
piece, had been transferred to the separate account he had specified.
By now, according to the instruction he had left, it was already on its
way out. Home free.
He counted the zeroes again, not quite believing it. The villa he had
set his heart on was his. He had just acquired four hundred million
dollars. Some _countries _weren't worth that much, for godsake.
"Your generosity is touching." He folded the paper and slipped it into
his shirt pocket. He had left ironclad instructions at the bank. The
minute the funds were transferred, they would be wired to a bank in
Nassau, Bahamas, a bank known only to him. That way, Ramirez would have
no chance to fiddle the money back.
Ramirez said nothing, merely smiled. The fact was, this little Israeli
creep was an amateur. Five minutes after he had wired the instructions,
he had sent a second fax, countermanding them. That was the last thing
to worry about. More important was that Peretz had left his post at
Command and come down here to gloat. So it was a good thing he had sent
Jean-Paul and Jamal over there to keep an eye on things. They also had
taken the last Stasi, Peter Maier, with them. Schindler had
disappeared, presumably lost when the U.S. began its aborted attack.
They had proved to be useless, a fact he was going to point out to Wolf
Helling just before he shot him between the eyes.
This crude attempt at blackmail by Peretz was perfectly in character,
had in fact been telegraphed from the start. Which was why all the
contingency plans had been necessary.
Given Peretz' particularly obnoxious demand, he was tempted to move the
plan ahead and just shoot the son of a bitch now. Unfortunately,
though, he might still be needed. So the best course for the moment was
just to let him think he had gotten away with it. Besides, it was a
trifle early to finish thinning the ranks. All in due time. . . .
7:11 a.m.
It could have been the sound of a single explosion, even though it had
taken place at the two opposite entries to Command. Then, as one, Team
One and Team Three were inside, just behind the harmless explosions of
flash grenades and charges of CS they had blasted into the room.
Willem Voorst of Team Three was in first position as he virtually
pounced through the door just blown away with C-4, which now was a
curtain of smoke. While he sprayed the ceiling with rounds, sweeping
left to right, Dimitri Spiros was in second position, automatically
sweeping right to left.
"Get down," Voorst yelled in English, hoping the civilians would be
quick. Staffers dove for the gray linoleum, many yelling in pure
terror. In Voorst's experience, a couple of curious morons always
wanted to stand up and watch the action, frequently a lethal form of
entertainment. This time, however, everybody fortuitously hit the
floor.
On the far right, Salim Khan yelled and brought up his Uzi, mesmerized
by the balaclava-covered face of Voorst, but the Dutchman was already
far ahead of the game, and a single burst from his MP5 dropped him,
taking away the left side of his face. The bearded Iranian pilot never
realized what had happened, pitching forward without so much as a final
prayer.
One away, Voorst thought. But that was an easy one. An amateur.
On the opposite side of the room, Armont was in first position and Hall
was in second--both poised to take down anybody who showed hostile
intent. Together with Team Three at the back, their two-point entry was
like a Wagnerian crescendo that began a piece of music instead of
ending it. The melody was still to come.
Armont squinted through the hood of his balaclava into the billowing CS
that was enveloping the room. The confusion that obscured the
difference between friend and foe dismayed him. ARM had had no photos
of the terrorists to work with, no intelligence--other than the ID of
Ramirez--concerning their physical appearance.
The back of his mind, however, was telling him that they all were
dressed in black, just as the members of the ARM team were. So
everybody with a gun looked alike; the difference boiled down to who
was shooting at whom.
Reggie, in number-two position, had the best eyes of any of them, and
he had moved in behind Armont, those eyes sweeping the room. Try not to
waste the bloody place, he was lecturing himself. Show some class.
With the surprise still fresh, it now was time for Team Two to appear,
completing the three-point assault. Through the smoke two black figures
appeared out of nowhere, rappelling down into the very middle of the
chaos. First came Hans, followed by Marcel, both holding the rope in
one hand, an MP5 in the other.
While Willem Voorst and Dimitri Spiros were still firing, hoping to
draw the attention of the hostiles away from Team Two, Hans rotated on
his rope, and took measure of the room. He had less than a second to
get his bearings and to analyze the immediate threat from hostiles, the
peril to friendlies, and the one-time opportunities a quick window of
surprise offered. The main thing was to try to cut down the most
senior, experienced hostile in the room.
In the millisecond before his feet touched the floor, he saw what he
had hoped for: a man dressed in black, with long blond hair tied back
in a pony tail, carrying an Uzi. Better yet, he recognized him. Jesus!
It was Jean-Paul Moreau.
Interpol wants that bastard, he told himself, but they want him alive.
And there's a private bank-consortium bounty on his head of five
hundred thousand francs. He's found money. Alive.