more than a little chilling to see the bodies of three dudes you'd come
in with only a day before. . . .
Well, fuck it. These other guys had known the risks. If they didn't,
then they were jerks. Down to business.
He knew what he was looking for, and he had left it next to the main
terminal. And there it was.
While he was working, he would block out the ache in his chest by
thinking about the money. Hundreds of millions. Tax free. Even if you
spent ten million a year, you could never spend it all. What a dream.
Then he had an even more comforting reflection. Everybody had seen him
shot. They wouldn't find the body, but they would naturally assume he
was dead, too. He would have the money, and he would be officially
deceased.
He almost laughed, but then he sobered, recalling he had only a scant
few minutes to wrap things up.
He slipped the component into its slot, then rummaged around for the
connectors. He had left them dangling when he removed the black box,
and they were conveniently at hand. They were color-coded, and besides,
he had a perfect photographic memory and knew exactly what went where.
Seconds later the diodes gleamed. On line.
Okay, baby, let's crank.
The real radio gear, he knew, was in Bates' office, which stood at the
far end of the room, its door blown away. Bates had plenty of
transmission and receiving equipment in there, so that would be the
perfect place to take care of business.
He picked up the device, now ready, and carried it with him, heading
over. The main power switch that controlled Bates' radios had been shut
off, but it was just outside the door and easy to access. He pushed up
the red handle, and walked on through, watching with satisfaction as
the gear came alive. Over by the desk was Bates' main radio, a big
Magellan, already warming up. Life was sweet.
He clicked on the receiver stationed next to the transmitter and began
scanning. Ramirez, he figured, would probably be on the military
frequencies now, spewing out a barrage of threats about blowing up
Andikythera. That had been the agreed-upon egress strategy, assuming
the confusion created when the bomb took out Souda Bay wasn't enough.
And sure enough, there he was, on 121.50 megahertz, just as planned.
Peretz decided to listen for a minute or so before breaking in.
"I won't bother giving you our coordinates," came his voice, "since we
show a radar lock already. I warn you again that any attempt to
interfere with our egress will mean the death of our hostage and a
nuclear explosion on the island."
How about that, Peretz thought. The getaway scenario is still intact,
right down to the last detail. Gives you a warm feeling about the
continuity of human designs.
He and Sabri Ramirez had planned it carefully. The Sikorsky would be
taken to fifteen thousand feet, its service ceiling, whereupon anybody
left would be shot. The controls would then be locked, and they would
don oxygen masks and jump, using MT-1X parachutes, the rectangular
mattress-appearing chutes that actually are a non-rigid airfoil. MT-lXs
had a forward speed of twenty-five miles per hour and could stay up
long enough to put at least that many miles between the jump point and
the landing. They were, in effect, makeshift gliders, and they
presented absolutely no radar signature. While the Sikorsky continued
on its merry way, on autopilot, they would rendezvous with the boat
that was waiting, then be off to Sicily, with nobody the wiser. The
chopper would eventually crash into the ocean halfway to Cypress,
leaving no trace.
The only part about that plan that bothered Dore Peretz from the first
was whether Sabri Ramirez was intending to kill him along with the rest
of the exit team. Nothing would prevent it. There was supposed to be
some honor among thieves, but . . .
Enough nostalgia. The moment had come to have a little fun. He flicked
on the mike. "Yo, my man, this is your technical associate. Do you
copy?"
There was a pause in the transmission, then Ramirez's voice came on,
loud and clear. "Get off this channel, whoever you are."
"Hey, dude, is that any way to talk? We have a little business to
finish. By the way, how's the weather up there? Chutes still look
okay?"
"What in hell," came back the voice, now abruptly flustered as the
recognition came through. "Where are you?"
"Dead, I guess. But hey, I'm lonesome. Maybe it slipped your mind I was
supposed to be part of the evacuation team."
"What do you want?"
"Want? Well, let's see. How about starting with a little respect."
"Fuck you, Peretz."
"Now, is that any way to talk? If that's how you feel, then I just
thought of another small request. I also want you to transfer your part
of the money into my account at Banco Ambrosiano. As a small gesture of
respect. I want you to get on the radio and see about having it
arranged. Or I might just blow the scenario for you." He had to laugh.
There was radio silence as Ramirez appeared to be contemplating this
alternative. It clearly was unpalatable.
"You've got a problem there, my friend. One of time. I'm sure we're
being monitored, so let me just say there's been a change of plans. You
would have been part of it, but unfortunately . . ."
"Hey, asshole, there's no change of plans. You figured it for this way
all along. But now there is going to be a change. I hate to tell you
what the new scenario is . . . yo, hang on a sec."
He had looked up to see Bill Bates and Michael Vance entering the
office. "Come on in and join the fun, guys." He waved his Walther and
grinned. "We're about to have a blast."
Vance walked through the door, bloody and exhausted. "And I thought
Ramirez was the only one who could manage to return from the dead." He
tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. "Either he was using
blanks, or you were wearing a bulletproof vest. Somehow I doubt it was
the former. So what happened? Have a business disagreement with your
partner in crime?"
Peretz was grinning. "That's how it is in life sometimes, man.
Friendship is fleeting." He gestured them forward.
Bates had moved in warily, still stunned by the carnage among the
workstations in Command. "I suppose I have you and Ramirez to thank for
tearing up the place out there." He walked over to the desk. "Nice to
see that my radio gear is back on and working."
"It's working fine," Peretz replied, then waved his Walther toward the
couch opposite the desk. "Now sit the fuck down. Both of you."
"You're staring at beaucoup hard time, pal." Vance did not move. "I can
think of several countries who're going to be fighting over the chance
to put you away. This might be a propitious moment to consider going
quietly."
"Quietly?" There was a mad gleam in his eye. "I never did anything
quietly in my life. You're in luck, asshole. You're about to have a
front-row seat at history in the making."
He turned back to the radio and switched to transmit. "Yo, my man,
looks like we have nothing more to say to each other. Which means it's
time for a fond farewell."
What's he about to do? Vance wondered. He's about to screw Sabri
Ramirez, but how?
Then it dawned. There was one bomb left, and Bill had said it was on
the Sikorsky. Probably radio-controlled, and Peretz had a radio, right
there. God help us!
"Hey," he almost yelled, "get serious. What you're about to do is
insane. You don't use a nuke to take out a single thug. Even a thug
like Sabri Ramirez. You've gone crazy."
In fact, Vance told himself, Peretz was looking a little, more than a
little, mad. He had a distant fix in his visage that was absolutely
chilling. The world had been waiting decades now for a nutcake to get
his hands on a nuclear trigger. Maybe the wait was over.
"Look, peckerhead, I'm sorry if you find this unsettling." Peretz was
still holding the Walther. "However, don't get any funny ideas." He
laughed. "You know, it's almost poetic. For years now Israel has been
the world's biggest secret nuclear power, but nobody ever had the balls
to show our stuff. I'm about to become my nation's most daring ex-
citizen."