Al-Hassan’s voice was flinty. “It will not happen again, Dr. Tremont.” He straightened, and respect radiated from him. “I have a plan.” He left the office as silently as death itself.
__________
8:21 P.M.
Near Syracuse, New York
Dressed again in his black SAS uniform but without the hood or equipment belt, Peter pensively mulled everything over as he drove the big RV along the dark highway toward the distant twinkling lights of Syracuse. Behind him, Marty worked intently on the computer. The virus’s sudden explosion across the world terrified both men. They must find something that clicked with the Prince Leopold report in Syracuse, or Marty had to turn up Sophia’s missing phone calls or Bill Griffin’s hideout.
They had heard nothing from Jon. This did not surprise Peter, but it concerned him. It could mean Jon was in trouble and unable to get back to the embassy in Baghdad, or it could mean nothing at all.
Soon after they had left Princeton, Peter had the uneasy sense they were being followed. To be certain, he had driven a circuitous route on secondary roads from New Jersey into New York. Well inside the state, he entered the thruway. If there had been a tail, he figured he should have exposed or lost it by now. Still, the uneasiness would not leave. These people were experienced and skillful.
Twice he pulled off at rest stops to search the RV’s exterior for a tracking device. He found none. But the concern persisted, and he had learned long ago to trust his feelings. That was why he exited the thruway early to take the slower but less traveled back roads into Syracuse itself.
For the first five miles he saw only occasional lights behind, and those vehicles had driven straight on when he pulled off to watch. He had changed direction more than once, going west for a time, then south, then east, then back north, and finally west again toward the city. Now he was driving through the outer suburbs. Since he had still seen no evidence of surveillance, he began to relax.
The sky was starry and black, with charcoal clouds low and ominous beneath the moon. To their right, a woodsy state park extended along the road, its split-rail fence like ghostly broken bones in the night. The park appeared to be densely forested, with picnic tables and fireplaces dotting open areas. There was little traffic at this hour.
Then from out of nowhere a gray pickup passed the RV at high speed. It pulled in front, its brake lights instantly glowed blood red, and it slowed, forcing Peter to hit his own brakes. Peter instantly checked his rearview mirror. High headlights were closing in fast. It had to be another truck or SUV. Right on the RV’s tail.
Peter called out, “Hold on, Marty!”
“What are you up to now?” Marty complained.
“Pickup in front. SUV or pickup in back. Bastards think they’re going to trap us like chopped liver in a sandwich.”
Marty’s round face flushed pink. “Oh.” He instantly locked down the computer, tightened his seatbelt, and gamely grabbed the table, which was bolted into the RV’s frame. He steeled himself and sighed. “I suppose I’m actually growing accustomed to these emergencies.”
Peter pumped the brake and yanked the steering wheel right. The left wheels tilted up like a yacht in a high wind. Marty let out a surprised yell. The RV skidded on the two others, landed hard, and tore into the lighted picnic grounds. Behind them, brakes shrieked and rubber burned. The high headlights bounced across grass, roared over a sapling, and blasted through brush to emerge again on the park road. The gray pickup was close behind.
Marty watched through the windows, his heart palpitating with fear. Still, he was riveted by the spectacle. Although the Englishman was intellectually inferior, he had an uncanny ability where anything physical, particularly violence, was concerned.
Ahead, the road forked. Peter swerved the RV right. He was racing the bouncing, swaying pickup through the darkness. Abruptly the road curved back toward the lighted picnic area.
“Bloody damn!” he swore. “Road’s a loop.” The high headlights were behind them, and the gray pickup was driving toward them from ahead. “Trapped again!” He reached behind his seat and pulled out his Enfield bullpup. “Get to the back door and use this!”
“Me?” But Marty caught the assault rifle as Peter tossed it to him.
“When I say, just point and pull the trigger, my boy. Imagine it’s a joystick.”
The creases on Peter’s leathery face were deep canyons of worry, but his eyes were glowing. He hit the brake again, yanked the wheel, and ran the RV off the road into a grove of trees that extended thick into the darkness. As soon as he skidded the big vehicle to a stop, he jumped from the seat, pulled out his H&K submachine gun, grabbed two cases of clips, handed the SA80 rounds to Marty, and hurried with his own clips and submachine gun to a side window.
The RV’s nose was deep in the trees, and the side door also faced the woods. This meant the vehicle presented a solid side to the attackers while Peter and Marty could still fire from both the rear door and the small side windows.
Marty was examining his weapon, prodding it as he muttered to himself.
Peter asked, “Got it figured out?” The one good thing about the annoying fellow was he had turned out to be as smart as Jonathan Smith had claimed.
“There are some things I never wanted to learn.” Marty looked up and sighed. “Of course, I understand this primitive machine. Child’s play.”
The car behind the headlights was a large black SUV. It had stopped on the road. The gray pickup was driving slowly across the grass toward the RV.
Peter shot out the front tires of the pickup.
The pickup sagged to a stop. For a time nothing moved.
Then two men pitched out like rag dolls from the pickup and dove under it. At the same time, automatic fire blasted from the SUV and slammed into the RV’s side with loud screeches of tearing metal.
“Down!” Peter shouted as the RV rocked from the gunfire’s impact.
Marty dove head first, and Peter crouched against the side wall.
When there was a pause, Marty looked around. “Where are the bullet holes? We should look like a sieve.”
Peter grinned. “Had some serious plate put on this buggy. Thought you knew that from the ruckus in the Sierras. Good thing, right?”
A new fusillade hammered against the armored steel sides. But this time, it smashed windows and tore curtains, too. Glass shards sliced through the air and embedded themselves into appliances. Bits of cloth floated down like snow.
Marty had wrapped his arms over his head. “Obviously you should have considered putting plate on the windows.”
“Steady,” Peter said quietly. “They’ll become weary after a bit and stop to see if we’re still alive. Then we’ll just spoil their little party, eh?”
Marty sighed and tried to calm the terror in his veins.
After another minute of the violent barrage, the firing died away. The cessation of sound seemed to create a vacuum in the lighted park. The birds were silent. No small animals scurried through the underbrush. Marty’s face was white with fear.
“Right,” Peter said cheerfully. “Let’s have a look-see.”
He raised up to peer out a corner of the shattered window above him. The two men from the gray truck were standing in the shelter of their vehicle holding what looked like Ingram M11 submachine guns. They stared across the swath of lighted grass to the RV. As Peter watched, a short, heavy man in a cheap gray suit, his face glistening with sweat, stepped out of the big SUV. His weapon was a Glock pistol. He motioned with his arm, and two more well-armed men climbed from the SUV. With another motion he ordered the group to spread out and close in on the RV.
“Right,” Peter said again, softly this time. “Marty, take the two on the right. I’ll take the left. I doubt any of them will charge into fire, so don’t worry about your aim. Just point in their direction, squeeze the trigger, and let it rip. Ready?”
“My degradation increases.”
“Good man. Here we go.”
___________________
CHAPTER
THIRTY SIX
___________________
Inside the heavily equipped RV, the tension was electric. Still some twenty yards away, the five armed men and the short, square leader were rapidly closing in on Peter and Marty. The attackers progressed carefully, their gazes constantly roaming. They carried their weapons with the sureness of experience. Even in the distance, menace radiated from their walks.
“Now!” Peter fired a careful burst at the leader, while Marty let loose with everything.
As Marty’s barrage shredded leaves and pine needles, ripped bark, and sawed through small branches, Peter’s target grunted, clutched his right arm, and fell to his knees. Marty continued to spray bullets. The noise was deafening.