Mobasheri barely broke stride. He nodded to the man on Ross’s left, who slammed his fist into the back of the American’s shoulder, knocking him forward and off balance. As soon as he was able to turn around in hopes of defending himself from another strike, Ethan saw the Iranian had produced a black pistol, and although the man held it at hip level, it was pointed directly at Ross’s chest.
Gianna started to scream, but a second man put his arm around her neck and covered her mouth with his hand. He pulled her onward in a headlock.
In English, Mobasheri said, “I ask everyone to keep moving, please.”
Ethan Ross turned with his hands raised to ward off any follow on blows, and he resumed walking through the quiet courtyard.
CARUSO WOULD HAVE GIVEN six months of his Campus salary to be in the Four Seasons when Darren Albright and the HRT studs took Ross down. He was certain there would be video taken of the event, and it would play in a constant loop on the cable channels back home from a long time. The video might cause problems; he was damn sure the UN and the EU and God knows who else would have an aneurism when they saw it, especially if Albright and company had to go loud in the posh European hotel.
The video will be cool, he told himself, but it would be so much better to be in there watching first hand, so he could see the color drain out of that prick Ross’s face when he realized the rest of his life would be spent in a ten by twelve can in a supermax prison.
But Dom knew he couldn’t be inside. He had to keep his own face out of the constant video loop, and he sure as hell didn’t want Albright to know he was here. He was already thinking about the after effects of this operation, and he didn’t need a guy like Albright any more curious about him and his organization than he already was.
So Dom went back to his bike parked in the lot in front of the Church of the Holy Trinity, and he zipped his jacket tightly and slipped on his helmet. It was snowing heavily now, but he fired up his BMW F 800 GS and drove slowly back toward the hotel, hoping to at least get a glimpse of the tail end of the arrest, protected from both hotel surveillance cameras and the FBI’s watchful eyes by the tinted visor of his helmet.
He motored slowly back through the snowfall, along with the light traffic, staying in the turning lane to make a left in front of the hotel. When he made the turn he noticed three silver SUVs parked across the street along the Rhone River. He thought it likely the vans belonged to the tactical team, and this was confirmed a moment later when he saw men behind the wheels who looked like they had been sent by out central casting. Short cropped military haircuts, muscular necks disappearing into nondescript dark coveralls, and black watch caps.
Dom smiled inside his helmet. The takedown was going on right now in the building on his left. Catching Ethan Ross wouldn’t bring anything approaching the closure he needed to get over the Yacobys’ deaths, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing. Plus, it would dam up the most dangerous leak to the U.S. intelligence community in history.
Dom wanted to park right here by the vans to watch the action, but he saw no movement at the front of the Four Seasons, and he decided he had a couple minutes before Ross was frog-walked out. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, so he stayed in traffic, making the decision to circle the block to eat up some time.
He made a left of Rue Mont-Blanc, and here he saw four more FBI men watching the street. They were across from the hotel, standing in two groups of two, and obviously aware there were exits through some shops at the street here that also had doors that lead to the lobby of the hotel.
Good, thought Dom. HRT wasn’t just going to bum rush the conference, they were prepared with surveillance in case Ross tried to squirt out another exit.
He made another left onto Rue de Cendrier, this was the end of the block, and he looked for FBI back here, but he saw no one. He presumed this meant the stores here, a luxury eyeglass shop and a men’s clothing shop, didn’t have access to the hotel, which was on the other side of the block.
The fat snowflakes made it hard to see more than a hundred yards, but as he reached the corner and prepared to make a left, ahead of him he saw a large white panel van rolling toward him. His first thought was that the HRT team was even bigger than he’d thought. If they had come in three vehicles they could haul as many as thirty-six people.
That didn’t sound right. He wondered if Albright had authority to make arrests other than just Ross; perhaps this white van was a paddy wagon with which the FBI would haul in all the major players of the ITP.
No, Dom decided. It was going to be tough enough for Albright to get away with the American citizen and get him across the bridge to the U.S. consulate. The arrest itself was going to create a massive international incident. Hauling in Swiss citizens, Italian citizens, German citizens. No, Dom thought. No way in hell Albright would have the authority to pull off something like that.
He discounted the large vehicle approaching as a coincidence and turned left on Place Kleberg, and immediately he picked out a group of FBI surveillance cars parked near an employee entrance to the hotel and the ramp that went down to a loading bay and the underground parking garage. Their engines were running and there were multiple men in each vehicle.
They had been easy to spot, but Dom cut the guys some slack. At this stage of the arrest the security teams cordoning off the area weren’t worried about maintaining a low profile. They had to be ready to block the exits and support the triggermen in the inside of the hotel if necessary.
Dom passed the vehicles by the ramp to the parking lot and headed back around toward the front of the hotel, hoping Albright and his men would hurry up and end this thing.
Mohammed Mobasheri was in the lead of the group when they arrived at the end of the narrow courtyard. He pushed through a long cut in the green mesh that covered the buildings, then held open a door for the others.
This room was a small and simple office and storage facility for the groundskeeper of the property. A tiny work desk was on one wall, and all around the ten-by-ten-foot room were shelves with equipment, tools, coiled extension cords, and other odds and ends. Against the wall were snow shovels and a gas-powered snow blower on wheels.
At the far end of the little space was another one of Mobasheri’s men. He had a sledgehammer in his hand, and from the looks of it he’d apparently just knocked an impressive hole through the plaster and cinder-block wall. It was three feet high by a foot and a half wide, and it would just accommodate the procession if they passed through it slowly and carefully.
As the Iranian put the sledgehammer on the ground and redonned his black jacket, Mobasheri extended a hand toward the black hole.
“Ms. Bertoli, if you will?”
“Where are you taking—”
“Move!” His shout exploded in the small maintenance room. Bertoli, Ross, and the Iranians all climbed through the ragged portal and into the narrow and dark warehouse space at the back of a men’s clothing store. They took a moment to brush off dust and bits of plaster, then continued out onto the sales floor.
It was a little slow to dawn on him, but Ross decided the moment the gun came out of the Iranian’s waistband that he was now, officially, a kidnapping victim.
He would much rather take his chances with the FBI. The light from the windows at the front of the shop was muted, it was an overcast day with a snowstorm blowing through, after all, but as soon as Ross neared the front door he saw a white panel truck pull up outside.
This was their ride out of here, that much was plain.
But a ride to where? Ross had no idea.
His first inclination was to make a run for it the second he got out on the street. He was fast enough, and even though he wasn’t dressed for the cold, this was downtown Geneva. It wasn’t like he was up in the mountains. All he had to do was find a cop or an FBI agent or any public space or, just maybe, he could run right into the entrance of the first embassy he came across.
Surely to God the Iranians wouldn’t shoot hi
m in the back if he made a break for it.
As they neared the entrance, Mobasheri stopped Ross by touching his arm softly.
“Clothes. Quickly, I want you to change your clothes.”
Ethan looked around. The store was full of Lacoste clothing. Some of it was skiwear, so he grabbed some thick nylon pants and put them on, then looked for a heavy sweater.
While he did this Gianna Bertoli had grown uncharacteristically silent. It was clear to Ross she realized that she had completely lost control of the situation, and she was scared. Her concern only gave Ethan more incentive to try and get away from these men.
In seconds he had changed all his clothing, even slipping on a pair of rubber boots.
Mobasheri gave him a satisfactory nod, and then one of the Iranian Quds men unlocked the glass door of the clothing store.
Ethan’s heart pounded, and he gulped the warm air of shop. This was his chance.
BY HIS SECOND LOOP around the block, Dom was convinced something had gone wrong on the inside of the hotel. He knew the HRT guys would want to enter the conference quickly and use speed and surprise to overwhelm their target and his security. Every single minute they sat around inside that building was one more minute where some security guard or cop in attendance could throw a wrench into the works.
And just then, as if on cue, Dominic heard sirens coming from the direction of the bridge over the Rhone.
The local police were on the way, and Dom hoped like hell Albright could effect his take down and get the fuck out of here before men with guns and questions showed up to find out what the hell the dozen or so American guys in coveralls were doing milling about the five star hotel.
Just as Dom made his left turn on Rue de Cendrier, the far side of the block from the hotel entrance, he noticed the white van again. It had pulled to the curb next to a men’s clothing shop.
Dom looked back over his left shoulder for the FBI surveillance unit on the street on Rue Mont-Blanc. He could see their cars through the snow, but they were fifty yards away and facing the opposite direction.
Dom slowed, then braked suddenly when he saw the door to the darkened clothing store open and Ethan Ross appeared. He was just a step ahead of a group of several other men and one woman, but unlike the rest of the group, Ross was running like hell.
“No, no, no!” Dom mumbled in astonishment.
ETHAN TOOK FLIGHT as soon as he was outside, sprinting to the right of door, trying to make it around the front of the van. He clearly surprised Mohammed and his men, because he managed to get ten feet of separation on the sidewalk in just a few bounds. The snow on the sidewalk had been ankle deep, but when he landed in the street he slipped a little on the compact, icy surface, but he managed to right himself and he kept going. He was nearly past the front grill of the white van when the driver put the vehicle in gear and stomped on the accelerator. The van lurched forward and delivered a glancing but powerful blow to the fleeing American, hitting him on his left side, spinning him through the air, and upending him.
Ross crashed to the ground on his back, not fifty feet in front of Caruso.
HOLY SHIT!” DOM SHOUTED into his motorcycle helmet. His first inclination was to race over to Ross, either to scoop him up and make a run for it or to run him down a second time, but three men surrounded his prostrate form in the snow-covered street. They rolled him on his stomach, then yanked him back up to his feet roughly.
Dom just sat on his rumbling BWW motorcycle as the group moved as a unit around Ross, pushed and pulled him back onto the sidewalk and into the side of the van, and then the vehicle rolled off in Dom’s direction.
Caruso let it pass, then watched it from over his shoulder as it made a left on Rue du Mont-Blanc.
When it had completely disappeared from view Caruso revved his engine, snapped his bike into gear, and spun on the snow. He burned a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn in place and took off in pursuit of the American traitor.
45
ETHAN LAY ON HIS back in the rear of the van; next to him Gianna Bertoli sat with her coat wrapped around her. True to his word, Mobasheri had packed up her luggage, and it, along with Ross’s, sat by the back door of the vehicle. She’d pulled her coat off as soon as she’d climbed inside, and now she sat next to Ross but she didn’t render him any aid, as she was consumed by her own thoughts and worries.
Ross’s hip and his back and his arm hurt from the impacts from the truck and the hard-packed snow in the street. He didn’t think anything had been broken, but he wasn’t sure.
Mohammed was sitting in the middle row of seats. He turned and looked back at Ethan. “Are you okay?” The concern in his voice seemed genuine.
“You could have fucking killed me!”
Mohammed smiled, spun around forward, and said something in Farsi to the others. Instantly two men leapt on top of Ross and began pulling at his clothing.
“What are you doing?”
“You ran away, but you didn’t have your computer. The scrape is not on the computer, is it? You have a drive on you.”
“No!” he screamed.
It took them a minute. They stripped him down to nothing, rummaged through his clothes as he lay naked and fetal. One man pulled his arms away from him and another his legs, they were ready to begin a body-cavity search, but Ethan shouted to stop them.
“Okay! Okay!” He reached to his hip and tore off the moleskin patch. It was passed up the van to Mohammed, who pried the microdrive off the adhesive.
He nodded appreciatively. “Well done, Ethan. Well done. The computer was just a decoy.”
Ethan pulled his clothes back on. While he did so, he said to Mohammed, “You are Quds Force, aren’t you?”
“I am Revolutionary Guard. On a mission by order of the Supreme Leader. These men are Quds Force.” He smiled. “But don’t worry. You will be treated well.”
“Where are we going?” Bertoli shouted the question. She’d been forgotten in the corner of the van.
Mohammed seemed to weigh whether or not to respond for a moment. Finally, he said, “You see what happens if you try to escape, yes?”
Both Bertoli and Ross nodded.
“We are going to Genoa.”
“Genoa, Italy?” Bertoli was confused. “What’s in Genoa?”
Mohammed smiled. “A boat that will take us to Libya.”
Bertoli began shouting a string of obscenities, making it crystal clear she had no desire to go to Libya. Ross, on the other hand, tried a different tack.
“It’s got to be four, five hours to Genoa. We’ll never make it before the Americans figure out where we are.”
Mohammed waved away the comment. “Let me worry about that, Mr. Ross. You need to worry about what we are going to ask of you when we get where we are going.”
Ross knew what they wanted. They wanted the passwords. He told himself he would never give it to him, but thinking about the lengths they would go to force him to reveal his password made him close his eyes and shudder.
DOM CARUSO was a skilled motorcyclist, but he’d never before raced a road bike on icy streets while his helmet visor was half covered with wet snowfall.
And on top of all this, he had to break his concentration of the road conditions to make a phone call.
For the first few minutes of his tail on the van they traveled through the narrow, winding streets of downtown Geneva, with intersections every hundred yards and large buildings that obstructed his view. He couldn’t make it to the phone in his pack, he had to give all his attention to not losing his quarry.
Finally, the road straightened out some and Dom backed off a hundred yards to stay out of sight in the snow. It took a moment to get his hand under his butt to pull his glove off, but he managed, careful to keep his glove in place while he dialed his phone.
After four rings Dom heard a recording. “You’ve reached Supervisory Special Agent Darren Albright. I am unavailable at this time. Please leave a detailed message. Good day.”
“Fuck.” br />
The state-of-the-art Bluetooth headset in his ear, and the sound-dampening effects of the helmet made the call relatively clear, but still Dom had to all but shout over his bike’s engine. “Albright, it’s me! Ross, Bertoli, and several armed subjects are in a white twelve-passenger van heading . . . I guess this must be south. We crossed the Pont du Mont-Blanc and are on—hold up while I pass a sign—we’re on Route du Maligned. I need HRT on them quick before they get to wherever they’re going. Call me back.”
He disconnected the call.
Dom had to tighten up on the van again as it entered a hilly section in a southwestern neighborhood, and then he backed off when it took the wide and straight Rue Blanche. He almost lost it once in the snowstorm, but he pressed his luck and closed, and this paid off, because he caught sight of the white vehicle just as it took an access ramp for the highway.
They got on the A40, which Dom thought was good news, because he knew it would have been impossible to stick on the van much longer without being spotted as it traveled up and down city streets. But the bad news was there were fewer cars and trucks on the highway and Caruso was certain he stood out more now. As the vehicle picked up speed it blended in with the snow much better than his black bike, dark gray riding suit, and his black helmet, but he concentrated on keeping as far back as he could and retaining as much of his vision as possible by wiping his visor with the left forearm of his suit every twenty seconds or so.
Dom could not be sure Darren Albright would pick up his message in time to catch up with Ross. The Swiss police might have already detained the FBI team, or else simply delayed them, which as far as Dom was concerned, would be just as bad.
So he called Adara, who answered on the first ring with “Where are you? I came back to the Four Seasons. This place is crawling with police.”
Dom explained where he was.
“What can I do?”
“Call Gerry and get the name of the CIA station chiefs in Geneva, Milan, and Lyon. They are the closest cities with stations. Then get those people on the phone. If you can’t get the COSs, find the DCOSs. Whoever you can get, tell them the situation.”