Eighteen hours later, as the stolen ambulance rocketed down Provo Canyon, passing the Sundance Resort, Miner phoned the pilot of his chartered MediJet plane.

He spoke with the urgency of a doctor transporting a patient in very serious condition. The wail of the sirens and the clipped British accent he affected dovetailed perfectly with what the MediJet crew had been led to believe was their assignment.

The refinery fire in Magna, Utah, two weeks prior had been one of the worst the industry had ever seen. The blaze had burned uncontrollably for several days, and the smoke had been so thick that it had shut down all but two runways at Salt Lake City International Airport. Before the flames had been extinguished, environmentalists from several groups had flocked to the scene with their banners, decrying the continued pollution of the environment by big business, particularly the oil and gas industries. Several media outlets had run stories about the mounting toll oil and gas disasters were taking on the planet. On television, scenes of the Kuwaiti oil fields aflame during the Gulf War competed for time alongside images of dead oil-soaked seabirds being plucked from the shores of Alaska following the Exxon Valdez disaster. The Magna refinery fire was worldwide news.

“And we will be able to take off?” Miner asked into his cell phone from inside the bumpy ambulance.

“Yes, sir, Doctor. As far as we can tell from the weather reports and our information from the tower, this window should hold for about forty-five more minutes.”

“Good, and you have informed the tower of our need for priority slotting for takeoff?”

“Yes, sir. From the looks of it now, we’re the only ones that’ll be leaving, but as a medical emergency we have priority anyway.”

“Good. How is the air traffic in general throughout the area?”

“This is typical mountain weather. The snow and wind have tapered off some down here in the valley, but it’s pounding the higher elevations up in the mountains. Salt Lake International is experiencing stack-ups both in and out. Even with a medical emergency, we still would have had our work cut out for us getting off the ground out of SLC.”

Miner had arranged for the MediJet to await his team at the Provo Municipal Airport in Orem, forty miles south of Salt Lake City, for precisely these very reasons. First, he could count on the weather being less severe at the lower-elevation airport than at the one up by Deer Valley, and second, with a medical emergency out of Provo Municipal, Miner knew that he could call all of the shots. The runway would be plowed and the jet deiced by the time he got there. All he needed to do was load his “patient” and they would immediately be cleared for takeoff.

The fact that the private airfield would ask few questions and their security was lax to nonexistent had been another plus.

The pilot spoke again over Miner’s cell phone. “What is the patient’s condition?”

“He’s stable but still critical.”

“Confirmed. Per your instructions, Doctor, we have added the extra equipment you asked for.”

“Excellent. And you are sure that there will be no problem with the stretcher and its oxygen tent fitting in the plane?”

“Absolutely not. Normally, we would transfer the patient from the ambulance stretcher to our own, but when you explained that the tent’s seal couldn’t be breached because of the risk of infection, we just off-loaded our stretcher. As long as yours has the dimensions you indicated, our clamps will be able to secure it in place. I just hope he’ll be comfortable. It’s quite a long flight to Stansted.”

“I appreciate your concern. He’s pretty heavily sedated, as you can imagine.”

“I would imagine. It is such a tragedy. I think everyone was moved by the Magna fire.”

“Indeed, this gentleman is lucky to be alive, but we’re just not sure for how much longer. Have you made the arrangements for us with British customs?”

“Yes, just as you asked. I have alerted our London office, and they have been in contact with the authorities at Stansted Airport. If you provide me with all of your passports on the plane, including the patient’s, we’ll have you cleared before you have him in your transport.”

“And your office is aware of the severity of this man’s injuries? Third-degree burns over ninety-five percent of his body, including his face?”

“Yes, Doctor. The authorities will also be made aware of that fact, as well as the issue of the tent not being breached. To tell you the truth, I don’t think you are going to run into any problems at all. Like I said, there doesn’t seem to be anyone who wasn’t touched by this story. Plus, the patient is British, correct?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, I’ve found that always helps. I mean here this poor-what was his occupation?”

“A chemist for Fawcett Petroleum.”

“Right, a chemist. Here this poor chemist is burned in a terrible fire, and all he wants to do is be repatriated so he can die on his own soil surrounded by his family. If there is even the slightest hiccup with the immigration folks at Stansted, they’re going to have to deal with me, personally.”

“Thank you, Captain. I am counting on that. Our ETA is fifteen minutes. Please contact the tower for your clearance and have the jet ready for takeoff.”

“Roger.”

As Miner pushed the end button on his cell phone, he turned to the groundsman working next to him. “How are we doing?”

The groundsman, not only a master assassin but also a master of disguise, sat back and invited Miner to admire his handiwork.

“Excellent,” commented Miner as they sealed the oxygen tent above the stretcher.

Through an ingenious use of latex and special-effects makeup, the president of the United States had been hideously transformed. One look at him, along with a mention of the Magna refinery fire, would be all they needed to turn even the most difficult and hard-hearted customs official to jelly. The unbreachable oxygen tent, complete with a patient who in no way could match his photo in the false passport Miner carried for him, would get them waived right through the security of Stansted Airport. Of that Miner was sure. The officials might even offer him a motorcade, which of course, he would be forced to decline.

When Harvath awoke, he had no idea how long he’d been sleeping. His eyes focused and he saw he was in the same room he had been brought to last night. At least he hoped it had been last night. It must have been. There was no way he could have been out for more than six hours, eight tops.

Even though the curtains were drawn, he could tell that it was early morning. The snow was still falling, but not as hard as before. He decided from the pressure on his bladder that he had gotten more than enough fluids, and so he reached over and pulled the IV from his arm.

Across the room to his left was the open door to a bathroom. Dr. Skip would be pissed, no pun intended, that he hadn’t saved his urine for him to examine, but that was life.

Scot’s stomach muscles contracted as he crunched painfully upward and used his arms as buttresses to keep himself from falling backward onto his pillow. The pain not only was still in his back and shoulders, but had found new places to set up shop.

Halfway there, Scot thought to himself. He shifted his weight onto his left arm and with his right, reached out and threw back the covers. Breathing a little harder than just getting out of bed warranted, he inhaled deeply and in one motion swung his feet out from under the blankets, pivoting his body so that he now sat on the edge of the bed.

With the weight off his arms, he was now able to stretch. His range of motion was severely limited. He had taken some beatings before, but this one was definitely Academy Award material. Nothing, though, that a long, hot shower couldn’t help.