He’d added the compact parafoil to his pack at the last minute in response to that little voice in the back of his head. Getting into the hotel would be a challenge; getting out could be an even bigger one. Better to have a backup and not need it rather than vice versa.
Whether the Al-Mughaaweer were firing on him from the balcony worried Fisher not at all. Though only seconds had passed since his leap, he was by now lost in the darkness, hurtling away from the hotel and toward the ocean’s surface at sixty miles per hour He had thirty seconds, no more.
He arched his body, arms and legs spread wide to catch as much air as possible. He felt himself lift ever so slightly. He glanced to his right and saw the lights of the seafront shops and restaurants. He twisted that way.
He lifted the OPSAT to his face and punched a button, bringing up his altimeter: 710 FEET. He’d lost a third of the hotel’s height in roughly ten seconds. Given the volatility of the winds, he needed to wait until the last possible moment to open his chute.
He checked his OPSAT: 490 FEET/90 MPH.
A few more seconds. . .
He reached across his chest and ripped free a Velcro patch, revealing the chute’s D-ring release.
390 FEET.
Wait. . . .
340 FEET.
He jerked the toggle, heard the swoosh and flutter of the parafoil deploying. He was jerked upward, felt his stomach rising into his throat, shoulders wrenched backward. He reached up, found the riser toggles, and gently pulled to counter the parafoil’s initial lift. At this height, in the crosscurrent winds, the parafoil would naturally nose up, trading airspeed for lift, a combination sure to create a stall.
He checked the OPSAT: 255 FEET/40MPH. He switched views to radar mode. To his left up the coast, a red triangle blinked. This too had been the result of Fisher’s last-minute equipment change. Earlier, as he waited for nightfall, he’d meandered up the coast a few miles and secreted a pathfinder transponder on a rock outcropping.
By now every available cop in Dubai would be responding to the reports of gunfire at the city’s most luxurious hotel. Of course, no one had his description, but the sooner he left the area, the better. He confirmed the transponder’s bearing on the OPSAT, then pulled on the left toggle and banked north.
SHANGHAI
EYESclosed, hands behind his back, Kuan-Yin Zhao paced the perimeter of the room, his shoes echoing off the marble floor and the vaulted ceiling. He’d walked this room hundreds of times over the last two years, seeing the game in his mind, imagining his opponent’s moves and countermoves until nothing had been left to chance. And now . . . now it was all coming to fruition.
He stopped and turned to face the center of the room. Under the glare of halogen spotlights, the marble was inlaid with black mosaic tiles in the shape of a massive Xiangqi board, measuring twenty feet per side. There were no pieces, only the squares, and each opponent’s home areas—called the Red Palace and the Black Palace—and a strip of dark blue representing the center division, or River.
Zhao imagined the pieces moving, dancing around one another, his opponent unaware until—
“Sir . . .” a voice intruded. “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you. . . .”
Zhao snapped out of his reverie and slowly turned around to face Xun. “Yes, what is it?”
“They’ve been apprehended—in Texas.”
Zhao gave a half smile. “Good.”
“Why is that good?” Xun asked. “The authorities have them. If they talk—”
“They will.”
Xun frowned. “But if—”
Zhao waved his hands to encompass the room. “Xun, what do you see here?”
“A Xiangqi board.”
“Let me ask you: Suppose a pair of enemy paosare advancing on your king. What do you do?”
“Move my king.”
“Or?”
“Attack the attacking pieces.”
“Or.”
“Move other pieces in defense.”
“How do you know that’s not what your enemy wanted?”
“I don’t.”
“What if your every move is not your own, but only a response to arranged circumstances?”
“Then I lose the game.”
“Correct. Now: Send a message to Sarani. Tell him they should start preparing. Events will begin to speed up now.”
Xun nodded and hurried out.
Zhao turned back to the board and moved another piece in his mind.
23
DUBAI
WHENhe touched down, Fisher’s plans to quickly exit the area were foiled, not by the authorities, but rather by Lambert in a curtly worded OPSAT message— PROCEED GRID REF 102.398, AWAIT PICKUP FOR TRANSPORT TO CHARLIE-ALPHA ONE (1)—followed by the details his contact would use to identify himself or herself.
Fisher was concerned. The grid reference Lambert had given was virtually on top of his pathfinder beacon, overlooking Jumeirah Road north of the Burj al Arab. Rendevous Point Charlie-Alpha One was a CIA safe house on Al Garhoud Road near the Dubai Creek Golf & Yacht Club.
Lambert’s order was unprecedented, not only because it required Fisher to remain in an OPAR (Operational Area) that had gone hot, but also because it went against everything Third Echelon stood for: invisibility. Presenting himself to what would likely turn out to be a CIA case officer at a CIA safe house left a big footprint indeed. Though his contact was unlikely to know anything about him and would be ordered to forget his face, that did little to comfort him.
Twenty minutes after he touched down on the beach and stuffed his parafoil in a crevice in the rocks, a red two-door Peugeot pulled off the road and coasted to a stop on the dirt shoulder. The driver got out and knelt beside his front tire. Fisher saw a flashlight wink against the hub-cap: one short, two long, three short.
He rose from the underbrush and walked over. Though he’d stripped off his exterior gear and stuffed it into his pack, he was still wearing his tac-suit. Even so, the man gave him the barest of glances, then said, “Are you Willard?”
Fisher shook his head. “My name is Bartle,” he replied, completing the recognition code.
The man opened the back door and said, “Best if you lay down on the floor.”
Fisher got in and did as instructed.
TWENTYminutes later the Peugeot coasted to a stop. Fisher heard the sound of a garage door opening. The car moved ahead and the garage door closed.
“It’s okay to get up,” the driver said. “We’re clear.”
Fisher sat up and climbed out of the car to find himself, predictably, in a nondescript two-car garage. He followed the man into the house, which was lit by several floor lamps and decorated in Spanish-villa style. They were standing in the kitchen.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” the man said. “Conference room’s down the hall, first door on the right. Your call’s cued up; just press the green button. The room’s a tank.”
All U.S. embassies and consulates and some CIA safe houses were equipped with a “tank”—a windowless, sound-tight room impervious to listening devices.
Fisher followed the man’s directions to the room. It was small, ten feet by ten feet, and empty save for a desk table arrayed before a thirty-two-inch flat-screen television monitor. Recessed ceiling lights cast pools on the carpet. He sat down and pressed the green button. The monitor went first to static, then black again as a series of word scrolled across the screen: