suppose they always are, Bill.”
“Quite.”
Peter Covington came in then, stole a swivel chair and n -paved it next to the two senior men. His face was locked in neutral though he had to be pissed, Clark thought, that his team wasn't going. But the team-availability rotation was set in stone here, as it had to be.
“Thoughts, Peter?” Clark asked.
“They're not awfully bright. They killed that poor sod very early in the affair, didn't they?”
“Keep going,” John said, reminding all of them that he was new in this business.
“When you kill a hostage, you cross a large, thick line, sir. Once across it, one cannot easily go backward, can one?”
“So, you try to avoid it?”
“I would. It makes it too difficult for the other side to make concessions, and you bloody need the concessions if you want to get away-unless you know something the opposition does not. Unlikely in a situation like this.”
“They'll ask for a way out . . . helicopter?”
“Probably.” Covington nodded. “To an airport, commercial aircraft waiting, international crew-but to where? Libya, perhaps, but will Libya allow them in? Where else might they go? Russia? I think not. The Bekaa Valley in Lebanon is still possible, but commercial aircraft don't land there. About the only sensible thing they've done is to protect their identities from the police. Would you care to wager that the hostage who got out has not seen their faces?” Covington shook his head.
“They're not amateurs,” Clark objected. “Their weapons point to some measure of training and professionalism.”
That earned John a nod. “True, sir, but not awfully bright. I would not be overly surprised to learn that they'd actually stolen some currency, like common robbers. Trained terrorists, perhaps, but not good ones.”
And what's a “good” terrorist? John wondered. Doubtless a term of art he'd have to learn.
The BA flight touched down two minutes early, then taxied to the gate. Ding had spent the flight talking to Dr. Bellow. The psychology of this business was the biggest blank spot in his copybook, and one he'd have to learn to fill inand soon. This wasn't like being a soldier-the psychol-
ogy of that job was handled at the general-officer level most of the time, the figuring out of what the other guy was going to do with his maneuver battalions. This was ,quad-level combat, but with all sorts of interesting new dements, Ding thought, flipping his seat belt off before t he aircraft stopped moving. But it still came down to the last common denominator-steel on target.
Chavez stood and stretched, then headed aft to the doorway, his game-face now on all the way. Out the jetway, between two ordinary civilians who probably thought him a businessman, with his suit and tie. Maybe he'd buy a nicer suit in London, he thought idly, exiting the jetway, the better to fit the disguise he and his men had t o adopt when traveling. There was a chauffeur sort of man standing out there holding a sign with the proper name on it. Chavez walked up to him.
“Waiting for us?”
“Yes, sir. Come with me?”
Team-2 followed him down the anonymous concourse, then turned into what seemed a conference room that had another door. In it was a uniformed police officer, a seone, judging by the braid on his blue blouse.
You are. . ." he said.
“Chavez.” Ding stuck his hand out. “Domingo Chavez.”
“Spanish?” the cop asked in considerable surprise.
“American. And you, sir?”
“Roebling, Marius,” the man replied, when all the team was in the room and the door closed. “Come with me, please.” Roebling opened the far door, which led outside to some stairs. A minute later, they were in a minibus heading past the park aircraft, then out onto a highway. Ding looked back to see another truck, doubtless carrying their gear.
“Okay, what can you tell me?”
"Nothing new since the first murder. We are speaking with them over the telephone. No names, no identities.
“Quite.”
Peter Covington came in then, stole a swivel chair and n -paved it next to the two senior men. His face was locked in neutral though he had to be pissed, Clark thought, that his team wasn't going. But the team-availability rotation was set in stone here, as it had to be.
“Thoughts, Peter?” Clark asked.
“They're not awfully bright. They killed that poor sod very early in the affair, didn't they?”
“Keep going,” John said, reminding all of them that he was new in this business.
“When you kill a hostage, you cross a large, thick line, sir. Once across it, one cannot easily go backward, can one?”
“So, you try to avoid it?”
“I would. It makes it too difficult for the other side to make concessions, and you bloody need the concessions if you want to get away-unless you know something the opposition does not. Unlikely in a situation like this.”
“They'll ask for a way out . . . helicopter?”
“Probably.” Covington nodded. “To an airport, commercial aircraft waiting, international crew-but to where? Libya, perhaps, but will Libya allow them in? Where else might they go? Russia? I think not. The Bekaa Valley in Lebanon is still possible, but commercial aircraft don't land there. About the only sensible thing they've done is to protect their identities from the police. Would you care to wager that the hostage who got out has not seen their faces?” Covington shook his head.
“They're not amateurs,” Clark objected. “Their weapons point to some measure of training and professionalism.”
That earned John a nod. “True, sir, but not awfully bright. I would not be overly surprised to learn that they'd actually stolen some currency, like common robbers. Trained terrorists, perhaps, but not good ones.”
And what's a “good” terrorist? John wondered. Doubtless a term of art he'd have to learn.
The BA flight touched down two minutes early, then taxied to the gate. Ding had spent the flight talking to Dr. Bellow. The psychology of this business was the biggest blank spot in his copybook, and one he'd have to learn to fill inand soon. This wasn't like being a soldier-the psychol-
ogy of that job was handled at the general-officer level most of the time, the figuring out of what the other guy was going to do with his maneuver battalions. This was ,quad-level combat, but with all sorts of interesting new dements, Ding thought, flipping his seat belt off before t he aircraft stopped moving. But it still came down to the last common denominator-steel on target.
Chavez stood and stretched, then headed aft to the doorway, his game-face now on all the way. Out the jetway, between two ordinary civilians who probably thought him a businessman, with his suit and tie. Maybe he'd buy a nicer suit in London, he thought idly, exiting the jetway, the better to fit the disguise he and his men had t o adopt when traveling. There was a chauffeur sort of man standing out there holding a sign with the proper name on it. Chavez walked up to him.
“Waiting for us?”
“Yes, sir. Come with me?”
Team-2 followed him down the anonymous concourse, then turned into what seemed a conference room that had another door. In it was a uniformed police officer, a seone, judging by the braid on his blue blouse.
You are. . ." he said.
“Chavez.” Ding stuck his hand out. “Domingo Chavez.”
“Spanish?” the cop asked in considerable surprise.
“American. And you, sir?”
“Roebling, Marius,” the man replied, when all the team was in the room and the door closed. “Come with me, please.” Roebling opened the far door, which led outside to some stairs. A minute later, they were in a minibus heading past the park aircraft, then out onto a highway. Ding looked back to see another truck, doubtless carrying their gear.
“Okay, what can you tell me?”
"Nothing new since the first murder. We are speaking with them over the telephone. No names, no identities.
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