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“Wick says two hours. Scott, I assume that’s going to be enough time to set up here?”
The former SEAL nodded. “We’ll be locked and loaded well before you get there.”
“All right.” He looked at Gould. “You ready?”
The Frenchman had smeared his face with green paint, making it difficult to read his expression. “Yeah.”
“You’ve been down there before,” Rapp said. “So you lead out.”
In truth, Rapp knew exactly where they were going, having studied both the detailed overhead photos and Dumond’s model. But there was no way he was going to let Gould get behind him without Coleman watching.
The former French Legionnaire moved well. He kept a solid pace down the steep slope, silent and eyes constantly moving. His attentiveness to their surroundings was especially critical because Rapp was focused on the silenced Glock 17 in Gould’s hand. Coleman had suggested loading it with blanks, but Gould wasn’t going to miss something that obvious. Besides, if things went wrong, his skills would be very much in demand. The hope was that his instinct for self-preservation would keep that weapon aimed in the right direction.
• • •
Scott Coleman kept collecting plants for another five minutes after losing sight of the two men and then switched to a frequency that Rapp had set up to exclude Louis Gould. “Okay. We’re clear.”
He started replacing the plants while Wicker slipped out of the shelter he’d built and disappeared into the trees with Bruno McGraw on his tail.
Coleman finished with the plants and used a dead branch to scrape away any boot prints that had defined themselves too clearly in the soft earth. A quick look around the clearing suggested it was more or less back the way they’d found it. Not that it would fool anyone like him, but in the unlikely event the Swiss cops came up here, they wouldn’t find anything unusual.
Coleman grabbed a spotting scope and slid into Wicker’s shelter, smiling when he realized that his feet just barely touched the back. Wick was a full five inches shorter than him but, knowing the plan, he’d made the shelter a perfect fit for his boss.
With the scope to his eye, Coleman swept the courtyard below. This was undoubtedly the best seat in the house and he wasn’t sure surrendering the high ground was a good idea. It was going to cut the effectiveness of his team by at least seventy percent, but there was nothing he could do about it.
A little less than a half an hour passed before Bruno McGraw’s voice crackled over his earpiece. “We’ve reached the secondary site. Starting setup.”
Hopefully the radio signal reached Rapp—they’d identified a few dead spots on the way to the tunnel entrance. There was no way to confirm, though. Gould thought he was getting all the radio chatter and a response from Rapp would tip the man off.
“Roger that,” Coleman said.
It was another twenty-three minutes before he spotted an old Citroën driving up the road below. Stan Hurley had the window open, and the cigarette smoke flowing from it was visible through the scope. Right on time.
A guard came out of the door-sized steel grate south of the gate and signaled for the car to stop. It was exactly how Coleman would have set it up. Don’t let the vehicle get too close in case it contained explosives.
Hurley stepped out and held up a set of fake Interpol credentials. Coleman couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could clearly see the irritation on the old man’s face while he was being frisked.
Along the wall, the guards were all paying attention, but not getting overly focused on the man in case it was a diversion. Coleman let out a quiet breath. They looked to be even better than he’d expected. Reason number ninety-eight to hope that this didn’t turn into a shooting war.
Hurley was led to the gate, where another armed guard let him through. After that, Coleman lost line of sight.
“Hurley’s in. I’m starting to break down the shelter now. Should be approaching your position in approximately thirty.”
“Roger that,” Wick responded.
Coleman switched to the frequency accessible by Gould. “Hurley’s inside the wall and we’re ready to rock.”
CHAPTER 17
THE heavily reinforced gate swung open and Hurley shuffled through with a stoop meant to make him appear even older than he was. It didn’t have the intended effect of making Obrecht’s security overconfident, though. The man behind him maintained a careful interval and had his hands wrapped firmly around a Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle. The one in front kept the gate between them as Hurley passed. Ten yards away, another armed man watched through mirrored sunglasses. The remaining guards were focused elsewhere and were positioned in a way that would make the most of their manpower.
The gate closed behind him and he used the loud clang as an excuse to glance back. The wall seemed higher than the reported twelve feet and it was as smooth inside as it was out. There were strategically placed scaffolds along it, some hastily framed out of unpainted lumber and others more professionally executed from steel and concrete.
Cover was nearly nonexistent. The largest tree was about six inches in diameter, leaving nothing more than a few widely spaced fountains and a couple of parked cars. A sprint across that courtyard—-particularly at the speed his new hip would allow—wasn’t going to end well.
“Sir?” the guard behind him said in accented English. “If you please.”
Hurley limped to an X-ray machine that looked like a more sophisticated version of something you’d find at JFK. “Is this really necessary?”
