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He had wanted to build the remote control himself, something he said was easily done with the remote-control system from any radio-controlled toy—such as a car or an airplane, available in any good toy or electronics store—but decided that using a custom control would look more professional, so he had forked over the money required, and bitched about the cost for days.
Then, going by the information contained in the blueprints, he had set about determining where the charges should be placed, and how strong they should be. Lily had never really thought about demolitions from a mathematical standpoint, though she’d known Averill had taken pride in calculating the strength of his charges to exactly what was required to do the job, and nothing more. Swain had explained it all, reeling off numbers as if they were general knowledge: this much Semtex would do this much damage. He used the terms plastique and Semtex interchangeably, but when she asked, he acknowledged that they weren’t exactly the same. C-4, plastique, and Semtex were all in the same family of explosives, but plastique was the more widely known term and was used all-inclusively, but incorrectly. Lily hated when details were wrong; too often her life had depended on getting the details right, so she insisted he say Semtex when he meant Semtex. He’d rolled his eyes, but humored her.
He’d spent hours showing her how and where to place a charge and set the detonator. The detonator was the easy part, but he was very particular about where the charges went. He had numbered the locations, then prepared the charges for each and labeled each charge with the number corresponding to where he wanted it to go. They had studied until they could reel off each location and its number without hesitation, memorized the blueprints, then driven out into the country, where he had marked off the distances to give them a better feel of the size of the complex and how long the job would take.
The good news was, they had a cover for being in the complex. The bad news was, depending on what they found when they got in there, placing all the charges could take a couple of hours or more. The longer they were in there, the better the chance of discovery. Swain was safe; Lily was not, especially if for some reason Rodrigo showed up. He would know from Damone that “security experts” were touring the facility, and he might be curious. If he did appear, Swain would handle the meet-and-greet while Lily busied herself elsewhere and hoped Rodrigo wouldn’t insist on meeting the other “expert.”
Dr. Giordano was the other danger, as far as recognizing Lily was concerned. Likewise, she would try not to attract his attention, though that would be more difficult. After all, the facility was his and his work was his pride and joy. He would be very interested in Swain’s opinion of the security measures in place. Since Swain was supposedly the owner of SSC, he would be more the focus of attention than Lily, but she couldn’t hope to escape completely.
Neither of them had forgotten that this was to be Dr. Giordano’s last day on earth. Lily remembered how kind he’d been to her when she’d been so ill, but at the same time she knew he was at the heart of an evil scheme. So long as Giordano was alive, the knowledge of how to mutate a virus so it would pass from human to human could be used to produce a pandemic. If not avian influenza, then it would be something else. Viruses were deadly enough without his help. The pandemic might occur anyway, at any time, but she’d be damned if she would let it be deliberately timed so someone would make a lot of money.
The plan was, after the charges were set, they would hold a mock bomb-threat drill, timing how fast the buildings could be emptied. When everyone was outside, Swain would detonate the charges and almost simultaneously Lily would execute Dr. Giordano. The percussion and fire from the explosions would certainly cause panic, perhaps some injuries. They themselves would slip in earplugs before detonation, and make certain they were standing behind something for shelter. In the confusion they would get into the van and drive away—they hoped. Nothing was taken for granted.
A luxury hotel wasn’t the best place they could have chosen to prepare explosive charges. Everything had to be tidied away every day before the arrival of the housekeeping service, and they didn’t want to put the charges in the van as they were completed, in case the van was broken into. The last thing in the world they wanted was some punk in possession of that much Semtex.
“Are you ready, Charles?” Swain asked. Charles Fournier was the name they had chosen for Lily. Swain got such a kick out of it he’d been calling her Charles even when they were alone.
“I think this is the best it’s going to get,” she said, getting up from the vanity and pirouetting for him as best she could in the heavy work boots. “Do I look okay?”
“Depends on your definition of ‘okay,’ ” he said. “I wouldn’t ask you out on a date, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’ll do,” she said, satisfied.
He grinned. “I don’t even want to kiss you. That mustache gives me the willies.” He had just finished packing the charges, some in the duffel bag and some in a box. The detonators were in a separate box, and as a precaution he’d taken the batteries out of the remote control.
He was dressed in coveralls that matched hers, with SSC embroidered on the left breast pocket, but underneath he wore a white dress shirt and a tie, to denote he was the boss and draw attention his way. The coveralls were unzipped enough to reveal the tie, and they were loose enough to hide the line of the shoulder holster he wore. She had opted for her familiar ankle holster, though with these boots, getti
ng to her pistol was more difficult than usual. They weren’t entering a fast-draw competition, though; when the time came, if everything was working right, she’d have plenty of time to pull her weapon.
He carried the duffel bag and the box containing the charges, while she carried the box with the detonators. They had the elevator to themselves, but they didn’t indulge in any small talk, or go over the plan one more time. They each knew what they had to do.
“You drive,” Swain said when they reached the van, taking the keys from his pocket and tossing them to her.
Her eyebrows went up. “You’re trusting me to drive?”
“A: I’m the boss and I’m the driven, not the driver. B: a van’s no fun to drive.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said drily. The van must handle as agilely as a beached whale for Lucas Swain to have willingly turned over the keys.
They were supposed to meet Damone Nervi at the complex at three pm. Swain had chosen that time because in the afternoon people are tired and less alert than they are in the morning. When they reached the complex, Lily couldn’t help looking at the small park where the gun battle had erupted just two weeks before. The incident had been mentioned in the news; then when no additional excitement was added by someone dying, it had been completely dropped the next day. She was pleased to see that even though it was a weekend, the cold weather had kept most people from enjoying the park. It was mostly deserted, except for the very occasional hardy soul walking a dog. The fewer people who were about, the better.
As they approached the gate where two guards waited, she coughed several times again, to roughen her voice. One guard held up his hand and she obligingly eased to a stop, then lowered her window. A blast of frigid air made her glad she was wearing the vest. “Monsieur Lucas Swain to see Monsieur Nervi.” Before she could ask, Swain handed over his international driver’s license for the guard to check. She fished out her new fake license and handed it over, as well.
“Fournier,” the guard said, reading the name off the license. They checked the names against a list, which, she noticed, had only the two names on it, so completing their task didn’t take very long.
“Go to the main entrance on the left,” the guard instructed, returning the licenses to them. “Park in the slot marked for visitors. I will call Monsieur Nervi and notify him of your arrival. Beside the door is a buzzer; press it and someone inside will release the lock for you to enter.”
Lily nodded as she slipped the license back into her pocket, and raised the van window to shut out the cold air. She coughed several more times, because she didn’t think she had sounded hoarse enough when talking to the guard. The more she coughed, the worse the cough sounded, as if her throat was getting into the spirit of things. It was already a little sore, so she needed to be careful not to overdo.
Two men stepped out of the entrance. One was Dr. Giordano. “That’s the doctor on the left,” she said to Swain. “The other man must be Damone Nervi.”
There was, in fact, a strong family resemblance, but where Rodrigo was a very good looking man, Damone Nervi was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen, though in no way was he effeminate. His looks were classic, from his thick black hair to his smooth olive-toned skin. He was tall and trim, elegantly dressed in a double-breasted charcoal gray suit that draped on him the way only the Italians could get a suit to fit. Dr. Giordano was smiling in welcome, but Damone’s face was set in an aloof, rather stern expression.
“Something’s off,” Lily murmured.
“How?” Swain asked.
“Supposedly we’re here at Damone’s insistence, so he shouldn’t look as if we’re as welcome as the plague.”
