Hot Ice (17 page)

6:00 A.M.

October 10

En route to Zurich

As Taylor walked several paces ahead of Hunt, her hips swaying gently beneath the silk, he was disconcerted to realize just how much he admired her. Because, God only knew, he
distrusted
her. In spades. Still, he couldn't deny he admired her moxie. It was frankly disconcerting to find himself more emotionally in tune with someone—male or female—than he'd been in
years
, despite the fact that he disapproved of her lifestyle.

He fervently hoped that there would be enough intel on the disks to make her further presence completely redundant.

Although the Bombardier Challenger could easily carry fourteen, for this twelve-hour flight to Zurich there were only the six of them aboard: Aries, Bishop, the pilot, co-pilot, Hunt, and his unwilling travel companion.

"I'll put in the call," Max paused to tell Hunt, as he followed Bishop down the aisle between two rows of wide leather seats.

"I'll join you in a minute," Hunt replied. The two other men strode to the back of the plane, then went inside the aft cabin and closed the door.

"Everyone on board?" Hunt turned to acknowledge the co-pilot, Paul Roberts, as he came out to secure the cabin doors. "We're cleared for takeoff whenever you're ready."

"Ready," Hunt said, turning back to keep an eye on Taylor as she walked ahead of him.

"Tailwinds most of the way," Roberts told him, heading back to the cockpit. "We'll make good time."

As far as Hunt was concerned, every second shaved off the time he was around Taylor Kincaid would be greatly appreciated. It was a test of his own self-control to keep her isolated and insulated from his team, but he'd overcome worse. He couldn't risk her seducing one of his men to escape. The thought of her with another man had Hunt seeing red.

He put out his hand to touch her shoulder to get her attention. Bad idea. He didn't want to touch her, and jerked his hand to the side to grip a seat back instead.

"Is piloting a plane one of your talents?" he demanded more harshly than he'd intended.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, a small smile tweaking the corners of her lush mouth. "Scared I'll stage a hijacking?"

He did his best to remain unmoved by her smile and the glint of rueful humor in her eyes. He was almost sorry now that he'd let her remove the fake green contacts before leaving the hotel. Every time he looked into those pale, crystal blue eyes, his body felt as though it were under attack, or in the grips of a fever. Fanciful nonsense, he warned himself.

"Can you pilot a plane?" he repeated. He wouldn't put that skill past her. Not that he was concerned. This was a T-FLAC aircraft, and as such, had more fail-safes than an average plane.

She chose one of the comfortable leather seats in the center of the craft and sat down, then buckled herself in as he intentionally loomed over her. "I don't know how to fly a plane," she assured him with utmost sincerity as she took her sweet time crossing her legs. "I don't know how to parachute either. You already know I don't have a gun." She held her arms away from her body. "You can see I don't have any concealed weapons on my person."

Oh yes you do
, he thought, not jumping to the bait.

Her eyes sparkled as she taunted him with a small smile. "You can relax and feel completely at ease knowing I'm absolutely defenseless. Satisfied?"

He felt a lot of things, but satisfied wasn't among them. Nor at ease. Far from it.
And
she'd be defenseless only around a blind man. A blind man with no sense of smell, Hunt thought with annoyance, acutely aware of the subtle floral fragrance of her pale skin.

"I'll let you know." He tossed a handful of magazines into her lap as the plane started taxiing down the runway. "Amuse yourself. I have calls to make."

She frowned. "Wh—"

"Business," he told her flatly. "Stay put until further notice."

"I'm starving. When will you be back with food and complimentary beverages?"

"This isn't British Airways, sweetheart. If you're very well behaved, I'll let you get up and go to the galley after we're in the air. It's self-serve, so you can get anything you want."

"A sharp knife?" she asked sweetly as he passed her.

"Not bloody likely. I wouldn't trust you with a dull spoon." He met and held her gaze. "Stop treating this like some game for your personal amusement. You're in my world. My rules. Don't underestimate me."

"Or what? You'll kill me? Only after you have what you want, of course," she pointed out with a dangerous glow in her eyes.

Jesus. Did the woman have a death wish? "Consider your quality of life between now and then," Hunt warned through clenched teeth. "I'll be watching you."

Without waiting for a smart-assed reply, Hunt strode off to join his men.

The custom jet featured a private aft cabin containing a compact but extremely efficient high-tech office and second bathroom. Wall units discreetly housed either a small conference table or a couple of fairly decent beds.

The conference table was in the center of the room. The other two men were on the speakerphone. Hunt indicated they all use headsets. He left the door ajar so he could see her. After buckling himself into a chair, he slipped on his headset.

As the plane roared down the runway then gathered itself for the leap into the sky, Hunt watched her. Her fingers tightened briefly on the arms of her seat, but her features were placid, relaxed,
beautiful
.

She wasn't reading any of the magazines. Instead she stared through the porthole at the scudding clouds. What was going on in that agile mind of hers? he wondered, before being forced back to his conversation with their Control.

There was no need for Michael Wright, who was the Control on this op, to rehash Black Rose's involvement. Nothing new had come up. However, Black Rose's interest in Morales's codes was cause for grave concern. The group seemed to be all over the place as far as terror attacks went.

T-FLAC hadn't been able to ascertain who Black Rose's leader was, nor any of its members. They didn't know where they met, or how they communicated. The only lead they had was that each member of the group had a black rose tattooed on the small of their backs. Not much to go on.

Black Rose wasn't the issue at the moment, Wright said. Morales and the
Mano del Dios were
.

"We have confirmation of the Antwerp/South America connection," he told them. "Belgian police arrested Hans Ausberg two days ago on charges of diamond smuggling and illegal weapons sales. When they analyzed bank records and other data on his computer, they made the connection to Morales. Didn't know what to do with the intel, contacted Interpol, who in turn contacted T-FLAC."

Hunt's men looked at one another. They should have known this would get more complicated.

"Blood diamonds via
Mano del Dios
?" Austin asked.

"Blood diamonds" were stones mined and sold by warring factions in Africa. From Angola to the Congo and Sierra Leone.

"More than likely," Hunt agreed.

Despite the UN-mandated embargo on stones mined in Sierra Leone and Liberia, the gems were currently openly smuggled into Antwerp, Belgium, and other diamond centers, where they melted into the anonymous diamond chain worldwide. Diamonds were an integral part of the finances of terrorists precisely because they were the one commodity that knew no boundaries and no allegiance to any government. A diamond sold in Amsterdam based on carat weight, not country of origin.

They were the perfect currency for criminals of all sorts and terrorists specifically. They were easy to smuggle, transport, and sell. And terrorists understood better than most legitimate brokers how to take advantage of the deregulation that had come with globalization, where international financial transfers were instantaneous and almost impossible to trace. In exchange for the diamonds, Morales would be paid—handsomely, Hunt assumed—in cash and weapons. Then the whole cycle began again.

"So
Mano del Dios
is laundering diamonds through Antwerp to purchase arms. Not a revelation." Damn it. They needed something solid. Something concrete to go on. Right now they didn't even know which bloody continent they should be looking at. Hunt leaned back in his chair and looked out to make sure Taylor was sitting quietly.

"Correspondence indicates Morales was looking to buy sophisticated surface-to-air missile systems and powerful rockets from half a world away," Max reported. "The order from Morales went to Antwerp, then was relayed to Central America. Mejía Luis Godoy in the Nicaraguan army, with the aid of a South African arms dealer based in Panama and a Russian based in Guatemala, filled the orders."

"Despite increases in diamond mining activity in Africa," Wright added, "export figures show the numbers plummeting for the last six months. Our analysts have been keeping a close eye on it."

"And?" Hunt asked. There had to be more.

"We don't know where the hell the diamonds are going," Wright told them flatly.

"Let me know when we figure it out," Hunt told him.

"Will do." The line went dead.

"So that's it," Hunt said to the others. "Conjecture is, the diamonds are going to Antwerp in exchange for the weapons."

"A drop in the bucket, according to Wright," Bishop pointed out. "We're not sure that it
is
Morales taking those diamonds." The frustration level rose.

"Let's say we
are
sure," Hunt offered, "and take it from there." He walked over to the maps and flipped them to access a map of the world.

Bishop tapped a pen on the table. "Then he's stockpiling them to purchase more ordnance."

"Or stockpiling them to drive up the price." Hunt placed colored pins on the map where they currently had intel or men on the ground. "Either way, where would he stash them?"

"Africa? Sierra Leone perhaps?" Max Aries answered, staring at the map.

Hunt wasn't so sure. "Too volatile. Someplace easily bought, easily manipulated."

"I agree with Neal," Max said. "Africa. Sierra Leone is part of al Qaeda's financial architecture. Morales would ship them out of the region. Fast. Before bin Laden's people know they're missing." Max wrote notes on a tablet in front of him.

Bishop jumped in. "Wright sent this information via encryption." He scanned it, then read out loud. " 'We intercepted an encrypted e-mail from Morales to his representative in Hong Kong about an order.' " He then paraphrased the message, which noted the usual rifles and ammo, fifty SA-8 missiles, a thousand rockets for BM-21 multirocket launchers, several thousand Dragunov sniper rifles, and untold smaller, portable munitions. "And an end-user certificate," Bishop concluded. "The order was made sixty days ago and the ongoing discussion is about payment for the order. Or lack thereof."

Hunt didn't like the sound of that. "The asking price must be pretty bloody steep if Morales is stalling."

Bishop cleared his throat.

Hunt sharpened his gaze. "What is it?"

"The payment? One point seven
billion
." Bishop coughed out the last word.

The oxygen was all but sucked out of the room. Billion. Morales wasn't playing.

"Jesus," Hunt said.

Max took a long drink of soda. "What's the bet that's from the blood diamonds he's been stockpiling?"

Bishop frowned. "But why hasn't he retrieved them and paid up out of the thirty billion we estimate they have stashed?"

"He's spent, or spending, the money on something else," Hunt offered.

Bishop and Max clearly had no answer. If T-FLAC knew, they'd all be flying on a mission to retrieve or disassemble the weaponry.

Morales wasn't simply collecting traditional munitions. No, he'd spent the last year acquiring chemicals and biological components as well. In massive quantities.

"Confirmation on the chemicals?" Hunt asked, still watching Taylor through the partially open door as he got up to grab a sandwich; old chicken salad, his favorite.

"Yeah. He's got 'em up the yazoo now," Max said, his tone grim as Hunt resumed his seat at the table. "The Pakistani shipped the nerve agents and paralytics three days ago. Japan's EBINA supplied him with military-grade liquid explosives."

He knew the EBINA didn't mess around. They dealt in high-tech stuff. An epoxylike combination of agents that could be transported safely in separate containers, but mix them, and bang! Serious blowup power.

"Holy crap," Aries said, getting up to go to the small hidden fridge. "Merely having all that shit in the same place is enough to turn my hair white." He returned to the conference table with several cans and set the sodas in the middle. They'd need caffeine, sugar, and sustenance before this briefing was over.

Their headsets buzzed—never good when Control called twice in the same thirty minutes. They hadn't even finished reading the intel he'd sent.

"We're listening," Hunt said, giving the go-ahead.

"He's done amassing." Wright's voice was grim. "We've deciphered the dummy shipping manifests. Everything's been shipped, very quietly and efficiently to southern Africa via Mozambique."

"What does he want in Africa?" Max said. "Doesn't make sense. Sierra Leone I get, South Africa? What's the attraction?" Max demanded.

The pieces began to fall into place. "They have AIDS in Africa," he pointed out. "But he's already bombed several clinics there in the last five years. Not that he wouldn't keep destroying them as long as they have patients." AIDS was a hot button to Morales because of its sexual connotation. "He's going to kill them to save them. Makes sense in his fucked-up brain."

"Yeah," Wright agreed. "It does. But we haven't tracked any unusual activity on that continent since he did the South African Embassy sarin gas episode in The Hague, in 2004."

"Who's inside?" Hunt asked.

Wright answered, "Coetzee's been on red alert in Jo'burg for the past three months. He's got a rock-solid contact on the inside of
Mano
, but there hasn't been a whisper there about any impending activity in that region."