Jeff Buick - Lethal Dose

“I’ll be damned,” Gordon said under his breath. He tried the handle, but the safe was locked. He spun the dial and it rotated easily to his touch. It was still working. All he needed was the combination. He read the manufacturer’s name and model number off the safe and committed it to memory, then replaced the wood and the grate. He returned to the main floor and back into the sunshine. The realtor was waiting for him.

“Well?” she asked as he walked across the street to where she was leaning against her Mercedes.

“There’s a lot of structural damage,” Gordon said. “It would take at least two hundred thousand to get that place livable.” He pointed to the units on either side. “What do they sell for when they’re in normal condition?”

“About three hundred thousand, give or take. It depends whether they’ve had any renovations. The top price anything on this block has sold for is three-thirty, and it was totally redone.”

Gordon nodded. “Even if I could get this at one-thirty, by the time I put two hundred into it, I’d just get my money back. No upside for the renovation.”

“Not if it cost you two hundred to fix it,” she said. “That might be a bit high.”

“I’d rather be high than low,” Gordon said. “Sorry, but I don’t think it works for me.”

“That’s okay,” she said, smiling. “Thanks for not making me trudge through that place with you.”

Gordon returned to his rental car and waved as she pulled away. He sat in the car for a few minutes, thinking about how to approach this situation. He needed to get back into the condo, but this time with either the combination to the safe or something that would open it. And since Albert Rousseau was long since gone, that eliminated the possibility of using a combination to open the safe. So it would have to be force. Now all he needed to know was how.

One thing was for certain. He was going to get into that safe.

They met two hours before dawn on Saturday, September 10, in Slivenec, a suburb to the south and west of Prague. Anders Ljent, the lead CIA operative for the Prague region, flashed the light twice and the van pulled into the small, well-concealed courtyard behind the two-story brick house. Six men emptied from the van and moved quickly to the stairs leading to the basement. Anders joined them in the underground room after closing and locking the outer gate.

“Anders Ljent,” he said, shaking hands with the man who appeared to be in charge. “CIA station chief for Prague.”

“Lieutenant Chris Phelps,” the man responded. He made a slight motion with his head to the five serious-looking men immediately behind him. “My guys. Navy SEALs, Team Six.”

Ljent gave them a perfunctory nod and then spread a map of Prague and surrounding area on the table. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to the bottom left corner, “and our target is here.” He moved his finger to the center of the map, just east of the Vltava River. “The lab is on the second floor of a three-story brick house, facing south on Ostrovni Purkynova. It’s the third house from the corner, so you have neighbors on both sides to contend with.”

“What sort of opposition should we expect?” Phelps asked. He was young, as were all the SEALs, mid-to late twenties. All had short-cropped hair, intense eyes, and grim looks etched on their faces. They were dressed in street clothes, but all wore Kevlar vests beneath their shirts.

“We’ve been watching this lab for about four months now. We’re positive it’s al-Qaeda, as we’ve identified at least three men of Arab descent on the wanted list, entering and exiting. At this time of the morning, you can expect four to six armed defenders and at least one lab worker. The shift change seems to be about nine o’clock, about two hours after sunrise. We should be gone before that happens, or this will spill out into the street.”

“We’ll be long gone,” Phelps assured him.“How do we get in?”

“Front door is best,” Ljent said. “There is a rear entrance, but when they open the door we can see the locks, and if they’ve got them all in place, that door is almost impenetrable. They’ve left the front door pretty much the same as all the rest on the street, probably to keep appearances normal. You’ve got a couple of locks, including a good deadbolt, but nothing that should keep you out for too long.”

“What about the lab?”

“As I said, on the second floor. They’ve got a series of filters of some sort, and the exhaust vents to the rear. We saw them bring in a filter system recently, and it looked like a HEPA filtration unit. So whatever they’re cooking in that lab, it’s not nice. I’d try to avoid gunfire inside the lab itself, Lieutenant. For your own safety.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Phelps said. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you driving us?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, here’s how it goes down. You stop on the street immediately in front of the building and give us fifteen to thirty seconds to assess entry. When we exit the vehicle, pull around the corner and wait in a position so you can be back to pick us up within fifteen seconds of receiving our signal.” He handed Ljent a two-way radio. “The message is simple: Come and get us.”

Ljent adjusted the squelch and tested the equipment. It worked fine. “I’ll be ready.”

They left the CIA safe house at 5:35 A.M. and made good time into the city on the Strakonicka Expressway. As he turned onto Legii Bridge, Ljent opened the window to the rear of the van and said, “At the end of the bridge, I’ll make a right, then a left. Your target will be the third house from the corner on the left side of the vehicle.” He reached the end of the bridge and made the first turn. This was the oldest part of Prague and the streets were narrow and bumpy, bordered on both sides by three-and four-story stone and brick buildings. Cars lined both sides of the street; passage was easy for one vehicle, tight for two. Ljent made the second turn and slowed. He stopped in front of the third house. “Red door,” he said quietly.

Five seconds passed, then ten, then the locks on the front door literally disappeared in a shower of splinters. Two seconds later, Ljent saw the men streak from the rear of the van into the building, their silenced rifles held in front of them and still smoking. In less than fifteen seconds from the first bullet hitting the wood abutting the locks, the team was inside and the outer door closed. Other than the damage to the door, the street appeared normal for six in the morning. Ljent pulled ahead, circled the block, and got into position to pick them up.

Lieutenant Phelps motioned in three different directions as they entered the house, and his team quickly split into three groups of two. He moved directly ahead to the staircase, taking the risers three at a time. A second team followed him, destined for the third floor, and two SEALs remained on the first floor, moving room to room, looking for anything living. Phelps hugged the wall on the second floor as his third team brushed by and continued up the stairs. Then he pointed to his companion to take the front of the house; he would take the rear. They split and moved into the rooms off the main hallway.

As Phelps moved into the first room on the right, two men in jeans and T-shirts opened fire with automatic weapons. Bullets chewed into the door frame, and the noise was deafening. Whatever stealth they had hoped to achieve was now gone, and the clock was ticking on a short fuse until the police arrived and cut off their escape route. Phelps leaped back from the door, dropped to the ground, thrust the barrel of his weapon around the doorjamb, and pulled the trigger, spraying the room with automatic fire. He heard grunts and the familiar sound of air escaping from punctured lungs. He rolled across the opening to the room, his eyes seeing one man down, the other still standing. He fired as he rolled and saw the second man take three direct hits in the chest. Blood gushed from the wounds. No Kevlar.