Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

"The Hyena?"

"That's what Mossad calls him. The story is he hates it, but it sort of sums up his line of work. The Hyena. The world's number-one killer-for-hire."

"God. I knew there was something about him, although in a way he seemed so… the man in the Brooks Brothers suit. But when he gunned down Chris in cold blood… still, this goes way beyond anything I could ever have dreamed."

"Looks like SatCom just made the big time. Right up there with the OPEC ministers he kidnapped in 1975, then auctioned off all over the Middle East. This is even bigger. It's going to be the crown jewel of his career." He stopped to muse. "What's it like to be famous and officially dead at the same time?"

"Maybe the best thing would be if he were really dead."

"You read my mind."

"Mr. President." It was the voice of Alicia on the intercom. 'There's a call holding on line three. It's Dr. Mannheim."

He glanced up, distracted. In the interest of more space, the operation had moved from the Oval Office to the Cabinet Room, where Stuart's wooden-jawed portrait of George Washington gazed down on the papers strewn around the eight-sided table. Seated there with him were his chief of staff, Morton Davies; the special assistant for national security affairs, Theodore Brock; head of the Joint Chiefs, Ed Briggs; as well as the head of the CIA and the secretary of defense. The Vice President was giving a speech at a California fund-raiser, but his contribution was not particularly desired, or missed. Let him make speeches and wave the flag.

He reached over and picked up the handset. "Tell him I'll get back to him. Is he at home?"

"He's calling from somewhere in Greece. The SatCom-"

"Damn. Can't I call him back? I really don't have time-"

"I think you might want to take this, sir." Her voice was crisp and neutral as always, but he knew what the edge in her intonation meant. This is priority.

"SatCom?" Suddenly it clicked. He had been too distracted for the name to register at first.

"He's almost babbling. Something about a helicopter. He's-"

"Put him on. And have the damned thing traced." He hit the speaker button.

"Isaac. What's-"

"Johan, he's got a gun at my head." The voice was unmistakable. It had made students quake for forty years. It had made him quake. Now it was quivering. He had never heard his old professor in such a state. Very, very unlike Isaac.

"Dr. Mannheim?"

"They made me call this number. I know I'm not supposed-"

"Who's they?" The connection was intermittent, but he still could make it out.

"The…" He paused, then seemed to be reading. "The Resistance Front for a Free Europe. They've taken over the SatCom facility here, everybody. They shot down my helicopter. They killed-"

"What did you say? Helicopter?" Hansen's pulse quickened. Was Isaac talking about the Israeli Hind that had attacked the Glover? And what was this Resistance Front-for something or other… "Free Europe?" Europe was already free. Maybe too damned free, given all the ethnic turmoil.

The connection chattered, then another voice sounded. Hansen noted a trace of an accent, but he couldn't identify it. "Johan Hansen, this is to inform you that all the American engineers here are safe at the moment. We have no desire to harm anyone. We merely want our demand addressed."

Hansen glanced at Brock, who nodded, then pushed a button next to the phone that allowed him to record both sides of the conversation.

"This had better not be a prank."

"It's no prank. The staff of SatCom is now hostage."

"Listen, whoever you are, the United States of America doesn't negotiate with hostage takers. We never have before and we're not about to start now."

"I'm afraid the rules of the past no longer apply. In fact, I have no desire to negotiate either. There is nothing to negotiate. We have a very simple demand. And you have no alternative."

"You've got that backwards, whoever you are. You have no alternatives. You can release whatever hostages you have and get the hell out of there. That's your one option."

"We would be delighted to comply. As I said to you, we merely have a small nonnegotiable demand. I assume we are being recorded, but you may wish to take notes nonetheless. In case you have any questions."

"If you're talking about ransom, I can tell you now it's absolutely unthinkable."

"That kind of intransigence will get us nowhere." He sighed, a faint hiss over the line, and then continued. "You may consider our demand as merely a small repayment to the Muslim peoples, large portions of whose homeland America has seen fit to devastate. That payment will be eight hundred million dollars, to be delivered according to conditions that will be specified by fax. I assume you will wish some time to make the arrangements. You have twenty-four hours."

"You're out of your mind," Hansen said firmly. "You've got a hell of a nerve even-"

"Don't make me repeat myself. I will fax you the bank information. As I said, you have twenty-four hours. If you have not wire-transferred the funds by that time, an American military installation in Europe will be incinerated. And without your frigate Glover, sent to spy on the Islamic peoples of the region, you will have no inkling where that installation will be."

"Just what do you think you're going to do?"

"The same thing America once did to Japan. Only this time with a little help from one of your so-called 'non-nuclear' allies."

Hansen pulled up short. Was this the nightmare every U.S. President had feared-a nuclear device in the hands of terrorists. No, this took it one step further; the terrorists had just seized the means to deliver the device. It was that nightmare compounded.

He glanced at Ed Briggs, whose face had just turned ashen. They both were thinking the same thing: What kind of military action was possible? The answer was not going to be simple. Then he turned back to the phone.

"Listen, I want…" He paused, because the line had gone dead.

"How does an ETA of 0200 hours sound to you?" Dimitri Spiros was using an unsecured radio, but he had no choice. "That'll give us about twenty-nine hours. Enough time to get everything together."

"I'll have the welcome mat out." Vance's radio voice was interrupted periodically with static. The man sounded stressed out, but Spiros had already interrogated him about the overall situation.

"Our plan right now is to come in by seaplane, set down two klicks to the north, and stage the actual insertion using Zodiacs. Pierre wants to get everything together here in Athens by 1600 hours tomorrow. That's firm. We'll have a briefing and then-you know the rest."

"Try not to overfly this place. It's pretty small and there are lots of islands down in this part of the world."

"Michael, I'm Greek, for godsake." He bristled. "We'll make it, seas permitting. And the weather looks like a go for now."

"All right, here's the drill. Right now there are friendlies in Command and down at Launch. You have the plans for that, right?"

"Right. And how about the Bates Motel?"

"The living quarters? At the moment I think they've got some friendlies in there, too, but it's currently cut off from the rest of the facility, no communications of any kind, and it's not heavily guarded. We can worry about it last. The heavy hitters and the hardware will be at the two other places."

"What else do you know?" Spiros pressed.

"It gets even better. These guys have got at least one nuclear device. All signs are they have plans-probably to use the Cyclops system for delivery."

"I don't like the sound of that," Spiros said. "Who's leading it?"

"This is the very best part. I think it might be Ramirez."