Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

Finn looked at him. “And she’s adding something to the air that’s still left in here. Something we don’t need in our lungs. Besides all the smoke and shit from the detonations.”

“Hurry,” said Stone. “This way.”

Another fifty feet of rocky paths like large steps made of stone. They were uneven, overly wide in some places, problematically narrow in others.

Stone looked at Finn. He knew his friend had uncommon strength and the nearly infinite endurance of the Navy SEAL he had once been. But he was operating on about half the level of oxygen one needed and the situation was getting worse.

Annabelle had her arm around Caleb, helping him up the path. But Caleb was growing tired quickly. He didn’t have near the strength or stamina of the others.

Finally he stopped and sat down, his breaths coming in desperate wheezes.

“Just... go. Leave... me. Can’t...”

Stone turned, put his arm under Caleb’s good shoulder and hauled him to his feet. Caleb winced in pain.

“No one gets left behind,” he said. “We either all stay here or we all keep going.”

They struggled on.

Annabelle was the first to see it.

“Light!” she exclaimed.

They rushed forward, encouraged by perhaps the end to their journey.

It was a natural cleft in the mountaintop that decades ago Stone had enlarged and then covered with materials he had smuggled up from the facility below. The cracks of light did not lie. The dawn had broken outside. It was hard for Stone to believe that hours had passed while they’d been inside the mountain.

They reached the seam of light. Stone pushed through plywood and dislodged metal plates that he had placed there years ago. The seam became a foot-wide opening. Finn put Knox down and helped. Twelve inches became a yard. Far below they heard a single explosion, but they were now free of the mountain.

But Stone cautioned, “Be ready. I’ll go first.”

They all tensed. Finn picked Knox up and pulled his weapon. Chapman had her Walther in one hand and what looked like a throwing knife in the other. Annabelle held on to Caleb, who was nearly dead on his feet after the long ascent.

Stone took a step forward and then stumbled, nearly toppling to his knees. He looked down.

“Shit!”

He hadn’t tripped over the uneven terrain. A wire had been stretched between the rock sides of the opening. He looked to his right. Wedged into a crevice was the last explosive. It had a counter. It was at five seconds.

“Get back,” screamed Stone as he lunged forward toward the bomb. Right at the same instant Chapman darted forward too.

Annabelle yelled. Caleb moaned. Finn staggered backward under the weight of Joe Knox.

Stone glanced at the MI6 agent. She wasn’t looking at him. She was staring dead at the bomb, her jaw tensed, her arms raised above her. She gained purchase with the rock floor and launched herself past him.

Stone shouted, “No, Mary!”

The counter hit one.

Another memorial service.

At Arlington Cemetery.

A trio of caskets was lined up side by side representing three veterans of America’s military.

Harry Finn.

Joseph Knox.

And John Carr.

Security was doubly heavy considering what had happened last time. There were four circles of perimeter patrols. Bomb detection canines were everywhere. Because of what they now knew about nanobots, every bag was hand-searched, every person patted down, every cell phone, iPhone and electronic device of any kind confiscated.

The rules had definitely changed. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The president was there to give the remarks. Important members of Congress and the military were also in attendance. The FBI director, Riley Weaver and Agents Ashburn and Garchik were all there. Sir James McElroy was also in attendance because his PM was also present. Not being in the American military or satisfying other specific criteria, Mary Chapman did not have a casket here. But the PM was scheduled to say a few heartfelt words about her sacrifice to help Britain’s greatest ally.

Annabelle Conroy and Caleb Shaw were not here either for the same reason as Chapman. They didn’t satisfy the criteria for burial at the exalted cemetery. But the president would mention what they had done as well.

The PM spoke first. Then came a stream of important dignitaries to the podium, including Riley Weaver. He didn’t explain what Murder Mountain was, because he didn’t have to. The press had been kept completely out of the loop on that. Officially, the deaths of Knox, Finn and Carr had come about by a confrontation with a team of Russian drug dealers who had fashioned a laboratory at an abandoned government facility with the aid of an American intelligence officer turned traitor. The bombing and gunfire in Lafayette Park and the subsequent murders in Pennsylvania, Virginia and D.C. had been carried out by the same group. Speaking last, the president swore that he would do everything in his power to see that justice was done and the perpetrators of these vile acts held accountable. Tension between the Americans and Russians was understandably at an all-time high.

From nearly a half a mile away, atop a knoll at Arlington Cemetery the woman watched these proceedings while she pretended to be gazing at the faded tombstone of a long-dead general. By virtue of a PA system that broadcast across the cemetery, she could hear every word of the speeches. Most held no interest for her, but the one by the president did capture her attention. When he mentioned the American intelligence operative turned traitor, she had to smile.

She knew that the proceedings here were being carried live on all the major network and cable stations. She also knew that Carlos Montoya was watching, because she had communicated with him and told him to.

The plan had worked, even if the president of the U.S. and his counterpart in Mexico had survived. The Russians were being blamed. Her mission, against all odds, had been successful.

Her cell phone chirped. She looked at the message that had just come across the screen.

Buen trabajo.

Good work indeed.

And then the rest of the message came through. It lifted her spirits even more. The remainder of the money was being sent to her account. Carlos Montoya wished her well. She typed her reply.

Hasta luego.

But she didn’t really mean it. She was done. This was it. How could she ever top this, anyway?

Marisa Friedman swiped at her new hairdo, cut exceedingly short and dyed dark brown. She had used time-tested techniques to change her facial features to the extent that not even her closest friends would know who she was. She could freely walk these grounds without worry of being recognized.

She turned away from the ceremony. If she had any regrets, it was that John Carr had not taken her up on her offer. Yet she couldn’t have expected that he would. Once he found out she had been behind it all — and he was the sort that would — she would have had to kill him anyway. Yet they could have had a little time together. For someone like Friedman, alone most of her life, that would have been enough.

One billion dollars in her bank account and the rest of her life to do as she pleased. She sighed contentedly. It wasn’t every day that one pulled off one of the most intricate and earth-shattering operations of all time. Her new papers were in order. A ride on private wings awaited her at Dulles Airport. She had actually purchased an island, through a straw-man transaction. And now she intended to do absolutely nothing for the next year except lie on the beach, read, sip a cool drink and decide what would be next. She passed a number of bomb detection canines. None registered on her. She hid her smile as she passed the wall of security on her way out of the cemetery.