shipped across the Atlanticremained on the ground. The huge reservoir, fed by plentiful underground aquifers, was at the end of the final strip of MacArthur Boulevard, and supplied water to all of Arlington, Falls Church, Georgetown, and the District of Columbia, including the ghettos and the White House itself. At the appointed moment, timed down to a fraction of a minute, two Thunderbird jets would swoop down, their engines briefly cut, and with tail hooks would snare the dual pole wires, yanking the gliders airborne. Due to the stress factors, the liftoffs would be assisted by disposable self-propulsion rockets underneath the gliders' wings. They would be activated at the of impact. The tactic had been tested in the fields of Mettmach, Germany, the new quarters of the Brijderschaft, Properly executed, it was successful. It would be properly executed here, and the entire capital of the United States would be poisoned, paralyzed.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Time zero: one hundred hours.
Forty-odd kilometers north of Paris in the Beauvais countryside are the waterworks that supply large sections of the city, including the arrondissernents that house much of the government-the entire Quai d'Orsay, the presidential palace, the military security barracks, and a host of lesser departments and agencies. Approximately twenty kilometers east of the vast waterworks is flat farmland, and within this massive acreage are scattered three private airfields catering to the rich who disdain the inconveniences of the Orly and De Gaulle airports. At the field farthest to the east stand two huge freshly repainted gliders. The explanation for the curious is properly exotic. They belong to the Saudi royal family for sport over the desert, and since they were built and paid for in France, who cared to know any more? Several 'ets-how many no one knew would arrive sometime soon to haul them away on their journey to Riyadh.
The control tower was told that they would be airborne in approximately one hundred hours. Peu d'importance?
The garden terrace of the Gartenhof restaurant belonged to an older, far more graceful era, when string quartets accompanied fine dinners superbly served and all dishes were carried by hands encased in pure white gloves. The problem was that it was a garden, outside on a terrace, profuse with flower boxes overlooking the ancient streets of Nuremberg, within sight of the hallowed Albrecht Dijrer house.
Gerald Anthony, Lieutenant, Special Forces, late of Desert Storm, was furious. He had prepared them all for the mission, for his specialty, a conflagration that would erupt suddenly, distracting everyone, especially the body guards seated near Tratipman's table who could be sufficiently immobilized during the chaos so as to be useless to their employer. However, the warm breezes winding between the buildings from the Regnitz River were constant, too dangerous for the strategy; only the glass globes around the candles prevented them from being extinguished. A brief, startling burst of fire was all that was needed to spirit Traupman away, but the possibility of the flames spreading throughout the area, conceivably killing or maiming innocent people in the crowded enclosure, was not acceptable. Equally important, the panic engendered by such an expanding breeze-driven fire could easily work against them, clogging the only entrance with hysterical patrons. If even one guard recoveredust enough to draw a weapon, the mission could fail with a single gunshot.
In successive glances, each member of the N-2 unit studied Hans Traupman and his guests surreptitiously. The celebrated surgeon was the leader of the peacocks; all that was missing were brightly colored feathers spreading from half a dozen shoulders, Traupman's the fieriest. He was a thin, medium-size man with animated gestures accompanied by sudden facial expressions, exaggerated to make an inevitably humorous point, although his aging features resulted in semi-grotesquery. He was not an attractive man, but despite his constant search for approval, if not applause, he was completely in charge-the wealthy host whose abrupt silences caused the others to wait for his next words..
Latham, his appearance altered by horn-rimmed glasses, paste don full eyebrows and a mustache, glanced at Karin, equally unrecognizable in the dim candlelight with her pale face unmade up and her hair sternly pulled back into a hostile bun. She did not return his gaze. Instead, she seemed mesmerized by something or someone at Trauptnan's table.
Lieutenant Anthony looked across the table at Drew and Colonel Witkowski. Reluctantly, imperceptibly, he shook his head. His superiors, in like manner, did the same. Karin de Vries suddenly spoke in German, her tone frivolous, insouciant, very much unlike her.