67. Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter sixty-seven
As the sun rose over Ban Jela?i? Square, tram rails caught the first pale glow from the eastern sky as it peeked above the surrounding rooftops.
The silver lines threaded through the cobblestones like sutures.
Street sweepers in orange vests dragged wide brooms in long lazy arcs, leaving damp trails that smelled of wet stone and municipal cleaning solution.
A kiosk owner rattled up his metal shutter with a sound like a machine gun burst, then began arranging cheap souvenirs like a man who had done this a thousand times before and expected to do it ten thousand times more.
At this hour, pigeons owned the square, strutting between the legs of the early risers with arrogant confidence.
From somewhere nearby came the smell of a pekara—warm dough and butter filling the morning air.
In the distance, a church bell counted out the hour.
Noble stood in the shadowy alcove of a recessed door, a cold cup of coffee in one hand, while he watched the square come to life.
He’d been in position for the last thirty minutes, observing the early morning denizens of Zagreb as they woke and went about their day. He sipped cold coffee and tried to ignore a small nervous ferret that had gotten loose in his belly, sniffing and scratching, gnawing at his guts.
What if he was too late? A little voice at the back of his head insisted on pestering him with questions that had no real answers. Not good answers anyway.
What if Zeqiri and the Iranian buyer had already come and gone? What if the virus was already in the hands of IRGC terrorists who would use it to wipe out major metropolitan cities across the globe?
What if that tiny ferret running loose inside his guts was actually the start of an ulcer that would eat through his belly?
“No sense worrying about things you can’t change,” Noble whispered to the empty doorway. His hand came up with the coffee cup but stopped halfway to his lips. If it was an ulcer, coffee probably wouldn’t do it any good. He bent and placed the cup on the flagstones at his feet.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, tucked his chin to keep his face hidden, and eyed the crowds.
***
Sam excused herself, stepped out of the situation room and hurried along the hall to the nearest bathroom, where she locked herself in a stall and started to pray.
She sat down on the toilet seat, closed her eyes and asked God to give Jake the right tools, mental and physical, to get the job done safely.
She was hiding in the bathroom because she knew what her fellow staffers at CIA thought about her belief in a higher power.
They were, by and large, humanists. To them, this life was all there was.
Nothing came after and there was no help to be found in what they laughingly referred to as silly superstition.
That was okay by Sam. Let them mock. Prayer had seen her through enough dicey situations that she didn’t need anybody to validate her faith.
She believed because she believed and that was enough.
When she finished, she went to the sink and repaired her war paint.
She was about to leave the bathroom when she decided one more prayer warrior couldn’t hurt.
She glanced once around the bathroom before taking out her cell and texting Jake’s mother.
Sam doubted Jake even knew that she had Mary Elise’s number.
And she was pretty certain he’d be very much opposed to Sam and his mother chatting on a semi-regular basis.
But what Jake didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She sent two words: Prayers needed.
Leaving the bathroom, Sam nearly ran headlong into a girl from the office of image analysis.
“Thank God I found you,” the young lady huffed, a little out of breath. She flapped a hand in the direction of the situation room. “You’d better get back in there. Director Nguy?n is looking for you. He knows that your contractor has a vial of antivirus.”
“How could he…” Sam started to ask and stopped.
The answer was obvious. Someone inside the situation room was a stool pigeon, feeding information back to Nguy?n.
Clearly the deputy director didn’t fully trust her.
She shook her head and hurried back to the situation room, already thinking up excuses for why she hadn’t passed that vital bit of intelligence up the chain.