Page 44 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

“Names? Faces? Anything we can use?”

“Only that he heard Russian spoken.” Emir grinned. “He still reeked of his own urine. He thought for sure they would kill him.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t.” Brkic scratched his beard. “Did you contact your friend in the police? Tell them about these Russian spies running around? That might help our cause.”

Emir shrugged. “Our police friend laughed. A murdered truck driver? Yes, that would get things moving. But a stopped truck, with no one injured and nothing taken? Who cares?”

“But they’re Russians on Bosnian soil.”

“These Russian devils are smart. Keeping a low profile gives them freedom of movement, and keeps the police disinterested.”

“How did the Russians even find out about this?”

“We don’t know.” Emir shrugged again. “Of course, someone could have told them.”

“Who? Walib? The Syrian?”

“We don’t really know him.”

“But Aslan swears by him, and I swear by Aslan. Besides, if it was the Syrian, what is there for him to gain?”

“To track us down, disrupt our operations. Kill our leadership.”

“Then we would already be dead, wouldn’t we? He’s here.” The Chechen pointed a scarred finger toward the distant road. “And the Russians are still out there.” He shook his head. “No, it was God who brought us the Syrian and his missiles, not the Russians.”

Emir nodded submissively. “Yes, of course.”

“Do whatever you must to get the rest of those missiles delivered here, and tell me when they arrive.”

Emir nodded. “God’s will be done.”

24

HENDLEY ASSOCIATES, ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Gerry Hendley sat at his spotless desk in his top-floor office, squinting behind his reading glasses as he scrolled through the minutes of the latest European Central Bank meeting from the Bloomberg news feed on his desktop.

As director of one of the most successful privately held financial services firms in the world, he had the responsibility of staying on top of global macroeconomic news, but he employed an army of talented analysts to handle the day-to-day tactical decisions of stock trades, arbitrage plays, and other client services.

The former senator liked to dress the part of the financial mogul whether in the office or not, but today he was headed for lunch with the ranking minority leader of the Senate Finance Committee, an old colleague and bridge partner. For the occasion he wore a crisp, starched white dress shirt with French cuffs and a blue silk tie. To complement his full head ofperfectly coiffed silver hair, he wore a silver Rolex watch, sterling silver medallion cuff links, and a matching silver tie bar, all offset by a charcoal-gray, pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit.

A soft knock at the door caught his attention.

“Come in.”

The door pushed open and Gavin Biery stumbled in, holding his iPad in his trembling, overcaffeinated hands. His bloodshot eyes were rimmed with exhaustion after an all-nighter fueled by a steady flow of Monster drinks, peanut M&M’s, and Cheetos. Wrinkled beige chinos and a crumb-dusted blue polo rounded out his disheveled-casual ensemble.

“Hi, Gerry. You sent for me?”

Hendley suppressed a smile. He hadn’t hired Gavin for his sartorial splendor, but rather for his impeccable brain. Gavin was the IT manager for both Hendley Associates and The Campus, and also Gerry’s best hacker.

Gerry set his reading glasses down and pointed to the overstuffed chair in front of his desk. “Pull up a chair and take a load off, son.”

“Thanks.” Gavin smiled weakly and fell into the leather wingback, ignoring the springs groaning under his weight.

Gerry put his computer to sleep. “I saw your e-mail. Somewhat cryptic, but it sounded urgent.”

“I don’t know about urgent. Interesting, maybe.”