In a turn of events that surprised even him, Rapp found himself smiling along with Taylor Moore’s enthusiasm. Rapp had instructed Noreen not to wear a wire or carry a weapon. While both clandestine tools were useful in the right scenario, today they would be more hindrance than help. A person wearing a wire or carrying a knife or pistol acted differently.
Thought differently.
Noreen had enough on her mind. She didn’t need to add to the list her fear that her microphone and transmitter would be discovered or she’d be forced to use her weapon. Her best defense was to believe with every fiber of her being that she was nothing more than a simple nurse tasked with inoculating the compound’s occupants.
Well, that and the knowledge that if things went wrong, Mitch Rapp was waiting.
“Of course she’s in,” Rapp said. “Switch to sat feed.”
While he was just as excited that Noreen had made it inside the compound, Rapp wanted to make sure the safehouse’s residents understood that they were still on war footing. Much could go wrong, and Rapp needed everyone anticipating the bad things that could happen to Noreen in order to stay one step ahead of them. Celebrations were for after the operation.
“Sat feed online… now.”
If Moore was conscious of Rapp’s rebuke, the kid didn’t show it. His fingers flew across his laptop’s keyboard with the unerring certainty of a concert pianist. A moment later, the high-definition video was replaced with an overhead thermal view courtesy of a low-earth-orbit satellite.
This was the other reason that time was of the essence.
Satellites had been retasked to provide imagery of the compound, but they were not in a geosynchronous orbit for fear of drawing attention and unwanted questions from the Pakistanis or other sharp-eyed adversaries. This meant that a live feed was only available for the short window in which the satellite was overhead.
While he would have preferred a Predator’s persistent stare, Rapp had nixed this idea for operational security reasons. One, if the compound contained who they thought it did, Rapp didn’t want to run the risk of accidentally alerting him. Engineers had been making great strides at reducing the UAV’s acoustic signature, but the ambient conditions were hard to account for. The lawn mower–like sound of the aircraft’s Honeywell turboprop engine often carried to the ground at inopportune times.
And then there were the Pakistanis.
While the country’s political leadership was willing to look the other way, or in some cases privately aid, CIA drone strikes on its territory, these kinetic operations had been reserved almost exclusively for the hinterlands. The Wild West area in Pakistan’s western border with Afghanistan, a construct that existed more on maps than in the reality of the people who called the region home.
But there was a limit to Pakistani forbearance.
The government might privately tolerate targeted assassinations along the western border even as they publicly raged against the drone strikes, but Abbottabad didn’t fall into that category. The city had a population of several hundred thousand and was located on the eastern side of Pakistan, only fourteen or so miles from the border with India. Operating a drone above the compound would require the aircraft to transit the length of Pakistan undetected.
That was a bridge too far, so satellite feed was the only answer.
The imagery was good, considering it was coming from a camera hundreds of miles away. Even so, Rapp found himself frowning. The high-definition television feed he’d been watching earlier provided the illusion that Rapp was just over Noreen’s shoulder, able to reach out and touch a bad guy if things went south.
The satellite imagery put that fantasy to rest.
Watching the meet unfold made Rapp feel like a staff weenie back on Langley’s seventh floor rather than an operative. Not to mention that if things did go sideways, Noreen would be on her own until Rapp covered the kilometer separating the safehouse from the compound. Not for the first time, Rapp wished that Charlie Wicker were up on the safehouse roof with his eye behind an optic and the buttstock of his rifle snugged into his shoulder.
But that was a nonstarter. Coleman and his crew were still in Afghanistan doing God’s work. Besides, Noreen seemed to be just fine.
So far.
Rapp snugged the Bluetooth-equipped earbud deeper into his right ear. The device was linked to a trio of low-profile microphones trained on the compound from various vantage points within the safehouse. An analyst seated next to Taylor was in charge of the audio. Like Taylor, her fingers flitted across the keyboard as she tried for the optimum mix. Rapp knew she was doing her best, but the feed sounded like garbage. He was missing about every third word as the analyst cycled between the mikes. An Urdu speaker seated next to the analyst was attempting to translate the conversation to English in real time, but FLACO’s thick Waziri accent only exacerbated the delay.
“… go…”
While the words were somewhat garbled, the courier’s tone came through loud and clear. The Al Qaeda operative’s Spidey senses were definitely tingling.
“… how many people…”
Noreen was striking the right balance between annoyance at the delay posed by the man’s obstinance and unease at the man’s increasingly belligerent attitude. Unlike day TV, the satellite’s infrared imagery carried with it none of the visual cues Rapp was used to deciphering. He couldn’t see the courier’s facial expressions or determine whether his shoulders were hunched or fingers balled into fists.
“… why…”
This wasn’t working.
Rapp snatched a burner phone from the table. “Can you patch the audio into this?”
The blond analyst nodded.
“Good,” Rapp said, sliding the phone into his back pocket. “I need Noreen’s audio in my right ear and an open line to the safehouse in my left.”
“Want company?”
The question came from Jason Beighley, the paramilitary officer.
Rapp paused to take stock of the man. He liked what he saw—a wiry build and a calm demeanor that suggested Jason had been some places and seen some things. “What’d you do before the Agency?”
“I was a sniper in the Unit.”
Excellent.
“That compound’s a klick away—can you handle it?”
“Easy day.”
Rapp nodded. “Then grab your rifle and get set up. I might need you.”
“On it.”