Hostile Intent by Michael Walsh Read Free Book Online Page B

high-tolerance delivery equipment we need.” He turned back to the table. “And now, gentlemen—thank you for your support in this matter. Please calibrate your investments accordingly, and let us plan to rendezvous here in a week’s time.”
     
    An hour later, the room was cleared, the shredders emptied; it was as if no one had ever been there. At this late hour in central Europe, most of the feeds had been switched to other programming, but CNN International remained focused on the hostage crisis in Illinois.
    “Are you thinking about having children with one of your lady friends, Monsieur Pilier?” asked Skorzeny, suddenly. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. Better for all to go gently into that good night.”
    One of Skorzeny’s few disconcerting habits was that, while he abhorred being touched, his sense of personal space was almost nil. If he wanted to say something to you directly, something he thought important, he stood so close that you could smell his breath. Pilier chalked it up to Skorzeny’s childhood in a special Nazi camp; not a lot of personal space there.
    “Children need stability. Security. The knowledge that, in the main, tomorrow is going to be pretty much like today. They’re revolutionaries in their minds, but conservatives in their souls. The human condition, writ small.” Pilier was on the verge of taking an involuntary step backward when Skorzeny observed, “The situation is ongoing, I see.”
    Pilier took a silent deep breath. “Yes, sir. The teachers and the pupils are still being held hostage. The authorities have made no moves—”
    “Good. The world needs no more Beslans.” He reached for and sipped from a small glass of Saint-Geron, as a prophylactic against anemia. It was one of his strictures that his quarters always be outfitted with the distinctive long-necked Alberto Bali–designed bottles, and M. Pilier was diligent in his discharge of that duty. “And yet, given the course of action upon which we have just embarked, this could be a helpful development.”
    “Helpful, sir?”
    “In our business, chaos and uncertainty, while deplorable, can be our friends. Do you disagree?”
    Pilier shook his head. “No, sir. Of course not. The vote today was clear, and obviously it’s in the best interests of our company. After all—”
    “After all,” interrupted Skorzeny, “it’s the business we’re in. Making money. So that the Foundation can tend to the needs of the world’s poor. The hungry. The oppressed. The needy. Doing good by doing well. The bedrock of philanthropy is selfishness—greed, if you will. One of life’s petty little oxy-morons, but there you are…Contact all our sources in America and place our trades accordingly. I want everything in order when the markets open tomorrow morning. We are on a holy crusade.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And see that my jet is fueled and ready for Paris. We leave immediately.”

Chapter Ten
    W ASHINGTON , D.C.— THE O VAL O FFICE
    Pam Dobson looked at her watch. She had long, blond hair, which she wore as if she were still twenty-eight, which she wasn’t. “We’ve only got a few hours to get this over with, Mr. President—unless, that is, you want to accept Allah while standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial tomorrow morning.”
    “Have we got a bead on the guy who shot the reporter?” asked Tyler. They were in his private study off the Oval Office, all but Colonel Grizzard, who had been dismissed. The president wanted as few military men in his face as possible, and Seelye was more than enough.
    “No sir, no yet,” she replied.
    “That’s not quite right, Mr. President,” said Seelye. He pulled out a secure, upgraded version of the civilian BlackBerry and consulted it. “The man has been positively identified as Suleyman Drusovic, a Kosovar Muslim currently resident in Montreal.”
    “So he’s Canadian?” wondered the president. “What would a Canadian have against an American school?”
    “With all due