A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [42]
The wall-mounted speakers became active again.
“Ramirez, take manual control of camera nine and queue it up for Fink,” Cain said. “I want him to see what’s going on.”
The man spoke with the confident authority Ramirez had grown accustomed to obeying over his years in various armies.
Cain, Genesis—cute. As always, Ramirez chuckled at the notion of how his Bible-toting, God-obsessed mother, had she lived past fifty, would have taken to his working for people who based their operation on the scriptures, and in particular on Genesis, her favorite book of the Old Testament.
Poor, deluded old gal.
Through a number of missions together, Ramirez had developed complete trust in his friend Matt Fink. First, though, he had to survive nearly having his throat slit for making a casual remark about the mercenary’s name.
“It was my father’s name and his father’s name before him,” Fink had said, holding Ramirez a foot off the floor with one hand, and brandishing his huge knife with the other. “The first man I killed thought it was a good idea to make fun of it.”
Initially, Ramirez had doubts about this particular job. For a time after signing on with Genesis, he kept those doubts to himself. Then the first payment hit his Swiss bank account and his apprehension vanished like the darkness of the first day. As long as those payouts continued, he decided, he would gladly light a frigging candle on his knees if that’s what Genesis wanted.
How’s that, Mama?
Matt Fink’s heavy footsteps echoed in the spacious, high-ceilinged warehouse as he strode over to where Ramirez sat. Fink always slept lightly, and never far away from a weapon—most often his bowie knife or his Luger, and at other times, both. The men liked to joke that sometime, during a nightmare, the giant would shoot himself and slit his own throat. By the time Fink reached the screens, he was wide awake and fully alert. He waved up at the camera.
“Hey, there, Cain, old sport. What’s up?”
“Are you aware of what’s happening at the Capitol?”
“There have been no reports of any incidents that jeopardize our mission.”
“Ramirez, zoom camera nine in on the group in the biosuits. They entered the building a little while ago.”
Ramirez pressed a button on his control panel. The monitor labeled CAMERA NUMBER NINE flickered as the image auto-focused on the targets. The recording showed seven individuals dressed in biocontainment gear making their way like lunar explorers across the polished marble floor.
“They’re military,” Fink said. “We expected this would happen. It does nothing to compromise our efforts.”
“Six of them are soldiers,” Cain replied, “but who in the hell is the one with the beard?”
Fink peered at the screen, then leaned forward and took over control of the camera himself.
“Let me get a decent close-up of him,” Fink said.
“Don’t move that apparatus too much. I don’t want them to know they’re being watched until it’s time.”
“Anything you say, sport.”
“And stop calling me sport.”
“I’m from bleedin’ South Africa. We’d call the Pope sport.”
“And while you’re working on that,” Cain said, “can you guys explain to me how we lost visual of the president for over forty-five minutes?”
“There must be a dead space where our cameras can’t pick him up,” Ramirez offered.
“Impossible,” Cain shot back. “We had every inch of that building covered. Someone screwed up.”
“Couldn’t have been you,” Ramirez muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing, boss. Sorry if we missed something.”
“Good. Now, get me a shot through the visor of the guy with the beard.”
Fink continued to maneuver and position the camera until the bearded man’s weary face came into better focus.
“Good. Very good,” Cain said. “We can use facial recognition software to find out who he is. If we need to, we can even remove the beard. Fink, we’ll provide you with a detailed background on this man after we get a match. I have a feeling I already