“I vaguely remember hearing that.”

“What’s especially interesting for me personally, Robert, is the title of the special forces program he helped start at Fort Gordon in Georgia. The Covert No Contact Urban Environment Recon Course. He virtually wrote the textbook on infiltrating, hiding and surviving in a city. And what do you know? Here we are in a city. My city.”

“Stop being paranoid,” Reyland said.

“And,” Brooke said, ignoring him, “some of these covert military ops in which he was involved are quite familiar to me. They were SEAL-SAS joint operations, which means it’s probable that Gannon might have actual contacts here in the UK.”

“We’ll find him,” Reyland said. “Santos is in a box. NSA is in complete control of his communications now. There’s no way to make contact with Santos by phone or text or fricking carrier pigeon.”

“How much time do we have on that end?” Wrenhall said.

Reyland looked at his phone.

“We have T-minus eleven hours and eight minutes.”

“You knew this Gannon was involved. His background, his training, and yet you failed to mention it?”

“I found out five seconds ago, Brooke. I had no idea,” Reyland said.

“You know what McKendry said about this? Do you know what he said when I suggested Gannon might be at loggerheads to our operation? He said, and I quote—”

“Brooke,” Reyland said.

“And I quote,” Brooke repeated. “‘You folks just opened yourselves up a box of hell.’ End quote.”

“A box of hell?” Reyland said, wincing.

“That’s what the man said,” Brooke said.

“Even so, Brooke, what should we do? Abort? And what then? Shoot ourselves? We’re in this completely, and there’s only one way out. We either pull this off or…” He trailed off.

Out on the water, a low canal boat went by, the wood roof glossy like the lid of a coffin.

He tapped at the glass.

“Or that, Brooke, that right there. Only over a waterfall and on fire.”

She looked with him out at the coffin-like boat and took a deep breath.

“You’re right, Robert,” she finally said. “Of course. Tell me what you need.”

92

“Taxi, sir?”

Rolling his carry-on into the drizzle out the front doors of Heathrow, Gannon shook his head.

“No, thank you. I’m waiting on a ride,” he said.

Twenty-four hours before, Little Jorge had smuggled Gannon into the Dominican Republic near the port of Bajos de Haina just west of Santo Domingo.

The Dominican Republic was the center hub of Caribbean drug smuggling, and with a little help from some friends, Little Jorge was able to get Gannon everything he needed in quick order.

They had found a very accommodating Venezuelan bank to open up a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar account in cash, and Gannon had put the rest of the money along with the diamonds in a safety-deposit box in a large Canadian bank across the street.

The stolen Canadian passport Little Jorge had scored for him six hours later had cost five grand, and Gannon had flown first-class out of Puerto Plata on an overnight Eurowings flight.