"Isaac. What's—"
"Johan, he's got a gun at my head." The voice was unmistakable. It had made students quake for forty years. It had made him quake. Now it was quivering. He had never heard his old professor in such a state. Very, very unlike Isaac.
"Dr. Mannheim?"
"They made me call this number. I know I'm not supposed—"
"Who's they?" The connection was intermittent, but he still could make it out.
"The . . ." He paused, then seemed to be reading. "The Resistance Front for a Free Europe. They've taken over the SatCom facility here, everybody. They shot down my helicopter. They killed—"
"What did you say? Helicopter?" Hansen's pulse quickened. Was Isaac talking about the Israeli Hind that had attacked the Glover? And what was this Resistance Front—for something or other . . . "Free Europe?" Europe was already free. Maybe too damned free, given all the ethnic turmoil.
The connection chattered, then another voice sounded. Hansen noted a trace of an accent, but he couldn't identify it. "Johan Hansen, this is to inform you that all the American engineers here are safe at the moment. We have no desire to harm anyone. We merely want our demand addressed."
Hansen glanced at Brock, who nodded, then pushed a button next to the phone that allowed him to record both sides of the conversation.
"This had better not be a prank."