"He got close enough, believe me."
"Looking at you, I'd have to agree." He smiled, eyes behind his gray shades. "All right, Mr. Vance, I assume you came back in here for a reason. What is it?"
"The truth is, I'm dropping by to see if we couldn't talk over a deal."
"I don't really think so."
"You may be able to set off a bomb, but the way things stand, no way are you going to get out of here in one piece." He was trying out the speech he had been rehearsing. "In case you didn't realize it, the U.S. Navy has the airspace around the island totally closed down. The skies over the eastern Med are currently an F-14 parking lot. But if you'll put a stop to all this insanity, release the hostages, then—"
"Don't try to bluff me, Mr. Vance." He gestured him forward. "Come, take a look at my collateral."
He led the way across to a second row of workstations, these on the side and closer to the window. "When I leave, which is imminent, I will have company. A certain professor. I think you've met him."
And sure enough, there in the comer sat Isaac Mannheim, looking as though the world had already ended. The old man appeared to be in a dark space of his very own, his face pitifully sunk in his hands.
"It can't be stopped," he was mumbling, almost incoherently. "Damn them. There should be a special rung in hell for them."
"Don't worry," Vance assured him. "There is." He turned back to Ramirez. "It isn't going to work. The U.S. is not going to be bluffed."