Assassin ah-2

by Ted Bell

  “Christ,” the home secretary said. “Travel agents. Clean passports. Visas. Immunization. Ideal cover stories.”

  Patterson said, “Exactly. Agent Nash was wondering why four hundred Arab travel agents were suddenly getting together for a hullabaloo in the middle of nowhere. Suva’s not exactly Honolulu.”

  “Let me guess,” the sardonic British prime minister’s principal secretary said, rubbing his chin. “Encourage more Arab air travel to America?”

  “You got it, sir. Exactly our thinking. Anyway, your man Nash promised to confirm or refute prior intelligence at 0800 GMT yesterday. He never made that call. All efforts to contact him have failed. Questions?”

  “Yes,” General Sir Oswald Pray said, “When were those photos taken? The Suva Island surveillance?”

  “1800 hours yesterday, General. I think most everyone here knows Commander Hawke. I’d like to turn it over to him. Alex?”

  “Good morning,” Hawke said, taking the laser pointer. “Slide, please. A surveillance photo of the mountainous Fatin region of the southern Emirate. Slide, please. Massive fortified structure. Built over the last three decades in a virtually inaccessible mountain pass. Elevation, 18,000 feet. Something regionally known as the Blue Palace.”

  “Extraordinary!” Hayden said, “Looks like the evil version of Shangri-la!”

  “Yes,” Hawke replied. “Now, the most interesting part of this morning’s slide show, gentlemen. Both the Bambah Hotel on Suva Island and the Blue Palace atop this mountain belong to the same man. Slide. Snay bin Wazir. The name on the lips of the dying woman involved in the abduction of Ambassador Kelly at Grosvenor House last week.”

  A great deal of murmuring around the table ensued and Conch asked for quiet.

  “Question regarding this chap bin Wazir, Lord Hawke,” Sir Howard Cox, a very senior Whitehall ministerial type with longish hair and gold-rimmed spectacles said, tipping back his chair and lacing his fingers over his expansive waistcoat. “His name was given to whom? First I’ve bloody well heard of it. I’m supposed to be in the loop, you know.”

  “Indeed you are, sir.”

  “Hell, Alex, I am the loop,” Cox said. There were chuckles around the table.

  “Name was given to me, sir,” Hawke said. “The woman actually died in my arms a few moments after the abduction at the film gala.”

  “Good Lord, Hawke,” Sir Howard said, “My reports said she died instantly. You chaps certainly managed to keep the lid on this bit, I daresay. What else did she give you?”

  Alex nodded, accepting the equally implicit compliment or criticism, in stride. Over the years, he’d been forced to become an adept at avoiding the byzantine politics of Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, No. 10 Downing, and New Scotland Yard. Politics, if carefully avoided, could be relegated to a necessary nuisance.

  “Yes, Sir Howard, the dead woman implicated this bin Wazir in her murder,” Hawke said. “Her dying words, in fact. We’ve yet to determine any motive. She also indicated that bin Wazir was the man responsible for the worldwide spate of attacks on American State Department officers and their families. She suggested it was only the beginning of action on a much greater scale.”

  A portly, turnip-faced British Army officer wearing a spiffy Sam Brown belt spoke up. “This bin Wazir. Same fellow who owned Beauchamps here in London back in the nineties, if I’m not mistaken, m’lord.”

  “Yes, General,” Hawke said, “the same man. Bin Wazir was under DSS surveillance at that time, suspected of slaying a junior State Department employee. Jack Patterson can speak to that. Jack?”

  Patterson said, “Snay bin Wazir was responsible for the grisly murders of at least five young women here in London in 1997 and 1998. As well as terrorist attacks on the Lebanese Marine barracks that killed 166 of our boys, the two embassy bombings in Africa in 1998. On New Year’s Day, 1999, Mr. bin Wazir and his wife, Yasmin, disappeared without a trace.”

  “You kept looking, I daresay?” Sir Howard asked.

  “He’s been at the top of the DSS Most Wanted List for five long years. We’ve come close, that’s all I can say,” said Patterson.

  “Until now,” Conch interrupted. “We’ve hit the jackpot. Langley has current cell traffic intercepts indicating that Mr. bin Wazir is at this very moment on the small Indonesian island of Suva. He got sloppy. Just once, but that was enough. Instead of his old analog phone, he used a hot phone, one Langley had coded in. Transcript I saw this morning indicates he’s preparing to leave Indonesia and return to his base of operations in the Emirate—excuse me—Mr. President, Prime Minister, welcome, please join us. Chief Patterson and Commander Hawke have just completed their presentations.”

  The two new arrivals took their seats, and it was clear from their expressions that they’d been engaged in very serious discussions. Gone from President Jack McAtee’s face, Hawke noticed, was the genial bonhomie he’d seen earlier in the Terracotta Room. The prime minister cleared his throat and let his gaze range round the table.

  “First of all, I want to go on record straightaway,” Prime Minister Anthony Tempest began, “and say the president and I have just had a most candid conversation regarding this horrific threat to the U.S. mainland. Tens of thousands of American lives are evidently at risk, maybe far more. I’ve just sent a signal to the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Alan Seabrooke, regarding the disposition of Royal Navy forces on station in the South China Sea and the HMS Ark Royal group in the Persian Gulf. I told Sir Alan that while I do not underestimate the challenges and difficulties we face in this new crisis, I have every confidence in our resolution and determination to see this through. I have given my great good friend, the president here, every assurance we in Britain will fully support whatever actions he intends to take.”

  McAtee nodded and said, gravely, “Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. The abduction of our ambassador to the Court of St. James is just the latest in a recent series of unprovoked and unspeakable attacks on our State Department. We believe these attacks are intended to destabilize American diplomatic officers around the world. To induce a state of paralysis and fear which would cripple America’s ability to prevent, or respond to, a devastating assault on our homeland.”

  There was a discreet cough at the far end of the table and all eyes turned towards a ramrod-straight officer with a perfectly manicured mustache.

  “Mr. President, if I may, Major General Giles Lycett here, Base Commander, RAF Leuchars in Scotland. My Tornado F-3 fighter aircraft patrolling the no-fly zone have just been grounded. Why? And, might I ask just what America’s immediate intentions are?”

  “Yes, General, you may ask. Within the next seventy-two hours, American bomber wings based here in England as well as Tomahawk cruise missiles launched from both British and American fleets patrolling in the South China Sea and Persian Gulf are going to level both the command and control center in the Fatin Mountains and the terrorist base on Suva Island.”

  “A preemptive strike?”

  “A preemptive strike. Anything else?”

  “Any truth to the rumor that some kind of 9/11 type attack is planned against numerous major American cities, Mr. President? Using civilian or private aircraft as weapons?”

  “No comment.”

  “Mr. President,” a senior staffer said, “Rumors floating about Whitehall suggest that a rogue stealth boomer is now prowling the North Atlantic and that the HMS Turbulent has been deployed to find this sub.”

  “No comment.”

  “Have you raised the threat level in New York and Washington?”

  “No comment.”

  “A hundred of these bloody Pigskin bombs have gone missing. And no one has even the foggiest notion where they are?”

  “No comment.”

  “Mr. President,” Hawke said, coming to his rescue, “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to move on. British and American intelligence sources are convinced Ambassador Kelly is being held hostage at bin Wazir’s Fatin Mountain location. Would you agree?”


  “Yes. The seventh floor at Langley is almost one hundred per cent on that, Alex. That’s hard intelligence. We have thermal imaging and other, boots-on-the-ground, HUMINT confirmation.”

  “Ah, Mr. President,” Hayden said, “Any idea why they’d want to kidnap Ambassador Kelly rather than assassinate him?”

  “No comment.”

  “May I ask then, sir, what immediate plans are being made to effect the ambassador’s rescue?” Hayden persisted.

  “Mr. bin Wazir has demanded three things in return for the safe return of Ambassador Kelly. The immediate departure of all coalition forces from Arab soil. The cessation of U.S. and British control of all Gulf State pipelines. And the release of all terrorist POWs now held prisoner in U.S. detention centers at Guantánamo and elsewhere. We flatly reject all three. Naturally.”

  “And, in answer to my earlier question, the plans for the ambassador’s rescue?”

  “No comment.”

  “But, with all due respect, Mr. President,” Hawke said, “I assume there are plans well under way for a hostage rescue prior to the bombing?”

  “No. There are no such plans. I cannot risk the welfare of the entire nation for a single life. Were Ambassador Kelly in my position, you can rest assured he would make the same decision. Is that all, gentlemen?”

  Alex Hawke leaned forward across the table, his hard blue eyes locked on those of the president.

  “Sir. I understand the extreme gravity of the situation. And the sense of urgency. But whatever we do, we’ve got a moral obligation to get Brick safely out of there, Mr. President.”

  “I’m under enormous cabinet pressure to take this madman out now, Alex. And they’re absolutely right. The B-52s are warming up their engines.”

  “Brickhouse Kelly is a great statesman, sir. He almost single-handedly brokered the current Mideast ceasefire. A war hero. The father of five fine young boys. We’ve got seventy-two hours, sir. I strenuously urge you—”

  “I am well aware of all that,” the president said sharply, shoving his chair back from the table. “I certainly don’t need to be reminded by you that—”

  “I’ll get him out if I have to do it myself, sir.”

  The president and Alex stared at each other for several long moments, the president considering his reply. The president could count on one hand the number of men in the world who could publicly challenge his authority and get away with it. But, finally, he had to smile. Alex Hawke was certainly one of them.

  “Then I’m goddamn glad somebody invited you to this tea party, Mr. Hawke. You’re probably the only man in this room who might actually be able to pull something like that off.”

  “So, you would have no objection, Mr. President,” Hawke interjected, pressing his advantage, “to an independently mounted hostage rescue operation?”

  His question was met with a wry smile.

  “Let me put it this way, Alex. If someone can get up to the top of that goddamn mountain and get Brick Kelly out of there in seventy-two hours without compromising the American mission or the security of the republic, I assure you neither Secretary de los Reyes nor I would have any objection.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Then, with your permission, Mr. President,” Conch jumped in, “I’d like to put the Hostage Rescue Team at DSS under the joint control of Chief Patterson and Commander Hawke. Effective immediately.”

  The president looked at her sharply; then at Hawke. It was no secret in Washington that Conch and Alex went way back and they shared a lot, including their love for Brick Kelly. Hell, he loved the man himself. But he had no doubt that, sometime earlier this morning, there had been a little a priori collusion between his two friends.

  If Hawke could save Brick Kelly, God bless him. If not, he knew Alex Hawke would probably die trying.

  “Done,” the president finally said, getting to his feet. “Good morning then, gentlemen. Appreciate your coming on such short notice.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. President,” Jack Patterson said, also rising. Then, looking at Hawke, he added, “C’mon, Alex, let’s saddle up. We got a long way to ride and a short time to get there.”

  But Alex Hawke was looking at the beautiful Secretary de los Reyes still seated across the table. She gazed at him with her soft brown eyes as Hawke said, quietly, “We’ll get Brick out, Conch.”

  “I don’t doubt that for one minute, Alex.”

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. President?”

  “Yes.”

  Hawke had joined the president in the small sitting room used by the prime minister’s family on the top floor of Number Ten. McAtee was standing by a window, looking down into the garden. He turned around and faced Alex. He seemed to have aged since the earlier encounter in the Terracotta Room.

  “Good show down there.”

  “You wrote the script, sir. My role was fairly believable. Stereotypical, one might say.”

  “Alex, listen. The spooks on both sides are in total agreement for once. There are at least a hundred of these goddamn suitcase nukes unaccounted for out there. Hell, they may already be on the way. They may already be inside U.S. borders. Homeland Security doesn’t know. Much as I love Brick, if it were up to me I’d blow the shit out of this bin Wazir right this goddamn minute. But to placate the other side of the aisle, I’ve got to try to cobble together this goddamn European coalition. Thank God for Anthony Tempest and the Brits. True grit, that man.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Look me in the eye and listen to this, Alex. The Nimitz Carrier Battle Group is on station in the Indian Ocean. The fire control systems aboard those cruisers and destroyers are keyed to launch Tomahawk land attack missiles in exactly seventy-one hours and forty-eight minutes. Coalition or no coalition. It would take an act of Congress to alter that launch schedule. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I pray even that timing is soon enough to catch this little bastard holding all his high cards.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But I don’t have that option. I need to know, Alex. Just exactly, precisely, where those bombs are and what the living hell this maniac is up to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I need to know now. You get yourself inside this palace of his, you find Brick still alive, fine. I pray to God that will be the case. He’s a great American. But you’ve got one job and one job only. Get this bin Wazir up against a wall and make him tell you exactly where all those goddamn Pigskins are and what the hell he plans to do with them. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  The president suddenly looked very, very tired. But Alex Hawke had one more question.

  “Why the hell kidnap Brick, sir? Instead of taking him out like the others?”

  “I’ve got a leak, Alex. A bad one. Inside Langley.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I had two candidates slotted to succeed Ted Sann on the seventh floor. Ambassadors Evan Slade and Brick Kelly. Six weeks ago, there was a top-secret meeting at the ‘Farm’ down in Virginia. Sann briefed both candidates on our imminent Middle East operations. This is need-to-know, so I can’t reveal the players. But we’ve got hard intel that Country A is ramping up for a nuke strike against Country B. We are going to preempt A without B’s knowledge in hopes of averting an all-out regional war. Somebody who shouldn’t have been there was in that room with Sann at that meeting. So far, we haven’t got him. Anyway, these bastards have penetrated the highest levels at Langley.”

  “So they murdered Slade’s family up in Maine? To what end?”

  “They obviously expected Slade to be there at the house. It was a long-planned family vacation. At an isolated location where they could prime Evan to talk by murdering his family one at a time in front of him. A standard tactic. Evan changed his plans at the last minute and sent his family ahead without him. But the sleepers pretty much kept their plans intact. Then Evan shot himself before they could get to him and get anything out of him. So now they’ll go
to work on Brick by threatening his family with the same courtesy they showed the Slades.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yep. The Queen invited the whole Kelly family to stay in a royal apartment at Kensington Palace for a week. Safe enough there. Brick, of course, has no way of knowing that. Still, Brick won’t talk, Alex. No matter what they threaten or do to him. They’ll figure that out pretty fast. So—”

  The president looked up to see Hawke halfway out the door, pulling it closed after him.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Suva Island

  THE SMELL OF WOMEN. SNAY BIN WAZIR INHALED DEEPLY, A shiver of pleasure tripping lightly down his spine at the fragrant memory. His linen shirt was still soaked with sweat, sticking to his skin. An hour earlier, at the climax of his oration, the temperature outside, in the lush gardens of the Bambah Hotel, was nearly ninety. For the hour he spoke inside the great room, it was well over one hundred.

  Snay giggled. Earlier that evening, he’d ordered the staff to light the furnace and turn up the heat. Filled to capacity with over four hundred nearly delirious young women, the great room had been redolent with the moist heat of pungent femininity. It was as if some great mound of exotic fruit had been placed there in the hall and had begun to ferment.

  The women were screaming. They were on fire.

  Having ignited them with his facile tongue, Snay now stood back from his podium, head bowed, and let them burn. They chanted. They raved. Had they been able sweat blood, they would have done so.

  “Death! Death! Death!”

  He whipped out his silk handkerchief and mopped his brow. Finished, drained, utterly spent, bin Wazir allowed the delicious scents and sounds to wash over him. He lifted his gaze to the rafters. To row upon row of crimson banners, faded over these many years to the color of old blood. Ten minutes became twenty. Half an hour passed. Still, pitched cries and moans issued from the mass of writhing bodies.