The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  He frowned, and that brought out a laugh.

  “And how about you people in the center? How do you like the show so far?”

  A louder cheer.

  This was so juvenile.

  Steve whispered in his ear. “Keep this up for another half hour.”

  “What’s wrong with that fool?” President Bernard White asked as he entered the long, high-ceilinged East Room of the White House. The donors party was already well underway with bigwigs mingling, champagne flowing and a large-screen television dominating the room.

  The emcee at the Academy Awards was sweating profusely as he stumbled through a string of stale jokes.

  “Ah,” the president’s party chief William Ford said, intervening between Bernard and the glowing screen. “It appears that a hostage situation is brewing at the Academy Awards.”

  Bernard looked up at him. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I’m serious,” Ford said, a smile threatening to take over his expression.

  “If this is some sort of joke,” Bernard said, “It’s not funny.”

  “No. It’s entirely real. We just received a phone call from Osama bin Laden. The FBI is verifying his voice, but they think it’s real. It came all the way from western Pakistan.”

  Bernard felt himself bristling at the sound of the name. Of the world’s most influential men, Osama’s name came before his own. He ground the toe of his shoe into the carpet.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He wants top al-Qaeda leaders released from Guantánamo and Saddam handed over,” Ford informed him with a straight face.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “—or the Academy Awards go up in a nuclear explosion. Those are his very words.”

  Bernard stared at the idiot faltering on stage in Hollywood. “Then tell me why you’re smiling.”

  “Because, this is your big break, sir,” Ford said. “You’ve built your reputation on standing up to terrorists.”

  “Yeah, so tell me how I’m going to stand up to these terrorists. What are they going to do, drop a bomb, what?’

  “They didn’t say, sir, but our men are on the offensive. Don’t you worry, sir. The Homeland is secure.”

  Spinning around to look at the massive hulk of the Kodak Theater, Brett Fulham was thinking fast. He considered his plan of action. It was not enough to simply hunt down evidence. He had to eliminate every possible source of the bomb. He would expand the air space restrictions, expand the perimeter. But did bin Laden say it was a bomb? He referred to radioactivity. Brett would have to stop the water supply, turn off the air conditioning units…

  What else could he do?

  Walking briskly from the dark parking lot, he suddenly came upon a team of Arabs fixing tripods in front of the lighted façade of the Kodak Theater.

  He pulled back around the corner just as a young Arab in shirtsleeves came jogging down the front steps—much like Marlon and Humphrey and Marilyn in bygone days.

  He had to dispose of every potential threat. The al-Jazeera crew would have to go.

  He turned and rushed back to his operations center. Hernandez looked up from his organizational chart.

  “Stop everything,” Brett yelled. “I think it’s the al-Jazeera television crew. I don’t think they’re legit.”

  “Well, you can’t just kick out journalists,” Hernandez said. “We need a smoking gun.”

  “A smoking gun would be too late,” Brett said, finding he was echoing the words of the Secretary of Defense. “We need a preemptive strike.”

  Hernandez looked at him dubiously.

  “Okay,” Brett relented. “Check them out first.”

  Hernandez shot out the door, picking up his two-way radio to assemble his men.

  “Use the bomb-sniffers,” Brett called after him.

  The California state troopers had brought along a couple of bomb-sniffing beagles. They could detect explosives, from gunpowder to dynamite to plastique, through a sealed van. But could they pick out radioactive material?

  He was sure his men needed to eliminate the threat before al-Jazeera launched its attack.

  Automatic submachine guns were lined up behind Hernandez’ empty desk.

  Dogs began barking outside.

  That was it. They had discovered explosives.

  He grabbed two 9mm guns, thumbed the safeties off and sprinted out into the parking lot.

  Hernandez had swiveled two spotlights off the building and onto the crime scene.

  Both beagles were barking like crazy and jumping up at the al-Jazeera truck. The Arabs were standing back nervously.

  Hernandez had just thrown open the back doors of the truck when a violent explosion rocked the scene. Brilliant light flashed from the truck, and a concussion of air mowed down security guards and terrorists alike.

  One Arab, the one in the shirt sleeves dodged for the cover of darkness.

  Brett fell to one knee and opened fire, just over the heads of his security guards as they lay on the pavement.

  The Arab reached a corner of the building unscathed.

  “Damn it.” Brett zigzagged his way forward, stepping over the bodies of fallen, bleeding men and approached the blast furnace of the burning truck.

  The fur coats of both dogs lay scattered in bloody pulp over a space of several square yards. The stench of burning rubber and exploded dynamite filled the air.

  Kneeling beside a television truck operated by a different production crew, he picked out the Arab hiding against the building. He dropped one submachine gun, shouldered the other, took aim and pierced the Arab’s throat with a stream of hot metal.

  The man fell to his knees, unable to scream, then flopped forward on his face, dead.

  Just then, an ember from the burning truck fell into a pool of liquid. Flames licked across the pavement toward him. Only then did he notice the source of the leak, a punctured fuel tank in the truck beside him. He jumped clear of the flames just as they reached the loaded submachine gun that he had just set down.

  Consumed by the flames, the lightweight gun came to life, firing off its full load of cartridges. The bullets discharged from the chamber and exploded through the clip like a series of firecrackers. Brett felt them penetrate his clothing and enter his body. Twenty or more of them bored into his being.

  As he fell to the ground trying to shield his body from the possessed weapon, he saw a figure rising from among the dead. It was Hernandez.

  Hitting the pavement like a porcupine wounded by its own defenses, Brett called hoarsely to Hernandez. “Radio the Academy.” He rolled over in the wet, sticky substance that was oozing from his stomach. “Tell them that the show can go on.”

  At that point he lost consciousness, a sensation of triumph making a feeble, final surge through his mind just as the truck beside him exploded into a million fragments.

  Onstage, Tudman put a hand to his earpiece.

  “Hi, Tudman, this is Steve again,” the earpiece whispered.

  Tudman nodded to the live camera. Perhaps Steve would recognize his secret nod and go on.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Tudman nodded again. This time more obviously. “I’m testing out my donkey impression,” he explained out loud to hold off the hostile crowd.

  “Okay then. The show can go on,” Steve whispered. “Introduce your next celebrity.”

  Tudman offered a little prayer of gratitude to whoever might be listening. “And now, without further ado…”

  The crowd went wild.

  He smiled and held up his hands.

  “Thank you, thank you.”

  Then he felt a sheer lace, drop-shoulder sleeve brush against him.

  In a black, strapless Ralph Lauren beaded original, Penelope had cruised up beside him at the podium. With a broad smile, she announced, “Our next category is Special Effects…”

  Tudman gripped the podium tightly to keep his balance. His knees suddenly felt weak and he realized that his throat had gone dry.


  But he had survived.

  Attorney General Caleb Perkins arrived at the portico of the White House half an hour before midnight and let his driver take care of his overnight bag. He would be sleeping over in the Lincoln bedroom, and other guest rooms would be similarly filled like so many rooms in a frat house.

  Trying to enjoy an evening with the president, his political rival, would not be easy, but he appreciated the opportunity to soak up the residence that soon would be his.

  It was not easy to attend a party hosted by the very person he was preparing to defeat in an election campaign. But he had to occasionally honor the office and show his appreciation to the president who had tapped him to be U.S. Attorney General.

  He had to admit with envy that Bernard White looked presidential. In addition to the white hair of an elder statesman and a beneficent smile, Bernard made one feel like the only person that mattered in the world. On the other hand, Caleb thought, referring to his campaign staff’s war room papers on Bernard, the old guy was weak on social issues, overextended and vulnerable on his anti-terrorist program, and bogged down by a sluggish economy.

  For his part, Caleb might be bald and portly, but he was a social and monetary conservative had a long and distinguished career as a state prosecutor, and was open to dealing with the Palestinians, the key, he believed to solving the terrorist problem.

  He flashed Bernard his trademark ear-to-ear grin.

  Flying in from some dark corner, Party Chairman William Ford descended on them both. The moneyman, the man he needed to woo, rested an arm comfortably on the shoulder of Bernard White, the man he wanted to slay. Getting the party chairman solidly behind the Caleb Perkins candidacy was a primary objective of the evening.

  This was going to be tricky. Before he swung into action, he’d need a little champagne to lubricate the gears of his mind.

  As if reading his thoughts, William Ford leaned toward him. “Let me get you a drink,” he offered, “and let you two enjoy the Awards.”

  Caleb nodded and turned his attention to the television screen where he expected to see the nation’s celluloid glitterati toasting each other with music, dancing, film clips, awards, speeches and magnanimous applause.

  Instead, the television cameras showed a bedraggled master of ceremonies, sweat pouring down his face, as he leaned against the podium and watched a breathless actress stuffed into a black Flamenco dress make a rushed introduction on a poorly lit stage.

  Chapter 8

  Sean stood stock still in the cramped hotel room. He was facing out an open window into a quiet clothing market that sprawled along the back alley.

  Three women squatted on steps behind their tables. As they rearranged their shirts, undergarments and other merchandise, they gabbed among themselves. At a nearby table, a man bent over his sewing machine, his fingers working nimbly at his trade.

  Direct sunlight didn’t reach the little market scene, but all the colorful surfaces and varied textures were well illuminated by reflected light.

  He listened to the shower running in his room’s private bath. Li Wei was going about her preparations in a business-like way, not unlike a vendor selling her wares.

  She had laid a plastic sheet over the single bed and dribbled warm water over it and asked him to position himself on it before putting herself through the shower.

  He had no more interest in having her naked body slide over his than he had in buying the items on sale below.

  He wasn’t in the buying mood.

  The truth was, he was scared. His heart was pounding. For the first time, he came to the absolute realization that he was alone. Nobody else would find and rescue his family. But he was so far from civilization as he knew it, that his chances of survival, and by extension their chances of freedom, were virtually non-existent.

  He needed help.

  “Mister, are you ready?” Li Wei called from the shower.

  He hadn’t stripped down. He hadn’t splayed his limbs out on the plastic sheet. He stared at the small droplets of water that collected in the wrinkles of the plastic. It was as far from lovemaking as one could get.

  Kate preferred percale sheets in summer and flannel in winter. They had found cozy repose under a down comforter each night for ten years. Sometimes naked, sometimes not. Sometimes frisky, sometimes just happy to be in each other’s arms.

  Steam was billowing from the partially open bathroom door. Inside was a foggy mirror.

  He was with a hooker, and a minor no less. The police could barge in the door at any moment. He could be thrown into a Chinese prison! How would that help him find his family?

  Okay, so he was not cut out to be a fugitive, to assume other identities, to make every moment part of a living lie. He wasn’t like that. He was a forthright guy who wanted to do the right thing. And this certainly wasn’t the path he wanted to take.

  Li Wei’s small black purse lay on the desk. He couldn’t take her money. But that’s what he needed. Cash.

  He pulled away from the window and padded across the tile floor to the desk. From there he could see through the crack in the bathroom door clear through to the shower, revealing Li Wei’s form as she soaped down behind the shower curtain. For a young woman, she was exceptionally well endowed.

  He unfastened the snap to her purse.

  “I’m thinking about making love to you,” she called.

  He cleared his throat. “Right.”

  He slipped a hand into the opening in the purse and found a wad of cash. He pulled out the money, which was held together by a rubber band.

  “Are you feeling sexy?” she called. She leaned over and her hands spread the soap bubbles down to her toes.

  He sighed. “Sure.”

  But this wasn’t for him. He could envision the police breaking down the door at any moment.

  “I have no hair,” she said. “We come from a special people, and we have no hair.”

  “Oh.”

  Okay, how could he let her down gracefully and not let his manhood get in his way?

  He put the purse back in its former position and stepped away from the bathroom. He slipped off the rubber band and did a rough estimate of the money. There were two five-hundred RMB bills. Impressive! Several fifties, some twenties and a five.

  There must be real money in this business.

  He shoved the wad in his pants pocket. God, his member was getting aroused by the whole scene.

  But his thoughts were cold and calculated.

  “Bye, honey,” he whispered, stepping past the bathroom door. She was just turning off the shower and stepping out onto the bathroom floor.

  “Mister?”

  He shot her a smile but kept on walking.

  Her wet feet pursued him. “I’m all clean now,” she said. “I’m ready for you—”

  He swung the room door open and stepped into the corridor.

  “What are you doing, mister?”

  Geez, she was following him into the hallway.

  He turned and headed down the staircase.

  “Wait a minute!”

  He turned at the first landing and saw her leaning over the banister with a look of bewilderment on her pretty face, her towel wrapped around her hair. It was probably a major blow to her timid ego.

  “Take the money and run,” he muttered.

  His feet carried him down to the next landing.

  He didn’t hear her calling any longer, but footsteps were padding down the staircase above him.

  He calculated fast. The two five-hundreds could get him a one-way plane ticket to Beijing. He was feeling pretty good about himself.

  The matron in the pink silk jacket approached him.

  “Is there any problem, sir?”

  “No. None whatsoever.”

  Several people standing in line to check out turned to look past him.

  “Mister!” Li Wei screeched from the last landing. “Where are you going?”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw her leaning
over, her white breasts with their cherry nipples swinging free, her ivory legs spread out defiantly. “You come back here.”

  He glanced around the crowded lobby for the white uniform. The skipper wasn’t there to observe the scene.

  He needed a cab, and fast, before the young woman streaked out onto the street.

  “You pay this girl,” the matron nagged him from behind.

  Customers were laughing in the crowded reception area.

  “Mister!”

  He needed a cab to the airport. He hurried through the sliding glass doors and out into the gushing sound of traffic. He blinked in the brilliant sunlight.

  “This way, sir,” a low, male voice directed him. “Will you step this way, please?”

  His first thought was that it belonged to his guardian angel, the American diplomat who had come to save him at the airport in Beijing. But no. He detected a Chinese accent.

  He turned to see who the speaker was. It was the hotel doorman, shoving him into a waiting cab.

  “Thank you.”

  He hopped into the tiny red car and closed the door. And there sat the bearded skipper.

  “What the—?”

  Then he felt the point of a knife in his side and looked down. The skipper’s fist held a silver stiletto designed to easily penetrate a human body.

  He had been snatched back.

  His hopes of getting to Beijing that day were rapidly diminishing.

  The taxi took off, and he felt himself pressed involuntarily back against the cold tip of the knife.

  He sucked in his breath. He felt like a pinball ricocheting from captor to captor, occasionally glimpsing his own freedom, only to be shot back up the board for the lowlifes of the world to play around with.

  The cabbie sped through the streets like he was trying to avoid a bomb he had just planted. Sean gripped the armrest on the door to steady himself and keep the knife’s point from penetrating his skin. Then he saw them passing by the loading cranes of the port.

  “Are you the Sean Cooper?” the bearded man asked at last.

  Sean turned to him. The guy had a big grin on his face. This wasn’t supposed to happen.