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

by Fritz Galt

  “To interrogate Sean Cooper. To reveal the truth.”

  “I don’t know anything about Chinagate and financial dealings…”

  “No. I’m sorry. Perhaps you weren’t aware…the Pentagon is holding him on terrorism charges.”

  “Terrorism? How did they come up with that one?” He knew that the Pentagon had to try and smear Cooper, but wasn’t terrorism a bit extreme?

  Caleb threw up his hands. “They found him on an al-Qaeda ship in the Pacific during a military coup.”

  “Right,” Harry said with a laugh.

  But Caleb’s face remained serious, and troubled.

  Harry let out a low whistle and looked at the envelope in Caleb’s hands. “Whose name is on the contract, yours or the Agency’s?”

  “It’s the Pentagon this time,” Caleb said, handing him the envelope. “It includes military orders.”

  Harry sighed. As long as it was still a security issue…

  “But of course it’s important to do more than just interrogate him. I want you to set him free.”

  So it was more than security work. Caleb wanted him to do his dirty work and sink the president.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t—”

  “Take your time. Look into the case. Talk with him. I’m sure you’re a good man and you’ll realize how Cooper has been terribly wronged by his country.

  Oh crap. Now Caleb was appealing to his sense of honor.

  He took the envelope.

  Caleb offered a handshake as well. “Is it a deal?” he asked.

  Harry shook the hand. “I’m only doing this for Cooper. And if it turns out that he’s a terrorist, I’ll tear up the contract.”

  “You’re a good man. I’m sure you’ll fulfill the contract.”

  But Caleb pressed his palm longer than usual. His blue eyes penetrated into Harry’s, searching for a commitment beyond the written contract.

  Harry fought back the impulse to look away. It was like staring into the eyes of a self-righteous man that he knew was stupid, ill informed and misguided. It was a look designed to form a bond of trust. Harry looked back directly, but didn’t return the attorney general’s smile.

  He left the suite, the guard with the dog, the scanner machine and the terrorism threat display far behind. He left the Department of Justice shaking his head. If this was how America intended to operate, she would need to write a new Constitution.

  One that was far less noble.

  The last thing Hiram saw of the Marines as he and his young recruits trotted toward the outskirts of the capital was a second helicopter swooping away with a long rope of soldiers hanging from the cargo door. They looked like the day’s catch on a fishing line. As the chopper hauled the men in, it swung away from the town, plunging the island in silence.

  This was soon broken by the roar of jet engines. Ahead of him, a passenger jet was just taking off and rising above the cane fields. Hiram squinted as it banked into the midday sun. Then, as it circled over the island and headed west, he made out the white tail fin and green flag of a Pakistan International Airlines jet.

  “Look out, sir,” one of the boys shouted. “Here come the terrorists!”

  Hiram looked up the two-lane highway, tall cane rising on either side. Sure enough, the boys were right. Another anonymous white van was hurtling down the road straight at them.

  He flicked off his safety switch. “Into the fields on the right!” he shouted.

  The boys dropped low and scooted across the road, the assault rifles dangling from their hands.

  The white van’s driver must have suspected an ambush and suddenly hit the brakes, some fifty yards from Hiram’s position.

  The vehicle came to a complete stop and waited.

  “Now what?” one of the boys whispered.

  The van was too far away to hit with accuracy. Hiram felt vulnerable, shielded from sight but not from bullets.

  “Half you guys stay put, and I’ll take two boys with me.” He picked the two youngest in the group. “If they try to drive past you, shoot out their tires.”

  He motioned for the two youngsters to follow him through the field. It was tough going, the cane shoots sharp and unforgiving underfoot. They circled wide but in the general direction of the back of the van. Fortunately they soon reached a tire-rutted track that roughly paralleled the highway. They began to trot.

  Listening for gunfire at first, then for voices, he put a finger to his lips. The boys were even stealthier than he was as they left the track and approached the highway.

  He heard a door click. Still no voices.

  They settled into a crouch and held their positions.

  The enemy’s feet landed on the pavement just ahead.

  Hiram strained to see through the long, yellow leaves that fluttered gently in the humid air.

  The voices were guttural and in a language he had never heard before, unless perhaps it was on television. They sounded frightened and suspicious.

  Hiram advanced on his elbows and knees, keeping his rifle ahead of him and aimed at the voices. From his new position, he could make out the passengers who had alighted from the van. Instead of taking up defensive positions, they were standing straight, looking about themselves in confusion. Their long robes and unkempt beards seemed out of place on the tropical island. Several men wore thick glasses. One man stood out as taller than the rest. He had a calm, priestly look on his face.

  They sure looked like odd birds, but certainly were no terrorists. Only one man held a gun in his hands. He was a small man with what looked like an unbuttoned coat, a floppy gray turban and strange, coarsely woven shoes. That was the one to watch out for.

  Hiram raised his rifle and peered down the long barrel. He lined up the muscular man in his sights.

  “Drop the gun,” he shouted coolly.

  The men froze in position, but the gunman turned his assault rifle Hiram’s way.

  “Drop the gun, or I’ll blow youah head off,” he repeated, this time with more authority in his voice.

  The tall man’s face dropped, then he motioned to the gunman to lower his weapon.

  “On the road there,” Hiram shouted.

  The man placed the gun on the simmering hot pavement.

  “Now step away from the van.”

  Like a herd of timid deer, the group moved away from the van. The men seemed to form a protective shield around the tall man among them.

  “Hands high in the air,” Hiram said. “And spread out.”

  The group complied.

  Hiram rose to his feet and walked slowly out of the thick wall of cane. “So what do we have heah?” he asked, studying the men closely.

  He circled behind the van and looked inside. It was empty.

  “Okay, you can come out, men,” he shouted to his troops.

  From up and down the road, the band of tiny boys stepped out of the sugar cane field. The captives’ jaws dropped.

  Hiram picked up the rifle that lay in the road and passed it to one of his troops.

  “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing heah,” he finally announced. “But I don’t like your looks.”

  A car had been steadily approaching from the town. It finally squealed to a halt, and a man in a uniform stepped out.

  “I’m the police chief here,” he announced. “What are you doing with that gun?”

  Suddenly the tall captive broke out in laughter, his glaring eyes cutting through to Hiram’s core. Clearly the chief of police of Purang had no idea that his island was at the epicenter of Islamic jihad. His government had nearly been taken over by mercenaries, and he was worried about a man standing in a field with a gun.

  Hiram didn’t like the laugh, or the triumphant look in the man’s eyes. He fought to regain control of the situation.

  “You,” he pointed to the police chief, the man who had mocked him on the phone for being drunk. The man who refused to lift a finger when confronted by news of an invasion. “You’re fired.”

  Th
e smile had vanished from the face of the tall terrorist, and his searing look once again clouded over.

  Hiram’s boys were pulling boxes of weapons and ammunition out of the van. It looked like dangerous stuff.

  “What’s this?” the police chief said, addressing Hiram, alarmed by the sudden profusion of weapons. “Are you trying to take over the island?”

  Hiram gave a twisted smile. “Yeah. I’m the boss now. I’m taking over this place. And youah under arrest.”

  One of the boys approached the police chief and stripped him of his hip holster and gun. Slowly the man raised his hands over his head.

  The other boys spread out before the line of terrorists. Each held a prisoner at gunpoint. Hiram counted the number of men again. One was missing!

  He picked up the rustle of sugar cane in the distance. The small, muscular one had escaped.

  The smile had returned on the face of the tall stranger.

  “I don’t know who you guys are,” Hiram said, angry with himself for letting the man escape right from under his nose. “But I’m putting the lot of you behind bars.”

  Hoarse from talking on the radio, Sandi DiMartino placed her headset on the desk before her at Manila’s port authority. A huge wave of heat blew in from a worn, sandy lawn behind the facility.

  Captain Albano appeared and set a cup of black tea beside her.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. She took a sip and let its warm vapors soothe the back of her throat. She felt the ring of perspiration just below her hairline begin to evaporate. How a hot beverage could feel so good on a simmering day, with the sun directly over the Philippines, she might never know.

  The sound of Sean O. Flower’s voice had completely vanished from the airwaves, no matter how urgently she had repeated his name.

  Realizing that he still might be held captive by the men on the beach, she had tried to give him some hope to go on.

  She had repeatedly tried to inform him that his family was alive. They had not died from SARS, were safe and were held prisoner in China. He had to trust her, and she would work for their release.

  But after an hour of jamming the frequency with her desperate pleas, she had given up.

  And then she had heard some other harbormaster demanding that ships at specific coordinates identify themselves. The guy must have had some sort of radar. She had listened to each ship responding, hoping that one might be Sean. But that search had ended in vain.

  Maybe the terrorists had caught him on the radio. Her only hope was that he could escape them and trust her and find some way to contact her.

  She checked her cell phone for any missed calls. There were none. People back at Stanley Polk’s office must have also lost hope in her investigation. Their case against the president would have to take a different tack, or be dropped altogether, because she wasn’t bringing a witness home.

  Her radio headset lay beside her teacup, unused.

  “Say,” she said. “Do you suppose any of those ships out there are American Navy?”

  The captain shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sure some are,” he said and stuffed his green shirt back neatly under his bulging belt. “But you would have to reach them on a military frequency.”

  “Then I’ll do that,” she decided. She was desperate enough to try anything.

  The captain tuned in to a frequency commonly used by naval vessels. “There you go, madam.”

  Sandi closed her eyes and composed her thoughts, then said, “Calling any American naval ship in the eastern waters off the Philippines. This is the Philippine Ports Authority. Please come in.”

  All of a sudden, the radio blared with dozens of voices responding to her call.

  “Have any of you come across Sean Cooper?”

  Utter silence.

  Damn. She had tipped her hand. Now she wouldn’t get a word out of any of them. The name “Sean Cooper” seemed synonymous with “treason” to many Americans, not the least of whom must be the men and women in uniform.

  Then a telephone rang beside the desk. A Philippine officer picked it up, spoke briefly and handed it to Sandi. “It’s for you.”

  She pressed the phone to her ear.

  “Did you say that Cooper’ family is still alive?” came a young American male voice.

  “Yes, I did,” she replied. “Do you know his whereabouts?”

  There was some hesitation, then the voice came back whispering, “I do. Mr. Cooper has been apprehended.”

  “Do you have him with you?” she returned in a whisper.

  “Negative. We were the ones to locate him on Purang. We called for the USS Stuart to arrange the capture.”

  “Is Sean in good condition?”

  “I wouldn’t know that, ma’am.”

  Sandi concentrated on her next sentence, willing the response to come out, even if it meant a court-martial for the brave informant calling her.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “That would be GTMO, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” she responded. “Thank you so much.”

  Now all she needed to do was hustle her butt back to Washington. And figure out what “GTMO” was.

  Chapter 23

  The C-17 military transport plane banked tightly for its final approach to the United States Naval Station at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. The dry, hilly scrubland below became visible out Sean’s window, and he found himself looking down at a set of Florida-style tract houses, beaches and a golf course. All the trappings of home. This wouldn’t be so bad, even with his hands cuffed uncomfortably in his lap.

  Early in the flight, he had been rudely awakened to his new status, and it was only now beginning to sink in. Somehow along the way, he had changed from being a rescued hostage to a prisoner of war. It had to be a bureaucratic foul-up on the part of the Navy. Sooner or later, Washington would sort things out, take the handcuffs off him and set him free.

  As the plane descended sharply, they passed over uniformly spaced rectangular cottages that faced the ocean between two beautiful white sand beaches. It would not be a bad life for Cubans. However, an American flag was fluttering from the flagpole.

  He had once read that Guantánamo Bay was the oldest U.S. base on foreign land, and the only one located in a Communist country. Located on the far eastern tip of Cuba, as far away from Havana as possible, it was a mere fifty miles across the water from Haiti. He remembered seeing pictures of tens of thousands of Haitian boat people who had been plucked out of the Caribbean by U.S. Navy ships and brought to languish in cinderblock houses that were hastily constructed on the base at Guantánamo. Poor souls.

  Then the plane glided low over a complex of buildings surrounded by wire fences. The buildings were newly constructed, but looked menacing, with guards posted on all corners. Who lived there? Certainly they didn’t make soldiers live under such tight security without much of a view.

  The plane skimmed low over the gentle, clear water and made a marvelous landing on one of the dual landing strips. Sean would have applauded the pilot’s skill if his wrists hadn’t been chained together.

  The young Military Policeman assigned to guarding him helped him unfasten his seat belt and rise to his feet. It felt good to stretch his legs after a long flight across the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. When the exit door opened, he felt a waft of fragrant, humid sea breeze. He was in Cuba, American style.

  As they said in Washington, bring it on.

  Since he was the only detainee to step off the plane, he received personal attention. A military bus took him a short distance to a ferry that conveyed passengers eastward across the bay. He stepped onto the bobbing boat with a sad smile. Not another boat. He wouldn’t mind a house on the beach overlooking the turquoise water, but he could do without another boat ride anytime soon.

  The engine chugged to life and he instinctively reached for the railing. Ouch! It had become burning hot under the direct sunlight.

  Strange that a pair of gray speedboats with manned machine guns escorte
d them across the sparkling water. It seemed like a scene stolen from Miami Vice, augmented by Cuban troops stationed just beyond the heavily fortified and patrolled no-man’s land, Cuban gunships plying the waters, and angry Taliban and al-Qaeda terrorists beating their prison walls.

  Okay, so he could see the need for a couple of armed ships keeping a close watch.

  The trip began on a winding channel through a growth of bushes and short trees. Lurking among the mangroves might be a sniper or desperado al-Qaeda escapee. Sean kept his eyes peeled.

  The ferry droned on at a crawl. He turned to the Military Police Corps soldier who remained close by his side the entire trip from Hawaii. “Can’t we speed it up a little?”

  The grim young man shook his head, his white helmet reflecting the sun in his eyes. “Manatees,” he said.

  Sean looked carefully among the tree branches that dipped into the water. What was a manatee, anyway? Some sort of local revolutionary?

  The MP seemed to sense his confusion. He pointed down into the water.

  A fish? Were they stinging jellyfish, like the famous man-o’-war? Suddenly he remembered the jellyfish that he had stepped on at the beach in Hainan. Maybe he had been stung and he had gone unconscious and the last few days had all been a terrible nightmare. But he didn’t need to pinch himself to make sure this was really happening. The handcuffs seemed real enough.

  But he didn’t see any huge jellyfish in the clear water.

  “Sea cow,” the MP said.

  “What?”

  “A manatee is a sea cow.”

  Sean frowned. “You mean to tell me that we’re slowing down these gunboats here in Cuba because of a sea cow?”

  “Hey, they’re an endangered species. The propellers could mangle them up.”

  He could hardly believe that a soldier was lecturing him on the environment. Go figure.

  At last the narrow channel widened into the open bay that, curiously, was devoid of ships. Having successfully avoided the manatee menace, the ferry picked up speed. In the wheelhouse, the captain rammed headlong into the waves that buffeted the unwieldy ship. He supposed navy types lived for that sort of thing.