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

by Fritz Galt

  Rodriguez watched the screen carefully as Harry Black stood up, showing mild interest. “You sent a videotape to the White House? What did it say?”

  “The terrorists threatened to release me to the Chinagate prosecution if the president didn’t release al-Qaeda prisoners.”

  “Did the president release any prisoners?”

  “Of course he did. The terrorists never released me to the prosecutor. If they had, I wouldn’t be sitting in this prison.”

  Rodriguez began nodding to himself. It all fit now. That explained why Washington had suddenly and without explanation ripped his prize prisoners out of Camp Delta, never to return them. The White House was taking its marching orders from al-Qaeda.

  “What’s this about your family?” Harry asked, his voice low, confidential, but easily picked up by the microphone.

  “I received a message about a week ago that they were still alive. I’ve being trying to get to Beijing ever since to track them down. The commander here let me place a call, so I called a friend that I had made in China. It turns out she is an investigator for the special prosecutor. And she informed me that the Administration faked my family’s death by blaming it on SARS. Once I had sent the kickbacks to the president, the government systematically began trying to demoralize me.”

  The telephone rang on Rodriguez’s desk. It was Ivan, his voice trembling over the phone. “Stop the camera! Stop the interrogation at once!”

  “Yes, sir. At once, sir.”

  “And destroy the tape!”

  “Understood, sir.”

  He replaced the receiver and smiled at the screen. Then he reached behind the CPU and yanked out the transmission cable that was sending the images and sound across the satellite link to the Pentagon.

  On-screen, the interrogation proceeded apace.

  Cooper was whining about some State Department diplomat who had steered him toward absconding with his oil company’s illegal contributions to the president.

  “I took the money,” Cooper confessed. “I did take the money. But those were illegal funds. In effect, I was protecting the president by never letting the money get into his offshore bank account.”

  An incredulous smile spread across Rodriguez’s broad face. The testimony couldn’t have been more damaging for the president. If the implications weren’t so devastating for the nation, it would be comical.

  When the half hour was over, Harry thanked Cooper politely and reassured him that he would find a way to help him.

  “You are my lawyer, aren’t you?” Cooper said, completely comfortable with his relationship with Harry Black.

  “I never said that,” Harry said. “I’m just here to interrogate you.”

  That left Cooper stunned. He had just spilled his entire life’s story to a military interrogator.

  “But don’t worry about it,” Harry said, shaking the prisoner’s limp hand through the bars. “I’m here to help.”

  Rodriguez clicked the Save button and rose from his chair. He quickly rushed across the lawn to escort Harry out of Camp Echo. It was a brief opportunity to talk with the handsome interrogator in private.

  “I’d like to invite you to a round of golf at the Officer’s Club,” he told Harry as they stepped outside.

  Harry appeared dazed and disoriented, as if hit by too much disconcerting information all at once. He stared vacantly at Rodriguez as if he were a mere distraction.

  “I think I can help you,” Rodriguez offered.

  At that, Harry’s eyes locked on his. For the first time since the two men had met, Harry lost his stiff, military manner.

  “Sure,” Harry said. “I’ll take you up on it.”

  Rodriguez saw him off on the base bus.

  “I’ll send my car to pick you up at oh-nine hundred hours,” he called out, and Harry waved from the steps of the bus.

  Chapter 28

  Waiting at the bar of the China Dragon restaurant, Sandi reviewed her plan. She swiveled about in the rattan barstool and stared in the mirror at her elegant silhouette, her delicate jaw, her wide-set eyes and the errant strands of blonde hair in a halo of pin lights. She had to win Caleb over to the special prosecutor, but she had little to work with—little to offer, little to throw at him.

  In the end, she needed Caleb to hand over Sean’s testimony. But he would have strong reasons for holding onto it. He might be planning an internal investigation by the FBI. Furthermore, by going public with the testimony, he would be jeopardizing the career, if not life, of his own source, that brave interrogator at Guantánamo.

  She also had history working against her. She had to remind herself that the Justice Department did not have a glorious record of sharing information with independent prosecutors. But she would change all that tonight. She would form a personal bond between the two shops.

  The bar at the Old Post Office was the perfect place to create such an unholy union. The Washington gossip hounds that dogged every agency of every branch of the government thrived on such spottings. To that end, they hung around the classic watering holes of Washington, such as the Monocle stuffed with Capital Hill insiders, the Taburna on I and 18th exclusively serving globetrotters and the Hay-Adams Hotel across the street from the First Family. No Washington insider would ever be caught dead at such a tourist site as the Old Post Office.

  When Caleb strode in, he had already checked his overcoat and wore a double-breasted suit, crisp white shirt and a red bow tie.

  “You changed your outfit,” Sandi said, admiring his impeccable taste in apparel.

  “Just for you,” he said with an intimate wink.

  She was impressed, not to mention flattered. The trip from the Justice Department was a mere two-minute walk up Pennsylvania Avenue, yet clearly he had taken a detour.

  “You went home to change?”

  He smiled, abashed. “No. I keep several suits at my office.”

  Oh, of course. How stupid of her to inquire.

  “I’m trying the plum wine,” she said, grasping for another subject. “Care to try some?”

  He leaned in close as she held the pewter cup to him. His thick lips were not that unattractive. At least they were moist and had substance.

  “Yum,” he cooed. “Very tasty.”

  Sandi noticed him glancing down the bar as he stood back. He didn’t seem comfortable taking a seat.

  Perhaps even the sleepy restaurant tucked in the shadows of the Old Post Office lobby was a bit too exposed for him.

  “What say we take the elevator up to the bells?” she suggested.

  He looked up at the glass ceiling several stories above them. Beyond that, the night was black and clear.

  “Why not?”

  Perhaps he had a yearning for the romantic as well.

  Sandi paid the bar tender and let Caleb escort her to the elevator. The ticket agent explained to them that two tickets bought them a guided tour of the Congress Bells. Or they could just do it on their own.

  She looked at him.

  “On our own,” they said in unison.

  That brought out a happy laugh from him.

  She was doing fine, she reassured herself. His stellar career was at risk if he were discovered giving her the deposition. She would have to provide him something in return. He looked like a powerful enough man to take whatever he wanted, to pluck any flower he saw, but he seemed romantic enough to sniff it first.

  The ride took them high above the Old Post Office stores and restaurants, past the glass ceiling, and into the distinctive, pointed bell tower that rose nearly as high as the statue on the Capitol dome.

  Inside, they walked around the ropes that bell ringers could pull to chime the change ringing bells, some of the largest in North America.

  She felt his hand on the small of her back, guiding her past the goggling tourists and up a set of stairs. They stepped out into the cold night.

  The sound of the bells would carry up the hollow tower and out to the city from where they stood. She looked down. W
hat a magnificent view from two hundred and seventy feet! In the chill of the evening, the weather was clear and sounds and lights prickled the air. The Mall spread out at their feet like an unreal movie set, with the illuminated National Archives containing the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights just across Federal Triangle. The various well-known monuments to democracy appeared like children’s models beneath them, and the vast black Potomac River snaked through the countryside to the south.

  Liberty never rang so clear, and she felt a shiver.

  They were alone for the moment, and Caleb drew his arms around her and embraced her. His lips closed in on hers. She let him explore her lips and find her tongue. They dueled in silence for a while, their clothes crushed together.

  Suddenly she heard a fluttering of feathers. She jumped back to look.

  Caleb started laughing. A dove had flown out of its perch and was winging its way across the Mall. It soared high above the ice skaters at the temporary ice rink, and over the strolling couples on the crushed rock paths. It wheeled about and flapped toward the White House just up the street.

  “That has got to be one of the loveliest mansions in America,” she said, barely conscious of the wistfulness in her voice.

  Caleb didn’t answer. It was his dream as well.

  Sandi took note of their continued privacy. It was time to share a little more than saliva.

  “I can’t wait to see Sean again,” she said. “Did you know that his family is still alive? They never died from SARS. In fact, they’re being held captive somewhere in China.”

  “No,” Caleb said sympathetically, as if commiserating over a sick pet. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I learned this from a State Department diplomat based in Shanghai. The guy’s a spook. He says the Chinese are holding Sean’s family somewhere in their country.”

  “Whatever for?” Caleb was beginning to sound genuinely intrigued.

  “Trying to drive him to drink, soften him up, set him up, frame him and put him on the defensive.”

  Caleb was listening closely, a flash of recognition lighting his eyes. “What’s the diplomat’s name?”

  “He called himself Merle Stevens. He’s a very slick operator.”

  “I know him.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said. Did Caleb play some part in the crime?

  Caleb explained himself. “I’m aware that the Agency tried to frame Sean by giving him access to a huge volume of illegal funds, a payoff from the Chinese to Bernard White.”

  “And Sean took the bait?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “So that explains why Sean is on the run and unwilling to come to the United States to testify. The poor guy. He thinks he’s a common criminal.”

  “I guess the Agency plants men like Stevens in the State Department to perform the dirty work.”

  “Telling someone his family is dead is more than dirty,” she said.

  Caleb shook his head. “That’s all the more reason to set Sean free.”

  She examined him with newfound appreciation. Caleb might push the law and stretch the truth at times, but he would never incriminate an innocent man and destroy his family.

  “My office is receptive to anything you can share with us,” she said, her lips slightly parted.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” he said. “It’s coming very soon.”

  And once more she found herself, a recent law school graduate, being kissed by the chief attorney of the land, high above Washington, under the stars. She felt like she had just aced the bar.

  “I think I have an idea,” Caleb said, pulling away and gazing fondly in her eyes.

  “What kind of idea?” She wasn’t quite ready for a marriage proposal.

  “An idea to take care of Merle Stevens and reunite Sean with his family.”

  Sandi liked the cocked eyebrow and sly smile Caleb was beaming her way. He was capable of initiating an idea on his own, he didn’t need permission to set a plan in motion, and he didn’t need a chief of staff to lecture him on how to court a lady.

  Then he shot her a question that she couldn’t immediately put in context. “Say, have you ever slept in the Lincoln Bedroom?”

  Chapter 29

  Caleb Perkins awoke early the next morning, fresh from the previous evening’s romantic dinner date with Sandi DiMartino.

  After shipping his kids off to the school bus, he returned to the empty house and his youngest son’s room. Rifling through his sports magazines and computer games, he found the boy’s cell phone.

  It was plastic and felt like a toy.

  He punched in a cell phone number and waited.

  The line connected. “This is Harry Black.”

  “This is Caleb. I’ve got a plan. Can we talk?” He could hear seagulls crying and waves crashing in the distance.

  “Yeah, I’m out for my morning jog,” Harry said, evidently slowing down to listen.

  “Good. Last night I learned something very interesting. It turns out that Sean Cooper’ family is still alive and being held in China. It seems the Agency wanted to rough him up so bad he’d commit a crime and be forever beholden to them.”

  “I’m way ahead of you,” Harry said. “I talked with Cooper yesterday. But I didn’t get the specifics.”

  “I did. And I think there’s something we can do about it. There’s an American diplomat in Shanghai named Merle Stevens. Why don’t you send your team there and beat the stuffing out of him. He’s the one who whisked Cooper’ family away from him and set him up with funds to abscond.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll send my men to deal with him. I won’t need a contract from you for this one. It’s on the house.”

  “He can tell us where Cooper’ family is being kept.”

  “So much the better. My men have been in a holding pattern on Okinawa. I’ll send them to Shanghai right away.”

  “There’s only one roadblock to getting Cooper reunited with his family,” Caleb said, the dark menace of terrorism filling his thoughts.

  “Yeah, it’s called Guantánamo Bay,” Harry said. “They don’t let prisoners just waltz out of here. If possession is nine tenths of the law, the U.S. military has nothing to worry about. The swarm of lawyers on the special prosecutor’s staff look like only so many gnats.”

  “That’s not what’s keeping Cooper put. I’ve been informed that the Pentagon his holding him pending terrorism charges. And they’ve got evidence to boot.”

  “That’s bull according to Cooper. And let me assure you, he is no terrorist.”

  That was a relief. Suddenly, he got the feeling that he was doing something illegal as well. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, looking anxiously around his empty house.

  “Can’t you bring this up with the Secretary of Defense? They’ll let Cooper go once they hear his story.”

  “Kenneth Spaulding is not on our side.”

  “How about Spaulding’s legal office?” Harry said, sounding desperate.

  “I’m sure they’re busy at this very moment putting the case together against Cooper.”

  “So what can we do?” Harry asked, a note of desperation entering into his voice.

  “I can’t do anything,” Caleb said, “except hang up.”

  “Tell the Pentagon they can take a flying—”

  Caleb shut off the phone. It was a child’s phone, after all.

  Rodriguez exhibited powerful form while driving the ball.

  Harry watched the lieutenant colonel’s Top-Flite sail nearly out of sight on the first tee. He would have some pretty stiff competition that morning. It seemed clear that the top brass at Guantánamo had little else to do with their spare time than perfect their golf game.

  He moved his head over the ball and drew back his club, remembering to bend his left knee ever so slightly inward. He released a blast designed to leave little doubt in Rodriguez’s mind that he had picked a formidable foe. The white speck dribbled down the middle of the fairway some twe
nty yards beyond the lieutenant colonel’s lie.

  Harry stuffed his driver back into his golf bag, and the two men strode off together down the hill.

  “I like your swing,” Rodriguez admitted. “Where did you pick it up?”

  “You can’t grow up a good ol’ boy in the shadows of the Masters without dreams of wearing the Green Jacket.”

  “You’re from Georgia?”

  “Can’t you tell by the way I talk?”

  Rodriguez shook his head. “Your words come out more like a blend of Ivy League and military speak. Your accent could come from anywhere—from California to the Gulf Stream Waters.”

  Harry grinned. “I guess Yale and the Marines bred the Georgia out of me.”

  They paused at Rodriguez’s ball, and Harry stood back to let him make his approach shot.

  The course stood out in the dry terrain. It lacked many trees, but compensated with other hazards such as small lakes and lush bushes.

  Rodriguez unleashed a controlled four iron that found the front fringe of the green.

  “Where does the groundskeeper get all this water?” Harry asked. He set down his bag and selected a five iron. “Surely not from the tap.”

  “That’s right,” Rodriguez said, as Harry lined up his shot.

  He took a back swing.

  “From sewage.”

  Harry’s grip slipped on the downswing, and the ball sliced straight into a sand trap to the right.

  He shot Rodriguez a fierce glare, only to find the officer trying to muffle a snicker. So that was how this game would be played.

  A deft attack with a sand wedge and a nice six-footer with no break put Harry back into the game, and Rodriguez two-putted to make par.

  They approached the second tee on even terms.

  After a pair of straight drives on a par four dogleg, Harry let Rodriguez start up the conversation again.

  The lieutenant colonel seemed to have more on his mind than fouling up Harry’s game.