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

by Fritz Galt

Ferrar pulled himself up the backwards-tilting ladder.

  A hand grabbed his suit from underwater.

  He heard a splash as someone broke the surface.

  “What took you so long?” a familiar, deep voice said.

  It was Tray Bolton, pulling him off the ferry.

  Ferrar’s fingers slipped off the ladder, and he tumbled back into the surf.

  Damn it all.

  Bolton had him pinned back in a headlock. Even if he could struggle free and catch a breath, he was underwater.

  He jabbed backwards with an elbow and struck Bolton in the abdomen. The blow was blunted by a cushion of water.

  Ferrar turned their two bodies until his right arm was free of the water, and lashed out behind him through the air into Bolton’s right kidney. The grip on his neck loosened enough for him to squirm free.

  Instead of heading up for air, Ferrar plunged downward and away from his powerful foe. He kept swimming until he could see the smoking ferry above him. To his surprise, he found a circle of light above. Deke had carved a hole in the hull with bullets. He swam upward toward the light.

  He emerged headfirst on the lower deck of the ship and sucked in air. Dizzy, he saw Deke just ahead.

  He struggled to get his arms up through the splintered hole. Then, he caught sight of two containers in the ship’s hold. Each was wrapped in red tape, like the ones he had seen loaded onto the plane in Bahrain. They were the bombs from Pakistan.

  Meanwhile, Deke staggered backward toward him. Bolton had emerged, waterlogged on deck and had leaped down the steps onto the lower deck, a hunting knife drawn.

  “Tray,” Deke shouted in alarm and surprise. “It’s me, Deke Houston.”

  Bolton continued his threatening advance, and Deke edged backward. Ferrar ducked into the water, but it was too late. Deke stumbled over him.

  Ferrar ripped an arm through the last remaining board and grabbed for Bolton’s passing boot. Suddenly, he heard a loud creaking noise as the ship listed even further. The abrupt change in angle sucked him back under.

  On his way down, he took a last gulp of air and slid below the boat. Missing the boot with his free hand, he felt a second boot brushing past. He grabbed for it with fingers that barely worked and found he was clutching the end of a shoelace.

  He yanked on it and held it for all he was worth.

  There was a low thud above him, and the light became obscured. A body had fallen to the floorboards of the hold.

  Was it Bolton or Deke who fell?

  His lungs ready to burst, Ferrar planted both feet on the hull and pushed off. He shot to the surface and found himself awash on the crest of a wave that began to drag him toward shore.

  Flailing helplessly on his back in a wash of foam, he watched several men untie the flaming ship. They began the desperate job of hauling it to shore before it would sink, detonate, or be consumed by fire.

  Out of the flames, a cold, stiff figure stepped off the ship and onto the pier, a bloody blade glistening in his hand. He stood in his red plaid shirt, hugging himself for warmth and shouting commands to his men to hurry. Ferrar knew the voice well. It was Tray Bolton.

  Oh God, Deke.

  Anguished and numb, Ferrar turned to face his fate, a jagged promontory at high tide, during a gale.

  Several times, breakers threw his crumpled body against the rock bluff until at last he grasped an edge with his frozen fingers. A foot found a toehold. Gradually pulling himself out of the pounding surf, he climbed up the cliff one hand at a time, until he finally reached a grassy knoll.

  There he buried himself in leaves, barely breathing, the sandy-colored dye in his hair leaching in yellow icicles from his black hair. Above him, the sky cracked open in vicious streaks of lightning.

  And through an opening in the clouds, he thought he glimpsed Deke Houston’s soul ascending toward heaven.

  Late that afternoon, Congressman Connors returned to his office after a floor vote on emergency aid to the airline industry. His telephone was ringing.

  He felt at peace with himself as he picked it up. “This is Ralph Connors.”

  “Connors? This is Ferrar.”

  “You again?”

  “Me again,” Ferrar said with a cough.

  “You sound like hell.”

  “I feel like hell,” Ferrar said, his voice grave. “Al-Qaeda has come ashore.”

  “Like hell they have,” Connors said. “The Coast Guard has just intercepted a shipment of weapons from Canada. The two men they caught aren’t singing yet, but I think the Coast Guard has the situation well under control.”

  “Try again, old pal,” Ferrar said. “I’m watching a couple of containers from Pakistan rolling across our fair land on the back of a railroad car.”

  “Ferrar, I’m telling you you’re nuts. These terrorists shot up half the crew of a Coast Guard cutter off Maine before they were apprehended. End of story. I’m not buying anything else.”

  “That must have been a diversion to let the real shipment slip past the Coast Guard.”

  “So why would they allow us to capture them if they have something to hide? These guys are suicide bombers. Get it? Suicide. They would have killed themselves long before divulging information. Your story just doesn’t hold water, Ferrar.”

  “Connors, these are clever people. Do you remember when Melinda’s captors told us to go to Davao?”

  “That’s not fair bringing up my daughter. I’m not doing this because I owe you something.”

  “No. Hear me out. They wanted us to go to Davao so that they could strip us of the ransom and keep Melinda. We called their bluff and made sure we had your daughter first. It’s a mistake to assume these guys are stupid.”

  “Okay,” Connors said with a sigh. “So, say you’re right that they got more weapons past the Coast Guard. Director Friedman won’t buy it.”

  “Screw Friedman. Go straight to the president.”

  “We’re not exactly on speaking terms. I guess I could try Hank.”

  “Hank Gibson at the FBI? Now you’re talking. Terrorists traveling around inside our borders is an FBI matter after all, not the CIA.”

  “Too bad,” Connors said, holding his head in his hands. “Hank and I made great golfing partners. I guess it’s not too late to make one more enemy in the Administration.”

  “I want the Department of Justice all over this,” Ferrar said over the line. “I’m going to turn on my radio. Once I hear Hank’s boss, the attorney general, issuing a warning to the nation, I’ll call you back with more details. But only if you come through with the attorney general.”

  “Attorney general? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Hey, we’re fighting a publicity battle here. People can’t be lulled into thinking that we’ve seen the last of al-Qaeda. Our entire nation must be on guard.”

  “Okay, I’ll work on it,” Connors said lamely, and set down the phone.

  Chapter 14

  All the leaves had fallen, but a mild winter seemed in store for Upstate New York as Ferrar sped along a country road in a hotwired pickup.

  Late afternoon sunlight flashed off the piggybacked metal containers sitting atop a freight train. From the state highway, he could even make out the red tape on the twin containers. The rest of the train was made up of drab twenty- and thirty-foot-long containers, boxcars, tank cars and other types of rolling stock.

  If the contents of the containers hadn’t been so deadly, the scene might have made a perfect advertisement for American railways.

  Country tunes rose and faded on the FM radio as he moved from one isolated town to the next, tracking the train on its westward course. Whenever one station faded out, he found the next strong signal and tuned in.

  Finally, in Chautauqua County in far western New York, as he headed under a viaduct that intersected the railway line, the voice of a disc jockey broke in to the current hit song.

  “I apologize for this interruption to our regularly scheduled programming, but we have
an Emergency Broadcast Network announcement direct from Washington. Please stand by.”

  A moment later, the voice of United States Attorney General Douglas Laidlaw came over the speaker with his squeaky Texan twang.

  “My fellow Americans. During these tragic and dangerous times, we are doing our utmost at the Department of Justice to track down new leads that may defuse more terrorist attempts on our nation. In this regard, I hereby issue this special warning for all citizens to be vigilant over the coming week for a possible terrorist strike within our borders.”

  The sound of reporters’ excited questions rose and abated.

  “I’m sorry,” Douglas Laidlaw said. “I cannot be more specific about place, method, or time. I simply want our nation to step up its vigilance and take special precautions over the coming week.”

  The signal feed broke from Washington, and the disc jockey came back on.

  “There you have it, a new announcement out of our nation’s capital. Apparently, there are no specific details…”

  Ferrar turned off the radio. That was all he needed: a general warning.

  Now, if he could only make a left turn through the Mayville gas station, head his stolen pickup down a long alley and honk his way through a line of cars at a drive-through restaurant, he just might find a way out of town and back to the railroad tracks.

  It was dusk at CIA Director Lester Friedman’s personal residence in Washington’s posh Georgetown neighborhood.

  “Becky, dear, I’ve got to turn the investigation over to the FBI,” he informed his wife as he stripped off his tie and entered their bedroom after a long day at the office.

  Rebecca reached toward her dresser, picked up a college graduation photograph of their foster son and caressed it with a gentle hand. “I assume you can still keep on top of this problem,” she said.

  “Of course I can. And I will.”

  “I will not rest until you put Ferrar behind bars. I want to look our son’s murderer in the eyes.”

  He nodded and left for his study. There, he picked up the secure telephone and sat down heavily behind his desk to pass the baton to the FBI.

  FBI Director Hank Gibson picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “Hank,” Lester said without preliminaries. “George Ferrar has entered the United States. He’s no longer within our jurisdiction. The case is yours.”

  “I’m well briefed on the case against Ferrar,” Hank said. “In fact, we’ve already obtained wiretap permission from the DC court. Our men are in place.”

  “You’ll have to find a way to take care of Congressman Connors,” Lester warned. “He’s a big fan of George Ferrar.”

  “Don’t worry. I know Connors well. I play golf with him on occasion. Just you relax now. I’ve seen the evidence against Ferrar, and it’s compelling. He’s as guilty as sin.”

  “I’ll have to rely on you, Hank.”

  “I know what you have at stake in this.”

  Lester closed his eyes. His marriage, among other things.

  Congressman Connors waited at his elegantly set dinner table as Lucy served platters of ham and sweet potatoes to him, as well as to five agents and technicians from the FBI.

  “Sweetie,” she said. “Is all this necessary? Don’t you trust George?”

  “I do trust George,” he said. “But this is the compromise I came to with Hank.”

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” the lead FBI agent said, reaching for the sweet potatoes.

  Suddenly the phone rang atop an old-fashioned telephone table.

  The five FBI men scrambled into the living room and took up positions behind their phones, a telephone tracking machine and a tape recorder. Then the lead agent signaled to Connors that he could pick up.

  It was George Ferrar, his voice partially masked by the rumble of heavy traffic. “The bombs are heading west into Ohio by railroad,” Ferrar said. “I suggest that you halt all railway transport immediately. At that point, I will tell you what specific train and containers to look for.”

  Connors slammed his fist against the table. Ferrar was still being cagey. “Isn’t there any kind of evidence you can give me to prove that you’re not blowing smoke up my ass?”

  “What if I can prove that Bolton is still alive? Would that change anything?”

  “What do you mean? It would change everything.”

  After all, the radio transmission from Tray Bolton at Tora Bora had clearly implicated Ferrar. Bolton had described the ambush before his own chilling scream and death. If Bolton weren’t dead, then what was he up to?

  “But you told me that already,” Connors insisted. “And I haven’t seen squat.”

  “If you want to know where Bolton’s been in the past twenty-four hours,” Ferrar said, “just have the FBI stop by Beaver Tail Island in Maine off Bar Harbor. They’ll find Deke Houston’s body there. He was a good friend from the Agency. They’ll also find a stolen ferry from Canada that transported the bombs.”

  “Evidence. I need evidence.”

  “Connors, this sunken boat is beside the dock of Tray Bolton’s family cottage on Beaver Tail Island. You’ll find Bolton’s fingerprints all over the place. You remember the al-Qaeda plot uncovered in documents in Tora Bora? It’s well underway.”

  “How did you know about those documents? That’s classified—”

  The phone went dead.

  Connors set the receiver down and turned to an FBI technician sitting by the coffee table with earphones. The technician nodded. “We’ve got him on tape, and we’ve got the call traced to western New York. A town called Mayville.”

  The lead FBI agent was already on the phone to the field office in Cleveland.

  “You gonna close in on Ferrar?” Connors asked over his shoulder.

  The lead agent shrugged. “Why not?” Then he finished his call and hung up.

  Lucy shot a terrified look at her husband.

  “How about stopping the train with the bombs first?” Connors asked.

  “Word from on top is we’ve got to stop Ferrar.”

  Chapter 15

  Dinner with his FBI watchers would have to wait. Congressman Ralph W. Connors was pissed off. By allowing the FBI to eavesdrop on his telephone conversation with George Ferrar, he had sold Ferrar out. He had thought that the FBI would surely be after the bombs, but instead, they seemed to be after Ferrar.

  Lucy tried to stop him as he stormed from the dining room and out of the house.

  “Wait,” she cried, grabbing him by the elbow. “Don’t get yourself in trouble, too. You can’t stop an FBI investigation.”

  “Lucy, this is not about stopping an investigation. This is about believing in George Ferrar. We trusted him with Melinda, and thank God our daughter is safe and sound and in grad school right now instead of decapitated on a Philippine beach. That wouldn’t have happened without Ferrar.”

  “What’s that?” the lead FBI agent inquired, leaning out the front door toward them. “Saving your daughter from that al-Qaeda group in the Philippines? Don’t think for an instant that he’s legit.”

  Connors stopped dead in his tracks. “What do you mean an al-Qaeda group? It was Abu Sayyaf.”

  “Yeah, well haven’t you been listening to the news lately? The Abu Sayyaf kidnaps people for ransom to fund al-Qaeda. Most likely the money you gave Ferrar as ransom for your daughter went straight into bin Laden’s pocket.”

  Connors stared into the blackness of the residential street. His whole world had turned upside down.

  He felt his wife’s fingers gently tugging him back into the house.

  “Sweetie,” she was saying. “All this has to stop sometime.”

  He hung his head. “Ferrar said that al-Qaeda smuggled a Canadian ship with the bombs right to Bolton’s cottage in Maine.”

  The FBI agent snorted. “Ferrar chose the spot well. He’s still trying to implicate Bolton.”

  “But that’s the location on the Tora Bora documents,” Connors protested.


  “Sir, didn’t Ferrar just divulge that he knew about those documents? He could have written them himself.”

  A shudder went down Connors’ spine. A cold wind was blowing his whole world empty.

  “Sweetie,” his wife said with gentle persistence. “Just let them bring George in for questioning.”

  “I don’t think bringing him in will solve anything,” the agent said. “We have explicit orders to shoot him on sight.”

  Connors closed his eyes tight. It was Ferrar against the world.

  “I know what’s happening here,” he said at last. “This country is about to kill the only man that can save it.”

  George Ferrar became so frustrated trying to follow the railroad line through the nighttime streets of Columbus, Ohio, that he stopped by a convenience store to buy a roadmap.

  “Got freight train tracks on this map?” he asked the attendant as the train rumbled past, shaking the windows of the store.

  “Doubt it,” the gray-haired man said, scratching the back of his head.

  Ferrar bought the map anyway and returned to his stolen pickup. During red lights and at railway crossings, he took the map out and studied it.

  A full hour had ticked by since his call to Congressman Connors, and still the damn train hadn’t come to a stop.

  If the federal government was going to stop all the trains, it could do so using a communication network of stationmasters and signals around the country. If the nation didn’t have the will to do what it took to stop terrorists, the train before him could roll on forever.

  Ohio was once the nation’s switchyard, and still resembled one to him. The possibility of the twenty-car train veering onto any other set of tracks at any time kept him on constant alert.

  According to the map, the road was approaching a small river. For a stretch of fifteen miles or so, the highway ran parallel to the river, with the train probably running alongside. He would have a chance to relax and drive straight for that short while.

  It was amazing how the universes of railways and roadways coexisted so independently. He must have started and stopped a hundred times that day and evening, while the train never changed its speed or direction, barreling southwest toward some destination he couldn’t fathom.