by Gayle Lynds
“As I recall, he was in the Special Activities Division,” he prompted. The CIA’s elite undercover paramilitary could deploy faster than Army Special Forces. Just two weeks after 9/11, they slipped into Afghanistan. With greenbacks in saddlebags and large steel suitcases, they rode horses and rusty trucks into the backcountry to track down tribal warlords and trade bundles of cash for information about enemy troop positions, armaments, communications, and command structures. They had been remarkably successful.
She moistened her lips. “Yes. A paramilitary officer.” In an instant, it was late November 2001. Snow veiled the steep slopes of the Tora Bora. Wiry and intense, Rafe was huddled with Afghan soldiers near a broken Soviet T-55 tank. In his thick beard, he looked just like them, his wool pakol hat pulled down to one ear in their dashing way. But when he spotted her, his wind-burned face opened in a smile that turned the gray, bitter day into summer and told her everything she needed to know—he was still her Rafe. She had just arrived to work on the critical hunt for Osama bin Laden.
She took a deep breath. “The day I got to the Tora Bora, we caught a mujahid who claimed to cook for bin Laden. He described the cave where bin Laden was holed up. It was consistent with our intel and only a half hour away, but the muj said bin Laden planned to move out by dusk. We had only a couple of hours. So I told Rafe and the Afghans to go ahead. I’d get Special Forces backup. At that point, there was no commander on the scene above the rank of lieutenant colonel.”
He nodded. “I remember.”
“So they took off on horseback. The Special Forces captain wanted to send support, but he didn’t have a specific mission order. So he had to ask the light colonel, and the light colonel crawled up Central Command. No one made a decision. While I was yelling at them to help Rafe anyway, two Russian choppers flew in from the direction of Pakistan and landed near the cave. Within minutes they were back in the air, returning the way they’d come—loaded with people. I radioed Rafe to say it was too late—get the hell out of there—but a hundred al-Qaeda had jumped them. I could hear the automatic fire across the slopes at the same time it was coming over the radio. It was . . . horrible. Then Rafe got shot. He was in a lot of pain, but he held on long enough to tell me a muj was saying we’d tortured the cook until he talked, but bin Laden had escaped because Allah had given him wings.” It felt as if a shard of glass were caught in her throat. “Rafe was signing off when he was shot again. That bullet killed him. All of our Alliance Afghans were killed, too.”
“And you’re the one who told them to go ahead. You’d take care of everything.”
She said nothing, continuing to drive, chin up, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He remembered a box of tissues. He fumbled around and dug it out from beside his seat. She grabbed a wad and dried her cheeks and swiped at her eyes.
He said, “You think one of the Eastern Alliance people warned alQaeda?”
She blew her nose. “The Afghans switched sides a lot, so yes, probably. If Command had backed us, we could’ve got bin Laden. And nobody tortured that cook. We fed him. We’d been able to cut off their food supplies, and he was hungry.”
Tice was silent. Her eyes were puffy and red. She seemed drained and terribly sad. She peered across at him as if to see whether he really had stuck it out with her. Their gazes met. Unexpectedly, vulnerability passed between them. It was only a moment, but the exposure was jarring.
They looked away quickly.
He sat motionless, unnerved. What have you done? The voice was inside his mind before he could stop it. It was always the same accusation. Marie. Mariette. Aaron. Kristoph. He could not bring himself to look at her.
The silence lengthened until finally he said, “It was arrogant of you to send them after bin Laden, but it was also their choice to go without official support. You showed confidence and an ability to see a job that needed to be done. You did the right thing. And now you’re facing another tough decision—you know we’ve got to trust each other.”
The car felt too small to her, claustrophobic. He’s pretending “warmth and compassion.” He doesn’t mean it. She braked as they approached a stoplight. Ahead, farmland rolled off on one side of the black road where leafy trees made shadowy mounds in the fields. She read the intersection’s signs and hid a cold smile. They were only ten miles from the Langley team.
“That’s them!” Rink whacked the steering wheel in triumph. He turned on the BMW’s engine. “Look! You can see the Jag plain as day. We’ve got them now!”
Jerry Angelides sat tensely while excitement prickled his skin. His two Colts—his and Billy’s—waited in his lap. He had a funny feeling, like a spring sunburn. Like the traffic light turned red just so the Jag would have to stop and they could positively ID it. Things were looking up. His four cars were ready.
When the light turned green, and the Jag sped off, he snapped, “Don’t lose her, but stay back!”
Rink pressed the gas pedal. As they followed, Angelides dialed his cell. He would put all of the cars on a conference call and coordinate the attack.
23
Miami, Florida
As Martin Ghranditti’s private Falcon 2000 jet landed with a light bounce, he stared out into Miami’s glitzy night. He could almost smell the frangipani and mango groves in the sultry air. It reminded him of the scent of his woman, the only one he had really loved, dead now nearly twenty years. He had been accused of having no heart, but he carried her there, wrapped in memories, her platinum hair a halo. As the jet’s engines decelerated to a throb, and the craft cruised across the tarmac, he could feel the electricity of her touch. He unsnapped his seat belt and swayed toward the bar.
Armand appeared from nowhere. “Your usual Grey Goose, sir?” He was sixty years old, of moderate height and weight, with a sour face and mouse-gray hair so smooth it could be painted to his pasty skin. He spoke deferentially, the tone of a loyal servant awaiting orders.
Occasionally Ghranditti wondered what Armand was really thinking, what any of them were thinking, but tonight he cared less than usual. “Yes. On the rocks.” He marched to a plush sofa at the front of the jet and sat. He did not bother with a seat belt. They were rolling toward the hangar.
The vodka arrived, and Armand’s hand extracted a side table and set down the glass and vanished. Ghranditti adjusted the glass and drank. He liked the light, clean nose. Even more, he liked the explosiveness of the taste. The vodka shot a mellow glow clear to his gut. He took a deep breath. For some reason, he was in a nostalgic mood. He did not quite approve, but as he had grown older he had allowed himself small indulgences.
He drank again, mourning the Cold War. His era. A great time to be alive. Longing for those days, he stared into his glass and felt a surge of grief. Afterward, the grand old Soviet Union had turned into a sorry New Russia—the munitions dump of the world, where everything was for sale. And worst of all, Russia and the United States quit financing their proxy wars, which killed the small, exclusive club of top weapons players to which he had belonged. The business erupted into chaos. Anyone could show up in Eastern Europe with an end-user certificate and make deals. One result was the new generation was both arrogant and ignorant. Despite the ease of making money in their petty little deals, and their ability to sound cutting-edge by talking e-mail and Web sites, they could not tell an Igla dummy missile from a real one.
Still, to them, he was out of step. An antique, a dinosaur. It had disgusted him so much that he finally retired. Like other Cold War arms titans, he was now off everyone’s radar screen. He wondered whether the others resented it as much as he.
By the time he looked out the window, the jet had stopped inside the hangar. He drained his glass. What he wanted most was to go home to his family, but first he must meet his client.
He stepped from the jet onto the stairs. A stench of diesel and sweat stained the muggy air. As he straightened to his full height, a sense of purpose flowed through him, and he looked down to where a tall, trim man with s
tylishly unkempt hair stood gripping a Toys “R” Us shopping bag in his right hand. He had no beard and wore a Western two-button dark suit and fashionable wire-rimmed glasses on his large nose. The glasses were a focal point, purposefully distracting from the flat cheeks and sharply angular face that could radiate a feral power that even Ghranditti found disconcerting, which was one reason he carried a 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster. The client’s name was Faisal al-Hadi.
“Assalaam alaykom, Sayed Faisal.” Ignoring the handrail, not hurrying, Ghranditti walked down the steps.
“Alaykom assalaam, Sayed Martin,” al-Hadi replied politely. “Izzayak?” “I’m well, thank you,” Ghranditti continued in Arabic. His two security men stood a few feet distant, holding the client’s M-4 and handgun. Behind them waited Ghranditti’s armored limo, the rear doors open. “I hope you’ll ride with me,” he continued. “It will be my pleasure to drop you at your hotel.” This had already been decided, but making it a social pleasantry gave lip service to the lie of friendship. In business as in statecraft, there were no “friends,” only interests.
They climbed into his black limousine. Ghranditti liked dealing with high-echelon Islamic terrorists; one had no illusions. They were smart and deadly and protective to the extreme. But then they lived in armed camps of the mind.
As the limo glided off and the air-conditioning cooled them, Ghranditti nodded at the toy-store bag. “I see you brought the payment.”
“Yes, Martin. And when precisely do you expect to send off the shipment?” Faisal al-Hadi’s gaze was as somber as an imam’s.
“Late tomorrow. I’ll phone with the exact time and place.”
“We find it difficult to release another payment without more assurance.”
“That’s why you’re dealing with Martin Ghranditti,” he said easily. “My terms haven’t changed since the old days. If something goes wrong on my end, you’ll receive it back in full. Guaranteed.”
A fraction of a smile played on al-Hadi’s lips. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard those words from you.”
“Times change. Countries change. And the players change, but weapons are always needed. I was bored.”
Al-Hadi laughed. For an instant, surprise flickered behind the wire-rimmed glasses, almost as if he were embarrassed by his display of good humor.
Ghranditti chuckled.
“It’s your thirst for adventure,” al-Hadi continued knowingly. “I have no illusions you’re doing this because you’ve decided to return to Allah.”
“I have a mission, too. You’re trying to export a religion. I’m trying to save humanity.”
Al-Hadi sobered. “By selling weapons and stolen government product? That makes no sense.”
“Of course it does. It’s shock therapy, a large dose of realism. Or perhaps all of you will simply kill each other off. That’s where the planet’s headed, isn’t it?”
“And meanwhile you grow richer and richer,” al-Hadi said sarcastically. “Oh, yes, I know you’re still operating in the gray areas of the law. You stay anonymous by using wire transfers, front companies, and offshore accounts. You’ve never risked your life in a war zone. You’ve never had to look into the faces of the Muslim parents whose children your guns kill. Servants coddle you. Governments protect you. When our deal is completed, you’ll slip like a gold-plated shadow back into luxury.”
Ghranditti controlled himself. While terrorist leaders like al-Hadi ordered the faithful to live according to premodern times, they flew on jumbo jets and used Web sites to recruit and plan attacks. Their largest source of revenue was narcotics; their largest expense was weapons. Their dominant business partner in both endeavors was America.
Ghranditti despaired over the man’s hypocrisy. “Money is how the world keeps score,” he said calmly. “Terrorism is Big Business—three times the size of the U.S. money supply and growing. Both of us know money ensures you get the attention you want. Why else would you have targeted the World Trade Center? Why else would you be casing other nerve centers of global finance?”
Al-Hadi paused. He blinked slowly.
Ghranditti realized he might have gone too far. He softened his tones. “You’ve come a long way from the first time we met. Your first weapons buy. Nearly twenty years ago now. Do you remember?”
“Always.” Al-Hadi’s anthracite eyes continued to blink slowly, the only sign of his fury. “Jay Tice screwed us, then he ‘saved’ me by arranging to exchange me. I suppose I should be grateful. After all, I lived to execute many Jews. Many infidels.”
Ghranditti looked away. What he recalled most vividly was that Jay Tice and a team of covert operators had uncovered the details of al-Hadi’s enormous shipment. Ghranditti had lost a small fortune. It was the first time—and the last.
Outside the window, skyscrapers burnished by colorful floodlights told Ghranditti they were nearing Miami’s business center. “We’ll be at your hotel soon. Would you allow me to look at the payment now? Not that I don’t trust you, either.” From inside his jacket he removed the printout that listed the finalized shipment.
Al-Hadi took the printout and passed him the Toys “R” Us bag and asked casually, “Are you having problems acquiring any of the items?” Ghranditti felt a warning stab. “Everything’s on schedule. The miniature computers, the LandFlyers, the drones. All of it.”
“You didn’t mention the software.”
“A simple memory lapse. Why?”
“When the great Ghranditti returns, I expect nothing less than perfection,” he said neutrally and handed over a key.
As al-Hadi studied the printout, Ghranditti opened the bag and removed a small metal box. He unlocked the lid and lifted it, his expression unchanged, but his heart rate sped. As the headlamps of passing cars flashed into the limo, hundreds of uncut diamonds glittered, winked, and exploded with silver and blue lights. The mass of jewels was stunning. With a sense of awe, he pushed his index finger into them and stirred. The diamonds were cool and rough and beautiful, like life.
“Satisfactory,” he said at last.
Al-Hadi looked up, irritated. “A half-million dollars’ worth of diamonds are merely ‘satisfactory’?”
“Ah, but you see, satisfaction is everything, isn’t it?”
Near the Sheraton, the limo stopped in the mouth of an alley, blocking it. Ghranditti’s two security guards immediately got out of the front seat, carrying al-Hadi’s weapons. Their hard gazes probed traffic and the scattering of pedestrians as they faded back into the black shadows of the alley. Ghranditti’s chauffeur climbed out from behind the wheel and hurried around to open al-Hadi’s door.
Al-Hadi put one foot onto the concrete then stared back at Ghranditti. “Is Tice still in prison?”
“Yes, of course,” Ghranditti lied smoothly. “Why do you ask?”
“I should’ve killed him long ago.”
Ghranditti nodded, unsurprised, and watched as the dark alley swallowed the terrorist. The chauffeur returned to his steering wheel. The two security men slid into the front seat. And the limo rolled off.
Ghranditti sank back, smiling broadly to himself. Everything he had told al-Hadi about why he had agreed to handle the job was true. But there was also another reason: The news of their unusual transaction would eventually leak out—six months from now, two years from now. It would restore his reputation with a comeback so big that even today’s crop of gloating amateurs would have to acknowledge it. It would also establish his legacy as a pioneering weapons merchant. A legacy was timeless. He wanted—deserved—nothing less.
And now Ghranditti knew there would be no more problems—he had sent Jerry and his men to ambush Jay Tice and Elaine Cunningham based on fresh information supplied by Laurence Litchfield.
The limo crossed the MacArthur Causeway and dove into Miami Beach, one of the most expensive strips of real estate in the world. The landmark moderne hotels for which the oceanfront was known towered to the east, porcelain and gold above the sand. The street wound sou
th. Soon high hedges and pastel-painted walls lined it. Ornate gates that were really security barricades sealed the driveways. On the far side stood mansions with the pedigrees of grand duchesses.
His Mediterranean villa was just ahead. Its armed guards and electronic security system, which rivaled a bank’s, gave him a sense of serenity, because his wife and young children must be protected at all costs. The big gates swung open, and the limo flowed through. He sighed, relaxing. At the portico, Karl jumped out and opened the rear door. Ghranditti emerged and strolled into the imposing foyer. The marble floor extended thirty feet in a half circle. Museum-quality antiques rimmed the room. Tropical plants and flowers in floor vases gave an air of natural beauty to what otherwise might be too austere.
“Is that you, Martin?” his wife called from the library. “Come have a drink with me. I thought you’d be home sooner.”
“I’ll look in on the children first, then I’ll join you.”
He climbed the marble staircase. Its gold rail shone, curving upward to the airy second floor. He had bought the villa ten years ago when he married, knowing it would be filled with children. Now they had three—first a son, then a daughter, then another son. The perfect number. He also bought homes for them in Rome, London, Sun Valley, and Saint Moritz. And this morning, he had closed the deal for the island.
He turned the knob of Aaron’s bedroom door and stepped inside. The boy was asleep, his nose buried in his pillow. With a surge of bittersweet pride, Ghranditti smiled down. At the age of nine, Aaron had given up stuffed animals for the excitement of anything with wheels. Tonight he had a red fire truck possessively under his arm. For a moment, Ghranditti considered the tragedy of the world the boy would inherit unless something radical was done. He ran his fingertips lightly over Aaron’s rumpled hair. He felt his responsibility to this child, to all of them, strongly.
He visited Mariette next. She was small for her age, seven years old, curled up with her dolls. Her long black hair was a mass of shiny ringlets on her pink pillow. A book lay open beside her. Precocious, she had been reading three years. Tonight it was her favorite—Dear Rat by Julia Cunningham. The air smelled of suntan lotion and orange blossoms.