Blood Lies - 15

by Richard Marcinko

  Actually, I was looking forward to writing that report. Shunt was busy pulling out goodies from the hard drives we’d purloined from the terror farm, doing whatever voodoo it is he does to extract data. And there were going to be plenty of photos of guns and dead bodies. Frankly, it was an embarrassment of riches. And telling the secretary of State about it—that was something I just had to arrange in person. It would be like my birthday, only better.

  Work before pleasure, they say, and cash before government checks. So I decided to give Mr. Macleish higher priority. The best way of dealing with him, surely, was for me to pay a visit with the lovely Ms. Reynolds and ask him, WTF?

  The first step was calling Doc.

  “How’s Texas?” I asked Doc.

  “We’re not in Texas.”

  “Why aren’t you in Texas? Where the hell are you?”

  “On our way to Michigan. Here’s the thing, Dick. Macleish isn’t in Texas. He’s up in Michigan. He owns an auto parts manufacturing place up there. They concluded some big man bites dog deal with a Chinese auto company about a month ago and they have a big ceremony set for this evening. It’s a big deal.”

  “How big?”

  “Big. President’s supposed to be there. And the secretary of State.”

  * * *

  Two birds with one stone? Who says God doesn’t like me?

  * * *

  “What time are you due into Detroit?” I asked Doc.

  “Around four.”

  “I want you to wait for me at the airport. Do you understand? I do not want you to talk to Macleish. Keep Melissa far away.”

  “Something up?”

  “Just do it.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper.”

  “Don’t give me that aye, aye bullshit. If Melissa gives you any trouble, you put her over your knee and spank her,” I added.

  “I don’t know that I’d get away with that.”

  “You outweigh her.”

  “It’s not her I’m worried about,” Doc said. “It’s my wife, Donna.”

  Junior called just as I hung up.

  “I was just about to call you,” I told him.

  “Dad, did you check those briefcases?” he asked. He had the tone of someone who’d just won a horse race betting on a horse you declared a nag.

  “Which ones? You mean from the barn?”

  “Those are the ones. Did you check them?”

  “There wasn’t time. Why? Are they filled with money?”

  “No. Semtex. They’re wired to explode.”

  Semtex is plastic explosive.

  “Here’s something else you don’t know,” said Junior. “Shunt just broke into one of the e-mail accounts their computer accessed regularly and found e-mails with information on a presidential event set for tonight. And a bunch of, uh, background dossiers on your friend Jordan Macleish.”

  “That part I did know,” I told him. “Listen, I need you to get me a flight up to Detroit.”

  “Way ahead of you. You have to get over to the airport in a half hour. Secret Service won’t hold the plane for you past that.”

  XIV

  The Secret Service as your private travel agent?

  It pays to have friends in low places.

  I have to skip some of the details of what happened next. To summarize, there was a debate en route to Detroit about how precisely to move ahead. The Service already had people swarming over the camp south of the border. I had not only turned over the hard drives we’d taken, but had also authorized Shunt to give them full access to the data he’d already deciphered.

  Still, it wasn’t exactly clear if anyone was still around to carry out the assassination. There was a good argument to be made that I had already killed all of the plotters.

  Or as one Secret Service agent put it, “You just killed a shitload of bad shit, which personally I’m glad for.”

  But how much of a risk do you take with the president of the United States? Do you let him walk into a place where he may be targeted for assassination?

  Don’t answer that.

  * * *

  At roughly five P.M., a Secret Service team swept the premises of the JPM Electronic Auto Control Factory in Riverview, Michigan. From the outside, at least, the factory was not the kind of building you would associate with cutting edge auto electronics. It was about as attractive as a pile of cement blocks painted a fairly disgusting shade of pinkish red. Which pretty much describes the one-story bunker wannabe that housed JPM.

  Inside, it had a little more going for it—assuming you were a robot. The entire assembly line was run by robots, with exactly one person supervising. There were two other employees, both part-time custodians.

  But times being what they were, JPM represented an important cog in the American industrial universe. The firm had just landed a major contract to supply small electronic doodads controlling brakes to a Chinese company. Rumor has it that the Chinese were already reverse-engineering that doodad, but it’s not my place to speculate.

  JPM was a proud member of the local community, though they weren’t actually adding to the tax base, having been granted a hundred percent abatement of all property taxes for the next fifteen years.

  At least the only human full-timer was paying income taxes, right?

  He was … but to Canada, which was a short drive (but generally long commute in rush-hour traffic) across the river.

  The Secret Service completed its sweep with its normal anal-retentive efficiency and began allowing the invited guests back into the building. All the usual suspects were there—two or three dozen UAW pooh-bahs, vice presidents of all three U.S. (or quasi-U.S.) automakers, a few bank vice presidents, and politicians of every stripe, including a skinny vegan who had run on the Green Party line the year before, but was now in favor of what she called “high-tech mod-u-als.” Maybe she thought this kept dolphins from dying.

  I was there too, nodding to her mindless chatter as the crowd filed inside. I had been given credentials as an independent investor, of which there were about half a dozen invited. It wasn’t really a cover; if anyone asked, I would admit to being myself and supply a story about always being on the lookout for a good investment. This is true, though my investments tend to be made at the local discount beer and soda distributor.

  I spotted Macleish huddling with the mayor and one of the bank VPs. His face blanched when he saw me. He raised his hand and motioned for me to come over through the crowd and talk.

  Smiling, I stayed where I was.

  Doc and Melissa were outside, in the crowd beyond the security cordon. So were Trace, Shotgun, Mongoose, and Veronica. We were all hooked together by radio. I won’t say my guys were looking over the crowd for the Secret Service—the Service needs no help from the likes of me. They were, however, taking in the sights. And I don’t mean the river, though it was a spectacular sight from the city’s nearby riverside park.

  Veronica came north with us. She’d insisted, and frankly I didn’t try very hard to argue her out of it. For one thing, she had many police connections in town, which might make her useful. For another, she was a good cop, and when a good cop gets a whiff of a case, they don’t let it go until it’s completely solved.

  Last but not least, she was the most beautiful woman this side of Karen Fairchild. No way I was getting rid of her before I had to.

  Just as the place filled with local dignitaries, a high school band began playing “Hail to the Chief.” Everyone looked expectantly toward the front door. A pair of Secret Service agents came in through the side door and forced the crowd to move back.

  They were followed by the secretary of State, who strode to the center of the room. The squirrelly aide who’d met me in Texas was in her entourage, carrying a thick loose-leaf binder. Two Chinese gentlemen in dark suits followed a respectful distance behind.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” the secretary of State began. “First, let me deliver some bad news. The president extends his regrets, but press
ing business in Washington required his immediate attention, and he had to return to the White House.”

  The air in the room, what little there was of it, suddenly whooshed away.

  The secretary of State gave a brief speech, then one of the Chinese gentlemen said a few words in his native language. I have no idea exactly what those words were, as no one translated them, and none of the dozen menu items or 752 curse words I know were included.

  “I hope you’ll all join us at the Sky Building downtown for a reception,” announced Macleish when the Chinese businessman finished. “We have hors d’oeuvres and a bar.”

  Now there’s a man who knows how to give a speech.

  I clicked my radio and checked in with Doc, outside looking over the crowd.

  “Nothing going on,” he told me. “No one suspicious, nothing.”

  “All right. Keep watching.”

  * * *

  I admit it: I was disappointed.

  I was sure Hezbollah was aiming at a huge hit for its first appearance in America. Taking out the president of the United States was about as huge as these assholes would ever be able to get. The cancellation couldn’t possibly have changed their plans—it had happened far too late.

  Maybe I had gotten all of them at the farm. Or maybe we’d misread the evidence.

  There’s always a temptation to fit conspiracies neatly together, to connect the dots in exactly the shape you think should be there. Maybe I had jumped to conclusions. Maybe I was so eager to get these Hezbollah scumbags, and punish the cartel, that I had assumed they were a lot more competent than they were in real life.

  Another common mistake in counterterror. Better than underestimating the enemy, though.

  As for Macleish—I had realized he was a bit of a snake from the beginning. The fact that he hadn’t told me everything that was going on—lying about contacting Melissa’s father was a no-no, even if it hadn’t caused any harm—meant he was going to get a good butt kicking.

  But it didn’t make him a terrorist. And up to now not even Shunt had found evidence at all that he was involved in the plot.

  This could easily all be a coincidence. Assuming you believe in those.

  * * *

  “Mr. Marcinko. Dick, how are you?” Macleish held out his hand, ever so hesitantly.

  I grabbed it firmly. “Mr. Macleish.”

  “Jordan, please. Do you have news?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. We’ve secured Ms. Reynolds.”

  “You did—great.”

  He was relieved. It wasn’t an act either. He nearly melted on the spot.

  “I’m grateful. When? Where? Where is she?”

  “She’ll join us at the Sky Towers,” I told him.

  “Mr. Marcinko, you seem to be everywhere these days,” said the secretary of State, joining us. The crowd had begun filtering out.

  “Madam Secretary.” I gave her a little bit of bow to impress the Chinese. “I hope you’re well.”

  “And what brings you to Detroit? Looking for a new car?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve taken care of that little matter Poindexter wanted me to look into for you,” I said, nodding at her aide. He smiled awkwardly.

  “His name isn’t Poindexter, Dick.”

  “Don’t you think it ought to be?” I smiled, then bowed again. “He kind of looks like one.”

  “Richard—”

  “We’re just spell checking the report for you. We’ll present it to you in time for the hearing. I do hope my check will be as quick.”

  “I’ll authorize it this afternoon. Will I like the report?”

  “Is that a requirement for my bill to be paid?”

  “No. Certainly not.”

  “In that case, you will absolutely adore it.”

  One of the Secret Service agents tugged at her sleeve, and she followed him out. I turned back to Macleish.

  “Give me a ride to the reception?” I asked.

  “Gladly.”

  By now the crowd had mostly filtered out. Macleish’s limo was parked a few yards from the front door. We got into the back, settling into the thick leather seats.

  “Take us over to Sky,” he told the driver.

  “Yes, sir,” said the driver.

  Macleish leaned forward. “Are you the driver I had earlier?”

  “He wasn’t feeling well.”

  “I see. What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Doc. Everybody does.”

  Macleish glanced at me, smiling. “Good nickname,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So when can I see Melissa?” said Macleish.

  “We can arrange that pretty soon,” I told him. “Any moment, actually.”

  Right on cue, the door on Macleish’s side opened.

  “Melissa!” he said, reaching out his hands.

  She hit him square in the face with her fist. He jerked back, stunned. Melissa grabbed his legs and pulled him out of the car. His head bounced on the sidewalk. He started to get up, but stopped when she delivered a heel to his jaw.

  The kick looked suspiciously like something Trace often taught new recruits and women in her self-defense classes.

  “Whoa, whoa, that’s enough,” I said, jumping out of the car.

  Trace ran up from nearby and grabbed her from behind before she could deliver another blow.

  “Take it easy now,” she said. “Easy.”

  “God,” Macleish moaned from the ground. “God. You could have killed me.”

  “I will kill you,” she said. “You had me kidnapped, you scumbag.”

  “No,” he said. He was bleeding from his nose and his mouth. Doc unfolded himself from the car and knelt down next to him. “No. It wasn’t me. They kidnapped you to get at me, so I would cooperate. They had people in the agencies—that’s why I went to Marcinko. I knew he’d be able to handle it. It’s what your father would have done.”

  “But you never told him,” said Doc. “Greenie didn’t even know his daughter was kidnapped.”

  “I couldn’t get him. I’m sure he would have hired Marcinko. And—look. It worked.”

  “What did the cartel want from you?” I asked.

  “Just for me to hire someone as my events director.”

  “What?”

  “I told them I had people, then they kidnapped Melissa and said I’d cooperate or else.”

  “You need some X-rays,” said Doc.

  “I think my jaw is broken. It feels broken.”

  “Maybe,” said Doc. “But your ankle is definitely broken. Look at it this way: you’re still breathing. That’s a good sign.”

  Doc glanced at me and nodded. I stepped back and took out my cell phone to call for an ambulance.

  “I didn’t have you kidnapped,” Macleish managed. “Honest, I didn’t.”

  It was only at that moment that I realized what the plot was.

  What was it my mom used to say? A day late and a dollar short.

  “Doc, stay here and get him to the hospital,” I yelled, hopping in the town car. “Everybody else, with me.”

  XV

  Why would a Mexican drug cartel blackmail a dopey rich guy to get an events coordinator hired?

  Makes about as much sense as some of the economic forecasts coming out of Washington these days.

  Unless you were looking for a way to get some of your people—or friends of your people—hired to a very specific event.

  Macleish had planned a very fancy reception in downtown Detroit. Until a half hour before, the president of the United States was supposed to be the guest of honor—a fact that had been known in the right circles for roughly two months, well in advance of Melissa’s kidnapping.

  Traffic in Detroit doesn’t approach the epic levels of L.A. or D.C., but it can still be a bitch. Coming up from the south and having just missed rush hour, it looked for a few moments that we had escaped the worst of it. I was able to get onto Biddle Avenue and, with some judicious use of the passing
lane, make it north of Wyndotte inside of a minute or two. But at Goddard Street, Murphy intervened: a sea of red taillights appeared before me, the result of a backup that extended more than a mile north.

  Murphy had seen fit to nudge a gasoline tanker into a tour bus up on West Outer Drive. There was no fire, but the wreck blocked traffic in both directions. Within seconds I was hemmed in on all sides, not that there was much alternative on the nearby roads anyway.

  “Lots of boats in that marina, Dick,” suggested Mongoose.

  “Good thinking,” I said. I threw the car into reverse—possibly I nudged the bumper of the vehicle behind me—angled to the right, then hit the gas and bounded up over the sidewalk. I shot between a pair of trees—maybe I scraped the doors on the bark—and drove into a parking lot.

  Veering out of the way of an oncoming truck, I steered over a railroad crossing and found myself in an industrial yard with pipes running overhead and large tanks of gas marked “DANGER” dead ahead. The Lincoln fishtailed on me as I swung to the right; about midskid I saw an alleyway between the nearest tanks and cranked the wheel back. We got through the alley and flew over another set of tracks, this time without the benefit of a crossing. One of the tires blew as the hub cracked, and I lost the tailpipe. But momentum is a stubborn thing, and I managed to get the car up over the tracks and onto an asphalt lot. I fought it straight for about twenty or thirty yards, until finally the town car just decided enough was enough.

  “First one to the docks, grab the fastest boat you can find,” I yelled as everyone leapt from the car.

  I did my best to keep up with the others as they raced through the next lot, ducked between a pair of sewage treatment lagoons, and hopped a fence onto a long cement pier. A middle-aged black man with a trim goatee was just tying up his speedboat as Trace and Mongoose—running nearly neck to neck—reached his slip.

  “Need your boat,” yelled Mongoose, gasping for breath.

  “Emergency downtown,” said Trace.

  “I’m with the police,” said Veronica, fishing out a badge as she ran up behind them.