Shelley stared at him in wide-eyed horror. “At least we have the Intel? What Intel, Mel?”
“Apparently the jet took some of Don’s items back to Beirut,” Mel replied. “So we know that, at least. It isn’t much, but at least we’re not going to be led on a wild goose chase, Shel, ending up in Lebanon while Don and Rachel are still here.”
“Okay. What was on the plane?” she asked.
“She’s thinking they could have snuck on board in the boxes,” I said, reading her mind the way I used to when we were together.
“Computer equipment, apparently,” Mel replied, proceeding to read mine. “Nothing big enough for stowaways.”
“So,” Shelley said, her voice trailing off, trying to keep calm as she realized our only lead had been a smokescreen. “Where the hell are they?”
“We…” Mel said. “Shelley, we have no idea.”
My burner phone rang, and I flipped it open, not recognizing the number. I accepted the call but didn’t speak. Just waited out the unknown caller. No one outside of my little group knew the number. Damn.
“Missus Sullivan?” came a courteous voice, by the sounds of it uncertain of the line’s connection. “Hello? Missus Sullivan? Is anyone there?”
Sullivan? Shit, I smacked my forehead. Of course. Shelley just used the phone.
“Hi,” I replied, feeling like an idiot, talking in the most relaxed voice I could muster. “This is her husband, James. What can I do for you?”
“Ah, Mister Sullivan. This is Captain Travis,” came the reply. “I’m calling to advise you all pre-flight checks are complete and we’re ready for take-off at your convenience, sir.”
And then it hit me, out of nowhere. “Keep her grounded for a bit, Captain. There’s been a slight change of plans. I have a work commitment which needs dealing with before we can depart. I assume my wife has already paid in full?”
Questioning looks from Mel and Shelley.
“Yes sir,” he replied. “Paid up and ready to go.”
“Excellent,” I replied. “I’ll call you shortly.”
“No problem, Mister Sullivan.”
I ended the call and looked at the other two. “We need to get out of here fast. Not a word until we get back to the car. Understood?”
“What’s happening, Tom?” Shelley asked.
“He’s got a plan,” Mel said “I recognize that glint in his eye.”
Yup.
Plan B.
“So what’s this plan, Tom?” Mel asked when we were in the car and moving.
“We need to make a stop at Shelley’s place, then my place,” I replied. “We have to pick up our ID and passports.”
“What?” she said. “Why?”
“We haven’t gone through the checkout yet, Shel,” I replied. “No-one can put a face to a name there. We’re going to Lebanon.”
“But they’re not going to Lebanon,” Shelley said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice and failing. “Mel just said-”
“Let’s put it this way, Shel,” I said. “Mister and Missus Sullivan are staying put, but the other couple are going to Lebanon.”
“Nice play, Tom,” Mel said from the drivers’ seat. “Very nice indeed. Give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“So,” Shelley said. “We’re sending an empty plane back to Beirut too?”
“Not completely empty,” I replied. “The plane won’t take off if the passengers aren’t on board. Unless…”
“Unless what?” she asked.
“Unless it’s carrying a precious cargo,” I replied with a grin.
“What cargo?”
“Your wedding ring,” I said. “Your very expensive wedding ring.”
“And why are we going to all this trouble?” she asked, sounding a bit exasperated. “What’s the point of all this cloak and dagger shit?”
“To buy us some time, Shel,” I replied. “As far as we know, Don and Rachel could still be right here in the city. If he’s monitoring the passenger manifests he’ll think his ploy worked.”
“What if he can hack into the airport security feed too?” she asked. “They’ll see exactly what we did. No passengers.” But she sounded hopeful.
“It took Mel’s own people all morning to get through security software,” I replied with a grin. “And they’re the best in the world. Besides, I doubt he’ll even bother.”
“He’s right, Shelley,” Mel said. “As far as Don’s concerned, you’re doing exactly what he set you up to do. Take off in the wrong direction and keep going.”
Shelley nodded.
We stopped to pick up her stuff first, letting her go in alone, telling her to make it fairly clear to the watchers she had come back for her travel documents without outright saying so. When she got back in the car we drove to my place. As we approached the apartment building, I noticed a van parked across the road from the entrance, and something about it spooked me.
Call it SEAL intuition, but something about it struck me as wrong. And the tinted windows didn’t help its case either.
Shit, I thought. This is the last thing we need. Think.
I removed Shelley’s phone and popped the sim-card back in, turned it on and offered it to her.
She looked at me, obviously puzzled. But I just nodded and smiled.
Mel stopped just outside the entrance and I dashed inside, trying to avoid the rain and failing once again. I rode the elevator up to my floor and checked the lock on my front door. No signs of an attempt at a forced entry.
Still, the presence of the van worried me.
I assumed the worst.
I opened the door slowly, making a visual sweep of the place before entering. The open plan design of my apartment meant any thug could only be hiding in the bathroom or the closets.
I didn’t have time for this shit. I walked in, giving off an air of relaxed calm, and retrieved my own documents. I thought about taking a gun, but decided against being seen.
I assumed unknown adversaries monitored me, and I assumed the surveillance included eyes. Besides, Mel could hook me up with the necessary hardware with no trouble at all.
I opened my phone and called Shelley.
“Found them,” I said, speaking clearly. “My ID and passport, just where I thought they were. Be out in a sec. Beirut here we come.”
“Okay…” she replied, sounding like she doubted my sanity. I realized then how paranoid I’d suddenly become.
I hung up.
Sometimes paranoia saved my life.
I returned to the car, slamming the door against the elements, and said, “Let’s go. Right now.”
Mel got the message, we needed to make tracks. But Shelley didn’t understand the need to speed away, and it scared her. I saw it in her eyes. I took the phone from her, removing the battery and sim and pocketed them. I’d destroy them when we got to our destination.
“What-” she began, but I put a discreet finger to my lips. “Got my documents. All ready for the trip. Let’s get on the plane.”
A brief pause.
“Good,” she replied. “Now we can get the hell to Beirut and find my daughter.”
Bingo!
We needed to get away from there before further communication. If the surveillance van, and I felt convinced of it, possessed a directional microphone…
We needed to break line of sight before we could speak comfortably.
Mel hit the gas.
Each of us nursed a beer in the plush comfort of Mel’s lounge. He owned a modern, sprawling penthouse suite in the best suburb in the city, taking up the entire top floor of the building. His style couldn’t be faulted either. All glass and steel, with warm sections of wood in exactly the right places.
Typical stylish bachelor pad.
If you happened to have massive amounts of money.
The windows rose from floor to ceiling, just like all the others in his apartment, and the view, even in the downpour, took one’s breath away. Maybe money couldn’t buy you happi
ness, but it could damn well buy you anything and everything else you could want.
***
Mel made his money in the conventional way, which I suppose surprised many, considering his unconventional nature. He studied computer science and software development at MIT before joining the Navy and eventually making it to SEAL status. When he returned from his final tour of duty, he’d started out by putting together a program he’d been thinking through while on his tours with the SEALs, something we discussed at length during those dark days and darker nights out there in the desert.
I can’t tell you about the program, or the hardware required to use it. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. But I can tell you it made life a hell of a lot easier, and safer, for the men on the ground. Especially the guys in the field, doing covert ops.
Once he’d put it all together, a job which took him only a year, being financed by no-one except himself, he approached certain agencies. They took one look at the prototype and offered ongoing finance for a more refined version on the spot. So he started a company of his own, now a de-facto Defense Contractor with the budget of a small country, and employed ten of the best and brightest out of MIT to work with him.
Within six months his prototype became a reality on the field after which Solid-state Systems grew and grew. More and more military applications were developed and released. The company grew in size by leaps and bounds, eventually infiltrating the public with applications and hardware which quickly become commonplace and gave Solid-state Systems the final push it needed to get it into the Fortune 500. And he did all of it while I had been out there fighting somebody else’s war for them.
A self-made man, worth billions, but always a SEAL.
Always a SEAL.
***
We cancelled the flight to Lebanon for Mister and Missus Sullivan and called the same company immediately after arranging the flight under our own names.
“It’s your lucky day,” the woman said when Shelley and I returned to the airport and checked in at the desk. “A couple just cancelled on us less than half an hour ago. You folks called just afterward, requesting a flight to the same destination, if you can believe it!”
“Wow,” Shelley gushed. “How fortunate.”
The woman smiled, “So we’re fuelled up and ready to go.”
“Great,” I replied, smiling too.
So we went through the gate, and boarded the plane, at which time I promptly received a phone call which dragged us away from the airport and over to Mel’s place, a red herring of our own in place.
But not before handing over an ornate box to the pilot and telling him to keep it safe, and the importance of ensuring its safe arrival. Mel arranged for a pickup of the ring on landing with one of our contacts in Beirut.
We had everything in place.
“The world’s most expensive courier service,” I said as we made our way through the airport and back to Mel at the car. “But it’s worth it.”
But now, sitting back and having a beer at Mel’s place, Shelley seemed distracted. She hadn’t spoken much on the drive here and she sat quietly now, looking out at the rain swept city.
“What’s on your mind, Shel?” I asked.
“What now, Tom?” she replied, not looking away from the view. “What the hell do we do now?”
I had no idea but could not bear the thought of disclosing my misgivings about our next move, much less any move which would lead us to Rachel.
“Now,” Mel said, taking a sip of his beer and reaching for his cell phone. “Now, I make a phone call.”
CHAPTER TEN
The man in the grey suit smiled. His guy in the field came back to him with some news. Some very interesting news indeed.
Shelley’s protector had returned to his apartment to pick up his travel documents. The guy clearly did not believe Shelley’s claims about being under surveillance, because he was perfectly happy to make a call to her cell phone, advising her of the documents he found.
He’d only just received news she obtained her own documents from her home and made a completely transparent attempt to hide her actions. But his guys saw it as they always did.
So, she and GI Joe were on their way to Lebanon, having chartered a private jet. The spoiled bitch enjoyed opulence. Well, he damn well would effect change in her ordered little universe.
She wouldn’t have her wealthy husband’s financial resources for very much longer, and he would watch in amusement as her life fell slowly to pieces.
He reached for his private cell phone and scrolled down to the entry he wanted, hit call, and sat back.
“Yes, sir,” came the prompt reply. “What can I do for you?”
“You can shut up and listen to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who led the team responsible for the installation of the surveillance equipment in the Abaid household?” he asked. “The team leader.”
“Dave Roberts oversaw the project, sir,” he replied instantly, happy to take the spotlight off of himself.
“You sure?” the man in the grey suit asked, his voice barely above a whisper yet emphasizing each word.
“Yes sir,” came the reply. “I handled the assignment myself.”
I wouldn’t advertise it if I were you, he thought but didn’t say. No need to tip anyone off.
“Thanks.”
“Yes, sir,” came a relieved reply. “Thank you, sir.”
The man in the grey suit hung up and immediately made another call.
“Roberts,” came the reply. “What’s up, boss?”
“We need to meet,” he replied. “I have something to discuss with you. Something of great interest.”
“Great,” Roberts replied. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Oh, my pleasure,” he said, trying to hide the amusement in his voice. “Let’s talk over a drink? On Water Street? Nice and quiet.”
“Sounds excellent, sir.”
“You know the place?”
“Yes, sir. Been there a few times.”
It didn’t surprise the man in the grey suit at all. The guy enjoyed trashy joints.
“Good. Meet me there in half an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He hung up.
“I’m going out to lunch,” he called to his assistant, grabbed his coat and headed out the door.
The bar gave the appearance of decency but he would not as a rule choose a dump like this to meet with his people, but it would serve its purpose for this meeting. He liked the quietness, and the booths afforded privacy with the bar further toward the back. But today the bar held an attraction despite its apparent crummy array of cheap alcohol.
He sighed. What else could put a guy at ease in the same way a Bourbon could but would they even stock his favorite drink? Why risk the disappointment?
The waitress came up to his booth.
“Hi there,” she said. “What can I get you?”
“Two beers, please,” he replied pleasantly. “It’s pretty quiet here. You guy’s running a full ship today?”
She shook her head. “Chef’s off sick, so the kitchen’s closed.”
“What a shame.”
She shrugged. “People don’t come here to eat, know what I mean?”
“Indeed.”
A few minutes later, a large, well-built man entered the bar, brushing the rain off his jacket. He scanned around the place until his eyes came to rest on the man in the grey suit. Roberts smiled, and the man in the grey suit waved him over.
Roberts walked across to him and took a seat.
“Good to see you again,” he said. “Sir,” he added, realizing just in time who sat across the table.
“You too,” the man in the grey suit replied, gesturing to the beer. “Go ahead.”
“Don’t mind if I do, sir,” Roberts said with a grin, taking a deep pull on his beer. “So can we discuss this job?”
“Actually,” the man in the grey suit replied with a smile, “someone completed the job
already.”
Roberts’ brow furrowed, “Sir?”
“The Abaid household,” he said dragging out the words. “You acted as Team Leader for the op, right?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “In and out. Easy as can be.”
“Good, good,” he nodded. “It’s a shame you screwed it up.”
The man sat bolt upright, “Sir?”
The gun came out in a blur and the bullet hit Roberts’ head dead center, jerking it back before his body came crashing forward onto the table. The man in the grey suit got up and in one smooth movement shot the waitress and the bartender, and trained his gun on the door he suspected represented the manager’s office, moving toward it with gun at the ready. The manager would no doubt be calling the cops now, only to discover he’d cut the phone lines.
The man in the grey suit opened the door and pulled the trigger one last time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mel and I sat in silence, each with a drink in our hands, looking out over the darkness and brilliant twinkles of light out there in the rain-drenched city night. Shelley had retired to bed out of pure exhaustion a few hours before, and although she claimed sleep would prove elusive, no matter how hard she would try, she passed out the moment her head hit the pillow or rather so it seemed when I’d checked on her not ten minutes later.
I possessed little psychological insight, and any of the vast array of ex-girlfriends stretching back into my illustrious past would be very, very happy to tell you the same, but I guessed Shelley’s exhaustion came as much from the emotional trauma as any kind of physical fatigue. Her mind needed the respite, no matter how brief, from the considerable stress induced by her husband disappearing in the dead of the night with little Rachel in tow.
I could relate.
So I closed the door quietly and joined my friend on the couch and we continued to chat, catching up on lost time, reliving the good old days, or rather the not so good old days. Sort of killing time to fend off the nagging feeling we should have received a call back by now, that we should be doing something.
Anything.
Utterly ridiculous of course as Mel’s point man had made it clear. Getting the kind of information we required would very likely take all night, and we may as well turn in and he’d call in the morning.
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