Wyatt's Revenge

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “No sweat,” said the Arabic speaker. “You guys are a lot of fun.”

  We took both cars, Jock’s rental Mercedes and Burke’s Acura. Logan and the Arabic speaker rode with the general. An hour later we pulled into parking places on Allawi’s street. Two Frankfurt police cars were parked in front of the house, another in the driveway, blue strobes reflecting off the windows of the houses on either side of the street. Uniformed officers stood in a knot on the sidewalk, tucked into cold weather gear, slapping their hands together to keep warm. Little puffs of clouds escaped their noses as they exhaled into the cold air. A coroner’s van made its way down the street and turned into the driveway.

  There was no sign of Olenski.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  buenos aires, argentina

  july 1945

  The wind off the Rio de la Plata was bitterly cold. The heavy topcoat worn by the American did little to blunt its force. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself in a futile attempt to find a little warmth. He was wearing a three-piece wool suit under the coat, white shirt, regimental tie. His black lace-up shoes reflected the lights of the quay.

  A tugboat was pushing an old ship, the M.V. Don Zierke, a tramp with a straight-edged bow, into the wharf behind the chain-link fence. The American’s companion was of medium height and stocky. His large nose was red, the sign of a man fighting a cold. From time to time, he’d put a handkerchief to his face and blow his nose. He wore a long overcoat over black trousers. A purple zucchetto, the skullcap of a Roman Catholic bishop, perched on the back of his head of gray hair.

  Just as the weather in Europe was moving toward a mild summer, the American had flown into Argentina in the middle of its winter. No matter. He’d only be here a few days. Then back to the States. The OSS money deposited in the account controlled by Monsignor Petranovic in Genoa had a long reach.

  The American had arrived in Buenos Aires a week before. He’d sought an audience with the bishop, a man called Augustin Barrere, whose name he’d been given by Petranovic. The bishop was expecting him, and he was shown to a comfortable study in the rectory next to the church. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, casting a warm glow into the room. Bookcases lined the walls, each filled with leather-bound volumes. Thick Oriental carpets covered a hardwood floor, the furniture leather and manly looking. The bishop offered a snifter of brandy.

  The American took a sip, frowned, the alcohol burning his throat as it went down. He coughed, slightly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a shot of good brandy.”

  “Enjoy. How can I be of help to you?” The priest’s English was good, but accented by the Rioplatense Spanish spoken in the area.

  “I’m not sure when the ship from Genoa is supposed to get here, but I need to meet my man and get him out of Argentina.”

  “The ship will dock in seven days, weather permitting. It is making good time from Italy, but it is an old and slow ship. How will you arrange to get your man into the U.S.?”

  “I didn’t say we were going to the U.S.”

  “Sorry. I just assumed that since you are an American officer, that’s where you’ll go.”

  The American’s lips twitched, perhaps a smile, but one with a hint of steel. “I paid extra so that no one would remember that I’m a serving officer.”

  “No one knows other than two people in Genoa and me. Your secret is safe.”

  The American relaxed. “I’ve got my end handled, but I’ll need your help in getting him out of Argentina.”

  “Do you have a passport for your man?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will need to have it for a few days to get the proper clearance.”

  “Okay.”

  “What name is on the passport?”

  “Andrew Bracken, but that’s not the name he’ll be using after we clear your country.”

  “Tell me where you are staying, and I will be in touch when I have more definite information.”

  The American handed over the passport and left the bishop sipping another snifter of good brandy. He spent the next few days sightseeing and tasting the amenities of a city not ravaged by war. His trip from Europe had been long and arduous, and he enjoyed the leisure time to overcome its effects.

  The cold weather continued, and on the sixth day a messenger came from the bishop. The American was handed an envelope containing the passport and necessary exit documents in the name of Andrew Bracken. There was a note telling him to meet the bishop at the port the next night, and directions to the rendezvous.

  On the appointed night, he found himself standing on a wharf on the Rio de la Plata waiting to rescue a man he loathed. Sleet was in the wind, the temperature dropping. He snuggled down into his coat, and wished the damn boat would get settled in its berth.

  The ship came abreast of the wharf. Men on the bow and stern threw lines to longshoremen on the dock. The heaving lines were brought in and the heavy docking lines were slipped over bollards. The ship rested. A gangway was put over the side, and a man dressed in suit and tie went aboard. A customs agent.

  The bishop and the American moved toward the gate where an Argentine soldier stood guard, his old Lee-Enfield rifle positioned at parade rest. He snapped to attention as the men approached, and said, “Buenas noches, Excellencia.”

  The bishop nodded and spoke in Spanish, a language the American did not understand. The soldier relaxed and opened the gate. They moved toward the gangway, and stopped a few feet away.

  A priest, dressed in a flowing black cassock, no overcoat, left the ship. The American moved toward him, and said, “Good evening, Monsieur de Fresne.”

  The priest tensed, looked closely at the American and relaxed. “Major,” he said. “So good of you to meet me. I’m freezing.”

  “Come along. I’ve got a coat in the car.”

  They walked to the bishop and together went out the gate, the soldier again snapping to attention.

  “What now?” asked de Fresne. “I’ve been on that fucking boat for three weeks. I need a bath and some good food.”

  “The bishop will drop us at a hotel,” said the American. “We’ll be here for a few days, and then we’ll be going north.”

  “I hope it’s warmer there than here.”

  The American grinned. “I think you’ll like Florida.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Burke and Logan were parked behind us, across the street from Allawi’s house. The general was talking on his cell phone. He pulled out onto the street, lowered his window, and motioned for us to follow. He turned right at the corner and drove straight for about three blocks, slowed and pulled to the curb. We were in a shopping district, with low-rise buildings housing shops and small markets. A man, head down, carrying a briefcase, walked purposefully from the doorway of a shop that sold secondhand clothes. He was wearing a long overcoat, frayed at the elbows and cuffs. His head was covered with a knit hat riding low on his forehead and pulled over his ears. He walked to the curb where Burke’s car sat, motor idling, the exhaust visible in the cold air. The back door of the Acura opened, and the man got in. Burke pulled back into traffic. Jock let two cars get between us and then pulled into the street.

  “Was that Olenski?” Jessica asked.

  “I think so,” said Jock.

  “I’m glad he got out before the cops got there,” I said. “Maybe he found something.”

  We drove through the city streets, the snow coming harder, the windshield wipers straining. My cell phone rang. Burke.

  “We’ve got Ski,” he said. “I don’t think we’re being followed, but I want you guys to peel off and make sure you lose anybody that may be tailing you. Meet me at my apartment in thirty minutes.” He gave me an address in a neighborhood near the consulate.

  I told Jock what we were doing. He took the next turn and spent twenty minutes driving evasively, doubling back, turning into parking lots, going through one high-rise parking garage, and around traffic circles, exiting at high speed, cutting off ot
her drivers.

  We found the address Burke had given us. We parked and took the elevator to the top floor. Burke, Logan, Ski, and the Arabic speaker had just arrived. “Come in,” said Burke. “This apartment is owned by the consulate. They house visiting diplomats here and in another apartment one floor below. This is my home away from home.”

  Ski threw the old overcoat and hat across the back of a sofa. “I heard you guys had a bad time of it. We should have thought about the GPS thing. A lot of cell phones have that now.”

  “What happened with you?” I asked.

  “I got into the house and found Allawi’s study. His desk had a stack of papers on it, but they were in Arabic. This briefcase was sitting on the floor behind the desk, so I opened it to put the papers in and found another stack of documents. These were in English.

  “I was going through the desk drawers when I heard the sirens. Sounded like they were coming my way, so I went out the back door. There was a lady standing in the kitchen when I left. She might have been a cook or something. She was wearing an apron, and there was a bag of groceries that she’d dropped on the floor. She was crying and begging me not to shoot her. I think she must have come in to work and found the bodies. Called the cops.”

  Burke put the briefcase on the dining room table. “Let’s see if there’s anything here that’ll help us.”

  He pulled a sheaf of documents with Arabic script and handed them to the translator. “See what you can make of this.”

  He looked at the papers written in English. “There’s a lot here. Let’s divide these up and see if we find anything.”

  Olenski went out to a neighborhood Italian restaurant and returned with several kinds of pizza. We sat around the table, perusing the papers and munching. Occasionally, someone would remark on a document. They all seemed to have to do with Allawi’s banking empire; mostly business letters from branches around the world. Some were orders for oil drilling equipment, a few were in Spanish. Jock took those, but there was nothing of interest to us.

  Jessica was nearing the bottom of her stack of documents when she raised her head. “This is interesting. It’s a utility bill from Florida Power and Light.”

  “What’s the name on the bill?” I asked

  “Allawi.”

  “Does it have a service address listed?”

  “Palm Beach, Florida.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I looked at my watch. It was nearing six o’clock, almost noon on Longboat Key. “I’m going to call Debbie, see what she can turn up with her magic computer.”

  “I doubt that’ll do us much good,” said Jock. “Even if Allawi owns that house, he’s probably got places all over world. We don’t know where he’s gotten off to.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  Debbie took what information I could give her and said she’d get back to me. She called in an hour. “That house is owned by Mohammed Allawi, whose mailing address is Frankfurt, Germany. Do you need any more information on it? Building plans? Costs?”

  “Not right now, Deb. Thanks.”

  “What did you find out?” asked Logan.

  “Allawi owns the house and has his tax bills sent to Frankfurt.”

  “If he’s heading to Florida, he won’t make it before tomorrow,” Jock said.

  “Is there any way we can check?” Logan asked.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I said, and picked up my phone. I called Chief Bill Lester on Longboat Key and told him I needed a favor.

  “Where are you, Matt? And where the hell is Logan?”

  “We’re in Germany.”

  “Crap. Sorry I asked. I don’t want to know any more about this.”

  “No, you probably don’t. Do you know the police chief in Palm Beach?”

  “Sure. We’re both on the board of the Florida Police Chiefs Association. I see him at meetings all the time. Why?”

  “Well, it has to do with that favor I need.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking about screwing up somebody else’s island.”

  “I just need some information. There’s a guy named Mohammed Allawi who owns a house in Palm Beach. I need somebody to go by there on some subterfuge and see if Allawi is in residence.”

  “Is anything going to come back to bite me on this?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell the chief over there that we’re checking out a story that Allawi is involved in drugs or something and is supposed to be in Palm Beach. He can send an officer out to make sure Allawi is at home.”

  “Wait until tomorrow, Bill. I think he’s on his way from Germany.”

  “What’s this all about, Matt?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Nope. Forget I asked.”

  “Call me tomorrow as soon as you find out something.”

  “Sure. What about Logan?”

  “He’s with me, and he’s talked to Marie. I’d appreciate it if you’d handle this like a nonevent.”

  “Man, you and your buddies are going to cost me my job one day.” He hung up.

  We finished the pizza, and Olenski left for his quarters. The rest of us bedded down on the floor, giving Jessica the lone bedroom. We were past tired. The trip to Frankfurt, three hours of sleep, and the day of activity had taken its toll. I slept like the dead and didn’t awake until past nine in the morning.

  It was snowing again, the flakes piling up in drifts along the street. I heard a truck outside, straining, its tires spinning on the icy pavement. I got out of the bedroll Burke had given me in place of a bed. Jock and Logan were still sleeping on theirs. I heard noise from the kitchen, the general making coffee. I could smell it and was almost overcome with the intensity of my need for caffeine.

  I went to the half bath off the small foyer, brushed my teeth and washed my face. I joined Burke in the kitchen, and he handed me a mug of steaming coffee. “That was fun yesterday,” he said. “I haven’t done anything like that in a long time.”

  “I appreciate your help.”

  “I want Wyatt’s murderers, too, L.T. Where do you go from here?”

  “If we can find Allawi, I’m going after him.”

  “I have to get back to Berlin today. I wish I could go with you.”

  “Get another couple of stars for Wyatt, old buddy. He’d be proud.”

  “Ski and I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. He’s on his way over with a car to take us to the airport. You can stay here until tomorrow morning. I’ve squared it with the consulate people, but somebody else is coming in tomorrow. From Turkey, I think.”

  “Thanks, Burke. I’ll let you know what we’re doing.”

  The others got up, drank their coffee, and ate pastries brought by Olenski. The general and his sergeant said good-bye, wished us luck, and left for the airport. The day dragged by, boredom and anxiety our companions. Jock made a couple of phone calls to see if he could get a jet in position in case we needed to leave for Florida.

  I took Jessica aside, sat next to her on the sofa. “Jess, if we go, it’s a one-way trip. We’ll either get Allawi or we won’t. Either way, we won’t be coming back.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “That you should go back to Paris, and pick up your life. I think the danger’s passed. If not, it will in a few days. Stay in the embassy where you have security, and I’ll call you in a couple of days and let you know what happens.”

  “Matt, I need to see this through.”

  “You’ve been a tremendous help. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. But now, we’re going to see more of what we saw yesterday. People are going to be trying to kill us. Logan and I were trained for this a long time ago. Jock, too.”

  She flared, her eyes narrowed, her face flushed. “I can handle myself.”

  “Not in this league, you can’t. You’ll get somebody killed. Every one of us will be watching out for you when we need to be on the top of our game.” I said it more harshly than I meant to. I smiled, trying to
soften the blow. “Jess, you’re incredible. You’re bright, you’re beautiful, and you’re tough, and I want to get to know you better when this is over. But that can’t happen if you’re dead.”

  Her face softened. “Okay. When this is over, you bring your sorry butt to Paris.”

  “Or, you could bring your pert little one to Longboat Key.”

  “Pert? Nobody ever called it that before.”

  “Probably,” I said, “because nobody’s ever studied it as closely as I have.”

  I put Jessica into a cab for the airport in the early afternoon. A security man from the embassy would meet her in Paris. She’d keep a low profile until I called her with the all clear. Jock’s influence had ensured that the ambassador wouldn’t ask too many questions.

  As darkness was painting the windows, Bill Lester called. “Your man is in Palm Beach.”

  “You sure?”

  “The chief himself talked to him. Saw his passport. It’s Allawi.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  “Remember, this thing better not bite me in the butt.”

  I laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  I told Jock and Logan what Lester had said. “I guess we’re headed for Florida. How the hell do the airline people do this?”

  Jock laughed. “They’re younger. Let’s roll. The Gulfstream’s at Rhine-Main.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  We came in by boat, beaching the twenty-footer in front of the Allawi mansion. It was two in the morning, a dark night with low clouds obscuring the moon. Jock, Logan, and I were dressed in black jumpsuits, camouflage paint smeared on our faces. We each had an M-16 and a holstered nine-millimeter pistol. Jock carried a dart gun in case there were dogs.

  As we came in toward the beach, I dropped a stern anchor, a Dan-forth whose flukes would grab the bottom. I dragged the forward anchor onto shore and set it deep in the sand. There was little surf, and I thought the boat would ride comfortably.