Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  “Thanks, man. I owe you one.” He ended the transmission, punched in the number, almost clipping the front end of an irate Chevy Blazer with the Shark’s tail fin as he continued roaring toward Bolling AFB.

  “MacLean residence.”

  “Max MacLean, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. MacLean is not avail—”

  “It’s Pat Carlton. It’s urgent. He’ll want to speak with me.”

  “One moment, please.”

  MacLean came on the line almost immediately. “MacLean here. It’s unfortunate we have to meet under such circumstances.”

  “Mr. MacLean, I was almost murdered in my apartment ten minutes ago. I called to tell you and Dan to disappear. If they’re hunting me, they’re hunting you.”

  “It’s too late, Pat.”

  “What do you mean? Leave town.”

  “Dan is dead.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “My jet was taking him to Andrews. It crashed several hours ago. The Coast Guard is conducting a search, but I’m too much of a realist to think he’s still alive.”

  “Nonetheless, you should get out now.”

  “And go where? I’m much safer at home. I have people guarding me.”

  “Well, that’s your choice. I’m getting the hell out of Dodge. And I need your help.”

  “You have it.” There was no hesitation. “But first I want to know whatever you know.”

  “You really don’t.”

  “I do. Spit it out or you’re on your own.”

  Carlton thought about the risks for an instant. Fress was already trying to kill him. How much worse could it get? “Very well. The White House Chief of Staff is being paid off by Waterboer to prevent diamond mining in Arkansas. The rest you know.”

  MacLean sucked in air. “That means that this won’t just go away. It won’t stop until one side wins. What do you need?”

  “I need to disappear.”

  There was an awkward pause. “You’re Navy, correct?”

  “Yes.” Wenzel had done his research, that’s for sure.”

  “Get to Andrews Air Force Base. See a man named Colonel Saunders. He was expecting Wenzel. I’ll call him. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  “But what if—”

  “Just trust me.”

  “Thank you.” He hung up, dialed Erika’s cell phone number. If they had tried to kill him, had killed Wenzel, Erika was next.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Pat.”

  “I’m at National about to board. What the hell’s—”

  “Don’t board! Whatever you do, don’t board. Grab a cab. Go to the main gate of Andrews Air Force Base. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Andrews? That’s in Maryland. I’ll rent a car.”

  “No. They’ll trace you to it. They’re probably listening, so it’s already a race. Grab a cab. Do it now.” He hit the “end” button, tossed the telephone on the seat next to him. Traffic was even lighter now. Practically no one was traveling D.C. to Maryland on the Beltway. He glanced at his speedometer—ninety-three. He slowed down. The last thing he needed was getting pulled over by state troopers. Andrews was in upper Maryland. It would have been easier to get to from the opposite direction on the circular Beltway, but he could get to Maryland over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and then go north. Maryland was a safer part of the ring than Washington.

  The Woodrow Wilson Bridge loomed ahead. Flashing red warning lights indicated the raising of the drawbridge above the juncture of the Potomac River and Chesapeake Bay. Carlton slowed to a crawl.

  A car bumped him from behind. A burst of adrenaline shot through him. He had been too busy concentrating on the telephone and hadn’t noticed the car, a navy blue Ford sedan. Government car. It rode less than a foot from his rear bumper. It was not slowing down in response to the drawbridge lights. It was accelerating!

  Carlton stomped down the accelerator, revved the massive Cadillac V8 to life. The Ford missed his chrome bumper by inches, fell back, sped up to try again.

  Only five hundred feet separated him from the part of the bridge that was beginning to rise into the air. On a motorcycle, he probably could have jumped the bridge. But he was in a Cadillac. A 1958, two-ton, chrome and steel Cadillac. This was not some cliché cop movie. Jumping the bridge was not an option.

  The Ford rammed him this time, jolted the Caddy out of its lane. Then it shot forward and sidled up to the right of the Shark. Carlton slammed the gear shift down to second gear. The engine protested, but gunned the Caddy forward. But its ’50s engineering was no match for the modern Ford.

  Soon it was next to him again. Its tinted rear driver’s side window slid down. Carlton’s blood froze as a Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun appeared in the hands of a face-painted gunman. The 800-round per minute German weapon was less than six feet from Carlton’s head.

  He had nowhere to go. The Shark couldn’t outrun the Ford. The drawbridge continued to tilt upward ahead. The opposite lanes were blocked by a solid concrete and metal wall. The Glock 20 on the passenger seat next to him was no match for the H&K submachine gun or the Ford’s windows, which he suspected were bulletproof.

  The gunman squinted.

  Carlton stomped on the brakes. The Caddy’s tires locked, burned rubber against the rough pavement. The Ford shot past Carlton as a flash of fire burst from the sub-machine gun. Firefly-like ricochets sparked against the wall ahead of him.

  The Ford slowed to match Carlton’s speed. But as the Shark continued to decelerate, wheels still locked, its rear end slewed to the right. Its jackknife position afforded Carlton a straight line of sight to the Ford through his passenger window. He grabbed the Glock, fired four rounds toward the Ford, blowing out his own passenger window.

  The Ford continued to approach, framed in Carlton’s passenger window as the Caddy continued to skid.

  The drawbridge was very close now. Carlton shifted into first gear, pressed hard on the accelerator, corrected the Caddy’s skid, and flew past the Ford a hundred feet away from the upturned drawbridge. He discharged five more rounds at the driver, who ducked unnecessarily as the bullets ricocheted off the Ford’s armored glass windows. Unharmed, the driver accelerated and followed. Within fifty feet of the drawbridge, the needle on the Cadillac’s speedometer reached fifty-two. Carlton shifted into second. Another burst of fire from the machine gun tore through the plastic rear window and exploded Carlton’s windshield. He crunched low in his seat and momentarily shut his eyes to avoid being blinded by the shards of glass that whipped him in the glacial air. The Ford was approaching fast, then matched speeds, then began to lose ground. One of his stray rounds had punctured one of the Ford’s rear tires.

  When Carlton smashed through the wooden drawbridge arm, the Shark was moving at over sixty. Luckily, the bridge operator had seen the chase and started to lower the bridge, but it didn’t close in time for the Shark. In a roar, the two-ton block of chrome and steel rocketed up the half-raised drawbridge ramp and became airborne, fins and all.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Carlton remembered his Navy training, kept his tongue inside his mouth to prevent it from being cut off in the jolt to follow.

  The Cadillac smashed down the opposite metal ramp in a blizzard of sparks. Carlton was slammed deep into his seat. The Shark’s underbelly groaned obscenely as its suspension tried to absorb the shock. He felt as though his head were dislodging from his shoulders. After several seconds of shock, he pressed down on the accelerator. The engine still worked! He put it in ‘drive’ and sped toward Northern Maryland, turned to see whether the Ford had followed suit.

  It never even made it up the ramp.

  Two for two.

  He ejected the Glock’s magazine, replaced it with a fresh one, and mouthed first a prayer of thanks, then a second prayer that 1950s American craftsmanship and Erika’s cabbie would get them all the way to Andrews.

  The Shark was tough, but there was only so much the 1958 Caddy could take. After th
e massive shock from the drawbridge and the severe strain from the acceleration, the V8 engine sputtered and died. He pulled over to the side of the road, tried the ignition. Again and again. There was still plenty of gas, he noted, but no oil. The jarring impact back at the drawbridge must have punctured the oil case - or shorn it off. The engine was badly overheated. His attempts at restarting the engine were met with grinding from the starter and a high-pitched whine from the radiator hose. He had both water and oil in the trunk. But from long experience, he knew that even refilling the radiator and the oil case would not revive the car.

  “Dammit!”

  He slammed the steering wheel with his palm, realizing at the same time how lucky he was to have made it this far. He could be lying in a pool of blood on the floor of his apartment, dead on the Beltway, submerged beneath the Potomac. He was alive. Stranded, but alive. And he intended to stay that way.

  He holstered the Glock and stepped out of the car into the freezing darkness of the Maryland countryside. He would have to walk. The last sign had announced ten miles to Andrews AFB. That had been a ways back. He locked the car, turned up his collar, stuffed his hands deep into his uniform pockets, and started toward Andrews in the pitch black night.

  Oddly, Fress’s goons temporarily stopped worrying him. He had overcome them in his apartment and on the bridge. Let ’em take their best shot, he thought, his heart still rapidly pumping adrenaline through his veins.

  What worried him was Erika. They must have followed her, just like they had followed him. They would not let her get to Andrews. Maybe.

  It was a maybe he would have to risk. He had no other options. He moved on.

  The brisk walk through the cold night air allowed him to think. Events had moved so quickly. The note from Mazursky. The threat from Waterboer. The apartment. The instructions from MacLean. The shootout. The bridge. He had escaped, but to where? He knew what and where he was running from, but where was he running to? Saunders, MacLean had told him. Who the hell was Saunders?

  Realizing he had more questions than answers, he tried to empty his mind, give it a rest.

  Headlights appeared behind him, grew brighter. His shadow grew to grotesque proportions in front of him. A new jolt of fear nearly paralyzed him. He desperately wanted to run into the forest that lined the road, less than ten feet away. But he forced himself to continue walking at the same speed without looking back, hoping it would just pass.

  The car slowed.

  No.

  Slower and slower. Louder and louder. Walking fast, Carlton turned back just as the car slowed to a crawl to match his gait. It was a Humvee, painted in green and black camouflage, although its camouflage wouldn’t have helped much against the snowy forest. He shuddered with fear before remembering he was wearing his uniform. He stopped. So did the Humvee.

  An African-American sergeant in fatigues stuck his head out of the window, saluted him. “Sir. That your car back there, sir?”

  “Died on me on my way to the base,” he said, returning the salute.

  “Well, hop in, sir. We’ll take you.” Despite the internecine rivalry between the Air Force and Navy, to the sergeant, any stranded American military man, even a Navy officer, was a brother in need.

  “‘Preciate it, Sergeant.” He hoisted himself into the backseat ahead of the massive tires. The Humvee roared back to life and sped through the snow.

  The sergeant switched on the interior light, turned back toward Carlton. ”Don’t see many Navy personnel in these parts, sir,” the sergeant said politely, meaning Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing here? And why not? Carlton could be some nut in a rented Navy uniform.

  “I’ll bet.” Carlton was about to flash his ID, decided it was too much of a risk. “Navy intel. We’re everywhere and nowhere. At least that’s what the recruiter told me.” He chuckled, knowing he had to tell the sergeant something. “I’ve got a meeting with Colonel Saunders. Never would have made it on time if you hadn’t come along. I appreciate it.”

  The mention of Saunders seemed to satisfy the sergeant. “We’ll take you right to him, sir. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” With that, he killed the light and turned forward. Carlton had no idea who Saunders was, but the man’s name had already helped him.

  Ten minutes later, the Humvee stopped at the front gate of Andrews AFB, where the president’s Boeing 747 and Sikorsky S-61—Air Force One and Marine One when aloft — were hangared.

  “I’m here to see Colonel Saunders.”

  One of the two MPs verified Carlton’s identification and waved the truck on without a word. The Humvee rumbled through the gates and passed by several barracks before it stopped in front of a large white brick building.

  “You’ll find Colonel Saunders inside, sir,” the sergeant announced.

  “Thanks for the lift, sergeant.”

  “Anytime, sir.”

  Carlton heard the Humvee drive off. A man walked out of the building. Illuminated from the back, he appeared only as a dark shadow. It didn’t feel right. Maybe Fress’s thugs had called ahead. But there was nowhere to run. Carlton kept walking. Only when he got to within a few feet of the man did he notice the bright blue Air Force uniform, the silver bird on his shoulder, his name tag. He exhaled with relief and saluted. “Lieutenant Carlton, sir.”

  Saunders returned the salute. “Follow me.”

  He led the way back into the building and up a stairway into a small, dark office. Myriad photographs of airplanes wallpapered the room. Saunders walked behind the desk, pointed at a vinyl chair. ”Sit down, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Carlton sat on the edge of the chair.

  Saunders sat at his desk, reclined. The African-American’s dark face finally broke into a smile. “I believe we have a mutual friend...”

  “MacLean.”

  He nodded once. “He tells me you need an airlift out of here. Last passenger DIA.”

  “That’s right, sir. I—”

  Saunders interrupted him with a raised hand, palm faced forward. “I don’t want to know, Lieutenant. The less I know, the better. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Who was this guy?

  “A bird is coming in to get you. ETA is ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m also expecting an additional passenger. Name is Erika Wassenaar.”

  Saunders paused for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that.” Of course MacLean had not informed Saunders about Erika. How could he have? Saunders was a military man. MacLean had told him one passenger and one passenger he expected. Not two or three. One.

  “I realize that, sir. But there will be another person.”

  “Where is this person?”

  “She should be here shortly, sir.”

  Saunders reflected for a few seconds, picked up his telephone handset, and notified the front gate to let the woman in and bring her to his office. “The bird will be in and out. No time to wait for stragglers. She’s got ten minutes. After that, she’ll have to go commercial.” He stood, announcing the end of the discussion. “I have something to attend to. There is coffee in the room next door. Help yourself. Remember. Ten minutes.” He walked out of the room.

  Carlton looked at his watch. Come on, Erika.

  The ten minutes passed in a flash. Erika still had not arrived. Saunders returned to the office.

  “Time to go.”

  “She hasn’t arrived yet, sir.”

  “Obviously. But the time is up.”

  “Sir, I appreciate what you’re doing, but it is imperative—”

  “Imperative or not, Lieutenant, we’re on a schedule here. Time to go.”

  Carlton stood, stared at Saunders. “What do you think this is, Colonel? A joy ride? You think I’m here because I want to avoid the crowds at Reagan Airport? I have no idea who you are, or what your relationship is with MacLean, sir. But in case he hasn’t told you, here’s who I am.” He removed his DOJ identification, placed it an inch from Saunders eyes.
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  Saunders was now better informed, but still unimpressed.

  Carlton didn’t want to reveal any information, but he had to convince this man to wait for Erika. He was a friend of MacLean and hadn’t killed him yet, so he probably wasn’t one of Fress’s people. But he probably didn’t know all the information from Carlton’s side. “DOJ does a lot of investigative work. Sometimes DOJ discovers illegal activities involving people in our government. Sometimes those people are at the very top. Some of the things DOJ finds, those people don’t want revealed. Sometimes those people retaliate. Sometimes they simply eliminate those who have evidence. Those people have to run. Secretly.”

  He stared hard at Saunders, who was not about to be frightened by scare tactics from a DOJ lawyer, Navy or otherwise. “A geologist in Arkansas knew. He was murdered in his car. His son knew. He was shot in his kitchen. MacLean’s lawyer knew. His plane crashed an hour ago. Senator Bigham’s assistant, the one found riddled with bullets in Southeast D.C.? He knew. The person I’m expecting knows.” He moved toward Saunders. “I know.” He moved closer, whispered. “Would you like to know?”

  Saunders backed away, just a hair. “You must be great in court. Okay. We’ll wait.”

  They sat together in tense silence for nearly fifteen minutes before the telephone rang. “Saunders. There’s what? I’ll be right over. Of course don’t let them in.” He replaced the handset, bolted for the door. “Follow me.”

  “What’s going on?” Carlton asked, following Saunders down the stairs, out of the building, and into an Air Force Humvee.

  “Apparently the police want to arrest your friend. You know. The one who knows.”

  “Shit.”

  “That was my reaction.” Saunders gunned the truck and stopped behind the entrance gate pillbox. Carlton spotted Erika, ran toward her.

  He took her in his arms, held her for the first time, realized how much he had wanted to hold her, to be close to her. “Thank God you made it.”

  She tightened their embrace, but reality soon returned. He stared into her green eyes. Tears were streaming down her red cheeks. He wiped them off. “What’s this about the cops?”