Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  The President said, “Okay, CK, thank you.” And to his Cabinet he asked, “Does anyone have a question for CK? He’s made his bed. Do we lie in it too?”

  “Mister President I urge caution.” It was Jim Diffendorfer his Press Advisor who spoke. “Until we have the results of the debrief from Ramstein, stay neutral. Do not talk to the Press. We have only Keiley’s gut reaction to counter CK’s accusations and while CK makes a compelling case, it is quicksand at this juncture.”

  The President’s survival instinct was strong. “CK, we will monitor the situation. I plan to be on a State visit when Stiles lands at Andrews Air Force base in a few days, but I suppose you’ll be on hand?”

  “Absolutely, sir, absolutely. I’m flying back to Austin today, but I will be on the tarmac at Andrews when he deplanes.”

  “Have a safe trip home, CK. Give my best to Betty.”

  CK left without another word and the door was closed behind him.

  “Ladies and Gentleman, you are about to witness political meltdown or a double digit win.”

  32

  Brandon Must Be Silenced; Assassin Strikes

  The Silver Cloud Rolls Royce cruised through town in the early afternoon, another bright, sunny day in Austin. Campaign Headquarters was located on Lavaca Street not far from the Texas State Capitol. The receptionist reported that CK had returned from Washington and was expected just after lunch. The well-dressed cowboy driving a Rolls was invited to wait in the VIP room until CK arrived. Coffee and doughnuts were offered but Phil declined with a laugh saying it would spoil his boyish figure.

  At 1 p.m. the outer office erupted with cheers and a round of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow. A minute later CK entered the VIP room, all smiles.

  “L.C. Stuart,” Phil said, extending a hand of friendship. “I know who you are. You’re my next Texas Senator.”

  “Well, thank you for that vote of confidence, Mr. Stuart.”

  “LC. All my friends in the oil bidness just call me LC, and I’d be proud if you would.”

  “Thank you, LC. How may I help you?”

  “First off, can I call you CK?”

  “Of course you may.”

  “Good enough, CK, I don’t need any help, but thanks for offering. I came here thinking maybe you needed my help, not the other ‘waysround.’ I’ll tell you straight, CK, I don’t like that opponent of yours, old what’s-his-name. He’s a socialist. Hell, he might be a closet communist for all I know. He wants to turn the U.S.of A. into fuckin’ Denmark. Am I right? In Denmark, everybody sucks on the public tit and they tax the shit out of the rich so everybody’s pretty much the same. I don’t want that to happen here, CK. Texas needs you in the Senate, pure and simple.”

  “That’s flattering, LC. Thank you. Of course, I share your feelings, and agree with your assessment of my opponent, but he has a lot of people fooled.”

  “Damn straight he does, and he has the money to convince a lot more. His money talks and you need money to talk back. That’s where I come in. I’ve got money, a lot of it, enough to give it away and never miss it.”

  CK’s eyes betrayed his interest.

  “CK, the laws we have on the books about who can give what, and when, are unconstitutional. When we get a more conservative court, that’s gonna change. I want to show you something, CK. Get one of those interns of yours in here.”

  A moment later a young, attractive coed from nearby UT entered, smiling brightly. LC tossed her a set of keys saying, “Darlin’, I want you to open the trunk of my Rolls. Take four strong boys from the office yonder and bring Mister CK the laundry bags you’ll find there. Will you do that?”

  “Sure,” she said, eager to participate.

  “That’s a good girl; you run along now.”

  CK was fascinated and curious. The odd oilman was bringing in his laundry? “LC? Tell me more about yourself.”

  “Ain’t much to tell, CK. I’m just a little guy feedin’ at the big table. I don’t say much to the big boys while they’re feedin’, I just pick up the crumbs. Funny thing is, I get more to eat than those good old boys realize. Without competition, the crumbs stack pretty deep.”

  The coed and four young men entered dragging the bags behind them.

  “Just leave them there,” LC ordered. “I’m much obliged.”

  Again alone with CK he urged, “Open one up, CK, or here, let me do it.”

  Phil loosened the cord and spread the opening of a bag; he grabbed the bottom and lifted, flipping the bag upside down. Money spilled onto the floor. CK was giddy. “Damn, LC, how much money is there?”

  “About four million. I’ve got a small trunk but I figured that would do for starters.”

  CK whistled and riffled a wrap of fifties as he would a deck of cards.

  “I’m giving you this money, you personally, so you’ll be able to whup that socialist. I know it ain’t much, but don’t you worry, there is one helluva lot more where that come from. I don’t want no receipt, and I sure as hell don’t want any publicity. It’s your money. Use it any damn way you please, CK, no strings attached. Hold it, I take that back. There is one string attached, Senator McNamara. I want you to beat that somebitch, take him to the woodshed.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yes, you do. That’s why you’re the man of the hour. Get this campaign rollin’. Buy some airtime, and don’t scrimp. I’ll get you some more pocket money in a week or so, but you need to get your message out now and you need to show that sissy socialist what real Texans are all about. Look now, CK, I gotta run, just look at the fuckin’ time. My pilot is picking me up over at Austin-Bergstrom, and if I know him, he’s had the damn engines running on my Gulfstream for thirty minutes.”

  On the drive back to Dallas, Phil lounged, singing the Yellow Rose of Texas and Home on the Range. He would miss the Rolls but looked forward to being seen at the Cowboy Bar at Happy Hour next weekend. His buddies would get a kick out of his new outfit.

  Campaign Headquarters, Austin

  CK called to his campaign manager, “Terrence, bring me that list of wealthy potential donors.”

  Terrence and CK flipped the pages to “S” and scanned for L.C. Stuart. His name was wedged between Arthur Stonehouse and Robert Sullivan.

  “Don’t send a request for support to Mr. Stuart. He’s onboard. And, tell our ad agency to get rolling. That clip of my visit to Haskell’s grave should be the intro. Tell them we have money in hand.”

  Baghdad (29 August 1994) Brandon Must Be Silenced

  Colonel Hassan Rashid was released from prison after only three days of confinement. Colonel Salaman had made a personal appeal to Saddam on the 17th, explaining that he had visited Hassan in detention and now believed an honest mistake had been made by a son eager to impress his father. The American was a sly fellow who outwitted his captor, played on his greed and his need to please, and escaped by sheer luck. It was Salaman’s opinion that the dragnet for Stiles would be successful. He would be forced to return his ill-gotten gains and he would pay for his treachery with his life.

  Saddam liked what he heard, embraced Salaman, and ordered the release of Hassan. Salaman returned to the privacy of his office and poured himself a large glass of Stolichnaya vodka. He had reason to celebrate. Twelve days later, he had nothing to celebrate and needed a drink more than ever. Brandon Stiles had escaped Iraq and was reported to be in Turkey at the US Embassy in Ankara. The Ghost of Baghdad had slipped through the net. It was bad news, but Salaman knew he could blame the escape on others. Colonel Rashid was less sanguine. Not only had he lost five million dollars, but he was about to lose respect. When Stiles revealed his ruse to the world, the son of Nani Rashid would become a laughing stock, and his father would be furious. He wanted Stiles dead before he could spread his gossip but he could not use agents of Mukhabarat without higher authority. There would be too many question
s asked.

  Desperate Call For Help (29 August 1994)

  “I don’t care if he is busy,” Hassan screamed at the Appointments Secretary, “get Riad Maloof on the phone now, or I will have you transferred to a desert outpost on the Iranian border by morning!”

  “One moment, sir,” came the nervous reply.

  “This is Riad Maloof who may I ask is calling?”

  “It is I, Uncle Riad, Hassan.”

  “Hassan! I hope you are well. What a wonderful surprise. I was just thinking of you.”

  “Uncle, I need a favor.”

  “Anything, Hassan. You have but to ask.”

  “You remember the American I captured? The one I said I wouldn’t part with for less than five million dollars?”

  “Indeed I do, and of course we mentioned that sum to his brother when he visited us back in June. We have not heard from the brother so I assume he can’t raise the money. Looks like you get to keep your trophy.”

  “That’s why I’m calling, Uncle. Have you heard of the American soldier who surfaced at the US Embassy in Ankara?”

  “Yes. Is that your American?”

  “It is, and he has acquired state secrets. He must be silenced.”

  Maloof knew this was bogus, but he played along, as he knew he must. “He will be an easy target for our experts in Mukhabarat, I suppose, but why do you tell me?”

  “Mukhabarat will not be used because the American will be tipped off. We know there is a highly placed mole in Mukhabarat and the stolen secrets are theirs. We need an outside assassin.”

  “Oh, I see. Have you one in mind?”

  “No, but I hope you can recommend someone. His nationality is not important if he is a professional.”

  “There is a man, Hassan, he lives here in Amman. He is a former member of the Ninth Directorate, skilled in wet operations, and a favorite of Major General Abdul Hameed Khalaf Al Bayati, the Director. Ask him what he thinks of Feras Katamian. I’m sure he will tell you he is one of the best.”

  “Your word is sufficient, Riad. Is the man for hire?”

  “Yes, he hates retirement, and if the pay is right, he would be pleased to work. I know he can be trusted.”

  “Perfect! The American will be flown to Ramstein Air Base near Frankfurt tomorrow. His name is Sergeant Brandon Stiles. He must be silenced before interrogators of the American government are given Iraqi state secrets.”

  “Hold, please. I will make an inquiry,” Riad said, switching to another line. “Feras have you ever been to Germany?”

  “Ja,” Feras said as he sucked the last bit of smoke from his cigarette.

  “Das ist gut, because I have a job for you. It pays $100,000 plus all expenses. Interested?”

  “Naturlich.”

  “Very well, I shall inform my contact. Come to the Embassy by six this evening and bring a passport. I will make flight arrangements for you.”

  One phone line was disconnected and the other reactivated.

  “Hassan, he will do it, but he is familiar with this American and says he will be a difficult target, closely guarded. The danger and difficulty raise the price. He asks for $300,000 plus expenses. Shall I tell him that is too much?” Maloof smiled at the irony of it all.

  “No, get him on the next flight to Frankfurt. I will wire the funds directly to you at the Embassy.”

  The Assassin Strikes (30 August 1994)

  Ramstein is a sprawling Air Base occupied by U.S. Forces located seventy-seven miles from Frankfurt am Main, Germany. Access to the important military base is restricted but hundreds of German citizens work on base and pass through the gates daily.

  At 8 a.m., Feras stood beside his car; the hood was raised. He was on the shoulder of the road that led to the main entrance of the Base, waiting for a Good Samaritan. He did not wait long. Guenther Probst pulled his Mercedes 220 Diesel alongside and called out, “Was ist los?”

  Feras answered in flawless German that he didn’t know what was wrong, but would leave the car if he could get a ride to the base.

  The helpful German responded, “Naturlich,” and drove forward in front of Feras’ stalled Opel. He pushed open the door on the passenger side, and Feras slid inside next to the Samaritan saying, “Danke!”

  The silenced pistol spit and Guenther slumped forward, his final expression being one of surprise and confusion.

  “Es tut mir leid,” Feras apologized as he pulled Guenther’s limp body down onto the seat. He walked back to his car and closed the hood before driving around the Mercedes, parking a few feet from its front bumper. Within minutes he had pulled Guenther from his car and dragged him forward a little at a time, as traffic permitted. When there was a gap in traffic, he dumped Guenther into the maw of the Opel’s gaping trunk and shut the lid.

  It was rush hour at the Base and the guard waved the Mercedes through. The window sticker was enough, but Feras flashed the German’s ID just for good measure. The hospital was easy to find. Military installations were always well marked. Feras parked the Mercedes and entered.

  The waiting room was full of sniffling children and worried and tired looking mothers. Feras casually gathered up sections of the morning edition of Der Spiegel from nearby chairs, and, before sitting, dropped the Opel’s keys into a trash receptacle. A picture of Chief Master Sergeant Brandon Stiles graced the front page. He was smiling and shaking the hand of the U.S. Ambassador to Turkey. The article gave the departure time from Ankara and ETA Frankfurt. Feras checked his watch. Good. Not much longer.

  Feras was sick of hanging around doing nothing. He’d departed Amman on Royal Jordanian at 8:15 p.m. but didn’t arrive Frankfurt until six the next morning. He’d had to kill six hours in Beirut waiting for his connecting flight on Lufthansa. No wonder Riad Maloof had apologized for the booking. But there was no choice; the mark was arriving from Turkey at ten and as it happened, he was right on schedule.

  The C-141 parked on the designated pad and Brandon deplaned without assistance, walking down the mobile stairs to the tarmac and a cadre of greeters. Unlike the boisterous greeting extended to returning Vietnam POWs, his reception was reserved. The brass politely returned his salute and shook his hand before he was ushered into the back seat of a staff car for the short drive to the Base hospital. Along the route, onlookers stared, a few waved and none cheered. It was not until well into his debriefing the following day that he learned of McNamara’s accusation of treason.

  Excited voices announced, “He’s here!” and it seemed every able-bodied man and woman had his or her nose pressed to the nearest window. Feras used the diversion to leave the waiting room and walk down the corridor. Every door was identified with military thoroughness. Feras entered the one identified as “Locker Room, Doctor, Male” where he found everything he would need. Now, dressed as staff, he reentered the corridor and moved down the hall to another room stocked with syringes, bandages and other non-pharmaceuticals. He pocketed a syringe and stood near the door, waiting for the news he was sure would come. It came by female express. A nurse raced by like Paul Revere, shouting who was coming. Feras stepped into the hallway and got a good look at Brandon as he walked past with his entourage.

  A hospital volunteer dressed like a peppermint stick had flattened herself against the corridor wall as the retinue passed. Now she continued on her way. Feras was three steps behind.

  “Where will he be sleeping tonight?”

  The woman spun around to face the small, dark-skinned man. She had never seen him before, but he was a doctor, probably a surgeon, judging from his smock and cap.

  “After blood work and X-Ray, he’s scheduled for a quick physical exam. I think Doctor Carlson is handling that.”

  “The room? I thought after the hubbub I would drop by to pay my respects.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. He’ll be in 238 at the end of the hall. Admin picked a room on the
quiet side of the building, away from the runways, but you may not be able to talk to him. I was told that they want him rested for some rigorous testing and interrogation tomorrow morning. He’ll probably be sedated.”

  “Oh, that is too bad. Never mind then, but thank you anyway.”

  “You’re welcome, Doctor.”

  Feras strolled the halls and made mental notes of the floor plan. He checked for alarms and tested doors noting that stairwells were for egress only. Doors locked when closed and could not be opened from within the stairwell. The exception, of course, was at ground level where exits led to the parking lots that surrounded the building. His exit strategy was simple. A stairway was conveniently located adjacent to room 238 and his Mercedes was parked a short distance away. It was all so easy.

  Feras rode the crowded elevator to the second floor, totally ignored by visitors and hospital workers alike. He and two orderlies got off at the first stop and he dawdled at a drinking fountain as they walked ahead toward the second-floor nurses’ station. It was a hub efficiently located at the midpoint of parallel corridors, much like the crossbar of goalposts. Nurses could react quickly to calls for help from any quarter, but usually they sat within the chest high walls enjoying privacy violated only by the eyes of tall passersby. The pair of orderlies joined a chattering group of nurses and the diminutive assassin walked by unobserved and peered into room 238. Empty. He entered and silently closed the door behind him, prepared to wait as long as needed.