Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  The voices alerted him, and he unlocked his knees and pushed away from the closet wall. Feras had learned to relax, even sleep, while leaning against a vertical surface. There were times in the past when patience and endurance were tested, but not today.

  “Sergeant Stiles I want you to swallow these. They will relax you and help you get some much needed sleep,” the nurse instructed.

  “No, thank you. I don’t take drugs, not even aspirin.”

  “Well this time make an exception and be a good patient. Doctor’s orders.”

  “You sweet-talker, I’ll take the knockout pills if you’ll promise to have dinner with me.”

  “You’ve been locked up too long, Sergeant. I don’t think dinner would be a good idea. Will you settle for breakfast in the cafeteria, just for starters?”

  “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll take my medicine like a good boy.”

  The nurse left the room as the sedative slowly and bitterly melted beneath his tongue. Brandon took another drink, swirled the water and spit the sedative back into his water glass. He would sleep just fine, and tomorrow be much more engaging company at breakfast. He closed his eyes and luxuriated in the sensual comfort of a Serta Perfect Sleeper. How long had it been? How long since he’d been safe, free to dream…to hope? So many nights had passed when sleep came reluctantly, held back by fear of punishment or discovery. His body began to relax; tension melted away, seeping into the pillowed softness. Nothing had felt so good in years. The realization that he was free and going home took hold. He pictured his father’s weathered hands in prayer, his brother’s winning smile, and within minutes, Brandon was teetering on the edge of sleep.

  A sound he couldn’t identify pierced his reverie and he tensed without moving, senses alert to danger, honed by years of living as a fugitive. Feras emerged from hiding without making another sound and could have killed Brandon with one silenced shot, but Feras never wavered from a plan once set in motion. This was a hospital. He was a doctor. And the patient would die by injection. The syringe in his hand was filled with an almost untraceable toxin he had saved from his days with Mukhabarat. The soldier would be found dead, victim of an apparent heart attack.

  Brandon peered through the lashes of barely opened eyes at the blurry image of a man moving with stealth toward him. At bedside, Feras raised the needle and expelled the air from the syringe before lowering it for injection. He looked at the man he was about to kill and was startled. Brandon was staring at him and in that split second of surprise, Brandon grasped the older man’s wrist. Feras tried to pull his hand away but the grip that held his wrist was like a vise. Instinctively, and literally, he pressed his attack by leaning toward his prone victim adding his weight to the strength of his arm. The needle hovered just six inches above Brandon’s chest, but two hands now held Feras in check. The Muleshoe quarterback’s powerful right hand encircled the smaller fist, and the syringe within it, like a football. Gradually Brandon twisted the syringe counterclockwise and turned it inward on the attacker.

  Feras’ inner voice screamed, “Drop the syringe and shoot him!” but his fingers couldn’t let go as Brandon tightened his grip. The desperate fingers of his free left hand reached behind and probed the opening in the smock. He felt the bulge of the silencer beneath his belt. But the pistol grip had been shoved in place by his other hand and angled away from the fingers that now reached for it in vain. Eyes wide, Feras watched and felt the needle pierce his skin below his left breast. His breath came in shallow gasps; his smoke ravaged lungs wheezed and rattled. Brandon’s eyes met his.

  “You’re a smoker, Doc? I’m shocked. You should try to set a better example. Cigarettes are killers. People call them cancer sticks, and coffin nails. You don’t want to die young, do you?” Brandon’s voice was steady and chillingly calm.

  Wild eyed, Feras emitted a guttural cry as he made one last futile attempt to pull away.

  “If you must go, Doc, don’t leave without givin’ your patient a big hug.”

  Brandon pulled the assassin to his chest in an embrace. The needle slipped between ribs as the plunger collapsed into the syringe expelling the deadly toxin. Within seconds, all muscular control was lost. Feras could neither breathe nor hold his urine. His heart stopped beating. Brandon released the body and it slid in a heap upon the floor. Brandon flopped back onto his Perfect Sleeper, shaken, but alive.

  “Just say, no,” Brandon mused. “If I had taken the sedative, I’d be on the floor and he’d be long gone. Another reason to stay drug free.”

  After a brief rest, Brandon rang the nurse’s call button.

  “Yes, Sergeant Stiles?”

  “Wasn’t I scheduled for a private room?”

  “Yes. That’s why there is only one bed. Anything else?”

  “So, the guy on the floor doesn’t get a bed?”

  “Okay, Sergeant, if you need company, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “No hurry.”

  The nurse marked the paragraph where she left off, and set her book aside. No wonder the Iraqis let him go, he’s a royal pain.

  To her credit, Brandon thought, she didn’t scream when she entered. There was just a moment of surprise and hesitation at seeing a doctor lying on the floor. She knelt at his side and felt for a pulse.

  “He’s dead,” she said with a touch of awe.

  “I thought he might be. Friend of yours?”

  “No, I’ve never seen him before. What happened to him?”

  “He came in while I was sleeping and tried to give me an injection. He had a terrible bedside manner, so I refused. That’s when he gave himself the injection. Don’t touch that syringe,” Brandon cautioned as she rolled the body over. “The police might wonder why your fingerprints are on it.”

  “His name is Guenther Probst, but this isn’t a medical ID,” she said.

  “And who is Guenther Probst?”

  She shook her head and said, “I have no idea”.

  “Guenther Probst? It isn’t this man,” answered the Air Policeman, begging the question, as he compared the face on the floor to the photo ID. “This isn’t Guenther Probst.”

  It would take the local Polezei and Interpol to finally answer Brandon’s question, and the one that followed. “Then, who is he?”

  The Polezei had impounded the Opel, a rental car, hours ago, and an Avis rep had come by to recover it. She fainted when she checked the trunk and found more than a spare and a jack. The car had been rented to a Jordanian named Ali Chebbi, a chemicals importer with business in Dresden, who decided to drive from Frankfurt to see the castles along the Rhein. Fingerprints taken from the door handle and trunk lid had been sent to Interpol where they were identified as belonging to Feras Katamian, a.k.a. Feras Sayah, a known Iraqi operative thought to be dead or retired from Mukhabarat. He had not been heard from in years. The body in the trunk was Guenther Probst.

  The Rashid Farm, Next Day (31 August 1994)

  “The call is for you, Colonel, long distance from Amman,” the houseboy said as he offered the telephone to Hassan.

  “This is Colonel Rashid. Who is calling?”

  “An old friend with bad news, I regret to say.”

  “He failed?”

  “Completely. My man is dead; your man is not. The deceased was named Feras, the ferocious one, but the American must have been more ferocious than he. Clearly, Feras underestimated his quarry. I held back $100,000 until the job was finished. At least I can return that much to you my friend.”

  “Yes, thank you, Uncle. This is dreadful news.”

  “I know. We are powerless to stop the American now. State secrets will be divulged.”

  “What? Oh, yes. I must go now, uncle. I have much to do. Goodbye.”

  Riad Maloof opened his office safe and withdrew $100,000. He would take it to the bank for deposit and immediate transfer to Hassan Rashid in the mornin
g. It was always a pleasure helping a family friend.

  33

  Congressional Hearing; The Tables Turned.

  “Aren’t you supposed to tie me up and shine a bright light in my eyes?” Brandon asked innocently.

  “We want you to be comfortable, Sergeant, but we keep bamboo splints and electrodes in Bruce’s briefcase just in case you aren’t cooperative. He’s Agent Bruce Tyson; I’m Agent Thurston Woodall. This shouldn’t be too painful, Sergeant, we just want to know where you’ve been for the past few years and what you’ve been up to.”

  “You say you’re agents. Literary agents? Are you here for the movie rights or the printed best seller?”

  “Why? Do you have a good tale to tell?”

  “I think so, and judging from my encounter with Feras Katamian, I believe someone would rather I not tell it.”

  “That appears to be the case, Sergeant Stiles, but Bruce and I would love to hear it.”

  The debrief lasted two full days.

  “That’s it, once the decision to leave was made, it happened quickly. One of Hosni’s men, at great personal risk, ferried me up the Tigris to Mosul and from there on the Great Zab River to Hakkari in eastern Turkey. Agents of the 24th Directorate boarded us several times but gave cursory inspections. They were disgusted by our cargo of butchered swine and wouldn’t touch the carcasses that hid me. Once I made it to Turkey, I was home free. It’s a long haul to Ankara but I had no problem getting there. There is something you could help me with. I want to send an initial installment of one million dollars to the Kurdish Resistance and the people of Halabja. Hosni gave me these instructions but I want the News Media to know that the money came from Colonel Hassan Rashid, son of Nani, Director of the Intelligence Service and a close friend of Saddam Hussein. I want to put a little salt in the cocky bastard’s wound. Bruce and Thurston shared a glance and helped with the arrangements.

  News9-- Fort Worth, Texas (Same Day)

  The rush of traffic on I-30 just outside the studio mimicked the flow of harried human traffic inside as station personnel prepared for the airing of the evening news. Elizabeth Krane, the beautiful and articulate news anchor was on her way to the coffee bar following the hallway that also led to Aloysius “Buddy” Hamilton’s open door. As she passed by, she heard, “Hold on Sugar!” She almost skidded to a stop but rather than back up a step she leaned rearward and peered into Buddy’s realm.

  “What is it Buddy?”

  “Bring me a cup will ya?”

  She rolled her eyes and said, “Sure, how do you like it?”

  “Hot and black, just like my women. Once you tried black, you never turn back.” His nicotine plagued lungs rattled as he chuckled at his well worn joke.

  “I think your wife, Betty Sue, would have your head mounted on the wall if she heard you talk the way you do.”

  “You bet your sweet bippy she would, Sugar, so mums the word.”

  Elizabeth shook her head wearily as she continued down the hall. She returned with a steaming mug of coffee and placed it on Buddy’s desk.

  “Thanks, Honey, now grab a seat and set a spell. I need to talk to you.”

  “Buddy, if you want to tell tall tales about your days as a cattle rustler, it’ll have to wait. Check the time; I’m on the air in fifteen minutes.”

  “Sugar,” Buddy drawled as he gathered his thoughts—“this is big.” Buddy was the News Director of the station. He’d been in the business for decades and had worked with Walter Cronkite and other legendary figures in the industry. He was a good ol’ boy with a down home exterior that masked his intelligence and mental quickness. If Buddy had a weakness it was his inability to remember names or perhaps that too was a cover. Men he addressed as ‘Good Buddy’, ‘Big Guy’, or ‘Bubba’ with the exception of a 6’6” cameraman he called ‘Stretch’, and women were either ‘Sugar’ or ‘Honey’ or ‘Hon’ and occasionally ‘Darlin’.”

  It was “Sugar” who waited patiently for Buddy to continue.

  “American Airlines flight 70 to Frankfurt leaves at 2:40 tomorrow. I want you on it.”

  “What? There’s no way I…”

  Buddy cut her off. “Stretch will be goin’ with ya, and Bubba can handle the evening news tomorrow, so after the show tonight you go home and pack and get some sleep if you can. You’re gonna be whupped by the time you get to Frankfurt. This is your ticket to ride. You’re on ‘bidness’ so this ticket is for a nice seat in bidness class. Pretty sweet deal, don’t cha think?”

  “Mind tellin’ me why I’m going on vacation?”

  “Vacation? Sugar, park that notion. It’s a nine hour and forty minute flight and there’s seven time zones between heah and thea. Your body will be looking for a bed when the Captain says good morning. Your rental car will be waitin’, it’s all heah in the envelope. It’s a seventy-five mile drive southeast to Ramstein Air Base. NO, NO, don’t interrupt. I’m sure it’s a lovely drive so y’all try to stay awake. Okay, now it’s your turn to talk.”

  “I’ve got a whole seven minutes until air time and a hundred questions. Is this about the soldier?”

  “Yes, Sugar, we got a United States soldier popped up in Turkey been dead since March 1991. Now, he’s in Germany gettin’ ready to come home. That’s news spelled with capital letters and, I repeat, that boy is a Texan, same as you and me, born and bred right out yonder in, um, up near Midland.”

  Elizabeth corrected, saying, “Muleshoe.”

  “Right, Muleshoe. And you’re goin’ over there at no small expense for one reason—I want an exclusive on his story. Exclusive rights. I don’t want the Yankee Times or the National News big shots to git a holt of this. You heah me loud and cleah, Darlin’? You mess this up and from then on you’ll ride in coach with the unwashed. Now git!” With his arm outstretched and palm down, his fingers swept her away with two minutes to spare. As she sprinted toward the news desk she heard, “And Sugah, the heavy hitters will be there. Don’t give ‘em a goddam inch. You heah me? Not a goddam inch. Bring that story home.”

  DFW Airport (2 September 1994)

  The 767-300 aircraft left the gate on schedule at 2:40 pm with two hundred and twelve souls aboard. Stretch was not among them. At check-in it was discovered that his passport had expired and he was denied boarding. Elizabeth called Buddy expecting to hear him curse and carry on before scrubbing the mission. What good is TV news without a picture?

  Buddy was silent for a moment after receiving the bad news, then he responded unexpectedly. He was philosophical. “You go, sugah. We can salvage this mission; get the exclusive we talked about and we’ll get the video later.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I’ll never understand that man if I live to be a hundred, she thought, and then she replied as she knew she must—“Okay.”

  Elizabeth tried to sleep as she crossed the Atlantic but was generally unsuccessful, and she was wide awake when the wheels chirped their welcome on touchdown at Frankfurt am Main airport. She checked her watch; it was twenty minutes past midnight. Soon after, the Captain’s voice filled the cabin, Damen und Herren des guten Morgens ist es Zwanzig Minuten nach sieben; stellten Ihre Vorwärtssieben Stunden der Uhren. Wir hoffen daß Sie Ihren Flug genossen und danken Sie für das Wählen von American Airlines. Ladies and gentlemen you may want to reset your watches; we have transited seven time zones so set your watches forward to 7:20. We hope you enjoyed the flight, thanks for flying American Airlines.

  The Avis counter was quickly mobbed but with typical German efficiency Elizabeth soon had her car, a Volkswagen Passat, and was on the road heading southwest to Ramstein Airbase, seventy-five miles distant. Feeling exhausted from the trip and lack of sleep, she still felt relieved and quite proud of herself for having navigated successfully on this her first foreign junket. She presented her credentials to the Air Policeman and followed his directions to the
base hospital. TV news cameramen and reporters seemed to be everywhere. They struck familiar poses and gestured toward buildings and parked aircraft obviously creating what they hoped would make interesting viewing back home. It was what she wished she were doing, but the good news was, she wasn’t late. Parking spaces were still available.

  Using her press pass Elizabeth entered a room with a sign taped to its door saying “Stiles Briefing.” Buddy had made it clear that he wanted a story… but without a camera? For a television reporter this was uncharted water, she felt the way a radio announcer would feel without a microphone.

  “At least I don’t have to worry about makeup… and I hope Stretch didn’t get in trouble,” she mused, as she leaned wearily against the wall and waited. At 11:30 a lieutenant entered the room and announced that the venue was changed due to the size of the audience. The Sergeant Stiles briefing would be conducted at the base gymnasium at twelve hundred hours.

  Reporters bolted for the door and Elizabeth was knocked aside like drift wood. Bastards. She grabbed the Lieutenants sleeve and asked, “Where’s the gym and what’s the quickest way to get there? Quickly briefed she took off at a run with hopes of getting a front row seat now diminished. The basketball court was filled with folding metal chairs and the backboards had been raised. A small dais had been erected beneath one of them and chairs were neatly aligned to face it. Elizabeth noticed Bronson and Jenson were seated in the front row. They couldn’t run as fast as she, so they’d been catered to, tipped off. Everyone knows rank has its privileges, R.H.I.P., nonetheless, it was unfair and she was in no mood to tolerate discrimination. With clinched teeth she edged into a seat well past the middle of the pack. Buddy would be furious; hell, she was furious.

  At exactly 1200 hours, a Brigadier General strode onto the makeshift stage. He introduced himself as the commander of the 86th Air Wing. After the usual niceties he turned the meeting over to a deputy and left the building. Apparently, he didn’t care what Brandon Stiles had to say. Maybe he shared SECDEF’s opinion, Elizabeth thought. The deputy began his part in the drama by informing his audience that a written statement from Sergeant Stiles was available at the exit and that Sgt. Stiles would make only a brief appearance. With that, he stepped aside and a soldier stepped onto the stage. He was the reason they had come from all across the globe but all he said was that he was sorry. He wished the reporters hadn’t gone to all this trouble just to see him. He was happy to be free, to be going home, and was proud to be an American. He looked forward to clearing his name, thank you and goodbye.