by Bob Mayer
"Certainly this is very minor compared to what you are doing for me," Jawhar said. "I wouldn't think you'd be hanging around after we conclude our deal. I understand South America. Colombia, to be exact?"
"But we have yet—"
Jawhar put down the glass holding her tongue. "You do not have it?"
"It takes time."
"You've had time."
"I must get you out of here," the colonel said. "We have to be more secure. There are spies everywhere. Have you wired the additional money?"
"I would be a fool to pay you again and have yet to receive anything in return," Jawhar said. "And you would be a fool if you came here without checking your account and knowing that the money has not been wired."
"We must leave now. I will take you to a safe place."
Jawhar stared at the colonel for several seconds, then reluctantly nodded. "All right. Give me a few minutes to pack, then I will join you downstairs."
The colonel paused at the door. "The girl—"
"Do not concern yourself," Jawhar pushed the door shut in his face. Then he turned toward the bed. He leaned over and smiled into the girl's pain-filled eyes as he removed the IV from her neck. "Pleasant dreams," he whispered.
Chapter Twenty-two
Terri had listened, but other than the food being brought, she didn't hear Mary being returned to her cell. Every time she woke from a fitful sleep, she went to her door and called out for the girl. Her voice echoed down the corridor in vain. The other girls had stopped talking or answering—in fear of the same fate that had befallen Mary.
Leslie and Cathy were still in their cells and they hadn't been taken out again. A doctor had come to see them, checking the wound on their sides, removing the stitches, all without saying a word. Both girls had no idea what had been done to them. But Leslie confirmed there was something hard under her skin, in her right side.
Terri had taken to sitting with her back pressed into the farthest corner of her cell, knees tight up against her chest, eyes focused on the door. She held on to one thing—her dad would come for her. She knew that as firmly as she could feel the concrete against her back.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hancock unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap. He waited as the waiter poured a cup of coffee for him and the man seated across the table.
"Gereg's having me surveilled," Hancock said as soon as the waiter moved away.
The other man laughed. "Ah, the Man with One Red Shoe strikes again," he said, referring to the Tom Hanks comedy about the CIA. "Shall we stand in the middle of a lawn with the sprinklers on to have a private conversation?"
"Laser resonators could pick up such a conversation," Hancock noted.
"Ah, Karl, you are always so serious."
"It's my nature," Hancock acknowledged. Of course, the man across from him had much more reason at the moment to be serious. William Hill, the former national security adviser to the President, was currently under sixteen different indictments and a special prosecutor had been assigned to the case by the Justice Department. The only reason the media wasn't having a field day with the story was that everything involved was classified and the investigation was being done very quietly.
"I should have listened to you about Kilten," Hill said, the smile disappearing from his face.
"To a certain extent Kilten was predictable," Hancock said. "His plan was elaborate and worked well as far as he could take it before he was killed by McKenzie."
"It's not over yet," Hill said.
"No, it's not. No game is over until checkmate or one side resigns."
Hill's eyes shifted around the restaurant, even though they both knew they would not be able to spot their surveillance and that every word they were saying was being picked up and recorded.
"So how's your game?" Hill asked.
"Quite good."
"The latest match?"
"Progressing quite well. As usual, when a game develops, the board needs a little thinning, but I'm taking care of that. Cleaning up loose ends that are no longer needed, that sort of thing."
Hill leaned forward. "I'm trusting you this time."
"And well you should. Here comes our breakfast."
***
"I still think we should go to the authorities," Parker said.
"What authorities?" Dublowski asked. They were driving on post, heading back to the Delta Ranch after a trip to the BOQ so Parker could pick up her gear. Dublowski had recommended she stay in the guest quarters on the Ranch for security reasons.
Dublowski made a right turn. "Who has authority in this case? You were there at the oil rig. You're the counterterrorist POC at the Pentagon. You know SEAL Team Six has an anti-pirating mission and has actually conducted several live operations in that field around the world. Because there is no authority on the high seas. Here we are, at the end of the twentieth century, and we still have pirates running around the oceans."
"This is the same thing. Once people cross international boundaries with their crimes, who's responsible for catching them if their own country protects them? Who's responsible when crimes are committed in places where the local government doesn't care?"
"Mike's going into a foreign country all alone—what's he going to be able to do?"
Dublowski was watching the rearview mirror. "He'll do whatever he can." He turned left off the paved road onto a one-lane dirt road.
"Where are we going?" Parker asked.
"Anzio Drop Zone."
"Why?"
"So we can nail the asshole who's following us."
Parker looked back over the bed of the pickup. "I don't see anyone."
"He's holding back." The road came out of the trees and a vast expanse of open space lay in front of them, the far tree line over a mile and a half away. To the left it was clear as far as they could see along the rolling terrain. The ground was sandy, with clumps of waist-high grass here and there.
"But when we don't come back down the road in a minute, he's going to have to have to come forward." Dublowski hit the accelerator and the rear tires kicked up a plume of sand as he raced across the drop zone. A flash of light glinted in the rearview mirror. "He's at the edge of the woods," Dublowski said.
"I see him," Parker said. "White Ford Explorer. He's holding in the tree line."
Dublowski kept them heading across the DZ toward the far tree line. "Let me know when he follows."
"He's coming," Parker said as the Explorer left the cover of the trees.
Dublowski spun the wheel hard and they skidded around to face back the way they had come. He gunned the engine and they were headed straight for the Explorer.
"You're under control, right?" Parker tightened her seat belt.
"Oh, yeah, I'm under control," Dublowski assured her. The driver of the Explorer slowed, uncertain. Dublowski accelerated further.
"Jesus, Dan!" Parker exclaimed as the gap between the two vehicles narrowed, dropping under a hundred meters.
The Explorer stopped, then began going in reverse. The driver spun his wheel, turning, trying to point in the opposite direction, but the sand slowed him down.
"Dan!" Parker screamed as they closed within twenty meters of the Explorer. At the last moment, less than ten meters from the other truck, Dublowski slammed on the brakes. The pickup slid through the sand, the front bumper slamming into the side of the Explorer. Dublowski threw his door open and leapt out, pistol in hand.
He used the Explorer's bumper as a step and jumped up onto the hood of the truck, weapon pointed at the windshield.
"Get out!" he yelled.
When the driver hesitated, Dublowski fired a shot into the windshield, cracking it.
"Get out!"
The passenger door swung open and a man scooted out, hands held over his head. "Take it easy!"
"Fuck you, take it easy." Dublowski had the muzzle trained right between the man's eyes. "I know you. You're the Clowns in Action rep here. Ferguson. Why are you following us?"
"Fuck you," Dublowski repeated. He jumped off the hood of the Explorer, landing five feet in front of Ferguson.
"Your vocabulary needs—" Ferguson's retort ended abruptly as Dublowski stepped forward and smacked him a sharp blow in the nose with the barrel of the pistol.
"Jesus!" Ferguson's hands dropped to try to stem the flow of blood that gushed forth. "You broke it!"
"That ain't all I'm gonna break." Dublowski shoved Ferguson, tumbling him to the ground. The sergeant major put his foot in the CIA man's chest. "Why are you following us?"
"Why the hell do you think? Orders."
"From who?"
"My boss."
"A name."
"The D/BO, director of Operations."
"Kim Gereg?" Parker asked.
Ferguson nodded, immediately wincing in pain as blood sprayed the ground around him.
"Why would she want us followed?" Parker asked.
"Shit, I don't know." Ferguson tried to sit and Dublowski shoved him back down.
"What do you know about Takamura getting killed?" Dublowski demanded.
"Who?"
Dublowski leaned over. He pressed the tip of the muzzle against Ferugson's nose, bringing a yelp of pain.
"Don't play stupid. You know everything that goes down in this part of the country. That's your job."
"I know that some GI named Takamura was killed. I requested a copy of the state police report. Other than that, I don't know anything."
Dublowski shook his head. "You're lying."
"What are you going to do?" Ferguson sat up. "Shoot me?"
"Yes." Dublowski leveled the 9mm pistol at Ferguson's head and his finger wrapped around the trigger.
"Dan!" Parker yelled.
Dublowski pulled the trigger. The round cracked past Ferguson's head into the sandy ground.
"I find out you're holding out on me, I swear, I won't miss next time." Dublowski put the pistol back in the holster hidden under his BDU shirt. "Let's go," he said to Parker.
***
Getting to the Ukraine had turned out to be not as hard as Thorpe had thought it would be. He'd hopped an IFOR flight from Stuttgart to Croatia, where—as a result of a phone call Master Sergeant King had made—a member of the First Battalion, Tenth Special Forces Group had been waiting with a HUMMV. They drove to the northeast corner of Serbia, where Thorpe crossed the border into Romania, paying off the border police not to inspect his bags or check his passport. He then took several trains across Romania to the border with the Ukraine, where it was once again a case of bribing corrupt border guards.
Ten years ago the journey would have practically been impossible under the various countries' communist regimes, but under the present economic situation, border guards lived more off their bribes than off their intermittent salary. The infrastructure of these countries had broken down so severely, Thorpe was surprised there even were any border guards.
Chernovsty was only thirty kilometers from the Romanian border and Thorpe arrived less than ten hours after leaving Germany. Studying the map of the town on the train had shown him that the hotel the Mossad said Jawhar was staying in to be within walking distance of the train station.
Without hesitating, he left the station and strode through the streets of Chernovsty. It was a dark and dreary town, a film of black from the nearby coal plant covering even the brightest of colors. There were few cars in the streets and the market stalls held scant goods.
Thorpe paused as he turned a corner. The hotel was down the block and across the street. He stared at it for a minute, then walked directly toward the front door. He put his hand into the pocket of the raincoat he was wearing, wrapping his fingers around the pistol grip of the 9mm automatic. There was a round in the chamber and it was double-action, so he was as prepared as he could be. He pulled open the front door and walked into the dim lobby.
He noted the man behind the front desk eyeing him. The hair on the back of his neck tingled as he noted the man's attitude—he was very nervous about something.
As he walked toward the desk, Thorpe caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His finger slipped through the trigger guard and curled around the thin sliver of metal. A tough-looking man with a scar running down the left side of his face was approaching Thorpe. Behind that man, two others were spreading out on his flanks.
"Easy, my friend." The man's voice was a harsh whisper. "Esdras told me to greet you," he added as he got closer.
Thorpe kept his finger on the trigger. "You have surveillance on Jawhar?"
"We've been waiting for you." The man lightly touched Thorpe's right arm at the elbow. "Relax. We do not need an incident here in the lobby."
Thorpe allowed himself to be led toward the staircase to the left of the gated elevator. As they took the first couple of stairs, the man began speaking.
"My name is Mikael. We have been waiting for you."
"Is Jawhar up here?"
"There is something you must see," Mikael said.
Thorpe didn't appreciate his questions being ignored, but with Mikael next to him and the two other men right behind them on the stairs, he wasn't in the best position to complain.
"This way." Mikael pushed open the door to the second-floor hallway. One of the Mossad agents waited at the door as they walked down the corridor. Thorpe began to pull the pistol out of his pocket, but Mikael squeezed his elbow. "You will not need that."
They halted in front of a door. The second Mossad man faced down the corridor toward the fire exit while Mikael slid a pass key into the lock. He swung the door open. "This was Jawhar's room."
"Was?" Thorpe repeated. Mikael stepped into the room, Thorpe followed and he immediately grimaced as he smelled a foul odor.
"Jesus!" Thorpe exclaimed, seeing the body on the bed. For a second he thought it might be Terri, but then he noted that the hair was blond. The bed underneath the body was crimson from blood. Thorpe had never seen that much from one person.
As if knowing what he was thinking, Mikael pointed a long finger at an IV tube hung on the headboard. "As he cut her, he replaced more of the blood to keep her alive." The finger shifted. "He cut out her tongue to keep her from screaming."
"Where is he now?"
Mikael nodded toward the door. "Let's get out of here. He won't be back."
***
"Nabi Ulmalhamah." Dublowski repeated the words exactly as al Arif had shouted them.
"The Prophet of War," the man on the other side of the table promptly translated.
"What?" Parker asked. They were in the Delta Force cafeteria, Dublowski having pigeonholed the Force's Middle Eastern intelligence officer, Major Aguirre.
"The Prophet of War," Aguirre repeated. "That's a literal translation of those words."
"It's a place," Dublowski insisted.
"It might well be," Aguirre agreed.
"Have you ever heard of it?" Dublowski asked.
Aguirre leaned back in the plastic chair and contemplated his mug of coffee. "Dan, you—"
"No speeches," Dublowski cut the officer off. "I've heard all the speeches I want to hear. Have you ever heard of a place called Nabi Ulmalhamah?"
Aguirre shifted in the seat, uncomfortable. "I've heard of it. But," he added quickly, forestalling Dublowski's next words, "I don't know exactly where it is. I know it's one of Prince Hakim Yasin's palaces. A palace to an Arab can mean just about anything from a one-bedroom apartment to a real palace. Given that we're talking about Yasin, I would tend to lean toward the latter. He's got dozens of palaces all around Saudi Arabia. He's got a chateau in Switzerland. Even a brownstone in New York City."
"I thought you were our Middle East expert," Dublowski said.
"I am," Aguirre said. "We do the best we can."
"Well, what the hell've you been doing?"
"I've spent the last two months setting up our forward deployed strike team in Israel." Aguirre leaned forward. "You find this place and if your daughter is
there, we can bring the wrath of God down on their heads with what we got over there now, I assure you that."
"Who would know where it is?" Parker asked.
"If anyone, the CIA."
"Fuck!" Dublowski exclaimed. "The damn CIA's been dogging this thing from the get-go. We're not going to get any help from there."
"Maybe we will," Parker said.
"How?" Dublowski asked. "I don't think Ferguson is going to volunteer to help."
"Not after what you did," Parker agreed, "but I know someone I can ask. Kim Gereg, the head of Operations."
"Shit," Dublowski said. "Ferguson said he was following us on Gereg's orders."
Parker looked at the old sergeant major. "Did it ever occur to you that Ferguson might have lied about that to keep us from going to Gereg?"
***
"Where is Jawhar?"
"The local army barracks," Mikael answered. They were seated in the back of a battered van, a curtain pulled across separating them from the two guards in the front seats. The van had been parked in an alley two blocks away from the hotel. As soon as they got in, it began moving.
"What is he doing?" Thorpe asked.
Mikael leaned back, crossing his long legs. He pulled a small baggie out of his pocket and some rolling papers. "Cigarette? It is always best here to roll your own, as you Americans say, or else pay top dollar for black market—even then, there are those who repackage cheap Russian versions in American packs and cartons. You would be amazed at the scams—is that the right word?—that some of these people come up with."
Thorpe shook his head at the offer. He waited impatiently as Mikael rolled a thin cigarette and lit it. The Israeli agent took a deep drag, then tapped the ash onto the floor. "What is Jawhar doing? What he and his brother have always done. Stirring up trouble. He has met twice with a Colonel Kostenka. Who is—was—assigned to the research and development section at the Chemical Troops classified training center at Leonidovka." Mikael took another drag. "You know about VX, correct?"
Thorpe nodded. VX was, along with sarin, one of the two most deadliest chemical weapons.
"The Russians have long had VX," Mikael said. "They used it in Afghanistan. It is the only major new chemical weapon devised since the end of World War II, actually. Or was. As you know from your military training, there are many disadvantages to the use of chemical weapons. Many have tried to make better chemicals to get around those disadvantages."