The three men bent their heads together, murmured, and nodded. “We know of your successes,” the whisperer hissed. “We know all about you. The target is the President of the United States.”
Cobra forced his body to remain still, the discipline of a shooter. But he was shocked. Twice in one lifetime? He thought to himself. “The price is far too low. The man is the best guarded in the world.”
“Better than Zhirinovsky?” the whisperer wheezed.
They did know everything, Cobra mused. “One assumes.”
“Then what is the price?”
“Twenty million, all up front.”
The man to the right cleared his throat. “What if you fail, or just run off?”
“If I fail and survive, I’ll refund half. If I run off, well, you found me once.”
There was another murmured exchange. Cobra had very keen hearing but he couldn’t make it out.
“It’s what we expected,” Admiral Daniels whispered to Alfred Thayer. “Plus the ten percent to the agent.”
Thayer nodded. The third man listened, but said nothing.
“All right,” the man in the middle said. He handed an envelope to a masked aide, who materialized out of the darkness. “This’s a money transfer instruction to a bank in Brussels. Fill in your account information, and the payment will be made tomorrow at New York’s opening. I’m sure you have ways of confirming that the money is received?”
“Of course,” Cobra said, taking two envelopes from the masked man, who melted into the darkness.
“The second envelope contains your escape route and documents.”
Cobra slipped it into his jacket, knowing he would use it only to plan a totally different route out.
The man in the middle rose. “Then our business is concluded. You must act on or before the last Saturday in November.”
The masked aide returned and laid the nondescript duffel that contained Cobra’s rifle case at his feet.
“One last thing,” the man on the left said, his first utterance. “If it’s possible, we would prefer not to have a grieving widow.”
Cobra laughed. “One attack, not two. If it’s all one action, OK.”
The other two men stood and filed out. The aide handed Cobra his blindfold and gestured for him to put it on. Cobra complied and was led out of the cabin and into a car that drove away immediately.
The masked aide laughed loudly. Ramon Carvahal would get two million from the yanqui conspirators, and demand another ten from El Nieto Castro, who could hardly refuse. None of that, of course, would go to the shooter.
COBRA WAS DRIVEN DOWN out of the hills and into the noise of suburban, then urban, areas. After about an hour he felt the limousine dip into an underground parking garage. He was led out, his bags including the weapon set on the concrete beside him. “Give us two minutes to drive away,” a voice he didn’t know whispered. Cobra nodded. He heard the car’s doors slam and it move off with a squeal. He counted to one hundred and removed his blindfold. The garage was nearly full of cars but devoid of people, at least people he could see. Cobra was standing next to an elevator; he pressed the lighted button. Inside the box the only choices were four levels of parking and “Lobby.” Cobra selected the lobby. In a few seconds he emerged into the opulent lobby of the Willard Hotel in downtown Washington. A bellboy rushed up and took his cases, and led him to reception, where he gave the name on his American documents. “Of course, Mr. Hayes,” the manager said. “Your suite is ready. Please follow George.” The manager handed a key-card to the bellboy and Cobra was whisked to the main elevators and up to the twelfth floor, a very nice suite with a view of the Treasury Department, and beyond it the White House.
Cobra shaved, showered and dressed in his only business suit. He went downstairs and had a large and excellent meal. He would rise early the next morning, check that his payment had been received in Europe, and immediately move the money by coded instructions. Then he would check out using Hayes’s credit card, and disappear.
12
BILLY BOB SLATE, the Mormon, located Charles Taylor within hours, using no government resources. The Mormon had Taylor’s apartment, in a run-down section of upper Connecticut Avenue in the District, watched around the clock. The subject was reported arriving at ten-thirty the morning after the heads-up from Big Dog Jonas and Zeke Archer. The watchers didn’t know he had gone directly from Dulles to the Washington Post, been let in by the night security, and taken his film to the photo lab that worked around the clock. Charles went up to the editorial floor and booted up a computer terminal outside Brad Bentley’s office. He downloaded his entire story from his laptop and printed out one copy for Bentley and another for himself. He then took himself out to a triumphant breakfast at the Willard Hotel.
The dining room was nearly empty at nine-thirty, and Taylor couldn’t help noticing a dark man in clothing more appropriate to a safari than to Washington seated in a far corner reading what appeared to be an Official Airline Guide. There was something striking about the man, and Charles thought to call a source he had in the Willard’s management and try to get a line on him. Just a hunch: who actually read the OAG?
Charles might have remembered to inquire about the man had he not been met at the door of his apartment, shoved inside and punched around by two men in black ski masks while two more ransacked his apartment. They took the copy of his story from his briefcase, all the film from his camera and camera bag (all blank; Taylor wondered what they would do when they discovered that), and also the laptop. The biggest man braced him against the wall of his bedroom and told him in a low voice to forget “everything you saw in Texas.” He then threw the two-hundred-pound reporter across the room hard against a bookcase that collapsed to the floor. Charles slid down like a rag doll as books rained down on him, and the big man led his team out.
Charles gasped for breath, nearly blacking out. He had been hit hard in the solar plexus, and his ribs, groin, and face were dully painful. His stomach rolled as he crawled desperately for the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet before vomiting up his Eggs Benedict.
He leaned back against the tub, the porcelain cool against the back of his neck. The pain grew worse as he forced himself to take slow, shallow breaths. He probed his face and rib cage and felt nothing broken. The beating had been administered quickly and efficiently; a warning, a threatening, carefully executed not to do serious or permanent damage, but certainly a promise of far worse if his attackers chose to return.
For the first time in his life as a journalist, Charles Taylor was truly frightened. He’d heard stories throughout the presidential campaign about the shadowy New Zealots and their involvement in intimidation, assault, and even the killing of troublesome journalists.
He was thrilled also; he’d hit the big time, if he could stay alive. Charles Taylor had no illusions about his courage; he might well have ditched his best-ever story if he could, but by now, Brad Bentley would have received the copy he’d left on his secretary’s desk, the photos would be there as well, and the story was in the Post’s computer. There was no going back.
Charles had to find Julia Early, get his scoop confirmed, then get out of Dodge.
COBRA HAD NOTICED the pale, nervous-looking man in the Willard dining room, if only because the fool kept staring at him. He returned to his suite at ten o’clock and phoned his bank in Brussels. The money was all there. He immediately faxed coded instructions to transfer the money to three other accounts, one each in Geneva, Turks and Caicos Islands, and Grand Cayman. He checked out, using Frank Hayes’s credit card, and took a cab to Dupont Circle. He entered the Metro and jumped on the train north into Maryland, reversed his track in Bethesda, made several other changes and finally arrived at Ronald Reagan National Airport across the Potomac in Virginia. He locked away his gun case in a locker, and walked slowly toward the Delta Airlines counter, holding the ticket he had purchased at the Willard with Frank Hayes’s credit card for the 11:10 flight to Atlanta. He saw no pursuit, b
ut wondered if his skills were still what they once were. When he reached the counter, he asked to change his destination to Miami, and paid the difference in cash. The flight had already been called, and he rushed to the boarding gate, his head down. The 11:00 Miami flight was two gates before the Atlanta departure, and he was last to board.
At Miami’s awful airport, he used forged British documents and credit cards of his own to get on Cayman Airways 1600 departure for Grand Cayman.
13
“HE TRANSFERRED THE money,” Frank Simmons said to Alfred Thayer. “Inside Europe; all coded.”
“How do you know?” Thayer asked.
“Friend of mine at NSA,” Simmons replied. The National Security Agency had the capacity to monitor any telephone, radio, or fax entering or leaving the United States and many other countries. “As a courtesy.”
“Could the NSA break his codes?”
“Almost certainly, Colonel Thayer. But they’d need a reason.”
“Leave it, for now,” the old man whispered.
JULIA EARLY REPORTED for work at the Capital National Bank on Tuesday morning, nervous and unrefreshed from her four days at home. She straightened out her desk and read and returned her e-mail, then reopened a file she had begun on a new security program for Banque Bruxelles’s Western Hemisphere operations. Banque Bruxelles had many private clients in the U.S and Latin America. They all were assured by the bank that their accounts were secure from the prying eyes of their governments. Julia knew the system leaked badly as she had penetrated it in less than half an hour and read some very interesting transfers from prominent businessmen, legislators, and government officials of numerous nations, many of whom stridently maintained a public image of rectitude. She yawned as Frank Simmons crossed the open bay and entered his office.
Simmons answered his ringing phone. The Dragon Mother, the inevitable pause, then the voice of Alfred Thayer. “Did the Early woman return from her holiday yet?”
“Just this morning, Colonel,” Simmons said. “I haven’t said anything to her yet.”
“Don’t. What’s she working on?”
“Several projects. One for the Bank of Thailand, one for the Belgians—”
“Thailand is too far; Belgium is about right. Get her back pronto via Concorde from Paris if we have to. Do you think she has enough done for a preliminary presentation in Brussels? Guided by an appropriately senior officer, of course.”
“That could be arranged. In fact, Arne Olafsen, my senior operations man in London, is due to travel to the Low Countries and Germany beginning Monday.”
“Good. A little field experience; get the cobwebs from your dank cave out of her head.”
“May I ask why, Colonel? There are many down here more deserving of a junket.”
“It’s better you don’t, although I’m sure you’ll figure it out in time and realize the need for secrecy.”
Simmons shrugged. “I’ll arrange it then.”
“Do so,” Thayer said, and hung up.
Frank Simmons began to doodle on a pad. What did this have to do with the telephone instructions sent from the Willard Hotel to Europe he had been asked to trace? Why did the chairman want Julia Early out of the country, but well supervised? Thayer ran a very tight, very compartmented operation, and the fastest way out the door for an employee at any level was to snoop, ask, or speculate. He would do none of these. He had never been given the slightest hint why Julia had been sent to him from the credit training program, and he hadn’t asked. When, to his relief, she had turned out to be a real asset, he forgot about the why, as he would now. He called Julia in and gave her the good news.
14
AT THE SHERATON Hotel on Grand Cayman’s Seven Mile beach Cobra registered as Richard Thomas, a British subject born in St. Johns, Antigua in 1944. It was early for the Scuba season and the hotel was nearly empty. Cobra preferred to hide in large hotels where no one was ever remembered by the numerous, impersonal staff. He changed and took a van-taxi to a famous restaurant called Chef Tell’s Grand Old House on the southern tip of the island. He arrived early to observe, as was the custom of Tell’s repeat patrons, the spectacular tropical sunset of gold into red into blue and starry black, all within a few minutes. He then went in and dined well on conch chowder and lightly fried grouper, washed down by a crisp chardonnay from California’s Napa Valley.
He rose early the following morning and walked to Grand Cayman’s tiny capital, George Town, with its hundreds of branches of banks from all over the world. Some of these were full-service branches, like Barclays, Gulf Bank, and the Bank of Nova Scotia; some were independent or quasi-independent entities like Cayman Islands Trust Company; and most were merely mail drops, brass plates outside the offices of the many law offices in town.
Cobra opened new accounts with new numbers in several banks, each time piously signing government forms swearing that the funds were not the proceeds of any crime. He moved his money again and again, burying it deeper and deeper. He knew it could be found by the best sleuths of the U.S. Treasury Department, the Bank of England, or the Swiss police, but given his commission, he doubted anyone like that would be after the money for years, and by then he would have moved it again, if he was still alive.
Cobra completed his business in time to catch the 6:00 P.M. flight to Atlanta, where he made his connection to Washington National.
15
JERRY O’HEARN, THE Chairman and President of Executive Alert, Inc., a detective and protection agency incorporated in Chevy Chase, Maryland, stood at parade rest in front of Alfred Thayer’s big desk. Capital National Bank was practically Executive Alert’s only client, providing 90 percent of the firm’s revenue. The bank, through a subsidiary in Luxembourg, also controlled the 75 percent of the stock not owned by O’Hearn.
Thayer steepled his hands in front of him. O’Hearn, lean, hard, fifty, with a military short haircut turned completely gray, looked like the Green Beret major he once had been. “Sit down, Major,” Thayer offered. “Have some coffee.”
O’Hearn sat, barely less stiffly than he had stood. “Thank you, Colonel. No coffee, thank you.”
Thayer had invited no one else to the meeting. “So where is he?”
“He checked out of the Willard two days ago, having purchased a ticket to Atlanta. He then led our tail team on a hare-and-hounds through the Metro, and they lost him. It wouldn’t have been difficult, sir. As you know, we aren’t the FBI or even the detective bureau of a good-sized city police force. We’ve only thirty operatives, and most of them aren’t trained in close surveillance. I’d have been surprised if your asset couldn’t have ditched a two-man team in a crowded subway system. Frankly, Colonel, that wouldn’t speak well of his credentials.”
Thayer smiled. The same thought had occurred to him. O’Hearn had no idea of Cobra’s identity and no inkling of his commission, other than it was something clandestine in which the chairman of Capital National took a personal interest. “What next?” Thayer asked.
“We sent another operative directly to National Airport with a description of the man and a ticket on the same Atlanta flight. She waited by the Delta counter until the flight was called, then proceeded to the gate in case he had gone there directly; we knew from the concierge at the Willard that he had a preassigned seat and a boarding card. No one matching the description you gave us boarded the Atlanta flight, so our operative didn’t either. It would be surer, of course, if we’d taken photographs while he was still at the hotel, or at the lodge on your estate.”
“Absolutely no photographs,” Thayer said sharply. “As you’ve been instructed, Major.”
“Quite so, sir. When I heard from the agent at the airport, I called friends in Atlanta, Miami, and a few other cities that had departures from National at about that time. I asked them to observe only; don’t contact, just report. Nothing.”
He moved our money and simply vanished, Thayer thought, color rising from his throat to his cheeks. But somehow, he didn’t believe
it. He knew Carvahal would gladly hunt the man down for his 10 percent, and the shooter would know that too. Besides, Thayer had sensed a dignity, a pride of profession in the assassin during their brief encounter at the lodge. As mad as it seemed, Thayer felt sure the shooter would come back and complete his commission. “Anything further?”
O’Hearn drew himself up proudly. “Yes, sir. We kept a watch on National; had three teams of agents meeting every likely flight. Your man turned up at 2313 last night, coming in from Atlanta after all. He removed a bulky holdall from an airport locker and rented a car from Hertz. One of our operatives charmed a look at the rental contract; he’s still using the Frank Hayes documents. We followed him to a small motel in Alexandria; he made no attempt to lose the tail, that now, of course, had three teams.”
“Good. So he’s returned, and is close by.”
O’Hearn shook his head wryly. “My people sat on the place all night, watching his car and his room. When he hadn’t emerged by ten this morning, my guy bribed the maid to let him into the room. The bed had been slept in, the lock on the rear window had been carefully removed, and our pigeon slipped us again.”
COBRA HAD CAUGHT the tail as soon as he emerged from the jetway. Two teams; doubtless more. He collected his weapon from the locker, noting that the bag had not been moved from the precise alignment in one corner as he had left it, and that locks of his hair were still wound around the two zippers. He drove to the motel in Alexandria he had examined the day after his interview with the three judges, as he thought of them. He got three hours of sleep, then bailed out the back window as soon as he was sure his minders had set up one sleepy team outside and let the others go home.
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