Countdown to Mecca

by Michael Savage

  Then he turned heel and walked away without another word.

  As he left, the other men exhaled audibly, no one louder than Reynolds who bent to examine his wound.

  They were committed and they were loyal. Morton would rectify his double mistake—consorting with escorts, then not making sure their threat was not contained. He would rectify it with a vengeance.

  5

  San Francisco, California

  Jack was now at the wheel, his eyes on the road—and everywhere else, alert for a possible ambush. The police didn’t seem to mind that they were speeding; the patrol cars were all racing in the opposite direction, where at least two dozen 911 calls had told them to go. In the passenger’s seat, Sol was giving hushed orders on the phone. Jack was on his own hands-free device, waiting. Moments later, the woman Jack had called and given short, precise instructions came back on.

  “Done,” she said.

  “Thanks, Dover,” Jack said. “Talk to you later.” Jack thought about her ultra-thin, athletic body and felt a slight heat run through his head. She was built like a greyhound he thought and cut himself off as he remembered some of their intimacies. It had taken him most of his adult life and many women for him to understand what turned him over and on. He only lusted after her.

  Jack took one hand off the wheel to press END CALL. He handed Sol the phone. Sol looked at the information and entered it in his own phone.

  “Is that ‘gal’ as in ‘Gal Friday’ or—” Sol grinned as he worked the keypad.

  “Her name’s Dover Griffith and she’s a friend,” Jack said.

  “Is that all we get?” Sammy teased.

  Jack did not respond. His brother was trying to be brotherly. Jack didn’t want that from him; not now. There was still too much bad history between them to just let it go.

  “I can give you more,” Sol said. “She’s a high-ranking FBI agent, former Department of Naval Intelligence analyst. She’s spent some time with Mr. Hatfield here and his mercenary special ops buddy Doc Matson.”

  Jack looked at him critically. “How do you do it?”

  “What? Get intel on people who may be sniffing around my operation.”

  “No, I mean, sleep with one eye open so you can watch everyone who comes and goes from this town.”

  Sol shrugged. “I like it. I like the fact that my computer hacker can get through anything the FBI or SFPD or anyone else throws up. Life is a game, Jack. If you take it more seriously than that, you’re dead.”

  “I like that,” Ana said.

  “Thank you, wolf eyes.”

  “No,” Ana said. “I like that Jack was letting her know he’s all right.”

  Sol was still watching Jack. “I don’t think Mr. Hatfield here is that sentimental,” he said. “The firefight at the apartment and in the street set off alarms all over the city. Someone had to run interference. Dover is it. What’s she doing, filing eyewitness reports that have us going in the opposite direction?”

  Jack frowned. “You give me a pain.”

  “And you love it,” Sol said.

  They were both right. Dover was also searching the files for any reference to “Firebird,” but Jack did not bother sharing that.

  Sammy was scowling. “After what you’ve done for this town, Jack, I would’ve thought they’d given you a direct line to the commissioner by now.”

  “Some may give me grudging, private respect, but most think I’m some sort of right-wing vigilante just because I tell the truth. How many bombs have to go off before they accept that all Islam is inherently radical?”

  “I know how you feel,” Sol said. “People judge me, too.”

  Jack glared at him. “That’s because you’re a lawless smuggler of contraband.”

  “See?” Sol said. “I’m also a man whose word is gold and who will risk his life for people he doesn’t know. Isn’t that how you want people to see you?”

  All Jack could say was, “Touché.”

  A moment later he slid into the parking slot designated for his forty-ton, fifty-nine-foot long Grand Banks Yacht. Jack felt relieved at the sight of it, swaying gently in the moonlight that was dappling gems on Richardson Bay. Inside, Eddie was probably wondering what was taking his master so long. The poor poodle probably needed a good ear scratching, walk, and doggy treat or two though the sound and smell of strangers might send him hiding in the portside cabinet in Jack’s stateroom.

  Jack’s tired legs were pulling him from the car when he heard Anastasia inhale sharply. He turned to see the woman’s lupine eyes peering beyond him, pointing at the yacht. All three men, now out of the car and positioned around her at the edge of the quay, looked toward the harbor.

  “There’s someone inside that boat,” Anastasia stated, lowering her arm. “I saw a shadow.”

  Jack looked ahead. The boat was dark but the ambient light of the quay kept it from being black. If someone were onboard, they might be visible against the vessel’s muddy silhouette.

  “Wait here,” Sammy said, snatching the Kel-Tec from the seat and starting forward.

  “Wait!” Jack said.

  But it was too late. Sammy sprinted ahead. Whether it was an inflated sense of Marine chivalry or personal recrimination for having needed the help of his brother and a mobster, he was already halfway to the yacht. Jack set off after him. By the time he reached the Sea Wrighter, Sammy had already sprinted onboard. Jack jumped from the slip onto his boat and burst into the entryway salon just in time to see Sammy Hatfield aiming the Kel-Tec at the grizzled face of a tall, lanky, white-haired man.

  Sammy was looking anything but triumphant, however. In fact he looked like he had just about stepped on a rattlesnake. That long-limbed, grizzled, snowy-haired man was pressing an eleven-inch, .45 caliber, Ruger Vaquero single-action revolver right between Sammy’s eyes.

  “Well, I guess we’re all in the same boat, now,” drawled Doc Matson.

  Jack motioned the others over and made the hasty introductions before he acknowledged Eddie, who had been sitting patiently on his haunches, his little tail sweeping the hardwood floor. Finally, Jack scooped to pick him up.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Doc,” Sol said. “I understand you’re a crack mercenary—”

  “Who tries to work within the law,” Jack added, rising.

  Doc smirked. “Laws change from land to land. You’re the Sol Minsky?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you have a way into North Korea by sea?”

  “Jesus,” Jack said, shaking his head.

  “What?” Doc shot back. “May have my next job lined up.”

  “Your next job is already here,” Jack said.

  “So Dover said when she asked me to meet you,” Doc replied.

  “That was, what, five minutes ago!” Sammy interjected. “What did you do, parachute in?”

  That made Ana laugh, which made Sammy beam.

  “I live nearby,” he said and left it at that.

  “Cautious,” Sol said. “Even among friends.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Occasionally,” Sol replied drily.

  They all heard a car pull up outside. Jack dropped Eddie, who scurried under an armchair as if he were trained for trouble, while Jack sidled toward the still-open doorway. Four nondescript men in dark suits were easing from a dark blue minivan and heading for the Mercedes. Sol shouldered past Jack.

  “Donnie, get rid of that thing,” Sol said, softly but firmly. “If anyone tries to stop you, especially in a Ford Explorer, break bones and take names.”

  The crew on the boat watched as the men got into Sol’s car and drove off. Jack knew it was destined for a chop shop. He was impressed by their new wheels: despite its almost imperceptibly tinted one-way windows, the minivan wouldn’t look out of place at a kids’ soccer game.

  Jack had heard the mobster giving instructions on the phone while he waited for Dover to make some important calls. They were headed to a mob safe house.

  Doc, who had surmised
most of the plan, just nodded and said appreciatively, “Sol, someday we gotta compare operations.”

  While Jack locked the door that Doc had unlocked, the others headed for the minivan. Sammy helped Ana into the back. Doc and Jack, with Eddie in his arms, took the middle seat while Sol jumped in alongside the driver.

  Jack noticed the bespectacled wheelman glance into the rearview mirror. “I’m Ric. What kind of food you gonna want for him?”

  “He loves provolone mixed with kibble and carrots. But in a pinch, he’ll eat any meat or cheese. Just make sure the meat’s got no spices even pepper on it.”

  The driver nodded, filing the information away, then put the vehicle in gear and moved slowly into traffic.

  The safe house was nestled behind a halfway house for addicts and prostitutes, tucked between the Mission District and Lower Haight. Jack looked at Sol with a question in his eyes. The mob boss nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said, “we finance it. Got similar places dotted throughout the state. It serves a variety of uses.”

  “I know this place,” Ana said. “It’s for girls who did not choose this life. You are so kind.”

  Sol just grinned.

  Ric hit a button attached to his sun visor as he turned onto Guerrero Street, and the others watched as a small gate opened in front of a fenced alley.

  “Dolores Park west,” Sol said as if leading a tour. “Food shops south, theaters north, galleries east, take-out and delivery joints all over.”

  Ric pulled into the alley, hitting the visor button again to close the gate behind them.

  “I’d like to see your pursuers infiltrate this part of town without getting nailed,” Doc observed.

  “You got it,” Sol winked.

  Ric jumped out and the others followed, each taking in the dank, quiet area in their own way. The driver pressed a button on his phone and a metal door near the back of the structure clicked open. He led them up a stairway to another metal door on the second floor. Another press, another click, and they were inside.

  Jack was surprised to find it to be a simple, but comfortable, loft apartment with sleeping accommodations for eight, a nice kitchen, two large bathrooms, and an entertainment area with a large flat-screen TV, videogame consoles, and four computers on a semicircular desk. Doc noted that the monitor screens each showed a different approach to the building.

  “It’s the tallest structure in the neighborhood,” Sol reported as Eddie hopped from Jack’s arms and happily skittered away to explore. “No one approaches without us seeing them.” He motioned at the windows on each of the walls, displaying nice views of the city. “One-way glass. We can see out. They can’t see in.”

  At the sound of voices, two beautiful women came from the one bathroom, each wearing T-shirts, jeans, and sandals. Ana gasped to see it was Miwa and Ritu, the two young women she had brought to see Morton, Pallor, and Kid. The three hugged each other and chattered with a mix of relief and concern.

  “How—?” Ana asked tearfully.

  “Remember when I touched your phone to mine before destroying the SIM card?” Jack said.

  “SIM?” the woman asked.

  “Subscriber identity module. I got their addresses and gave them to Sol. Since these guys were working so hard to get rid of her, there was no way they weren’t going to go after your friends.”

  Ana threw her arms around Jack. Sammy looked unhappy. Jack felt uncomfortable. He eased her back.

  “So what’s next?” Sammy said confrontationally.

  “For now, you’re going to look after the ladies while we—” he crooked his thumbs toward Sol and Doc, “—get ahead of this thing.”

  “Like hell!” Sammy started, but Doc cut him off.

  “Cool your jets,” Doc said. His words were gentle but there was menace in the delivery. “I know some things that none of you do.”

  “Oh?” Jack and Sol said simultaneously—Jack with curiosity, Sol with envy.

  “The Russians have hired me over the years to help them whenever they have a problem tracking missing Soviet uranium and nuclear components,” Doc said. “Dover asked me about something you asked her, Jack, and it fits with a call I got this morning. A call about a missing weapon of mass destruction, what they call ‘F.O.’ After a ballet by native son Igor Stravinsky.” The leathery old veteran turned his head toward Jack. “Firebird Ordnance.”

  Ana actually gasped. Sammy looked fearful. Jack was too busy thinking to react.

  “How’re you gonna get ahead of that?” Sol asked.

  “I’ll tell you how,” Jack said to Sol—to all of them—in a voice that radiated certainty and growing confidence. “By doing what I do best.”

  “And what is that?” Ana blurted.

  He looked at the young woman. “By telling the truth to those who think they have the power.”

  6

  General Thomas Brooks sat behind the big desk he had earned, beneath the large window he had earned, and glanced at the remnants of a military career he had also earned. Awards, citations, and trophies were everywhere. But they might as well be part of the wreckage of the passenger plane they’d brought down. He actually felt bitterness toward the accolades and perks: he was being put out to pasture and all his achievements couldn’t save him. Ever since General Douglas MacArthur had made his retirement speech before the UN all those years ago they had called it “The Big ‘Fade Away.’” And he was being groomed for that by the brass.

  No matter, he thought. That was why Firebird had been set in motion. This achievement was for him, for America, not for the brass.

  The plan Brooks had been working on for nearly five years was finally nearing completion. It meant that within the foreseeable future, the world would no longer face the greatest threat since Hitler and Hirohito had threatened to divide the globe in half between them.

  It meant, too, that the United States would soon be involved in a war that it did not want, but that Brooks knew it must wage to have any hope of surviving. A war better fought now, while the odds were overwhelmingly in its favor, than in ten years, when they might not be.

  A war, also, where millions would die, Americans included, people Brooks knew and respected included. Even he might die. But what greater honor was there for a military man than to die with his boots on? He would die a patriot, keeping America in the spotlight of world history. Brooks did not want to die, but he definitely did not want to die like his hero, General George Patton, who had met his fate after the war in a meaningless car accident.

  Despite what he had been forced to do to Steven Reynolds’s foot, Brooks was content with how the main event had gone off … and where things were going.

  He checked his watch. It was time for an update. He grabbed the high security phone and called Morton.

  The lower-ranking general answered on the first ring. “Yes, sir!”

  “Report.”

  “The men in question have arrived in Yalta, as agreed,” Morton informed him.

  “The courier?”

  “En route with the package.”

  The package was the remaining cash for the job. “All right,” the general said. “And my visit to the labs?”

  “Everything has been arranged,” he reported.

  “I’ll be especially interested in a walk-through on the current projects.”

  “Of course.” Morton’s voice regained some of its usual professionalism.

  “I’ve also given some thought to next week,” Brooks went on. “I’d like to visit the installation in Mt. Keren, and go on to Riyadh and say good-bye to the monitoring unit there.”

  “Mt. Keren? In Israel?”

  “Correct. I assume you can handle that.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “I expect everything to be in place when I get to San Francisco,” Brooks told him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Brooks ended the call. However much they planned, there were always complications, contingencies to deal with, something new waiting in ambus
h. As long as they weren’t stupid, sloppy mistakes like the whores, he didn’t mind a challenge. He was content in the knowledge that he would triumph, that he would carry the flag to Bethlehem, then Mecca.

  It was the only way.

  7

  Every cop in the squad room knew the two visitors were Feds the moment they set eyes on them. The man may have been six feet tall and built like a linebacker, while the woman could have been a catalog model, but their suits, expressions, and attitude said FBI.

  “Field Director Carl Forsyth,” the man told Captain Daniel Jeffreys, the detective in charge, while displaying his credentials. He nodded toward the woman. “Special Agent Dover Griffith.”

  “Where is he?” Dover asked without further delay.

  “Interrogation one,” said Jeffreys, already leading the Feds in the right direction.

  “Where did you find him?” Dover asked.

  “We didn’t,” Jeffreys admitted. “He just walked in and said he had a story we should hear.”

  “He turned himself in?” Forsyth said incredulously.

  The detective smirked. “Like a spy running in from the cold,” he said as they reached the room.

  “This is priority one,” Forsyth went on with steel in his low voice. “Top secret.”

  “Naturally,” Jeffreys said, opening the door.

  Forsyth entered followed by Dover and Jeffreys. Jack turned his head and smiled at the sight of the two federal agents.

  “Carl,” he said pleasantly, but his voice warmed further as he greeted the other agent. “Dover. It’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise.”

  The two had been lovers in a working relationship turned steamy under the heat of saving San Francisco from weapons of mass destruction.

  Forsyth ignored the pleasantries as Jeffreys closed the door of the windowless room.

  “Why didn’t you just come directly to my office?” the field director scowled.

  “You don’t get a home court advantage,” Jack said casually.