Michael Walsh Bundle

by Michael Walsh

The enlisted men’s barracks gave way to the BOQ and then to the senior officers’ housing area. These homes were quite nice, and the higher up the ladder you stood, the nicer house you got. The base commander, Admiral Atchison, would have the nicest home of all.

  As indeed he did. They pulled in front of a large, twostory house with a well-tended lawn and a basketball hoop in the driveway, which Rory eyed enviously. An attractive woman of about forty greeted them at the door.

  “Hello,” she said, “I’m Melinda Atchison. Please come in. You must be exhausted.”

  Danny introduced Hope, Emma, Rory, and Jade. “You three come with me,” ordered Mrs. Atchison. “Breakfast is served.” She turned to Hope and Danny. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Hope understood that her place at the moment was with the children. “Let me help you,” she said. Then, to Danny, softly: “Good luck.”

  “You can wait in the living room,” said Mrs. Atchison, and then she and Hope disappeared into the kitchen with the three children.

  The living room was well furnished and well appointed. Souvenirs from various duty stations were on the mantel and art that the Atchisons had collected at various stops around the world hung on the walls. They had taste and class—typical of today’s well-educated officer corps.

  “That’s for you, Mr. Barker,” came a voice behind him.

  Danny turned to see the admiral entering the room. As they shook hands, the admiral said, “I found it here this morning.”

  It was a PDA, but unlike any that Danny had ever seen before.

  “You obviously have friends in very high places. About four this morning, I received classified instructions to extend you every courtesy of the base, and that’s precisely what I intend to do,” said Atchison. “Whatever you need in the way of men and materiel, all you have to do is ask.”

  Danny wondered just what sort of materiel this operation was going to entail, but he would be very surprised if it didn’t have something to do with the Hornets. “What do we know about the cattle deaths?” he asked.

  “Officially or unofficially?”

  “Your call.”

  “Officially, it’s botulism, as you may have heard. Unofficially . . . we don’t have the slightest idea. Something—not a poison—killed the livestock, and I mean killed them dead.”

  “I know. We saw it.”

  The admiral gestured to the sofa and invited Danny to sit. “Best guess, some kind of space-originated laser, possibly from a satellite.”

  “Surely your men would have picked it up?”

  At that moment, the PDA squawked to life. He had been listening the whole time:

  “Not necessarily.” The voice was altered, but Danny knew its cadences.

  “Hello, Bert,” he said.

  “Lasers have come a long way since science-fiction movies,” said the man calling himself Bert Harris. “They’re far more focused, harder to pick up; they leave almost no footprint. Think of it as firing a rifle to hit a something the size of a dime from two miles away. Who the hell is going to notice that?”

  “You’re talking about the SBL program.”

  “Right,” came the voice. “Space Based Lasers. Developed for use as anti-missile devices, but we all know they have a lot more potential uses than just that. But there’s even more to it. There’s the LLRE.”

  “What’s that?” asked Danny.

  “Admiral?”

  Atchison didn’t seem to mind that he was taking orders from a glorified squawk box. “It began as a way to measure the distance from the earth to the moon,” he began. “The Apollo 11 astronauts left retroreflectors on the lunar surface, and Apollo 14 and 15 continued the mission. From various points on earth—the Côte d’Azur Observatory is one, there are others in Germany, New Mexico, Australia—you can fire a laser beam at the moon and have it come rocketing right back at you.”

  “And you think maybe this is what killed all those cows?” asked Danny.

  “It’s possible. From what we can tell, something altered the brains of the cattle and turned them to mush.”

  Danny wasn’t sure if this was the right time to mention it, but plunged ahead. “And how does that explain what I saw on the wall of an overpass?”

  Silence for a moment. “What did you see?” That was Harris, not the admiral.

  Might as well come right out with it. “I saw the Virgin of Guadalupe, and so did about a hundred other people, mostly Mexican farmworkers.”

  A longer pause this time, then: “You’re sure?”

  “Her image is on every votive candle, coffee mug, and tea towel in southern California,” said Danny. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Well, then . . . I guess we’re going to have to talk about this some more.... Admiral, Mr. Barker and I may need three of your Hornets and your best flight crews.”

  “You’ve got ’em. Just say the word.”

  “Thank you. You’re going to have to conceal their absence, of course, because officially they will not leave your base. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the admiral.

  “I may have to take them very far away, perhaps to the Af-Pak theater.”

  “We’ll get them there for you.”

  “Thank you. Stand by for further instructions.”

  The line went dead. That didn’t mean anything. “Bert Harris” would not be far away.

  Danny picked up the device and slipped it into his pocket. “I’m not sure just what this is all about, or how it’s going to play out,” he said.

  “Welcome to the Navy,” said Admiral Atchison.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tehran

  The boys delivered the coffin precisely where Skorzeny had demanded, to the basement of the Azadi Grand Hotel. The hotel wasn’t all that grand, but it would have to do.

  They put the coffin in a storage room, locked it, and gave Amanda a key.

  “Thank you, Habib. Thank you, Mehrdad,” said Amanda tipping them in rials, which disappointed them both. They would have wanted British pounds, or euros or, failing that, American dollars, but there was no sense in getting into trouble over currency irregularities for nothing. An illegal currency transaction, however innocuous, was just the kind of thing that landed you in hot water if you were not careful, especially when you didn’t trust the people you were dealing with. And she didn’t trust either of the brothers.

  “You need help to your room, miss?” Mehrdad said. He was a little pushier than she would have liked, so it was time to put him in his place.

  She gave him a come-hither smile and he drew close, as she knew he would. An Iranian male could never resist a Western woman, unless she was spectacularly ugly, and even then he would have to think about it. Restricted from sex in their own culture, a Western woman was just about the easiest lay they were ever going to get. If they could get it.

  “That is very thoughtful of you, Mehrdad,” she said, slipping her hand behind his head and bringing his ear close to her lips. “But I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings if you came upstairs and I got a look at your shriveled little dick that would never be able to stand up properly because I am too much woman for you. So why don’t you go home and practice with one of your sisters, or perhaps a goat, and spare yourself needless humiliation?”

  She said all this with a radiant smile, batting her eyes at Habib as she spoke to his brother. Habib’s teeth flashed in delight, and no doubt he would soon be pressing Mehrdad for the joy that was sure to await them later that evening. How puzzled he would be when Mehrdad refused to talk about it, or suggested some other avenue of delight. For Mehrdad would never repeat what she’d said—it would be too shameful—and so her little stunt might also drive a wedge between the brothers, as Habib would be convinced that Mehrdad was concealing something from him. And that would keep the both of them away from her this evening.

  One evening was all she would need she put her plan into motion.

  She bid both boys good-bye, kissed them on the cheek, and went upstair
s.

  The room was plain, as she expected. There was a television, but it only got six local Persian channels plus the BBC and CNN international. There was limited wireless Internet service, so heavily filtered by the government that it might as well be dial-up. Room service, but no wine. No matter, she didn’t need it.

  She kicked off her shoes and stretched. Were there hidden cameras in the room? It would be just like them to have a snooping device in the rooms, just so they could see a Western woman naked.

  She pulled her dress over her head and stood there in her bra and panties. If they wanted to have a limited look, now was the time.

  Skorzeny had given her one of his little toys, a bug scanner that would instantly locate—and neutralize, if the bearer wished—and listening or video devices in the room.

  She went into the bedroom, pulled the curtains, took off her clothes, and turned off the lights and let out a curse. “Damn, I dropped an earring,” she said for the benefit of her minders.

  She got down on her knees and reached under the bed. The infrareds couldn’t penetrate under the bed, so that’s where she activated the device. Any watchers would be too fixated on her bare ass to wonder why she was looking under the bed.

  Three devices: one in the bedroom, one in the sitting room, and one in the bathroom.

  Fucking pervs.

  She decided to leave the one in the bathroom and take out the other two, lest a clean sweep arouse their suspicions. She didn’t care if they saw her naked, if they went home after jerking off; at least it would give their wives some peace. Not to mention the goats.

  When the techies finally got around to investigating, each device’s failure would be chalked up to a different cause: the wiring here, a transistor there. And by that time she’d be long gone.

  She threw herself down on the bed and tried not to think of Maryam—which meant, of course, she thought about Maryam. Who the hell was she? Why was she working for the Americans? What was her surname? How had she come to know the man Skorzeny called “Devlin”? Which side was she really working for?

  None of that mattered. What mattered was that Maryam—whatever her real name was—had tried to save her in Clairvaux—in fact, had saved her in Clairvaux, at that awful prison Skorzeny called “the country house,” the maximumsecurity French prison that had once been a famous monastery, and where the devil kept a suite of rooms on the not-unreasonable theory that he would be safe there.

  As indeed, he had been, until Maryam showed up.

  Amanda let the long-repressed image play again in her mind, hearing the music as well. Skorzeny had ordered a private orchestra to play one of his favorite pieces, Richard Strauss’s Metamorphosen for twenty-three solo strings. He liked it because of what it represented: the end of Western civilization and the beginning of the descent into eternal cultural darkness. For Skorzeny, the West was finished, a suicidal basket case that needed only one good push to finish it off. For him, the destruction of what used to be called Christian civilization was a mercy killing, which is why he had so eagerly made common cause with the Islamists: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Except that civilization was not really Skorzeny’s enemy. He had made too much money from it, and no matter what had happened to him as a youth in Nazi Germany—no matter what terrible things he’d been forced to do after his parents were hanged by Hitler and he was entrusted to the care of none other than Otto Skorzeny, the most dashing figure in the Reich—he still loved the culture of the West with a mad passion. The music, the paintings, the great cathedrals—these were as mother’s milk to a boy who had never really known mother’s milk.

  In his mind, he was not destroying it, but preserving it, preserving it as it was, frozen in time, frozen at its apogee, before times had changed, before people stopped caring, before the capitalist West descended into that long night of its long-forgotten and long-disparaged soul.

  And now she was so very far away. She was here, in the heart of the Islamic Republic, in the heart of Shiia Islam itself, an Islam poised on the verge of earth-shattering things. An Islam that believed, as the West no longer did. An Islam that was not simply about oil and control and retribution, but the other Islam, the Islam that sat atop one of the world’s great civilizations, a culture that had battled Alexander and Sparta and Rome alike, a culture that proved its mettle, even in defeat.

  She rose and padded over to the window and pulled the curtains: there were the great mountains in the distance, snowcapped already.

  How far she had come.

  She left the curtains open and sank back on the bed. Sometimes she thought about him, about the man who’d called himself Milverton, the man who had nearly freed her from Skorzeny. Together they had nearly killed Skorzeny with the missile that destroyed the London Eye, but they had both paid for that act of lèse-majesté—he with his life and she very nearly with hers. She had been ready to die on that day, by the Thames, and she was no less ready today—as long as she could take him with her.

  And who had killed Milverton? Why, none other than the lover of the woman in the coffin down below.

  Two broken circles, very nearly contiguous. And she had the power to fix one of them, to make it whole again.

  Which would it be?

  She rose and stepped into the shower. At least the place had hot water. She didn’t care who was watching.

  A knock at the door, which she discerned only dimly as she toweled off. One of those intrusive hotel “welcome” packages that they reserved for VIPs, or people with money, or both. Iran still admired money, in a way the West did not. Maybe that was because the West didn’t have money anymore.

  She wrapped the hotel bathrobe tightly around her and went to the door—

  And caught herself. What the hell was she doing? You didn’t answer the door in a strange place, in a strange hotel room, in a place where you knew nobody. She had already learned that lesson from Maryam.

  She looked for the peephole, but there was none.

  Another knock.

  “Who is it?” she said, in what she hoped was a weak, helpless feminine voice. If there was going to be trouble, that would trigger it.

  Instead, nothing.

  She got out her device, pressed a button, and pointed it at the door.

  It worked like ground-penetrating radar, only now she could see whomever was standing on the other side of the door on the screen. Not clearly, but at least the outline of the body, from which she could deduce whether it was animal, vegetable or mineral, male or female, young or old, friend or foe. Well, not quite that, but from the preceding, she could make an educated guess.

  Two men. Habib and Mehrdad, no doubt, unable to take no for an answer.

  They shouldn’t be here—they shouldn’t even be allowed upstairs and, according to the Islamic law, they should not be visiting a single, unrelated woman, even if she was an English Christian whore.

  Another knock.

  She looked at her device. Hell, it was still a phone—with a direct satellite uplink.

  She called Skorzeny.

  He answered.

  She explained the situation.

  He hung up.

  Unless they had a key, she would be safe. She turned on the BBC and turned the volume all the way up. It was good to hear the accents of home.

  She did not hear the footsteps in the hallway. She did not hear the sounds of heads cracking, of bodies falling to the carpet and being dragged away.

  She was watching an ancient rerun of The Dukes of Hazzard. She had been hoping for Dynasty, but this would have to do.

  After five minutes or so, the infernal machine buzzed. She picked up on the second buzz. “Yes?”

  “It’s done. And so to bed.”

  “And so to work, you mean.”

  “We, each of us, have our priorities.” In the background she could hear the usual lugubrious music. She wondered if Mlle. Derrida were there. She wondered if she, too, were nude. Mlle. Derrida, as everybody knew, had no interest in
Emanuel Skorzeny’s masculinity, but she very much did have an interest in his fortune, and it would be just like him to consider her conquered when she merely considered herself rented. Maybe that was the real definition of a whore.

  “Emanuel,” she said, thinking of the two Iranian boys she had just condemned to death. Or did they condemn themselves? After all, she had warned them, and yet they came.

  “Yes, Amanda?” he said. He almost never called her by her Christian name.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, my dear. Which is why I trust you.”

  “I’m glad you do.”

  “Why else would I let you out of my sight? Had I not trusted you, you would be long since dead. As I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do, Emanuel.”

  “I do, too, Amanda. Now finish your business and come home. Even the sight of Mlle. Derrida’s delicious body, which I am forbidden by contract to touch, does not compensate me for the loss of your company.”

  So there it was. The one weakness he could never overcome. His Achilles’ heel, located right between the old goat’s legs.

  She let the line dangle for a moment; she still had the power of a woman over him, could still dictate the tenor and the rhythm of the conversation:

  “Emanuel, are you still there?”

  Now it was his turn to pause. “Of course, my dear, of course I am still here. Is the package ready for pickup?”

  “Yes, in the basement, in a secure room.”

  “Excellent. Your flight from Imam Khomeini Airport to Baku is booked. You may check in at the airport, or at your hotel desk. Don’t worry, there’s no bother about customs. It’s all taken care of.”

  “Thank you, Emanuel.”

  “Hurry home, my darling.”

  “Yes, my love.” If she could have torn her tongue out by the roots rather than utter those loathsome words, she would have. But she had no choice.

  There was no response from the other end of the line. Which, actually, was all to the good. Had he suspected her, had he had the slightest inkling that something in her heart was awry, he would have kept her on the line, kept her whispering sweet nothings until he could track her down and kill her.