Diamondhead

by Diamondhead (UK) (retail) (epub)

  Harry chuckled. “Come on in, buddy,” he said. “Let’s have a glass of Scotch whisky.”

  They walked to Harry’s study, and the shipyard boss poured them each a double shot from a crystal decanter. He opened the fridge door below and selected a bottle of club soda, from which he topped off each glass. “Your good health,” he said.

  “And yours,” replied Mack.

  “And now perhaps you’ll tell me what’s so important you need to be here at six bells? Before the watch change!”

  Both men chuckled. They’d been going through this routine since Mack first joined the navy.

  “Harry, you understood my reluctance to continue with our highly illegal project this morning? And you said all I needed to do was provide you with the telephone number of a competent assassin who would carry out your wishes and take out Henri Foche?”

  Harry nodded, and Mack handed him the piece of paper on which were written the ten numbers. Harry stared at the 207 area code. “Jesus,” he said. “This is a local Maine number.”

  “It’s closer than that,” said Mack. “It’s mine.”

  Chapter 7

  Harry Remson did not know whether to stand up and cheer or reach for his blood-pressure pills. Men have won the Olympic 200 meters with heart rates slower than Harry’s was at this particular moment. He tried to remain calm, considered, and businesslike. He took a long pull on his Scotch and soda. “Mack,” he eventually said evenly, “are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “I believe so, Harry. I’ve fired Raul, who I don’t trust one inch, and I’m volunteering to undertake the contract myself, for the same money.”

  Harry stood up and walked across the room to refresh his dwindling drink. He lifted up the decanter, but before he poured, he said quietly, “It’s Tommy, isn’t it, Mack? You’ll do it for Tommy.”

  “Mostly,” replied the former SEAL commander.

  “That’s good,” said Harry. “Anyone can be a hired killer. But it takes a real man to put his life on the line for his little boy.”

  “I guess you know the situation, about Switzerland and everything?”

  “I do. I was talking to your dad yesterday. They want a million, right? To do the operation – the bone marrow?”

  “That’s their price. Fixed. No extras, and a room for Anne for up to six months if necessary. One million US dollars.”

  “Mack, they just got it. If you’ll take this on, I’m coming up with the first million right away. I’ll have it wired from the account in France, direct to the clinic. Book their tickets.”

  “And what if I fail?”

  “The money’s a nonreturnable deposit. But I know you won’t fail.” Mack smiled. “You do?”

  “Sure I do. As far as I’m concerned, Henri Foche is living on borrowed time.” Harry Remson looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, as if the sudden recruitment of this battlefield commander had solved his every problem. “Mack,” he said, “remember one thing. Until this moment I had no one who could be trusted to carry out the project. I know you had leads, but they were full of dangers and suspicions. And you were right to be concerned – these Marseille villains could just as easily have bolted with the greenbacks and done nothing.”

  “I just didn’t trust them, Harry.”

  “The difference is, I trust you. I know you will undertake this venture as if you were still a SEAL. I know you will plan carefully, and then carry it out. For the first time I feel my money is going to buy me something of value. Guaranteed.”

  “Harry,” said Mack, “I can’t guarantee my success.”

  “I don’t want you to guarantee success. But to me your handshake is better than a thousand contracts. You are a United States Naval officer, a gentleman and a lifelong friend. I know, without you saying it, you will give it everything… for yourself, for Anne, for me, for the town – and above all for Tommy.”

  “On that,” replied Mack, “you do have my guarantee.”

  “Knowing you, you’ve already thought about how this is going to work – the time frame, expenses, and so forth.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it for a week now. Not for myself, for Raul. But the same basic rules apply.”

  “Go on.”

  “He was to be paid two million dollars for the project. There was no mention of expenses. So I assume whatever they were came out of his share of the money. In my case, the money for Tommy, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. My expenses will come out of the second million, same as Raul. But I’m poorer, so I’ll need a substantial advance against the second payment.”

  “Okay,” said Harry. “Where do we stand?”

  “I will need 200,000 dollars, maybe 10,000 in US currency, the rest in euros and British pounds. I intend to enter France via southern Ireland and England. And I have some quite serious purchases to make.”

  “Such as?”

  “A sniper rifle that I will need to be made especially for me. Plus some rather expensive underwater equipment.”

  “What’s that for?”

  “Foche has major financial interests in shipbuilding. That magazine says he has made most of his important speeches to workers in that industry. That’s where I may nail him, in a shipyard, and my only way of escape will be the water.”

  For the first time, Harry Remson felt the project shifting gears, like a blurred photograph, suddenly becoming clear, jumping into the realm of stark, hard-focused reality. The assassin, the bullet, the victim, the blood, the headlines.

  “Holy shit!” said the shipyard owner. He took another quiet gulp of his Scotch and soda. He looked at Mack and thought he could see a difference in the man. This was no longer the cheerful young guy who’d made it big in the military yet was always ready to offer the hand of friendship. This was a deadly serious professional. And a professional killer at that, the way all US Navy SEALs are ultimately professional killers. If the American government did not want them for that, then there was no purpose in their existence. They were men trained specifically to carry out that which no one else would even dream about.

  Here he was, Mack Bedford, outlining the precise nuts and bolts of the operation, the absolute anatomy of an assassination. And Harry was financing it, making it possible. For a split second he wondered whether he ought to turn tail and run, but then he thought about the family business and the men he must cast out onto the cold streets of midwinter Dartford. No, he wouldn’t fail them. He must not fail them.

  He turned again to face the assassin, Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford. “How long before you can leave?”

  “Two weeks. I’ll need three expensively forged passports and three matching driver’s licenses, one American, one Irish, and one Swiss. I’ll need you to take care of that, but I can give you contacts, CIA freelance guys. Expensive but perfect documents.”

  “Will they have time?”

  “Sure. They’ll damn nearly finish them overnight if they have to. They’ve got plenty of blanks, for damn near any country in the world.” “You’ll give me details of your other identities?”

  “Tomorrow. Send ’em an email. They’ll come back by courier, 5,000 dollars each.”

  “Airline tickets?”

  “Business class return, Boston to Dublin. Aer Lingus. Book in the same name as the new American passport. I’ll pay my own way to and from the local places. Cash.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Negative. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Do I need to know how, where and when?”

  “Absolutely not. You will never know, and hopefully neither will anyone else.”

  Harry Remson vacillated somewhere between blind admiration, outright shock, and general disbelief. This was actually happening. Standing before him was the man who would assassinate Henri Foche.

  He tried to look at the man objectively, as if he had never known him. He saw a big and obviously very fit person. There’s something about guys like that. Military guys. Hard-trained, cont
rolled diet, no excesses of alcohol. They radiate an understated power, toughness, as if they could instantly turn into Godzilla, which Mack Bedford most certainly could. The face was strong, with laugh lines around the deep gray-blue eyes, with no malice in their gaze. There was a steadiness in the expression. This was a man not easily thrown off his chosen course, and not easily intimidated. In Harry Remson’s opinion this was not the face of an assassin. It was the face of a born commander, a man whom other men would follow. Harry wondered how Mack would settle into his new role, operating beyond the law, seeking out his target with precision and ruthlessness.

  On reflection, he considered there was no better man in all the world to save the shipyard. This was Harry’s lucky night, and right now he did not give a damn if it was midnight. He would not have given a damn if it had been 4:00 A.M. on Christmas, eight bells, that is, end of the Middle Watch.

  He turned to Mack and offered his hand. “No contract, old buddy,” he said. “Just take me by the hand. That’s all we need.”

  “One question, Harry,” said Mack. “What happens if I should be shot by French security forces, when I’m trying to get away? What happens to Anne and Tommy?”

  “I will take care of everything. The second million belongs to Anne. Do you need an IOU in writing?”

  “Negative.”

  “Will we meet in my office tomorrow morning to finalize those passports?”

  “Start of the Forenoon Watch – 0800 hours.”

  Harry Remson felt nothing short of a wave of elation sweeping over him. He was somehow in the middle of a military operation, so secretive, so highly classified, he felt darned near legal. Well, not quite that. But self-righteous, certain he was doing the correct thing.

  They walked to the door together, and Harry let Mack out into the night. He watched the Buick slide noiselessly away, turning right, back toward town. He stood there for a few moments, shook his head, and said quietly, “Jesus Christ, what have we done?”

  * * *

  It was six o’clock in the French seaport of Marseille. Almost everyone in the area around the old port was somehow connected to the sea. Trawlers were still unloading cargoes of fish; others were gassing up in readiness to leave. The chefs on the yachts that lined several of the jetties were up and about, starting preparations for breakfast for both crew and guests.

  One man, however, was not connected to the sea, and he was headed north along Quay des Beiges, past the fish market, walking at a very steady pace, wearing an expression like a lovesick bloodhound. Raul Declerc was not happy. And the reason for this was simple: he had not heard from Mr. Morrison, the man, apparently, with the two million bucks. Raul Declerc had no idea what had happened to his seemingly reliable new client. The initial expense payment had gone off without a hitch in Geneva. But Morrison had now missed two calls, and there was an empty feeling in the stomach of Monsieur Declerc. He had a disquieting instinct that this particular feeling might shortly transfer itself to the Declerc wallet area.

  He was mostly furious at himself. He should never have tried to grab an extra million dollars from a man like Morrison. Even the voice had betrayed a dangerous edge. In that split second, after he had suggested extra money, and reneged on his agreement, Raul knew he had gone too far. Morrison had come back at him like a striking cobra – “You’re not getting it from me.” The words had stayed with him. And now Morrison had vanished and taken his bloody two million with him. And he, Raul Declerc, had probably sent staff, helicopters, and God knows what else all over France for absolutely nothing. “Fuck it,” said Raul.

  The worse part of all was he had no idea who this Morrison was, no idea whom he represented, no idea where he was calling from, except it was quite possibly somewhere on the planet Earth. “Fuck it,” said Raul again.

  In his particular trade, assassination and killers for hire, there was often a spin-off for deals that went wrong. Priceless information. Details about a plan. But in this case, the level of information was so low, so devoid of anything even resembling a fact, he feared there would in the end be nothing. Nothing to sell, trade, or barter.

  He swung northwest away from the Old Port and, still walking swiftly, headed up to the Place des Moulins. He wanted to be at his desk early in case Morrison decided to make contact. There might even be a message on the machine. But he was not holding his breath. Every intuition he had told him he’d blown it with Morrison, and there would be no second chance. Not with a man like that.

  * * *

  Mack Bedford arrived at the shipyard a little before eight o’clock. Harry Remson was already at his desk. He instructed the boss to open up his laptop and take down the following details:

  Jeffery Alan Simpson. 13 Duchess Way, Worcester, Massachusetts. Born: August 14,1978, Providence, Rhode Island. US passport no. 633452874. Issue date: February 2004. US driver’s license. Issue date: March 2009. Photographs to follow.

  Gunther Marc Roche. 18 rue de Basle, Geneva, Switzerland. Born: November 12,1977, Davos, Switzerland. Swiss passport no. 947274902. Issue date: June 2005. Swiss driver’s license. Issue date: July 2008. Photographs to follow.

  Patrick Sean O’Grady. 27 Herbert Park Road, Dublin 4, Ireland. Born: December 14,1977, Naas, County Kildare, Ireland. Irish passport no. 4850370. Issue date: January 2008. Irish driver’s license. Issue date: May 2009. Photographs to follow.

  “Okay, Harry,” said Mack. “Email those details to these guys in Bethesda, Maryland. Here’s the address on this card. Put a line in telling them you’re sending these requests on behalf of Lt. Cdr. Thomas Killiney. He’s already called. Tell them the photographs will be sent by courier tonight. And have your bank in France wire 30,000 dollars directly to their bank – right here on this card, all numbers and details.”

  Harry turned out to be a top-class secretary, firing off the information in all directions. Then he said, “Anything else, Captain?”

  “Yup, fire up the Bentley and drive me to Portland. Right away.” Harry Remson had not hopped to it that smartly for years. But he did so today, heading down the stairs, into his car, and out onto Route 127, north to Bath and then Brunswick, before heading down the coastal highway to Portland. Twenty-seven miles, all fast.

  In the city, Harry was a mere chauffeur, driving Mack from an optician to a hair stylist and then to one of those photographic shops that specialize in passports. He assisted with a disguise that he thought made Mack look ridiculous, a blond wig and mustache, with rimless reading glasses. Mack went inside and purchased six photographs, which took care of the Jeffery Simpson passport and license.

  Then he went to another branch of the same store and had Harry fix him up in a wig of long, curly black hair and a bushy black beard – this latter piece of gear being a remnant from Mack’s SEAL days when he sometimes worked among tribesmen. Once more he had six photographs made, which put Gunther Marc Roche right on the map.

  Then they went back to the first store, and Mack had a half-dozen photographs done of himself without disguise, thus creating a perfect look-alike for Patrick Sean O’Grady.

  They immediately headed back to the shipyard, where Mack carefully captioned each picture and Harry had his own secretary whistle up FedEx and then check that the email had arrived at the French bank. After all that, they strolled into town, to Hank’s Fish Shack, down on the wharf, and treated themselves to a couple of lobster rolls and iced coffee.

  They had said little since they left the yard. It was Mack who finally broke the ice. “Getting yourself shot by your enemy is more or less an acceptable risk in my trade,” he said. “But to fuck up the paperwork would be regarded as kinda silly.”

  Harry laughed. “Mack,” he said, “you have no idea how confident I am that you are going to pull this off and everyone’s problems get solved.”

  Mack took a deep and luxurious bite of his lobster roll and muttered, “That’s why I didn’t want to fuck up the paperwork, right?”

  At around two o’clock Harry drove back to the shipyard.
Mack elected to walk home with his disguises crammed into his pockets. He was feeling tired, having hardly slept. The sofa was nothing like as good as his bed. Anne had called down just once to check he was there, and he took this to mean some kind of truce. But the hurt of her words had stayed with him, and while the truce was okay, he felt too wounded to go for a full reconciliation. He hoped she had not meant it, but the sting of her attack had not left him, and he had thought of little else when he walked over to Remsons at seven thirty that morning. And now, as he turned onto the long country road where they lived, a feeling of dread settled upon him. Had she perhaps meant it?

  And then he saw it. Parked way up the road, maybe 400 yards, right outside the house, blue lights flashing, was an ambulance, its rear doors open with a stretcher being loaded in by two paramedics.

  Mack broke into a run, pounding up the lane, terrified that Anne had tried to commit suicide. But then he saw her come running out of the house and saw the doors slam shut with the two assistants in the back, presumably with Tommy. He raised his arm and shouted, “WAIT!”

  But the ambulance accelerated away, and as Mack came thundering into the front yard there was only Anne, standing by herself, desolate, inconsolable. She did not throw herself into his arms, but simply stood there, repeating, “He’s so ill, he’s just so ill. And I’m supposed to just stand aside and watch him die.”

  Mack walked up to her and embraced her at last. He said quietly, “Tell me what happened.”

  “I could not stop him from being sick, and he was getting frightened. I didn’t know where you were, so I called Dr. Ryan, who said it was not that bad, but he was bringing Tommy in immediately. He told me to leave for the hospital one hour after the ambulance left.”

  Mack steered her toward the house and decided to play his ace right now. “Anne,” he said, “Tommy’s going to Switzerland. I’ve raised the money. So get the brochures and make the calls. He can leave right away if they’ll take him.”