He leaned down and found his battle-scarred leather bag. Into the bottom he packed the attack board, covered it with his carefully folded wet suit and flippers, and tucked the big underwater mask alongside. The suitcase had a concealed false bottom, and in the space beneath it Mack would pack passports, driver’s licenses, and 200,000 dollars’ worth of cash, euros for Ireland and France, pounds for England, and dollars for a US emergency. Everything below the false bottom would be paper or cardboard, and none of it would show up on the X-ray machines in airports. The leather grip would be his only hand baggage. It would never be more than three feet away from him.
He put the bag down, behind the packing crate, and carried the books and uniforms into the house. They had a family supper, and afterward Mack and Tommy watched the Red Sox. Anne was upstairs packing for the journey to Switzerland.
At around nine Mack drove over to Harry’s house and apologized for the late, unexpected visit. Harry, who had just finished dinner with his wife, Jane, was unfazed. “Come on in,” he said. “We’ll have a nightcap, and you can give me the news.”
Mack followed him into the study and handed him a piece of paper. On it, for the first time, he had written down his date and time of departure, six days from now – a Saturday, arriving Sunday morning in Ireland, when customs and immigration staffs would be less diligent. He hoped.
“Tickets in the name of Jeffery Simpson,” he said. “Open return. Better make it first-class. That way I can pretty well guarantee I’ll get a seat anytime I want it, and I might be in a hurry.”
Harry nodded. “No problem, pal,” he said. “I had a call this morning – the documents will be here by FedEx Monday. Cash, Wednesday morning.”
“Perfect. And I just wanted to let you know I will take the cell phone, but it’s only for dire emergency. I know the number cannot be traced, but after I hit Foche, there’ll be a nationwide manhunt for the killer. And a phone can be traced by the police. Not the number. But the area where it was utilizing the satellite signal. And that might put me in more danger than I need.”
Harry Remson poured two Scotch whiskies with soda. Then he said slowly, “Mack, is the exit the hardest part?”
“Yes. Incoming, nobody’s looking for me. At least I hope not. Outgoing, the whole fucking world’s looking for me. I need to get away in the seconds after I pull the trigger – before Foche hits the ground.”
Harry nodded as if he were an expert on high-profile assassinations. And then he stated something that had been on his mind for a few days. “Mack, I’ve never asked you. But from the very start of this proposal you shied away from any deep involvement. By the time you decided to fire Raul, you wanted to stay at arm’s length. Jesus, at one point I thought you were going to bail out on me altogether. And then that night, something happened. You arrived here at Christ knows what time and announced not only were you in on the project, you were actually going to carry it out. Jesus, that’s a big turnaround. What happened? Because it wasn’t just Tommy, was it?”
Mack smiled ruefully. “No, Harry, it wasn’t just Tommy. It was the magazine.”
“What magazine?”
“The one you gave me, the Foche magazine.”
“Interesting article, right?”
“Harry, it was more than that. There was a picture of Henri Foche standing outside his arms factory. I recognized him right away. Because I’d seen him before.”
“You had? Where?”
“He was standing on the far side of the Euphrates River in Iraq. The far side from us, that is. I had my glasses trained on him for about five minutes. He was instructing the fucking insurgents how to fire the missile from its launching post. Looking through the sights, showing them how to aim it. I’d recognize him anywhere.”
“And then?”
“Two missiles came in. We all saw ’em flying across the river, and they hit my tanks, burned three of my best friends alive, just incinerated them in some kind of a blue chemical flame. Both missiles ripped straight through the fuselage of the tanks.”
“And what kind of missile was it?”
“It was the Diamondhead, the one the United Nations banned in all countries as a crime against humanity. My guys were not attacking anyone, and they were killed by a missile that ought not to be used in any war. So they weren’t killed in battle, were they? They were murdered in cold blood.”
“The Diamondhead was mentioned in the article, correct?”
“Yes, Harry, it was. There’s an accusation that Foche was the manufacturer, but no one seems able to prove it. In all the world, only I know the truth, because I saw him, just before my guys were burned to death. He was plainly the manufacturer, standing there next to his fucking Mercedes, wearing his pimp scarlet handkerchief, instructing Iraqis how to murder American soldiers.”
“He was wearing that handkerchief in the magazine,” recalled Harry.
“That handkerchief was the one deciding factor. When I saw that, I had him. But I’d have known it was him even without it.”
“Mack, you have as big a reason to take him out as I do.”
“I have a bigger reason. Those guys were like family to me. We’d fought together all over the place. And to watch them burn like that – it was as if I’d died and gone to hell. I don’t have a better way to explain it.”
“Has this become a mission of revenge for you?”
“You’re damn right it has. This Foche murdered my guys. And in France he already seems to be untouchable, because he’s going to be the next president. But I am going to make sure he never becomes president of France. You can bet on that. Because I’ll find him.”
Harry was thoughtful for a moment, and then he said, “Mack, we’re equal partners in this. My money; your brains, skill and planning. Just don’t let it get in the way – that rising red mist of anger about the guys. Stay cool, and stay focused.”
“That’s the way I’ve been taught, Harry. This is just another mission – Taliban killers, al-Qaeda killers, insurgent killers, missile killers. They’re all the fucking same to me. But this one won’t get away.”
Harry Remson put out his right hand, and Mack took it. “Partners,” said Harry.
“Partners,” replied Mack, and they shook, with a new unspoken warmth.
The two men walked to the front door together, but after Mack had left, Harry was faced with a brand-new problem. His wife, Jane, walked into the study and asked him why it was necessary, these days, for Mackenzie Bedford to arrive at this house at unusual hours.
“Oh, we were just talking about some business deal that may come to fruition. If we have to close down the yard.”
“Oh, were you? Well, I’d prefer to put my cards on the table. And I heard you and Mack discussing the possibility of having this French politician, Henri Foche, murdered.”
“Are you crazy? We did no such thing.”
“Didn’t you? Then I’ll quote you two or three phrases I heard Mack use: ‘after I hit Foche,’ ‘nationwide manhunt,’ and ‘after I pull the trigger – before he hits the ground.’”
Harry turned to face his wife of thirty-two years. “Jane,” he said, “neither Mack Bedford nor I had a choice in this matter. You must believe me, and you must trust me.”
“Trust you! Trust you? You mean I should just sit here quietly and watch you two plan to assassinate the next president of France, which will, without question, put us all in jail for the rest of our lives? Do you really think you could get away with it? My God, Harry! The FBI would be in our front yard within a week. In all the years we have known each other, I have never once heard you suggest anything quite so utterly unreasonable.”
Jane Remson, at the age of fifty-eight, was a very good-looking lady. She was svelte, petite and chic, always beautifully turned out, with a mane of lustrous natural-looking blonde hair. The combined process of this dazzling example of twenty-first-century preservation was privately estimated by Harry to have cost somewhere in the region of seven billion dollars.
&nb
sp; He appreciated her and loved her as she loved him. But she had never before spoken to him quite like that. Still, he reasoned, he had never decided to assassinate the next president of France before.
And Miss Jane, as the household staff still called her, was not finished. “Harry,” she said, “I am asking you to call this whole insane thing off.”
“I cannot do that,” he said. “And perhaps you should keep in mind that I am not going to assassinate anyone. I’m staying right here. And I shall never breathe one word about such a plot to anyone. And I would be obliged if you would do precisely the same. It has nothing to do with you, and, in a way, nothing to do with me.”
“HARRY! How can you be so naive? I stood outside that door and heard you and Mack Bedford discussing the killing of Henri Foche. And in my view you will both be caught by the police and charged with his murder.”
“Eavesdropping is a very dangerous game,” said her husband. “And no one should do it. Because you only hear about one-tenth of the truth. It is obvious, and has been for some time, that if Henri Foche should win the presidency, this shipyard will have to close. There are many options. And Foche has many enemies. You happened to hear one tiny snippet of the conversation, just a fraction of the discussion.”
“Well, it did not sound like a snippet to me. It sounded like a very sinister piece of planning. And I can’t understand why Mack would even be talking about it. It’s not his shipyard, and you cannot be so stupid as to be paying him to murder Foche. That’s fairyland. And what if he gets caught, or shot by Foche’s security guards? How long do you think it would take the police to trace him right back here to Dartford, and in a matter of days associate you with the crime?”
Harry had rarely seen his wife so fraught with anxiety. He knew, of course, she had only his best interests at heart. But there was a clarity about Jane’s assessment that was beginning to unnerve him. And he decided to pull rank. “Jane,” he said, “you have lived very well off my family business for several decades. Every comfort I could provide you came from Sam Remson’s shipyard. I have never thought of myself as the owner, just the custodian for future generations. I know we have only two daughters, but that has not changed my thinking. I owe it to this family, these workers, and this town to do all in my power to prevent Henri Foche from becoming president and closing us down. If we could land just one more order from the French Navy, I could hire a couple of top international salesmen and send them out looking for new business. We have never in one hundred years had to do that. What I cannot survive is three or four years with no work…”
“But Harry,” interjected Jane, “we aren’t getting younger, and we don’t need the yard. The land is worth a fortune – we could sell it off and be fine for the rest of our lives, spend winters on the boat. What are you thinking, getting involved in some hideous international crime?”
“Jane Remson, if I sold this shipyard and cast almost the entire town out of our lives, I could never look at myself in the mirror again. I’d never get over it. I’d end up sitting in Saint Bart’s or somewhere, drinking too much, and waiting to die. And that I won’t do. I’m in this fight. And I’m staying in.”
“But you can’t be serious about Mack Bedford and this killing…?”
“No one ever said Mack Bedford was doing any killing. But he has friends, ex-Special Forces, guys who work for international security firms, hiring mercenaries and the like. He is trying to give me some advice. And now I want you to promise me, you will never again, for the rest of your life, mention one more word about what you think you heard – not to me, certainly not to Anne Bedford, or to anyone else. Ever. As far as you are concerned, you never heard anything.”
“I still can’t understand why Mack Bedford is involved.”
Harry Remson’s face betrayed more anger than his wife had ever seen. He stood up and walked toward her, not quite threatening but sufficiently unfriendly to make her literally catch her breath. She’d never seen him look like that before.
He stood over her and said very slowly, “Not one more word, Jane. I’m sorry. But there’s too much at stake. Not one more word.”
* * *
Mack Bedford drove Anne and Tommy to Boston’s Logan Airport on Tuesday evening. In the end, Harry had purchased first-class seats to Geneva and arranged for an American Airlines representative to take them to the lounge immediately after they had checked in and cleared security.
There was no need to park and wait, and they said their goodbyes outside the terminal. Tommy was in tears because he would not see his dad for the next month, and insisted on wearing his baseball glove to the check-in area. Anne just wanted Mack to get back on the road, because the drive home was close to 150 miles, the last third through slow, winding, lonely coastal roads.
And so, in the gathering summer darkness, Mack drove out of the airport and headed northeast back up the highway to Interstate 95, which cuts a swath up the short New Hampshire coast, and then scythes its way parallel to the rocky shores of Maine. The journey took him more than three hours, and the house seemed very dark and remote when he arrived home. While Anne had spent months on end here, alone except for Tommy, Mack had never spent time here by himself, and he was not sure he was looking forward to the next four days.
He put on some lights and made himself coffee. He was starving hungry and not tired, so he fixed himself a ham sandwich, stole some of Tommy’s potato chips, and rummaged around in the freezer for some ice cream. Zero.
He poured the coffee and opened the big envelope that he had picked up from Harry earlier in the day and examined the documents that had arrived from Maryland. There were three passports, and he looked at them carefully. They were absolute masterworks of their type. He checked the dates, the photographs, and the quality of the printing. Then he checked the driver’s licenses, all three beautifully forged. He checked each license against the relevant passport, searching for discrepancies. But there were none.
Mack took his sandwich and coffee into the living room and watched the postgame roundup from Baltimore, where the Red Sox had, unaccountably, been beaten 4 to 2. Tomorrow morning he would pick up the cash from Harry, before finalizing his departure on Saturday evening. But right now, Mack was suddenly tired, too tired to watch the Orioles-Red Sox replay on NESN, and he took himself wearily to bed.
He missed Anne here, more than he missed her when he was away, perhaps because he had never been without her in this house. Their king-sized bed seemed vast and hollow, and he curled up on one side and fell instantly asleep.
Five hours later the alarm on his clock radio went off, and Mack awakened fast, like all SEALs. He rolled out of bed and pulled on his canvas shorts, his navy-blue instructor’s T-shirt, socks, and combat boots. This morning he had a plan, and he needed to be on the move before first light in order to carry it out.
He went downstairs, fired up the Buick, and hit the road six minutes after he first awoke. Mack needed a beach, and they didn’t have any in his particular neck of the woods. He needed a beach because that was where SEALs trained. There were only two SPECWARCOM garrisons in the United States, one at Virginia Beach and one on the beach at Coronado, San Diego.
For all of them, there was something about training on sand. It was harder to run over, more demanding, and it sapped energy quicker. It also kept a top combat SEAL sharper because he was always looking for the firm ground at the top of the tide where the sand was not too deep.
Out there in Coronado, often at first light, the BUDs trainees were subjected to the most grueling regimen of physical fitness. And the one truly awful moment was when the instructors yelled at someone to “get wet and sandy.” Which was a schoolboy euphemism meaning, “Run into the goddamned freezing Pacific Ocean, boots and all, then come out and roll in the sand.” This was essentially torture because no one was allowed to stop. Boots filled with water, and the men had to squelch and chafe their way through the miles, in diabolical discomfort, with feet that were suddenly made of lead. But it hon
ed them into fighting men, gave them an edge, because everything else was kid stuff compared to the rigors of BUDs training.
Mack’s part of Maine, and all the way up the coast to Canada, was devoid of long beaches. It comprised hundreds of coves, bays, harbors, islands, and rocky inlets. The entire Maine coast is only 250 miles long as the crow flies, but it has a convoluted coastal length of well over 3,000 miles, hardly any of it straight. Except in the most southerly stretch, from the Isles of Shoals, past Kennebunkport, and up to Richmond Island. Along there are some magnificent stretches of wild sand, some of them miles long, places like Old Orchard Beach, Wells, and Scarborough.
It was to this summer paradise that Mack was headed, maybe 40 miles from Dartford. He needed to be there before the tourists and vacationers showed up. It was still dark when he crossed the bridge at Bath and headed down to Interstate 95, where he’d been only a few hours before.
The sun was just rising when he pulled into the parking lot on the long beach and emptied his pockets. He pulled on a baseball cap and sunglasses, locked the car, and walked down the sand to the water’s edge. It was a calm day, just little wavelets lapping the shore.
Mack looked to his left and right. It looked a hell of a way in either direction. He set off, going east, into the rising sun, which reminded him of Coronado so long ago. It was a cool morning, much cooler than California, but the temperature of the sea was comparable. Cold. Darned cold. Maine had a lot of charms. The temperature of the ocean was not one of them. Unless you happened to be a walrus.
Mack had been training for several days now, on the road, but within a half mile he could feel the difference, the extra effort required, as he splashed along the tidal limit – just like old times with the guys, banging our way along the beach past the old Hotel del Coronado.
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