Authors: Stephen Coonts
Liberty (37 page)
“Uh-huh.”
“There was a comment or two about you being out of control.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How much more of this do you want?”
“That's enough, I guess.”
“You might as well wallow in it. You're a savage beast, she said, turned loose by the federal government to rend and mutilate the corpses of your victims.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It's a racial thing, according to her. You kept shooting them after they were dead because they weren't white.”
“I kept shooting them because I wanted to be damn sure they were dead.”
“That's what I told her. She didn't buy it.”
“And because they shot the waiter and scared the living shit outta me and I was really pissed. Tell the D.A. bitch I enjoyed it.”
“I'll call her as soon as we get off the phone. They take racial politics seriously in Baltimore. She's having her day in the newspapers and thumping the gun control drum. The reality is these goons were armed killers who had just gunned an innocent Baltimore nativeâa black one, by the wayâin an attempt to get Anna. This D.A. will sober up when she realizes no one is saluting the bloody rag she ran up the pole.”
“What's the penalty in Maryland for mutilating two corpses?”
“We're still researching that. Maximum looks like a thousand bucks' fine and ten days in jail or castration for each count.'Course they only do the castration once.”
“That's comforting.”
“Don't wander too far,” Jake Grafton said. “I may need you back here.”
Tommy Carmellini promptly forgot about the bitch in Baltimore. He was one of those rare people who didn't fret about things they couldn't do anything about. This quirk was a gift or curse, depending on your belief in the beneficial efficacy of guilt, but whichever, through the years it allowed him to be free from the burdens of worry that made the lives of most transgressors miserable. It wasn't as if he had no conscienceâbecause he didâit was just that he didn't ponder his karma or the fate of the universe. As he explained one day to Toad Tarkington, “Shit happens, and when it does you deal with it. If it doesn't, go on down the road.”
After that conversation with Jake Grafton, Tommy Carmellini put in a call to his buddy Scout. Left a message on the answering machine. Scout and Earlene were out doing something nefarious for the CIA, apparently.
Carmellini stood in the doorway of the bathroom watching a totally nude Anna Modin brush her hair. The sight stirred him to his toenails. He did some mental calculations concerning the state of his financesâbank balances, room on his credit cards, and time remaining before paydayâand came to a quick decision.
“What say we go to the Homestead for a few days? I hear it's gorgeous this time of year.”
“The Homestead? What is that?”
“It's a resort in the mountains. West of here, not too far ⦠four or five hours' drive. Golf, hot springs, gourmet meals, big beds to romp in ⦔
“I do not have many clothes.”
FBI agents had brought her clothes from Grafton's and
packed a suitcase at Carmellini's apartment. One of them had also driven Carmellini's old red Mercedes from Baltimore. Tommy Carmellini had a willing woman, wheels, a pistol, and plastic on his hip. What more do you need in America?
packed a suitcase at Carmellini's apartment. One of them had also driven Carmellini's old red Mercedes from Baltimore. Tommy Carmellini had a willing woman, wheels, a pistol, and plastic on his hip. What more do you need in America?
“We'll rough it,” he declared bravely.
“Do you want to make love before we leave or save it until we arrive?”
“Never wait,” he answered. “Life is short.”
On Monday afternoon Jake Grafton visited the basement at Zelda's request. She had a telephone conversation to play for him. Without explanation from her, she handed him a set of earphones and worked on her keyboard as he put them on. In seconds he heard voices.
“ ⦠friend at the White House.” Butch Lanham's voice.
“How're things going over there?” Jake Grafton recognized that voice too. Jack Yocke.
“There have been some developments that I'd like to share.”
“Izzaright?”
“Can't do it over the telephone, of course. Perhaps a meet?”
They discussed it. Decided on a little restaurant Yocke knew about. Jake had never heard of it.
When the two men ended the conversation, Jake took off the headphones. “When did this conversation occur?”
“An hour ago.”
“May I have a tape of it, please?”
Zelda nodded and stroked the keyboard. In three minutes she handed him a cassette.
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.
“I don't know,” he answered truthfully. The president might not look kindly on his national security adviser doing some leakingâunless, of course, he put him up to it. And just what was he going to leak about? Afghanistan,
the Middle East, our trade relationship with Lower Slobbovia? Or nuclear weapons buried in Washington and New York?
the Middle East, our trade relationship with Lower Slobbovia? Or nuclear weapons buried in Washington and New York?
Jake held the cassette in his hand, then pocketed it. He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. “Sunday a week ago I gave you and the FBI two disks that contained copies of the computer records of Walney's Bank in Cairo, Egypt. The FBI wizards say the disks show who is contributing money to finance terrorism and how the money is shuffled around. And loaned or doled out to terrorists.”
Zelda nodded. Her eyes were bright, alert.
“The head guy at the bank is named Abdul Abn Saad. He's a pillar of Egyptian society and a secret Islamic militant. I want you to make him a lot richer than he is.”
“Explain that.”
Jake Grafton stood and stretched. He walked around a littleâthe place was packed with people, computers, monitors, servers, power packs, and whatnot, and had wires running everywhereâso he soon gave up on walking. He made sure there was no one in earshot, then came back to Zelda. He perched with one hip on the corner of her desk and looked down at her. “The National Security Council is tied in a knot. Egypt is a valuable ally. Saad has seriously powerful friends in very high places in Cairo and throughout the Arab world. And our people don't want to diddle with foreign banks on the theory that if we don't diddle with theirs, they won't diddle with ours. In the age of terrorism this attitude makes no sense, but there it is.
“So we are going to go where the authorities fear to tread. I want you to hack into Walney's Bank and embezzle a lot of money and give it to Abdul Abn Saad. I want you to cover your tracks so it looks like an inside job.”
“You want to make him richer?”
“That's right. Eventually someone there will figure it out and Mr. Saad will be in trouble up to his eyeballs. If his bank also fails, that would be the icing on the cake.”
Zelda caressed the keyboard of her computer, then used
a hand to brush her hair back from her eyes. Then she looked up at Grafton. “Up to now I haven't touched anybody's money. Looking at files I am not authorized to see is one thing, but money is something else. This could put me back in prison.”
a hand to brush her hair back from her eyes. Then she looked up at Grafton. “Up to now I haven't touched anybody's money. Looking at files I am not authorized to see is one thing, but money is something else. This could put me back in prison.”
“I've asked you to do it. I'll take the responsibility. You're just doing what you are told.”
“With nothing in writing, nothing to prove it went down that way. You drop dead of a heart attack or get cold feet and leave me hanging, I'm screwed. Regardless, I'm probably going back to prison when this is over. Isn't that true, Admiral?”
“I don't run the universe, Zelda. If the people at the White House want you back in the can, you're going. That's always been the case.”
She looked at her hands, then put them in her lap. “You're putting me in an impossible position,” she said.
“Horseshit!” said Jake Grafton. “Don't haggle with me! I'm asking you to do something for your country. If you do it right, no one but you and I will ever know you did it. There will be no medals, no money, no ceremonies, no pardons, none of that happy crap. For once in your life you'll have taken a big risk with nothing in it for you. For what it's worth, there's a name for people who do things like thatâwe call them patriots.”
He stood, patted the computer monitor, and headed for the door.
After he was gone Zelda sat staring at the monitor.
Naguib went out every evening to meet the blond woman at the Oasis. Ali, Yousef, and Mohammed knew he was going. He made no secret of it. As they watched television and showered, he would nod and leave. If one or two or all of them stood in the seashell parking lot, they could watch him walk through parking lots the entire two hundred yards to the Oasis Bar and Grill.
Mohammed didn't know what to do. If he killed Naguib,
Ali and Yousef might freak and desert him. On the other hand, if Naguib didn't want to do his part, Mohammed would be a fool to try to force him into it. And of course he could be telling everything he knew to an American undercover policewoman. Yes, Mohammed knew that the American police used women to trap criminals.
Ali and Yousef might freak and desert him. On the other hand, if Naguib didn't want to do his part, Mohammed would be a fool to try to force him into it. And of course he could be telling everything he knew to an American undercover policewoman. Yes, Mohammed knew that the American police used women to trap criminals.
This evening after Naguib left, Mohammed asked his colleagues, “What if Naguib's woman is an American spy?”
They thought about it.
“We wage
jihad
,” Mohammed pointed out. “We are on a holy mission. Naguib volunteered, as did the three of us. We knew the mission, what was required of us, what we would have to do. We swore on the beard of the prophet that we would do what must be done to strike this glorious blow. And now Naguib drinks beer and talks to this woman late at night.”
jihad
,” Mohammed pointed out. “We are on a holy mission. Naguib volunteered, as did the three of us. We knew the mission, what was required of us, what we would have to do. We swore on the beard of the prophet that we would do what must be done to strike this glorious blow. And now Naguib drinks beer and talks to this woman late at night.”
“Naguib is a good man,” Yousef said stoutly. “He is weak, yes, as all men are weak, and if the slut gives him her body, he will take it. But he will not betray God. He will not betray us.”
“FBI Agents are very clever,” Ali said thoughtfully. He glanced at Mohammed and Yousef, trying to read their faces. Mohammed was also clever, he thought, but not Yousef. Nor Naguib.
“He doesn't know when the weapons will arrive, or where,” Yousef pointed out. “Only Mohammed knows.”
“He knows us,” Ali replied. “He knows our names, our histories, who sent us, where we get our money, what we intend to do.”
And so they argued while Mohammed listened, saying nothing. The drift was plain. Yousef wanted to kick Naguib out of the group, rely on him to maintain his silence. Ali saw the dangers of that approach but could not bring himself to say what he thought should be done. Finally they talked themselves out. They turned to him.
“He must not be allowed to endanger our mission,”
Mohammed said slowly. “It is bigger and more important than we are.”
Mohammed said slowly. “It is bigger and more important than we are.”
Their faces were stony.
“We are going to die as martyrs for the glory of Allah. We will slay the infidels as it has never been done before in the history of the world. The entire earth will tremble at the mention of Allah's name when it sees our determination. Everyone on earth will convert to Islam, just as the prophet wished. And for this great service, we will be in Paradise.”
Yes, they understood all this. The mission was fantastic, glorious beyond description, a service to the prophet that would change the history of the world.
“We must kill Naguib,” Mohammed said. “We cannot take the chance that he might betray us, endanger our holy mission.”
“Allah is watching,” Yousef declared with simple faith. “If Allah wishes us to succeed, we will succeed. Killing Naguib would be a murder of the faithful, which is forbidden by the holy Koran. Certainly you don't intend to ask Allah to aid us with the blood of the faithful on your hands?”
“Sometimes the faithful must die. The faithful died to destroy the trade towers in New York. The three of us will die when the weapon explodes. Naguib has already pledged his life to our
jihad.
The truth of it is that he must give his life now to protect us.”
jihad.
The truth of it is that he must give his life now to protect us.”
The logic was irrefutable. They chewed at the problem for another twenty minutes, then Ali and Yousef came around. They went to the car and watched Mohammed open the trunk with the key. Four pistols and ammunition were hidden under the spare tire.
With loaded pistols in their pockets, they waited in the darkness outside the motel for Naguib. No one seemed to be watching. The last car had come in hours before, and the office lights were now off. An occasional car or pickup went past on the highway. Only two cars were left in the parking lot of the beer joint next door when Naguib came
walking across the parking lots smelling of beer, humming to himself.
walking across the parking lots smelling of beer, humming to himself.
“Into the car,” Mohammed said.
“I am tired. I want to sleep.”
“Things are happening,” Mohammed said. “Now is the hour.”
Yousef and Ali climbed in the backseat of the sedan and Mohammed got behind the wheel. Naguib had no choice but to get in the right-front passenger seat.
He was half-drunk. He hummed as he rode, thinking of Suzanne.
The silence of the other three finally soaked through the beer haze. They were usually very talkative with each other; their fellow countrymen and coconspirators were their only social outlet.
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