Soldier of God (4 page)
Authors: David Hagberg
Khalil pocketed the walkie-talkie, and as they closed on the cruise ship he could see a boarding ladder being lowered over the stern. He ducked below. “Take your positions,” he told his operators.
The six men, all dressed in ship’s uniforms, packs and weapons slung over their shoulders, scrambled up on deck. One of them took over the helm for Zahir.
The new man matched the speed of the cruise ship, then nudged the Nancy N. to within reach of the boarding ladder and the thick towrope and bridle that had been lowered with it.
Khalil went out on deck, Zahir right behind him. Abdul was looking down at them from the cruise ship’s rail fifteen feet above. He gave the all-clear sign, and Khalil clambered up the boarding ladder.
Abdul stepped aside for him, and once Khalil was on deck, six of his operators started up.
“Have you or your men come under any suspicion?” Khalil asked.
“None,” Abdul said. He was a slight man, and was dressed in the white jacket and dark trousers of a steward’s mate. But he was a fearless and deadly knife fighter from Cairo. “They are all in position, awaiting your signal.”
Khalil hesitated a moment as the remainder of his operators came aboard. He could hear music coming from the salon, and the sounds of laughter. All of that was about to come to a very abrupt end.
The last man up the ladder had secured the towrope to a heavy cleat amidships just forward of the pilothouse. The man at the helm would stay with the small boat. He reduced the engines to idle speed and shifted the transmission to neutral. The
Nancy
N. bucked and heaved as if she were a wild horse suddenly put to the bridle, but then she settled in a reasonably docile fashion to be towed by the cruise ship.
Nancy
N. bucked and heaved as if she were a wild horse suddenly put to the bridle, but then she settled in a reasonably docile fashion to be towed by the cruise ship.
Everything was set. Khalil turned back to Abdul. “Now,” he said.
A fine mist rose over Lake Lucerne in the predawn darkness, as if a fire had been lit beneath the bedrock and the expanse of water was coming to a slow simmer. The midnight-blue Mercedes CLK320 cabriolet, its top snuggly up against the chilly morning air, made its way smoothly along the lake road south of the city, Mount Pilatus rising more than two thousand meters from the Swiss plateau off to the west.
An attractive blond woman in her early thirties, with a finely defined face, high narrow cheekbones, and wide, pale blue eyes, was at the wheel, her small shoulders thrown back defiantly. She wore sandals, a short khaki skirt, and a light pullover. Her 7.65mm Walther PPK and her Swiss Federal Police wallet, which identified her as Sergeant Liese Bernadette Fuelm, were in the black leather purse on the seat along with several fat file folders. Her position on the force as a watch officer was hard won because of her sex, something she had been reminded of the previous evening during drinks with her boss, Captain Ernst Gertner, the Kanton Nidwalden Polizei commander. Because of their conversation she had spent a sleepless night, memories piling on memories coming back at her, some of them hurtful, a few of them erotic, but all of them filling her with a crushing sense of loneliness.
“So,
Liebchen
, I’m hearing that you are dissatisfied with your little assignment.” Gertner had come directly to the point as if he had read her mind. He was a slick career officer, very nearly a politician in his outlook, and she hated it when he talked to her with his annoying diminutives.
Liebchen
, I’m hearing that you are dissatisfied with your little assignment.” Gertner had come directly to the point as if he had read her mind. He was a slick career officer, very nearly a politician in his outlook, and she hated it when he talked to her with his annoying diminutives.
“It’s nothing but a simple surveillance operation, captain,” she said. “I have more experience than that. Almost twelve years, as a matter of fact.”
“For God’s sake, we’re off duty; you can call me by my Christian name,” Gertner blustered. “But you’re wrong about your assignment. The good prince is much more than a simple man. In an offhand way, you have a connection with him. It’s one of the reasons you were selected,
though it’s a surprise to all of us at District that your woman’s intuition didn’t ferret out the clue off the bat.”
though it’s a surprise to all of us at District that your woman’s intuition didn’t ferret out the clue off the bat.”
Liese was confused. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never met Prince Salman. He’s a very rich man. We don’t run in the same circles, I can assure you.”
Gertner chuckled at her little joke. He waggled a finger at her. “But you do have a connection nonetheless, which you might have divined had you done the same homework as I did. I read your file. Your
complete
file.” He rolled his eyes, as if he were a schoolmaster exasperated by the antics of a naughty student. “I’m surprised.”
complete
file.” He rolled his eyes, as if he were a schoolmaster exasperated by the antics of a naughty student. “I’m surprised.”
In Liese’s estimation Gertner was a smarmy, sexist bastard; many Swiss males were, but at least he was a capable administrator even if he had forgotten what it was like to be in the field. He had four brutish children and a fat wife who worshipped the ground he walked on, giving him the confidence to actually think that he was dashing with the ladies. “Then I’ve evidently missed something; please fill me in.”
So far as Liese knew, the assignment she’d been handed—to conduct an in-detail and in situ surveillance of Prince Abdul Hasim ibn Salman, a Saudi Arabian national—had to do with politics and Swiss banking laws. The man was a multibillionaire playboy who as often as not left his wife and staff at their palatial lakeside compound while he jetted off to London, Paris, Monaco, even Las Vegas to play games with his royal-family oil money and with his many mistresses, all supposedly forbidden by the Saudi adherence to the Muslim fundamentalist sect of Wahhabism.
Her initial brief, which had been handed to her along with the order of personnel and equipment and her budget lines, suggested the possibility of a financial connection between the prince and Osama bin Laden’s al-Quaida. Normally a blind eye would have been turned to such financial dealings, as long as no banking laws were being violated. But since 9/11, and the second Gulf War waged by the U.S. and Britain against Iraq, and the “New World Order,” many formerly aloof countries such as Switzerland had taken a more cautious attitude about doing business with organizations and individuals who might have terrorist ambitions.
The prince had been born in the tiny settlement of Bi’r Fardan in the vast Ar Rub’ al-Khali desert south of Riyadh, and had been educated primarily
at King Abdul Aziz University in the Saudi coastal city of jeddah. Since he was a member of the royal family, he’d gotten his start in business the easy way, with a great deal of money and all the right connections. But he was a brilliant and ruthless businessman and a savvy politician, so as soon as his education was completed he’d been sent to Saudi embassies, first in London, then Mexico City, Moscow, Beijing, and finally Washington.
at King Abdul Aziz University in the Saudi coastal city of jeddah. Since he was a member of the royal family, he’d gotten his start in business the easy way, with a great deal of money and all the right connections. But he was a brilliant and ruthless businessman and a savvy politician, so as soon as his education was completed he’d been sent to Saudi embassies, first in London, then Mexico City, Moscow, Beijing, and finally Washington.
Suddenly, ten years ago, he had all but dropped out of active Saudi politics and turned his talents to deal-making. Like the legendary Adnan Khashoggi before him, Prince Salman seemed to be in the middle of every hundred-million-dollar-plus deal between the Saudis and the rest of the world. He’d been a frequent guest at the White House, at 10 Downing Street, at the most palatial estates, and aboard the yachts of every influential, wealthy player in the world, and he seemed to be connected with nearly every beautiful woman at the height of her desirability.
“The prince was involved with Kirk McGarvey eleven years ago when you were beginning your career with the service,” Gertner said, and his words hit her like a ton of bricks. “Fascinating reading, I must say.”
She was floating a couple of centimeters off her seat in the Gasthaus, the sounds of the conversations around her fading as if she were hearing them from the end of a long tunnel.
“We thought perhaps McGarvey might have mentioned the name to you at the time. Or perhaps later,” Gertner said.
His words flowed over and around Liese. But she was brought back so completely that she could see every line on Kirk’s face, hear his laugh, smell his clean, masculine, American odors.
Ve
rdammt. Had it been all that long since she had first fallen in love with him?
Ve
rdammt. Had it been all that long since she had first fallen in love with him?
“Or might Marta have said something to you?” Gertner was asking. “Just anything at all, some little phrase, or little word that might give us a clue?”
Kirk, who had been a CIA assassin, had suddenly quit the agency under a cloud of some sort that was never adequately explained to the Swiss police. But he had been allowed to settle in Lucerne providing he never went active. As long as he never picked up his gun and never made contact with anyone in the business, he was welcome in Switzerland. Marta
Fredericks had been sent to his bed to keep a close watch on him. And Liese Fuelm and a few other Swiss police officers were also assigned to keep an eye on him. No one ever considered that first Marta and then Liese would fall in love with him.
Fredericks had been sent to his bed to keep a close watch on him. And Liese Fuelm and a few other Swiss police officers were also assigned to keep an eye on him. No one ever considered that first Marta and then Liese would fall in love with him.
But they had. And Liese could still remember some of the erotic dreams she had about Kirk: tasting him, feeling his body on top of hers, inside of her, kissing her breasts, her thighs.
But then Kirk had gone for his gun, and he had left Switzerland for good. A year or so later Marta quit the force and chased him to Paris, where she was killed in the destruction of a Swiss Air flight, leaving Liese with nothing other than her bitter memories. She and Marta had not only been rivals; they had been close friends.
But Prince Salman’s name had never come up, and Liese told Gertner as much. “I think I would have remembered.”
“It’s been a long time, and you were young and impressionable.” Gertner let the comment hang.
Liese shook her head, still off balance.
“Well, for goodness sake, you were in love with the man. Certainly you must have talked.”
Gertner had nothing; he was on a fishing expedition, but Liese resigned herself to stick out the assignment. There was no way she would be pulled off. “I was in love with Mr. McGarvey, as was Marta, but if you will look at the record you will see that he wasn’t in love with either of us.”
“It must have hurt,” Gertner observed mildly, almost fatherly. “Does it still, Liese? Hurt, I mean? Carrying any old torches, are we? Perhaps even a grudge or two? Just the tiniest bit of resentment? It could have been you, the wife of the director of Central Intelligence.”
“Fond memories, no grudges,” Liese said. “What was the connection between the prince and Kirk—Mr. McGarvey?”
“It was a tenuous one, but we have to consider all the aspects, don’t we?” Gertner said. He fiddled with his glass of wine, a characteristic gesture of his when he felt he was skating on thin ice. He smoked a pipe, and when he was unsure of himself he cleaned it, or filled it to draw attention away from what he was saying. “The prince, as a young man, was one of Darby Yarnell’s hangers-on. The same Yarnell who had an affair with McGarvey’s then ex-wife, and the same Yarnell whom your Mr. McGarvey
shot to death in the CIA director’s driveway.” Gertner couldn’t contain himself. “They’re all cowboys over there. The lot of them are raving lunatics, in my book.”
shot to death in the CIA director’s driveway.” Gertner couldn’t contain himself. “They’re all cowboys over there. The lot of them are raving lunatics, in my book.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of the prince’s involvement,” Liese said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how much help I can be.”
Gertner dismissed her objections with a wave of his hand. “The point quite simply is that you know more about Kirk McGarvey than does anyone else in Switzerland. We would very much like to know if there continues to be a connection between Mr. McGarvey and the prince and therefore the Saudi royal family.”
“I can’t imagine such an alliance.”
Gertner threw up his hands in exasperation. “Goodness gracious, are all women, even Swiss women, so thickheaded that they cannot see the mountains for the glare of the glaciers?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you thought about who was behind the attacks in New York and Washington?”
“You’re talking about September eleventh? The World Trade Center and the Pentagon?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Al-Quaida,” Liese said. “What are you driving at?”
“Indulge me. What was the purpose of those attacks?”
“Terrorism,” Liese replied offhandedly. “Militant Islamics striking at the infidel as they have been doing for a lot of years now.”
“Splendid. And the result, in practical terms? Have the Muslims won their war?”
“No, so far it’s backfired,” Liese said. But then it dawned on her what Gertner was getting at. She’d heard the view mentioned in roundabout terms, but she thought it was a minority opinion. Now she wasn’t so sure. “You think that the Israelis engineered the attacks. Mossad, to focus America’s attention on the Muslims.”
“It makes sense to me,” Gertner said. “And I am not alone in this thinking.” He gave Liese a shrewd look. “But the current point, so far as you’re concerned, is learning if there is any connection, no matter how slight, between Prince Salman and Kirk McGarvey, and therefore the American intelligence establishment.”
“You’re crazy,” Liese said. “Salman is a Saudi not an Israeli.”
“Perhaps he is, but then Mossad is devilishly clever with its cover stories. We Swiss have been victim to more than one of their operations. I expect you’ll do your best with this assignment, especially now that you and I have come to a clear understanding that this is not a simple job of surveillance.”
“I’ll tell you this, Ernst: I’ll do everything within my power to prove that Kirk is not in some sort of collusion with the prince, and that the attacks were just as they seemed, engineered and carried out by al-Quaida.”
“Good,” Gertner said. “I merely ask that your prejudices do not blind you to the truth, even if the truth should fall unfavorably on Mr. McGarvey.”
Liese reached the narrow gravel road, where she switched off her headlights and went the rest of the way to the small chalet in starlight. The simple A-frame lodge was owned by a Bern businessman who sometimes cheated on his taxes, and was very cooperative when the Federal Police asked for his help. The lodge was perched on the hill of a finger directly across a small bay from the five-hectare palatial compound of Prince Salman.
There were only a few security lights on over there at this hour of the morning. She telephoned the chalet as she came up the long driveway. “It’s me.”
“We have you,” Claude LeFevre, answered. He was one of two men who had pulled the morning shift.
Liese had been given a total of eight men, which was a luxury for this kind of operation. Everybody was getting plenty of sleep, and their thinking was still sharp. No one had gotten bored yet, though boredom would come. Most cops hated surveillance, no matter how important the subject. Unless, of course, it was a beautiful woman who liked to take off her clothes in front of windows. Then the pigs would line up as if at the trough.
And most Swiss cops hated being bossed by a woman. But that was just too bad, Liese thought, getting out of her car as the sky in the east began to lighten. They had a job to do, and they were going to do it right. Marta would have expected nothing less for Kirk.
The chalet was dark except for the fire on the hearth in the middle of
the great room, and the soft green glow of the communications and surveillance equipment set up on a low table a couple of meters back from the main windows that opened toward the bay.
the great room, and the soft green glow of the communications and surveillance equipment set up on a low table a couple of meters back from the main windows that opened toward the bay.
LeFevre was finishing breakfast, a sausage and black-bread sandwich, and Detective Tomas Ziegler was looking at the compound through a set of powerful Zeiss image-intensifying binoculars set on a sturdy tripod.
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