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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Soldier of God
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“No, your name isn’t familiar to me. I’m trying to reach Kirk McGarvey. He’s an old friend. I thought I might catch him at home.”
The line was dead for a moment. “Oh, boy, you’re Liese Fuelm,” Rencke said. “Am I right or what?”
A fist clutched at her heart, but she recovered fast. “If that makes you happy, sure,” Liese said. “Can you tell me how I could reach Mr. McGarvey?”
“Oh, don’t get mad. I’m an old friend, just like you,” Rencke said, apologetically. He sounded like a big kid. “But Mac is out of town right now; it’s why his number showed up here.”
It’s not what she wanted to hear. She closed her eyes again. Everything seemed so screwed up. “Can I get a message to him?”
“Nope, he’s on vacation, and I wouldn’t bother him even if it was the second coming, ya know,” Rencke told her. “But listen, is there something you need? Maybe I can help. I’m Mac’s special assistant, ya know. I can find out things.”
Talking to Rencke was like dealing with an overgrown, exuberant puppy. It had to be an act, but the number she’d called was correct, and only an organization such as the CIA could trace and seize her line so quickly, and then come up with her name. “Just say hello when he gets back.”
“Who are you surveilling?”
“I have to go now. Release my line, please.”
“I can find out, you know. You’re at the lake house owned by Heide Rothberg. I’ve got that much; though his name doesn’t come up in any of my serious databases, I’m sure I can get something on him. And I can take some good angle satellite shots of your location within twenty minutes that should give me some line-of-sights. That’d probably eliminate all but a few nearby locations. Somebody in one of those spots is of interest not only to the Swiss Federal Police, but maybe to the director of Central Intelligence. A blast from the past. Is that it?”
“Look, Mr. Rencke, I can’t tell you that—”
“Otto,” Rencke said. “Please. We’re practically family. He still wonders about Marta Fredericks from time to time, ya know.”
“How are you coming up with this information? It’s nobody’s business.”
“I won’t say anything to anybody, nohow, never, except Mac. Honest Injun!”
“Prince Abdul Salman, he’s a—”
“I know who he is,” Rencke said, his aw-shucks manner suddenly gone. “What do you have on him?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why did you call the director of Central Intelligence to ask about him?”
“I didn’t call the DCI; I called an old friend,” Liese shouted. She was frustrated
and
frightened now. She was getting in over her head. “Release my line.”
“Give me what you have, and I’ll pass it along to Mac,” Rencke said, gently. “Look, if it’s any comfort to you, we’re interested in the man too. Mac will probably want to share intel on this one.”
“The prince spent some time in Washington about ten years ago. He was one of Darby Yarnell’s crowd.”
“I see,” Rencke said after a beat, and he seemed almost sad. “I’ll have Mac call you. And in the meantime I’ll take a quick peek at what we have. I might be able to come up with something.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t let them get to you, Liese. They can be bastards, sometimes, but mostly we’re all on the same side.”
There was no need to ask who
they
were, or what he was talking about. He had figured out who had suggested she make the call and why. “Just say hello,” Liese said, “and give him a hug.”
“Sure,” Rencke said, and he released her line.
Liese realized that she had not pushed the Record button, but she didn’t care. “Hell,” she said, softly, and she began to cry.
The expression on Kirk’s face was caught like a photographic flash image in Katy’s head.
She got up and helped Karen Shaw get her husband seated. He was nearly out on his feet, and for the moment, at least, he didn’t seem to know what was going on around him. The terrorists had all dived for cover, except for the one wearing the balaclava who’d struck Donald Shaw in the head. He seemed to be the leader, but he apparently hadn’t counted on meeting any resistance because he was exhorting his men to
get to their feet. Or at least that’s what it sounded like to Katy. She thought he was speaking Arabic, which was no surprise. But how they had gotten aboard the cruise ship without detection was a mystery. According to Kirk, the ship’s crew and passengers had passed complete background checks.
Shaw’s bodyguard was down, as was poor Jim Grassinger, both of them presumably dead; but Kirk was alive, he was armed, he was free, and he knew the situation. She’d never approved of his profession, of the spying and especially the killing, although she understood that such things were necessary in the real world. But at this moment, aside from her love and respect for him, she wouldn’t have traded him for all the bank presidents, artists, CEOs, or scientists in the world.
She was frightened out of her wits. Already there were bodies all over the Grand Salon. Most of them were crewmen or entertainers, but two of the passengers had been brutally murdered in cold blood, and she thought that some of the people remaining would not survive the night. Yet she had to suppress a bitter smile of satisfaction. The bad guys had no idea what they had gotten themselves into. If she hadn’t lost an earring, they would have caught Kirk, seated here, unarmed, and she didn’t know how that could have turned out for the good. But now, she thought, anything was possible. She had seen her husband in action, and he was a sight to behold.
The former SecDef sat with his head hanging, his eyes fluttering as he tried to catch his breath and regain his balance. Blood oozed from a long gash at his temple, and it was obvious that he would need medical help soon. At the very least he had probably suffered a concussion. For a man of his age the blow could well be fatal.
“My God, Don, are you all right?” Karen Shaw whispered to her husband. She had her arms around his shoulders, trying to protect him and hold him up.
Katy scooped the ice from her water glass and wrapped it in her linen napkin. “Try this,” she offered. She placed the cold pack on Don Shaw’s head. He reared back, but his wife held him still.
“Easy, darling, this should help.”
The terrorist with the balaclava had gone to the back of the Grand Sa-Ion
and positioned himself to the left of the door. One of his men, his weapon up and at the ready, was on the right. On a signal he yanked open the door, and the leader poked his machine pistol out into the corridor and fired off two quick bursts, then ducked back.
There was no return fire.
Shaw jerked as if he’d been hit, and he looked up out of his daze, his eyes finally coming back into focus. He looked at his wife. “Where’s Tony?”
“They shot him,” Karen said. “But he got one of them.”
Shaw glanced at Katy and the vacant seat next to her, then surreptitiously made a quick survey of the carnage around the Grand Salon. The passengers were completely subdued. No one dared to move so much as a muscle for fear of getting shot. “What happened to Kirk and his bodyguard?” he asked softly.
Katy looked over at the terrorist leader and two of his men at the door. For the moment their attention was directed toward the corridor. “Jim is dead, but Kirk managed to kill one of the terrorists and grab his gun.”
“Has he got a cell phone?”
“Yes, but I don’t think they work out here,” Katy said, careful to keep her voice low and her eye on the terrorist leader. “He’ll think of something. They won’t get away with this.”
“But he’s only one man,” Karen said. She was a brave woman, but amidst all this carnage and with her husband as the terrorists’ target, she was just hanging on by her fingernails.
“That’s true,” Katy said. “But just hold on; he’ll come back.”
“The radio room,” the former SecDef mumbled. “Kirk can get a message out. The Coast Guard is listening.”
“I’m sure he’s already thought of that,” Katy said. She was watching the terrorists at the door.
The leader stationed two of his people to guard the corridor, then turned, looked down at his two dead operators as if they were nothing more than pieces of trash cluttering up the floor, then looked up and surveyed the room. He was obviously in a hurry, but he was being methodical.
A deathly silence fell over the Grand Salon. The air was hazy with gun
smoke and the metallic odor of fresh blood. Every passenger thought about 9/11 with a sense of total helplessness. There were just too many terrorists with guns. Any sort of resistance was less than futile. It was dangerous.
“One brave, but foolish man among you,” Khalil said. He took a few steps away from the door, and stopped. “I don’t believe that he was a member of the ship’s crew. He wasn’t dressed in a uniform. So he was a passenger. Who was he?”
No one answered, and Katy held her silence. Kirk should have reached the radio room by now, and unless the terrorists had destroyed the equipment, he would be sending out the SOS. Help would be arriving soon. They just had to hang on until then.
“Who knows where the purser’s office is?”
One of the terrorists who’d masqueraded as a steward stepped forward. “It’s on the main deck below us.”
“Go there now and get the passenger list,” Khalil ordered. “But watch out for our mystery man; he’s armed. If you see him, kill him.”
The man nodded and went to the door at the rear of the Grand Salon. He stopped for just a moment to make sure the corridor was clear and then left.
The terrorists had come to kidnap Shaw, but Katy had no idea how they were going to pull it off. The Spirit was too big to hide for very long, even in the thousands of backwaters and fjords along the Inside Passage. And unless there were a lot more of them, defending a ship this size from an assault by a team of Special Forces would be impossible. Which left an escape by air—perhaps a helicopter or a floatplane—or a pickup from a boat standing by off their stern. Either way they would have to be concerned with a loose cannon, such as Kirk, running around the ship armed with a submachine gun, who could spoil everything with one well-placed shot. And time could not be on the side of the terrorists.
Khalil walked over to a young couple seated at one of the tables located next to a serving station. The woman held a baby, perhaps eight or nine months old, in her arms. Coming into the Grand Salon earlier, Katy had been surprised to see that the couple had brought their child, not
only on the cruise, but also to this evening’s entertainment. But then when Elizabeth was a child, Katy hadn’t trusted babysitters either. An older man and woman seated with them seemed to be the grandparents.
“Does anyone here know who that man was?” Khalil asked, reasonably.
“No, we don’t. What do you want?” the older man asked.
“We’ve come to arrest Secretary Shaw,” Khalil replied matter-of-factly. He could have been discussing the weather.
“Then take him and go,” the older man ordered. “Leave us alone. We’ve done nothing to you or your cause, whatever that might be this time.”
“Shut your stupid mouth,”
Katy muttered under her breath. She wanted to go over and strangle the man. There were bodies lying in pools of blood all over the Grand Salon, and this guy was probably grandstanding for his wife, and maybe his son-in-law.
“Where were you on 9/11?” Khalil asked, conversationally. But the question was bizarre, like the warning rumble of a volcano on the verge of erupting.
“Minding my own business,” the man shot back. “Which I suggest that you do if you want to survive. You know what happened in Afghanistan and Iraq.”
“Mind my own business?” Khalil asked. “Very well.” He smashed the butt of his machine pistol into the head of the young father, sending him crashing to the floor.
“Johnathan,” the woman with the baby screamed. She lunged for her husband, but the older woman grabbed her arm.
“You bastard—” the older man shouted, and he started to get up.
The young man, dazed, reached a hand to the bloody wound in his head, and looked up as Khalil calmly fired one shot into his forehead at point-blank range, killing him instantly.
The young mother opened her mouth but made no sound, completely unable to comprehend what had just happened in front of her. She shook her head, and held her baby close to her breast. The older man’s jaw dropped, and he slowly sat down, the color draining from his face.
“I need to know the identity of the man who attacked us,” Khalil said.
“We don’t know who he is,” the older woman cried. “Please, can’t you have mercy on us?”
Shaw, realizing what would happen next if someone didn’t intervene, started to get to his feet, but his wife held him back, a look of terror on her face. Katy could not take her eyes away from the unfolding scene. The terrorist was going to kill the young woman and her child next. Katy could see it coming. Everyone in the room knew it was about to happen. But there was nothing any of them could do. If they moved, they would be shot down like the others.
Khalil pointed his machine pistol at the back of the baby’s head. If he fired, the shot would certainly kill the infant and most likely the mother as well. The young woman held her breath and closed her eyes.
“Who is the man who attacked us?” Khalil asked, patiently.
Katy got to her feet. She did not take her eyes off the terrorist pointing the gun at the mother and child, but she was aware that some of the others had swung their guns in her direction.
“He’s my husband,” she said, in a loud, clear voice. Karen Shaw reached over and gave Katy’s hand a squeeze.
Khalil turned toward her, hesitated just a moment, and then walked over to her. “Your husband?”
“Yes,” Katy said. She could see his eyes behind the mask. They were coal black and inhumanly emotionless, like those of a wild animal, a jungle animal.
“Who might you be?”
“I’m Kathleen McGarvey.”
For a brief instant the terrorist seemed to be taken aback, almost rocked on his heels. But he recovered immediately. “Your husband is Kirk McGarvey? The director of the Central Intelligence Agency?”
“That’s correct,” Katy said. She let that sink in for several seconds, and then she looked at the other terrorists positioned around the room. “If you want to live, I suggest that you get off this ship while you can,” she said in a loud, perfectly steady voice. “Otherwise my husband will kill you.” She turned back to the terrorist behind the balaclava. “Count on it,” she told him.

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