Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (20 page)
He walked slowly back up the road, aware that the next move he made, on behalf of Harry Remson, was fraught with peril because there were three clear and present dangers: (a) the traceability of his own mobile number, which had been originally issued to the United States Navy; (b) there may come a time during the conversation when money and methods of payment would have to be discussed; and (c) this next phone call would surely require the caller to identify the target. Once that was done, an international crime would most certainly have been committed.
These matters always have an elusive cloak-and-dagger aura, but sooner or later someone would have to come clean and state in words of one syllable what was required, plus the identity of the victim upon whom the contract was being taken out. There was no possibility Lieutenant Commander Bedford could allow himself to be identified as the caller, the mystery man who was planning to assassinate the next president of France.
Mack walked slowly up the road, wondering what to do. He could not go out on a limb for Harry Remson, not in a potential murder contract. He could not subject Anne and his family to the appalling disgrace if he should be discovered as one of the masterminds behind the killing of Henri Foche. So who the hell was going to make the call to this goddamned cutthroat Raul, tucked away in some backstreet of Marseille while carrying out some of the dirtiest business on the planet?
In Mack’s mind there was already quite sufficient hidden disgrace in his own curriculum vitae, because just below the surface lurked the court-martial that had ultimately finished him in the navy. Not even Anne knew the details of that. But even Anne understood the enormous political agenda that had caused the navy essentially to throw him overboard. And the question would haunt Mack forever—had it all been his fault? Had that uncontrollable rage at the bridge over the Euphrates really been the Achilles heel of an otherwise exemplary officer? Blind rage it had most certainly been. He’d shot the twelve terrorists, no doubt. He would have shot a hundred of them if they’d been there. And despite the navy’s best efforts to prevent him from being publicly identified, Mackenzie Bedford knew in his heart there would always be a suspicion about his motives. About the way he had stepped out from his troops and savagely gunned down his enemy, while they just might have been trying to surrender.
The words of Lieutenant Mason, spoken with such conviction at the court-martial, ran through his mind—
Lieutenant Commander Bedford was the best officer I ever served with.
But the short sentence uttered by the president of the judging panel, Captain Dunning, was also not so far from his psyche—
The court detected an element of panic.
Lieutenant Commander Bedford was the best officer I ever served with.
But the short sentence uttered by the president of the judging panel, Captain Dunning, was also not so far from his psyche—
The court detected an element of panic.
Yes, there was quite sufficient in the recent past to make all his future dealings a matter for great care and prudence. So how the hell could he make a phone call to an unknown murderer in France, requesting, on Harry Remson’s behalf, the death of the next French president? No, it was out of the question. He could not make that call. He must instead explain to Harry the problem and, if necessary, hand over the number of the office in Marseille that may be prepared to carry out Harry’s wishes, for a price.
And that too seemed to Mack almost insurmountable. How on earth was the shipyard owner going to transfer a massive sum like a million dollars to some bank account in France or Switzerland without it being immediately traceable? “Beats the shit out of me,” he told a couple of low-flying seagulls. “Right here I’m badly out of my depth. International crime is a bit too tricky for me.”
He reached home to find Anne and Tommy were not back. He felt a tug on his heartstrings, wondering if the little boy had been allowed to leave hospital. He made himself a pot of coffee and sat out on the porch, lost in thought. Maybe he should call Harry and explain this was just about as far as he could go. He had the organization, he had the office in Marseille, he had the name, he had the number, and he had never promised to do more. Just to plug Harry into the right channels, to people who might carry out his lunatic proposition.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Harry’s private number. When the shipyard boss answered, Mack said, somewhat mysteriously, “I have made some headway. I think you might want to come over and see me. Anne has taken the car.”
Ten minutes later, Harry Remson’s dark-blue Bentley swept into the drive. Mack invited him in and poured coffee for them both. Then he explained the perilous nature of the next step that must be made if Harry was indeed going to carry out his threat. Half expecting the Big White Chief of Remsons to bridle at the suggestion that he, Mack, could go no further, the former SEAL was astonished at the quiet, resolute way Harry took the news.
“Mack,” said Harry, “I understand the enormity of what I am proposing, and I’m grateful for what you have done so far. However, your objections to helping me continue are mere pinpricks on the body of a giant scheme. When you are as rich as I am, all these minor matters can easily be taken care of. I would like you to make the call, and I will provide you with an untraceable phone you will use to contact Marseille, after which you will throw it into the sea. I would like you to inform them of our requirements, and to get a price. This is business, Mack, a nasty business, but still business. They’re selling; we’re buying. Don’t get into too much detail. Suffice to say the money will be paid into a Swiss bank account by me. If they are, in your opinion, the right guys, offer them twenty-five thousand dollars immediately for reconnaissance. You know, find the target, establish addresses, make maps, locate regular routes. Have them e-mail that data, so we can make a judgment on whether we’re buying.”
Mack looked astonished and stared at Harry, eyebrows raised. “Could I ask you a question?” he said. “Where do you want this e-mail with a detailed blueprint of the murder to be sent? Remsons Shipbuilding? How about Anne’s computer? Given a free rein, you could probably get us all locked up for the next twenty years!”
Harry Remson grinned. “Mack,” he said, “that e-mail will arrive in my hands by such a circuitous route you’d get dizzy trying to understand it. In the end it will reach a computer that only I will see, and then the computer will be destroyed.”
Mack shook his head and said, “Jesus, Harry, I didn’t realize you were so sharp in the world of international gangsters!”
Harry stood up, finished his coffee, and said, “I am aware of the risks. And I cannot start this operation without taking some. Mack, I’ve gotta go. Do nothing until I’ve organized the telephone.”
“But, Harry, I need to make that call in fifteen minutes. I think they’ll be waiting.”
Harry replied sharply, “Make the call, Mack. Tell ’em to stand by for another call at exactly the same time tomorrow. I’ll be organized by then.”
“Okay, boss. I’ll do as you say.”
He watched the Bentley drive away and hoped Anne would not return until after he had made the 10:15 call. He was lucky, because she was within three miles but stopped at the store before continuing home. Dr. Ryan had insisted Tommy remain under observation until later in the afternoon. He was sleeping now, and Anne would return to the hospital by one o’clock.
Mack dialed the number in Marseille, and a French voice answered, “Mr. Morrison? Right on time. This is Raul speaking. I understand you have some business.”
Mack responded, “Raul, I need twenty-four hours. I’ll call you at precisely this time tomorrow.”
“Okay, Mr. Morrison. I’ll be here.”
If ever there was a place built and designed to house a lethal international center for mercenaries and hit men, Marseille, the second city of France, was surely the one. Its terra-cotta-roofed buildings, its warm, sultry, litter-strewn streets, its peculiar Mediterranean atmosphere of joie de vivre all provide an undercurrent of pure lawlessness. Those sprawling docks, wind-whipped seas, clandestine coastal coves, and rocky landing places all contribute to a cheerful, devil-may-care feeling that any crime on earth could be committed here and no one would ever know. Scar-faced Frenchmen and Moroccans in wide-striped T-shirts and berets give the entire place a piratical overtone. Every ramshackle old vessel in the Vieux Port looks like a getaway opportunity for men on the run.
Police sirens are always wailing. But their wail is somehow empty, as if no one is paying a bit of attention. The unseen beat of North Africa pervades the place. It’s a melting pot, a crossroads to nowhere, where no one seems to belong and no one seems to care.
But whatever goes on in Marseille, it’s working. The city is humming in a haphazard kind of way. The docks are pulsing with activity. Restaurants are full. The fishing fleet thrives, and the famous market has been there for more than two thousand years.
Forces of Justice was situated on a side street off the Place des Moulins, in the oldest part of the city, Le Panier Quarter, north of the docks. It occupied offices on the second and third floors of an apartment block. No phone was ever answered. There was no street-level doorman. Which would have been superfluous anyway, since Forces of Justice employed two machine gun-carrying guards on either side of the entrance.
There were four permanent staff members led by one former British army colonel who had managed to get caught with his fingers in the till during a stint with MI-6, Britain’s international espionage operation. These days he went by the name of Raul Declerc, which sounded somewhat more cosmopolitan than Col. Reggie Fortescue, formerly of the Scots Guards. It was also more likely to throw London’s Scotland Yard off the trail. The former Col. Reggie Fortescue had managed to transfer funds of almost two million pounds from MI-6 to his current account by what he described as an “administrative error.” They’d never caught him, but in his absence he’d been formally stripped of his commission.
Raul was assisted by two ex-members of the French Foreign Legion, both of whom had served in North Africa. One was wanted for murder, the other on suspicion of wrecking an entire village near Algiers after a spat with his girlfriend, a retired belly dancer.
The fourth executive was a former French government prosecutor with international credentials who had been struck from the profession in France for accepting kickbacks from a criminal gang in Paris. There was also a hitherto unproven charge involving the blackmail of a senior French minister hanging over the head of the chief legal counsel for Forces of Justice. The lawyer had subsequently changed his name and identity to those of a former friend, Seamus Carroll, a retired (murdered) freedom fighter for the Irish Republican Army.
FOJ was very international, though it could not reasonably be described as a top-drawer operation. Lacked class. Nonetheless, like most of Marseille, it thrived, acting as a recruitment agency for African nations. It specialized in meeting the requirements of leaders whose armies needed training, or rebels who sought to take over the country.
These are incredibly dangerous paths to take, but there is huge money involved. African leaders have been known to ransack the accounts into which “aid” is poured from the West. Raul Declerc and his men were able to charge a fortune for highly trained Special Forces personnel, men who were finished with regular poorly paid national warfare and now wished to work at a proper commercial rate. FOJ had tentacles into all the crack Western regiments and specialized in recruiting ex-SAS, ex-SEALs, ex-Rangers, ex-Green Berets, or almost any of the British army’s combat divisions. The most prosperous part of the business was certainly the Mercenary Operation. But the bedrock was security, providing many very tough ex-military men to heads of state of nations in which a sizable section of the population profoundly wished them dead.
All over the world there lived billionaires with almost as many enemies as dollars. A very large number of them had up to fifty, or even a hundred, bodyguards. And a large proportion of these were recruited through FOJ. Indeed, most ex-soldiers wanting employment were happy to settle for $100,000 a year running a specialist protection unit for a wealthy man. But those who were prepared to help train and command some African army might receive an up-front payment of $250,000. Those prepared to undertake an assassination, however, started at $300,000 but might charge $1 million, depending on the target and the level of security surrounding it.
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