Diamondhead (22 page)
Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Harry called for his longtime secretary, and niece, Maggie Tyler, to summon Judd Powell, his works foreman, to the office. Judd had worked in the shipyard since he left school and risen to the important rank of master shipwright. He was forty-eight years old now, and for seven years had been Harry’s right-hand man.
At this particular time, he was testing the length of the bow and foredeck against the plans. Everyone knew of a recent British warship that had been inadvertently constructed four feet too short. The result had been an absolute uproar when it was discovered the bow dipped too low in a big sea. The breaking waves had come driving over and soaked the missile launchers. This ought not to have been a problem, except the unexpected saltwater had crusted a tiny switch, which then refused to function, leaving the missile system potentially out of action in the face of the enemy.
The shipbuilders were found to be at fault after a lengthy Admiralty Board inquiry in London, and the entire front end of the destroyer had to be rebuilt. In Judd’s opinion there was enough goddamned trouble on the horizon without stupid foul-ups like that.
The yard sound system blared out—
Judd Powell to Mr. Remson’s office. Judd Powell to the office.
Judd Powell to Mr. Remson’s office. Judd Powell to the office.
The master shipbuilder climbed over the rail onto the scaffold, moving expertly down the ladders to ground level. It was not an unusual request from the boss. It happened a couple of times every day. But there was a hollow feeling in Judd’s stomach as he made his way up to Harry’s office. And he’d only just finished his breakfast.
One look at his employer told him plenty. Harry’s face was a picture of misery. He never even said, “Good morning.” He just looked up and said, “I’ve heard from the French, Judd. They mentioned the volatile political situation in France and the possibility of Henri Foche being elected. They also confirmed they were not able to order another frigate, but thanked us for all we had done over the years.”
“Does that mean we’re finished? Is it definite?”
“Nearly. You can hardly run a shipyard if you haven’t got any goddamned ships to build. I’m paying out almost fifty million dollars a year in salaries. Barring a miracle, I have to start laying men off this week.”
“How many?”
“Probably a hundred. Steelworkers first.”
“Jesus Christ. I don’t know what to tell these guys. If the yard closes, a lot of them will never work again.”
“Don’t remind me, Judd. I guess in a way I’m to blame. I should have known the score six months ago.” An expression of bitterness crossed Harry’s face when he added, “The French were stringing me along. And I should have realized it sooner.”
“It’s this guy Foche, right?” said Judd. “I read all about him.
Vive la France,
and all that shit.”
Vive la France,
and all that shit.”
“That’s him. There’ll be no more foreign defense orders from France. Everything will be made there under Foche. That’s the problem. They’re damn good at it—you know, the Mirage fighter jet, the Rafale guided-missile fighter, the Super Etendard, the Exocet missile, the Triomphant Class nuclear submarines, the Super Puma helicopters. The bastards know what they’re doing. And they already build most of the Lafayette frigates.”
Both men were silent for a few moments. Then Judd Powell said, “Sir, would you mind telling the men yourself?”
“Give me a break, Judd. This has already broken my heart. Isn’t that enough? I’d do damned near anything to make things different.”
Judd nodded understandingly. “I guess there’s no chance this Foche will lose the election, is there?”
“None. Our only hope is if the French bastard drops dead.”
“Is there a ray of light anywhere, Mr. Remson? Anything I could tell the guys, just so we still have a little hope?”
“There may be something, Judd. But it’s a long shot. Just tell ’em I’m doing everything I can.” Harry Remson already realized he’d said too much.
The dark-blue Bentley came surging into the drive. Anne and Tommy had left for the hospital, where Dr. Ryan had promised to produce something to calm down the boy’s bouts of violent sickness. Harry disembarked, carrying with him a small white cardboard box. He walked onto the screened porch and shouted for Mack, who came bounding down the stairs, clean-shaven and sharp before a superior officer. Like always.
“Okay, buddy, right here I got the cell phone, and it’s ready to go. Got a special chip embedded inside it, makes it undetectable by any search agency in the world. Incoming or outgoing.”
“Jesus, Harry. Where’d you get it?”
“NASA. Since you ask.”
“Didn’t tell ’em who it was for or why you needed it?”
“I might look stupid, but I’m not crazy,” replied the shipyard chief. “Anyway, you can make the call and offer them the million for the contract.”
“Do I reveal who we have in mind?”
“I’m going to leave that up to you, Mack. You may have to, in order to get a firm price.”
“How about payment?”
“I think we’ll agree to pay that twenty-five thousand for the recce. Then advance expenses of say fifty thousand. When Foche dies, we’ll pay the balance. But I’m not paying a bunch of murderers a huge advance fee that they could keep and then say the plot backfired.”
“No. That would be crazy. We’d never have a chance of getting repaid.”
“It’s our way or the highway. Tell ’em we’ll go somewhere else.”
“Harry, there may be a difficulty if they do not have the slightest idea who we are, or where to come, if their money does not arrive.”
“Mack, they’re in the high-risk, utterly illegal end of the business cycle. I’m betting they often have to take their chances on getting paid. But we’re not handing out an advance. Screw that.”
“Okay, boss. No names; no clues about identity. And how do we transfer the funds?”
“I’ve got a pretty big account in the city of Brest in Brittany, where the French Navy lives. It’s not unusual for us to have tens of millions of dollars in there. I’ll have the fee wired to an account in Switzerland, and from there it will go to the account of one of those Swiss lawyers whose sole purpose in this life is to hide identities, cash, bank accounts, and the rest. He will not know where the money came from when it lands in his account, nor will he ever have a way of finding out. The Marseille guys will contact him, and he will arrange their payment. No one will ever know who paid, and no one will ever know what it was for. If we get a deal, we’ll request the name of the guy who’ll pick up the check from the lawyer, and all he needs to do will be to identify himself at the office in Geneva. No problem.” Harry glanced at his watch. “Christ!” he said. “I’ve gotta get back. And your call to France is in fifteen minutes. Keep me posted.”
And with that Harry Remson was gone, leaving Mack holding one of the truly great cell phones of the world.
Anyone comes on the line, it’ll probably be a fucking astronaut,
he muttered.
Anyone comes on the line, it’ll probably be a fucking astronaut,
he muttered.
He decided to make the call away from the house, so he walked out of the driveway and jogged down to the lonely spot where Tommy had caught the bluefish. Just as he arrived, a local fishing boat, driven by an old-timer, Jed Barrow, was arriving back from a night in the fog in choppy waters. Mack could tell by the way the trawler rode low on her lines it had been a decent catch. “Hey, Jed,” he yelled across the water. “Good job! Nice to see you.”
Jed Barrow turned and stared across his starboard beam. Then he spotted Mack and yelled back, “Mack Bedford, you young rascal! I thought you’d taken over the entire U.S. Navy! Welcome home, boy!”
Mack waved. He guessed the old man had been out maybe three or four miles. Somewhere around the back of Sequin. It was very deep out there, and lonely. In the past men had disappeared without a trace in the long, rolling seas common to this part of the world. Out there in the night, with just a nineteen-year-old kid for company, was a tough way to make a living in a dragger.
But Jed knew nothing else. For him that short voyage out to Bell 12 was nothing short of a commuter run—there and back, maybe a couple hundred days a year. Coming home in the morning, cold, salt-encrusted hands, very often a decent haul, and then a short argument with the buying agent, summer and winter, sickness and health. And all because men like old Jed Barrow and his forefathers would rather have shot themselves than have someone tell them what to do.
Mack pondered the life of a fisherman. And wondered if he should get into it himself. He had the money with his navy payoffs, SEAL bonuses, and well-saved signing-on fees. He could navigate, he could fish, and he knew the waters. But then he stopped himself—because, subconsciously, he was thinking about forming a business for Tommy. Always for Tommy. And what was the point of that? Yet he could not stop himself.
He looked at his watch and mentally tore himself away from this world he knew so well, way down east on the Maine coastline. Instead he checked himself into a seamy, terrifying world of willful murder, a merciless, brutal place where he did not belong. He took out his supersonic cell and tapped in 011-33 for France, then the number, which would ring in the office in the backstreets of Marseille, in the Assassins’ Division. Raul’s place.
CHAPTER
5
5
It was, possibly, the closest Mack Bedford had ever come to losing his nerve.
At precisely 10:15, sitting against a rock above the ebbing tide of the Kennebec estuary, he suddenly snapped his cell phone shut and told a half-dozen busy sandpipers he simply could not manage this. Harry Remson would have to find someone else. Because he, Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford, could not deliberately place himself among the criminal classes. Particularly among this shady group of “murder for hire” brigands, lurking in the back streets of Marseille. It was entirely too much to ask of him.
At precisely 10:15, sitting against a rock above the ebbing tide of the Kennebec estuary, he suddenly snapped his cell phone shut and told a half-dozen busy sandpipers he simply could not manage this. Harry Remson would have to find someone else. Because he, Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford, could not deliberately place himself among the criminal classes. Particularly among this shady group of “murder for hire” brigands, lurking in the back streets of Marseille. It was entirely too much to ask of him.
Making a phone call to arrange the imminent assassination of the next president of France sounded pretty bad. About ten-years-in-the-slammer bad. Mack stood up and put the phone in his pocket and began to retrace his steps up the beach path. And then he thought again about the issues that were at stake, and about his old friend Harry. The Remson boss did not have to do this. He was an extremely wealthy man, and he could have just accepted the fate of the shipyard and let it go. It would hardly affect his life.
In fact, Harry’s life would be a whole lot better without the shipyard. He owned a beautiful seventy-five-foot ketch he kept down in Saint Bart’s in the Caribbean, and he could certainly spend much of the winter there instead of fighting the frost, the snow, and the endless problems of the Maine shipbuilding industry.
No, Harry was not, effectively, putting his life on the line for himself and his family. His wife, Jane, could have lived without Remsons Shipbuilding any day of the week. Harry was doing this for the people of Dartford. He was spending two million dollars and risking jail, just to keep everyone going with jobs, food, and comfort. Not one dollar for himself. Everything for the town. Everything to lose.
And here he was, Mack Bedford, shying away from making a phone call to help save his fellow citizens of Dartford.
The hell with it,
he muttered, and dialed the number in Marseille.
The hell with it,
he muttered, and dialed the number in Marseille.
This is Raul. Mr. Morrison?
Right here, Raul.
Mack felt a surge of confidence. The name was wrong, and the phone call could never be traced. He was safe. For the moment.
Mack felt a surge of confidence. The name was wrong, and the phone call could never be traced. He was safe. For the moment.
Raul stepped straight up to the plate. He dropped his faint French accent and reverted to English, in the kind of officer-class accent expected of a man called Reggie Fortescue.
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