Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (33 page)
“And what if I fail?”
“The money’s a nonreturnable deposit. But I know you won’t fail.” Mack smiled. “You do?”
“Sure I do. As far as I’m concerned, Henri Foche is living on borrowed time.” Harry Remson looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders, as if the sudden recruitment of this battlefield commander had solved his every problem. “Mack,” he said, “remember one thing. Until this moment I had no one who could be trusted to carry out the project. I know you had leads, but they were full of dangers and suspicions. And you were right to be concerned—these Marseille villains could just as easily have bolted with the greenbacks and done nothing.”
“I just didn’t trust them, Harry.”
“The difference is, I trust you. I know you will undertake this venture as if you were still a SEAL. I know you will plan carefully, and then carry it out. For the first time I feel my money is going to buy me something of value. Guaranteed.”
“Harry,” said Mack, “I can’t guarantee my success.”
“I don’t want you to guarantee success. But to me your handshake is better than a thousand contracts. You are a United States Naval officer, a gentleman, and a lifelong friend. I know, without you saying it, you will give it everything . . . for yourself, for Anne, for me, for the town—and above all for Tommy.”
“On that,” replied Mack, “you do have my guarantee.”
“Knowing you, you’ve already thought about how this is going to work—the time frame, expenses, and so forth.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a week now. Not for myself, for Raul. But the same basic rules apply.”
“Go on.”
“He was to be paid two million dollars for the project. There was no mention of expenses. So I assume whatever they were came out of his share of the money. In my case, the money for Tommy, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. My expenses will come out of the second million, same as Raul. But I’m poorer, so I’ll need a substantial advance against the second payment.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “Where do we stand?”
“I will need two hundred thousand dollars, maybe ten thousand in U.S. currency, the rest in euros and British pounds. I intend to enter France via southern Ireland and England. And I have some quite serious purchases to make.”
“Such as?”
“A sniper rifle that I will need to be made especially for me. Plus some rather expensive underwater equipment.”
“What’s that for?”
“Foche has major financial interests in shipbuilding. That magazine says he has made most of his important speeches to workers in that industry. That’s where I may nail him, in a shipyard, and my only way of escape will be the water.”
For the first time, Harry Remson felt the project shifting gears, like a blurred photograph, suddenly becoming clear, jumping into the realm of stark, hard-focused reality. The assassin, the bullet, the victim, the blood, the headlines.
“Holy shit!” said the shipyard owner. He took another quiet gulp of his Scotch and soda. He looked at Mack and thought he could see a difference in the man. This was no longer the cheerful young guy who’d made it big in the military yet was always ready to offer the hand of friendship. This was a deadly serious professional. And a professional killer at that, the way all U.S. Navy SEALs are ultimately professional killers. If the American government did not want them for that, then there was no purpose in their existence. They were men trained specifically to carry out that which no one else would even dream about.
Here he was, Mack Bedford, outlining the precise nuts and bolts of the operation, the absolute anatomy of an assassination. And Harry was financing it, making it possible. For a split second he wondered whether he ought to turn tail and run, but then he thought about the family business and the men he must cast out onto the cold streets of midwinter Dartford. No, he wouldn’t fail them. He must not fail them.
He turned again to face the assassin, Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford. “How long before you can leave?”
“Two weeks. I’ll need three expensively forged passports and three matching driver’s licenses, one American, one Irish, and one Swiss. I’ll need you to take care of that, but I can give you contacts, CIA freelance guys. Expensive but perfect documents.”
“Will they have time?”
“Sure. They’ll damn nearly finish them overnight if they have to. They’ve got plenty of blanks, for damn near any country in the world.”
“You’ll give me details of your other identities?”
“Tomorrow. Send ’em e-mail. They’ll come back by courier, five thousand dollars each.”
“Airline tickets?”
“Business class return, Boston to Dublin. Aer Lingus. Book in the same name as the new American passport. I’ll pay my own way to and from the local places. Cash.”
“Anything else?”
“Negative. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Do I need to know how, where, and when?”
“Absolutely not. You will never know, and hopefully neither will anyone else.”
Harry Remson vacillated somewhere between blind admiration, outright shock, and general disbelief. This was actually happening. Standing before him was the man who would assassinate Henri Foche.
He tried to look at the man objectively, as if he had never known him. He saw a big and obviously very fit person. There’s something about guys like that. Military guys. Hard-trained, controlled diet, no excesses of alcohol. They radiate an understated power, toughness, as if they could instantly turn into Godzilla, which Mack Bedford most certainly could. The face was strong, with laugh lines around the deep gray-blue eyes, with no malice in their gaze. There was a steadiness in the expression. This was a man not easily thrown off his chosen course, and not easily intimidated. In Harry Remson’s opinion this was not the face of an assassin. It was the face of a born commander, a man whom other men would follow. Harry wondered how Mack would settle into his new role, operating beyond the law, seeking out his target with precision and ruthlessness.
On reflection, he considered there was no better man in all the world to save the shipyard. This was Harry’s lucky night, and right now he did not give a damn if it was midnight. He would not have given a damn if it had been 4:00 A.M. on Christmas, eight bells, that is, end of the Middle Watch.
He turned to Mack and offered his hand. “No contract, old buddy,” he said. “Just take me by the hand. That’s all we need.”
“One question, Harry,” said Mack. “What happens if I should be shot by French security forces, when I’m trying to get away? What happens to Anne and Tommy?”
“I will take care of everything. The second million belongs to Anne. Do you need an IOU in writing?”
“Negative.”
“Will we meet in my office tomorrow morning to finalize those passports?”
“Start of the Forenoon Watch—0800 hours.”
Harry Remson felt nothing short of a wave of elation sweeping over him. He was somehow in the middle of a military operation, so secretive, so highly classified, he felt darned near legal. Well, not quite that. But self-righteous, certain he was doing the correct thing.
They walked to the door together, and Harry let Mack out into the night. He watched the Buick slide noiselessly away, turning right, back toward town. He stood there for a few moments, shook his head, and said quietly, “Jesus Christ, what have we done?”
It was six o’clock in the French seaport of Marseille. Almost everyone in the area around the old port was somehow connected to the sea. Trawlers were still unloading cargoes of fish; others were gassing up in readiness to leave. The chefs on the yachts that lined several of the jetties were up and about, starting preparations for breakfast for both crew and guests.
One man, however, was not connected to the sea, and he was headed north along Quay des Belges, past the fish market, walking at a very steady pace, wearing an expression like a lovesick bloodhound. Raul Declerc was not happy. And the reason for this was simple: he had not heard from Mr. Morrison, the man, apparently, with the two million bucks. Raul Declerc had no idea what had happened to his seemingly reliable new client. The initial expense payment had gone off without a hitch in Geneva. But Morrison had now missed two calls, and there was an empty feeling in the stomach of Monsieur Declerc. He had a disquieting instinct that this particular feeling might shortly transfer itself to the Declerc wallet area.
He was mostly furious at himself. He should never have tried to grab an extra million dollars from a man like Morrison. Even the voice had betrayed a dangerous edge. In that split second, after he had suggested extra money, and reneged on his agreement, Raul knew he had gone too far. Morrison had come back at him like a striking cobra—
You’re not getting it from me.
The words had stayed with him. And now Morrison had vanished and taken his bloody two million with him. And he, Raul Declerc, had probably sent staff, helicopters, and God knows what else all over France for absolutely nothing. “Fuck it,” said Raul.
You’re not getting it from me.
The words had stayed with him. And now Morrison had vanished and taken his bloody two million with him. And he, Raul Declerc, had probably sent staff, helicopters, and God knows what else all over France for absolutely nothing. “Fuck it,” said Raul.
The worse part of all was he had no idea who this Morrison was, no idea whom he represented, no idea where he was calling from, except it was quite possibly somewhere on the planet Earth. “Fuck it,” said Raul again.
In his particular trade, assassination and killers for hire, there was often a spin-off for deals that went wrong. Priceless information. Details about a plan. But in this case, the level of information was so low, so devoid of anything even resembling a fact, he feared there would in the end be nothing. Nothing to sell, trade, or barter.
He swung northwest away from the Old Port and, still walking swiftly, headed up to the Place des Moulins. He wanted to be at his desk early in case Morrison decided to make contact. There might even be a message on the machine. But he was not holding his breath. Every intuition he had told him he’d blown it with Morrison, and there would be no second chance. Not with a man like that.
Mack Bedford arrived at the shipyard a little before eight o’clock. Harry Remson was already at his desk. He instructed the boss to open up his laptop and take down the following details:
Jeffery Alan Simpson. 13 Duchess Way, Worcester, Massachusetts. Born: August 14, 1978, Providence, Rhode Island. U.S. passport no. 633452874. Issue date: February 2004. U.S. driver’s license. Issue date: March 2009. Photographs to follow.Gunther Marc Roche. 18 rue de Basle, Geneva, Switzerland. Born: November 12, 1977, Davos, Switzerland. Swiss passport no. 947274902. Issue date: June 2005. Swiss driver’s license. Issue date: July 2008. Photographs to follow.Patrick Sean O’Grady. 27 Herbert Park Road, Dublin 4, Ireland. Born: December 14, 1977, Naas, County Kildare, Ireland. Irish passport no. 4850370. Issue date: January 2008. Irish driver’s license. Issue date: May 2009. Photographs to follow.
Other books
Phoenix Burning by Maitland, Kaitlin
Claimed on my Wedding Night by Kara Rose
Island Flame by Karen Robards
You Are Here by Donald Breckenridge
No Way Back by Michael Crow
Kings of the Earth: A Novel by Jon Clinch
El fin de la infancia by Arthur C. Clarke
Someone Like You by Vanessa Devereaux
The Sage by Christopher Stasheff
A Shadow All of Light by Fred Chappell
