Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (36 page)
Mack smiled ruefully. “No, Harry, it wasn’t just Tommy. It was the magazine.”
“What magazine?”
“The one you gave me, the Foche magazine.”
“Interesting article, right?”
“Harry, it was more than that. There was a picture of Henri Foche standing outside his arms factory. I recognized him right away. Because I’d seen him before.”
“You had? Where?”
“He was standing on the far side of the Euphrates River in Iraq. The far side from us, that is. I had my glasses trained on him for about five minutes. He was instructing the fucking towelheads how to fire the missile from its launching post. Looking through the sights, showing them how to aim it. I’d recognize him anywhere.”
“And then?”
“Two missiles came in. We all saw ’em flying across the river, and they hit my tanks, burned three of my best friends alive, just incinerated them in some kind of a blue chemical flame. Both missiles ripped straight through the fuselage of the tanks.”
“And what kind of missile was it?”
“It was the Diamondhead, the one the United Nations banned in all countries as a crime against humanity. My guys were not attacking anyone, and they were killed by a missile that ought not to be used in any war. So they weren’t killed in battle, were they? They were murdered in cold blood.”
“The Diamondhead was mentioned in the article, correct?”
“Yes, Harry, it was. There’s an accusation that Foche was the manufacturer, but no one seems able to prove it. In all the world, only I know the truth, because I saw him, just before my guys were burned to death. He was plainly the manufacturer, standing there next to his fucking Mercedes, wearing his pimp scarlet handkerchief, instructing Iraqis how to murder American soldiers.”
“He was wearing that handkerchief in the magazine,” recalled Harry.
“That handkerchief was the one deciding factor. When I saw that, I had him. But I’d have known it was him even without it.”
“Mack, you have as big a reason to take him out as I do.”
“I have a bigger reason. Those guys were like family to me. We’d fought together all over the place. And to watch them burn like that—it was as if I’d died and gone to hell. I don’t have a better way to explain it.”
“Has this become a mission of revenge for you?”
“You’re damn right it has. This Foche murdered my guys. And in France he already seems to be untouchable, because he’s going to be the next president. But I am going to make sure he never becomes president of France. You can bet on that. Because I’ll find him.”
Harry was thoughtful for a moment, and then he said, “Mack, we’re equal partners in this. My money; your brains, skill, and planning. Just don’t let it get in the way—that rising red mist of anger about the guys. Stay cool, and stay focused.”
“That’s the way I’ve been taught, Harry. This is just another mission—Taliban killers, al-Qaeda killers, insurgent killers, missile killers. They’re all the fucking same to me. But this one won’t get away.”
Harry Remson put out his right hand, and Mack took it. “Partners,” said Harry.
“Partners,” replied Mack, and they shook, with a new unspoken warmth.
The two men walked to the front door together, but after Mack had left, Harry was faced with a brand-new problem. His wife, Jane, walked into the study and asked him why it was necessary, these days, for Mackenzie Bedford to arrive at this house at unusual hours.
“Oh, we were just talking about some business deal that may come to fruition. If we have to close down the yard.”
“Oh, were you? Well, I’d prefer to put my cards on the table. And I heard you and Mack discussing the possibility of having this French politician, Henri Foche, murdered.”
“Are you crazy? We did no such thing.”
“Didn’t you? Then I’ll quote you two or three phrases I heard Mack use: ‘after I hit Foche,’ ‘nationwide manhunt,’ and ‘after I pull the trigger—before he hits the ground.’”
Harry turned to face his wife of thirty-two years. “Jane,” he said, “neither Mack Bedford nor I had a choice in this matter. You must believe me, and you must trust me.”
“Trust you! Trust you? You mean I should just sit here quietly and watch you two plan to assassinate the next president of France, which will, without question, put us all in jail for the rest of our lives? Do you really think you could get away with it? My God, Harry! The FBI would be in our front yard within a week. In all the years we have known each other, I have never once heard you suggest anything quite so utterly unreasonable.”
Jane Remson, at the age of fifty-eight, was a very good-looking lady. She was svelte, petite, and chic, always beautifully turned out, with a mane of lustrous natural-looking blonde hair. The combined process of this dazzling example of twenty-first-century preservation was privately estimated by Harry to have cost somewhere in the region of seven billion dollars.
He appreciated her and loved her as she loved him. But she had never before spoken to him quite like that. Still, he reasoned, he had never decided to assassinate the next president of France before.
And Miss Jane, as the household staff still called her, was not finished. “Harry,” she said, “I am asking you to call this whole insane thing off.”
“I cannot do that,” he said. “And perhaps you should keep in mind that I am not going to assassinate anyone. I’m staying right here. And I shall never breathe one word about such a plot to anyone. And I would be obliged if you would do precisely the same. It has nothing to do with you, and, in a way, nothing to do with me.”
“
HARRY!
How can you be so naive? I stood outside that door and heard you and Mack Bedford discussing the killing of Henri Foche. And in my view you will both be caught by the police and charged with his murder.”
HARRY!
How can you be so naive? I stood outside that door and heard you and Mack Bedford discussing the killing of Henri Foche. And in my view you will both be caught by the police and charged with his murder.”
“Eavesdropping is a very dangerous game,” said her husband. “And no one should do it. Because you only hear about one-tenth of the truth. It is obvious, and has been for some time, that if Henri Foche should win the presidency, this shipyard will have to close. There are many options. And Foche has many enemies. You happened to hear one tiny snippet of the conversation, just a fraction of the discussion.”
“Well, it did not sound like a snippet to me. It sounded like a very sinister piece of planning. And I can’t understand why Mack would even be talking about it. It’s not his shipyard, and you cannot be so stupid as to be paying him to murder Foche. That’s fairyland. And what if he gets caught, or shot by Foche’s security guards? How long do you think it would take the police to trace him right back here to Dartford, and in a matter of days associate you with the crime?”
Harry had rarely seen his wife so fraught with anxiety. He knew, of course, she had only his best interests at heart. But there was a clarity about Jane’s assessment that was beginning to unnerve him. And he decided to pull rank. “Jane,” he said, “you have lived very well off my family business for several decades. Every comfort I could provide you came from Sam Remson’s shipyard. I have never thought of myself as the owner, just the custodian for future generations. I know we have only two daughters, but that has not changed my thinking. I owe it to this family, these workers, and this town to do all in my power to prevent Henri Foche from becoming president and closing us down. If we could land just one more order from the French Navy, I could hire a couple of top international salesmen and send them out looking for new business. We have never in one hundred years had to do that. What I cannot survive is three or four years with no work. . . . ”
“But Harry,” interjected Jane, “we aren’t getting younger, and we don’t need the yard. The land is worth a fortune—we could sell it off and be fine for the rest of our lives, spend winters on the boat. What are you thinking, getting involved in some hideous international crime?”
“Jane Remson, if I sold this shipyard and cast almost the entire town out of our lives, I could never look at myself in the mirror again. I’d never get over it. I’d end up sitting in Saint Bart’s or somewhere, drinking too much, and waiting to die. And that I won’t do. I’m in this fight. And I’m staying in.”
“But you can’t be serious about Mack Bedford and this killing . . . ?”
“No one ever said Mack Bedford was doing any killing. But he has friends, ex-Special Forces, guys who work for international security firms, hiring mercenaries and the like. He is trying to give me some advice. And now I want you to promise me, you will never again, for the rest of your life, mention one more word about what you think you heard—not to me, certainly not to Anne Bedford, or to anyone else. Ever. As far as you are concerned, you never heard anything.”
“I still can’t understand why Mack Bedford is involved.”
Harry Remson’s face betrayed more anger than his wife had ever seen. He stood up and walked toward her, not quite threatening but sufficiently unfriendly to make her literally catch her breath. She’d never seen him look like that before.
He stood over her and said very slowly, “Not one more word, Jane. I’m sorry. But there’s too much at stake. Not one more word.”
Mack Bedford drove Anne and Tommy to Boston’s Logan Airport on Tuesday evening. In the end, Harry had purchased first-class seats to Geneva and arranged for an American Airlines representative to take them to the lounge immediately after they had checked in and cleared security.
There was no need to park and wait, and they said their good-byes outside the terminal. Tommy was in tears because he would not see his dad for the next month, and insisted on wearing his baseball glove to the check-in area. Anne just wanted Mack to get back on the road, because the drive home was close to 150 miles, the last third through slow, winding, lonely coastal roads.
And so, in the gathering summer darkness, Mack drove out of the airport and headed northeast back up the highway to Interstate 95, which cuts a swath up the short New Hampshire coast, and then scythes its way parallel to the rocky shores of Maine. The journey took him more than three hours, and the house seemed very dark and remote when he arrived home. While Anne had spent months on end here, alone except for Tommy, Mack had never spent time here by himself, and he was not sure he was looking forward to the next four days.
He put on some lights and made himself coffee. He was starving hungry and not tired, so he fixed himself a ham sandwich, stole some of Tommy’s potato chips, and rummaged around in the freezer for some ice cream. Zero.
He poured the coffee and opened the big envelope that he had picked up from Harry earlier in the day and examined the documents that had arrived from Maryland. There were three passports, and he looked at them carefully. They were absolute masterworks of their type. He checked the dates, the photographs, and the quality of the printing. Then he checked the driver’s licenses, all three beautifully forged. He checked each license against the relevant passport, searching for discrepancies. But there were none.
Mack took his sandwich and coffee into the living room and watched the postgame roundup from Baltimore, where the Red Sox had, unaccountably, been beaten 4 to 2. Tomorrow morning he would pick up the cash from Harry, before finalizing his departure on Saturday evening. But right now, Mack was suddenly tired, too tired to watch the Orioles- Red Sox replay on NESN, and he took himself wearily to bed.
He missed Anne here, more than he missed her when he was away, perhaps because he had never been without her in this house. Their king-sized bed seemed vast and hollow, and he curled up on one side and fell instantly asleep.
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