Retribution (38 page)

CHAPTER 77

 

“W
e have a new name that has surfaced,” said a mid-level special agent who had arrived late for the meeting and just joined the group around the table.

“Who?” The director, like everyone in his operation center, now starting a third day without sleep.

“A Chechen.”

That caught Tom Pope's attention. They'd had virtually no Chechens on their watch lists until Boston. The Chechens hated Russia, not America. Now, the world's lists were all being revised. For good reason.

“Abu Umarov.” The agent went on to say that the Bureau's G-cell in the Strategic Information and Operation Center had picked up the name in randomly monitored cell traffic.

“I know that name. Wasn't he connected to Yousef?” Pope could afford to be direct. His stock had gone sky-high within the Bureau. CNN was running with the lead story that the two stolen nuclear weapons had been retrieved in a lightning raid in Pakistan, but the world never knew how close it came to Chicago being vaporized. “I thought they were all dead in that valley.”

“Excuse me, sir.” At that moment, Garland Sebeck stood at the door to the conference room. He looked much like someone who was holding on to a secret.

“Mr. Director, may I go talk to my assistant?” Tom Pope rolled his chair back.

“Sure, go ahead, but let me know what you find out.”

Tom Pope walked out into the hallway. He still had his coffee mug in hand. He used the mug to point to a smaller secretary's office across the way, its occupant missing for the moment. Pope closed the door behind Sebeck.

“There's something.” Sebeck had a red folder marked
TOP SECRET. “
This is from one of our field agents stationed in Guam.”

As Pope read the report, he thought of something. “You remember Chantilly?”

“Sure, your IT buddy.” Sebeck had jibed his boss on more than one occasion about Pope's “pet geek.”

“Did you see that last report he e-mailed yesterday?”

“The traffic from that computer at Langley?”

“There was one e-mail to a BlackBerry in New York. It mentioned two names.”

Sebeck smiled.

“Yeah, the names Scott and Parker.”

“Scott was that Brit on the conference call.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Let's get Chantilly to trace the BlackBerry. My guess is that it connects back to Langley.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.”

“There were some independents. I saw an intel report several years ago. Killers for hire. The suspicion was that they were CIA-connected.”

“Let me guess?”

“Robert Tranthan.”

“Yes.”

“And we need to ask Mr. Scott how we can find Parker.” Tom Pope looked back at the red folder, flipping the sheet within. The report recorded a detailed interview. “I knew it.” As Pope continued to read, his face started turning red. “I goddamn knew it!”

CHAPTER 78

 

P
arker slowly buttoned the shirt, sitting on the edge of the bed in the Gulfstream jet's medical suite. The shirt was too large, especially after his loss of nearly fifteen pounds from the last several days. His cheeks had a hollowed look and, although color was coming back to his face, he still saw shadows under his eyes. But for the first time in days his face was clean-shaven.

Parker squeezed his hand, testing his arm. The knife wound, fortunately, had been more of a glancing blow. It had been stitched and was already scabbing up.

“I have some good news.” Scott was standing at the door as the Gulfstream taxied to a parking spot at Luton International Airport, about an hour's drive from London.

“What?” Suddenly Parker realized how low his batteries were. He wouldn't have a lot of energy for a long conversation.

“We're stopping here to pick up another passenger. You want to guess?”

Parker gave him a quizzical look.

“Apparently someone from Saudi Arabia thought they needed to keep one of us for safekeeping. It couldn't be me or you.”

“Hernandez?”

“Yeah, you got it in one.”

“Is he all right?”

“You can ask him in a moment.”

Parker stood up, tucking the shirt in his pants that were—like the shirt—two sizes too big.

Scott indicated the door with a nod of his head.

Parker walked to the open hatch, looking out to a drizzly, rainy midday at Luton. A long black limo pulled around the hangar and stopped at the bottom of the aircraft's steps.

“What the hell?” Moncrief was standing behind Parker, looking down the steps. “I knew he'd do anything to get out of a mission, but this is ridiculous.”

Hernandez climbed out of the limo with two others. One was a well-dressed Saudi wearing a white, open-collared shirt and a dark pinstriped suit. The cut of the suit was from Savile Row and had the shape of accented broad shoulders, tapered down to a thin waist. He seemed a man of royalty. The other was similarly dressed but was very different. He too had well-cut clothes, but his stomach bulged out from the suit and raincoat he had on.

“Hey, Colonel.” Enrico Hernandez didn't look any worse for wear.

Parker grabbed Hernandez's arm in a shake, like the Roman warriors of yore, above the wrist, then hugged his teammate.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, sir. At first it was kind of crazy, but Ali took care of me.”

Ali stood next to Hernandez.

“Colonel, I have heard much of you. I am Prince Ali bin Saud. On behalf of my nation and my father, we wish to thank you. Yousef al-Qadi had become a danger to us all.”

“Then why take Hernandez?”

“Both you and Hernandez had become targets. If we didn't take him in, the
Crni Labudovi
henchmen would surely have. Knez was on your trail, as you know, but there were more. One particular man was right on Enrico's tail when we stepped in.”

Parker looked over Ali bin Saud's shoulder. Another man was standing back, looking around, seemingly uncomfortable, scanning the buildings around the runway.

“Colonel, this is Mr. Zaslani of Mossad.” Scott stood at the bottom of the stairway. “So you were able to find Hernandez after all?”

Zaslani didn't say anything, but looked sheepishly away from Scott.

“The hunt for Yousef al-Qadi certainly made for some odd bedfellows.”

Parker was reminded of the fable about the scorpion and the tortoise. Each needed each other to cross the river, but in the end both died.

“Colonel,” said Ali, “my father wishes to show his appreciation for your help.”

Parker just shook his head. “That's not necessary.”

“We will do something.”

“Just make it up to Hernandez.”

“You don't have to worry about that, Colonel.” Hernandez was beaming. “My little girl has a scholarship for college, for medical school, for any degree she wants.”

“Good.” Parker looked back to Scott and the airplane behind him. Parker did a double take.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” said Scott. “We have a transatlantic flight of our very own.”

 

 

As their jet taxied onto the active runway, Parker leaned across the aisle. “Prince Ali bin Saud. Should I know who he is?”

“Yes, his father is the secretary of the Bay'ah Council. You have a very powerful friend.”

CHAPTER 79

 

“I
need money.”

The hulking Chechen leaned forward on the mattress, holding his head in his hands.

“You are lucky, my friend.” The doctor, a friend to Liaquat Anis since medical school, sat in a chair across the small room. He was the lucky one, working with the sick at Lahore General Hospital. He had a job.

“A concussion and . . .” he leaned back in the straight back wooden stick of a chair. “A survivor of meningitis.”

“Allah has a purpose.” Umarov's eastern European village had survived another disease several forefathers ago. The black plague had given him an immunity unique to his survival.

“No one survives.”

“I did.”

“We found what you were looking for.” Another man, much younger, with a long, curled black beard and a dirt-covered robe, came into the room. “A man we know had been hired to kill him in London.”

Umarov looked up. His forehead still had a blood-damped bandage wrapped around it.

“Yes.”

“The kill was canceled later.”

“By who?”

“He wouldn't say.”

“Well, who is this piece of shit?”

“He was an American by the name of William Parker. He was Zabara. He stopped the Canada cell.”

Umarov stared at the man as he spoke the words.

“Parker?” Umarov stood up. “His name is Parker?”

“Yes. Here is what you need.”

“Passport?”

“Everything.”

“And money.”

“Yes, everything. U.S. dollars. And he may still be in Afghanistan. Our people tell us he was sick when he came out of the mountains. You may have a day on him.”

“I understand.”

“Your airplane leaves in just a few hours. London and then Atlanta.”

CHAPTER 80

 

“E
xcuse me?”

The girl behind the counter of the Chevron gas station barely looked up. It was late, near closing, and her cash register was off. “Yeah?” Her southern accent stretched out the one-syllable word.

“I'm looking for Highway 39.”

The Chevron stood near the back door of Fort Benning, one of the largest Army bases in the South. This particular back door, however, lay in the middle of nowhere. Except for the lights of the station, the highway was dark and lonesome. The only neighbors of the gas station were the miles of pine trees.

“It's just down twenty-seven, about ten miles south of here.” Now she looked up at the person she had been speaking to . . . and tried not to stare.
God, he is big.
The clothes were off-brand. His upper arms stretched the sleeves of the plain polo shirt to the point that they almost seemed to cut off the blood. He wore a Braves baseball cap, but it was still full of color, fresh, new as if purchased that very day in the Atlanta airport. It covered up his forehead. His hair was an orange and red, cut short on the sides, almost like a military cut.

“Okay.” The man was orienting his map. He wrote on it with a black marker.

The bell for the station's door rang as three men in camouflaged Army combat uniforms came inside. They all had the same tan berets and sand-colored combat boots.

“Hey, Melinda! My beautiful Melinda.”

The girl smiled at the attention.

The man in front of her looked quickly away from the soldiers.
Odd,
she thought.

“What you boys want?”

“We're done for the day and need some cold ones.” One soldier put a six-pack of Budweiser on the counter.

Another soldier nudged his buddy, looking to the man with the map. “Excuse us, sir. We didn't mean to step in front of you.”

“No, I was just asking for directions.”

His English was okay, but he had some sort of accent, which seemed more noticeable now. The girl almost asked, but he was already gone.

 

 

“Hey.”

In the one word said over a cell phone, Clark felt a sense of relief. Just one word. She looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. But she knew he wouldn't call until it was over. That was the deal. Don't call until it is over. Period.

“Hey, you.”

“I need a run, a good long run.”

“Yeah, me too.” It made for an odd date; but then again, there was nothing like a good ten-miler. “When do you want to do it?”

“How about at first light?”

“Sounds good.”

“See you in six hours.”

“Six hours.”

She closed the cell phone, and as she did, Clark looked up from the kitchen window. A security light on a motion detector suddenly illuminated the trees near the lodge. The trees, mostly longleaf pines, had been planted by William away from the lodge and down the slope, so that the security light was illuminating the tops more than a dozen yards away. They moved in the casual breeze. The marsh pines were survivors that could withstand the random fires, bugs, and diseases of the hot, humid summers. They left a dark, nearly impenetrable space underneath their canopy that was thick with layers of pine straw. But the light was set at a high setting. It didn't randomly go off.

Clark walked to the front hall, where a cavernous stone floor stayed cold all year long, especially during the winter. She could feel the cold pass through her running shoes as she stood next to the door and looked out through the glass of the tall French doors. The doors were stained a dark mahogany, thick, and were tall like the entranceway. The glass was intentionally thick. When one opened the door, it swung heavily on the hinges.

The security light in the front was also illuminated. A breeze pushed leaves from some live oaks up the road across the front of the lodge.

Clark went back to the kitchen. The lodge was isolated, alone, on top of its hill, but she hadn't felt unsafe. She looked at her cell phone. It was fully charged. She scanned the numbers, seeing the first number on the directory: Mack, the deputy sheriff. She looked up, again, out the kitchen window, only this time to see a face staring back at her.

Clark cried out in surprise, dropping her cell phone to the floor, her heart racing out of control. She heard the crack of glass as she scrambled to find her phone on the floor.

“Oh, my God.”

She grabbed the cell phone as she heard another crack of the glass over her head. Clark ran to the rear of the lodge, holding on to the phone, glancing over her shoulder to see a man tear the door down in the kitchen with the thrust of his body.

She had discussed this with William several times.

It was the first line of defense. Go upstairs, lock the solid wood door, use the few seconds before he came through it to call and get to the shotgun. Not the pistol. It had to be a shotgun. William had said it numerous times. When scrambling for one's life, few could hold a straight shot. A shotgun left plenty of room for error.

A bullet went just over her right shoulder. With the one shot, she realized that this wasn't a random burglary or robbery. This was a killing. He wasn't coming for her, either. First her and then William.

Clark slammed the door and threw the bolt. She tried to breathe.

He had told her that several times. As she did, a bullet cracked the wood.

Now Clark understood why he had wanted her to run, to run a marathon. It gave her the chance to breathe, to survive. Her heart seemed frantic, pounding in her chest.

Clark scanned through the cell phone directory, trying to get back to the first number.

“Goddamn it.” Her hand was shaking. Finally, she hit the number. Another bullet cracked the wood, followed again by a second. It seemed to be more of a message. The number rang and then rang again. She hadn't even had the millisecond of time for the thought that it was actually well past midnight.

“Hello?”

“Mack, this is Clark. I have someone breaking in.” Mack was the closest one. There was no time for Stidham or anyone else. Mack would blue-light it, and he knew the country roads.

“Okay, I'm on my way.”

Another bullet ripped through the door around the hinge, followed by a series of bullets fired at the different door hinges. Clark grabbed the twelve-gauge shotgun and fired the Dixie Tri-ball three-inch shell at the door. It was a mistake. The large steel balls, the size of marbles, ripped through the wood, fracturing the door, only helping to dismantle it.

Clark fired the second shot at the window. The shotgun slammed into her shoulder like a baseball bat. It also ripped the glass and frame of the window from the wall. She jumped through the opening at the same time that a figure broke through what was left of the bedroom door. A portion of the roofline extended out on the second floor. Clark landed on her shoulder on the cold, ribbed, vertical steel-paneled roof. Her momentum kept her going as she slid down the panels and then fell over the edge. A gutter hung up her fall for a brief second, and as it did a bullet hit her arm, cutting the flesh like a hot poker. Its force helped push her off the roof.

Clark landed in a thick line of azaleas that lined the edge of the house. It broke the force of her fall but didn't stop her from slamming into the ground. She gasped for air, trying to get up on her knees.

He had told her to use whatever protection possible. Clark knew that the shadow would be waiting at the window's opening for her to run to the woods. Her movement would activate the security lights, and the lights would then cause her death. It would be an easy shot.

She moved slowly, on the ground, only putting her weight on her left arm once. The pain shot through the arm, causing her to collapse like an umbrella. She suppressed a scream.

Clark worked her way down the edge of the house and then around the corner. She was directly below the security light and its sensor. All four corners of the lodge had lights with sensors. Clark reached to the ground and picked up two rocks. She threw one around the corner back toward where the bedroom was. The light on the back of the house suddenly came on, and with it a bullet zipped back toward a shadow near the tree line. She threw the other rock directly upward to the light above, and when it lit up the front of the lodge, another bullet zipped past the edge.

Clark ran across the front of the house, staying close to the wall, and then at the far end of the lodge sprinted across the open space to the drop-off and the tree line below. She crashed through the limbs, tripping on the pine straw and falling flat on her face. The straw cushioned the blow. Clark tried to breathe, getting up to her knees and moving deeper into the darkness, away from the light.

Her cell phone still lay on the floor of her bedroom.