Uncivil Liberties (14 page)

“Is he still with the woman who converted him?”

Pug ate another hunk of cheese, sandwiched between two crackers, looking out over the ocean before he replied. “She’s dead. He met her when he was on a black ops mission in the Philippines, acting as an adviser to local forces to identify and eliminate insurgent groups. He met a young Filipina doctor. She was working to vaccinate village children when Carlos’s small Philippine army squad took some casualties. They came into the village for medical treatment. Carlos got himself assigned permanently to the local Marine unit. He fell in love with her, they got married, and Carlos spent the next sixteen months in what he calls the best time of his life. Sometimes he’d be in the jungle hunting terrorists. Sometimes she’d be in the villages providing medical assistance. She was a devout Muslim. He came to believe in the faith, and the rest was history.”

“How did she die?” Cameron asked.

“The rebel group found out that she was married to Carlos. Seven of them caught her in one of the villages, then tortured, raped, and killed her. She was carrying their first child. Over the next several months, without assistance from his local unit, Carlos found every one of them, one by one. He’s been a different man ever since, but still someone I’d trust to have my back in a tough situation.”

“Different in what way?” Cameron asked.

Again, Pug was silent, looking out over the vast expanse of the ocean as the yacht gently rolled in the off-shore waves. “He’s a natural warrior, an instinctive killer, truth be known, but once this happened, he
looks
for opportunities to kill the bad guys. It’s not just another mission—it’s  a quest, a vocation. I think he believes he can right the world’s ills, one terrorist at a time. In twenty years, I’ve not seen a man I thought could best him up close and personal.”

Cameron nodded slowly, finishing his cheese and crackers. “Glad he’s on our team.”

Carlos, Gunner, and Wilson lay on the hillside until about 10:30 P.M., taking turns watching the cabin, using a telescopic night sight. No entry or exit occurred during that time, but Gunner had informed Carlos that two Indonesians had entered the cabin earlier that morning, remaining inside throughout the day. He showed Carlos two photos on a small electronic device.

“We emailed these images back to SAS HQ. They confirmed these were two of the five terrorists who participated in the Fremantle bombing about eight months ago. They killed nineteen Australians. That’s why I’d like to go in with you and kill the bastards.”

Carlos nodded. “I’m going in alone. I’ll handle it.”

Wilson confirmed that all three men had remained in the cabin, two in the front room, with the primary target out of sight toward the back left of the cabin. The three of them watched until the lights went out in the cabin about 11:30 P.M.

At 1:40, the moon cloistered behind a thick bank of low-lying clouds, Carlos pulled his gear together and prepared to leave the observation site, two hundred meters seaward from the cabin. “I’m going down that slight incline over on the right. I’ll approach slowly and be in position in about forty minutes,” Carlos said. “Before I enter, I’ll give you a quick laser beam. Depending on what I find, I’ll be out in three minutes, or it might take a half hour. I won’t know until I decide if I’m going to snatch or terminate. I’ll contact you with a sitrep as soon as the situation is under control. If there’s no contact in the first twenty minutes, you can assume I’ve encountered a problem. Return to the Zodiac and advise General Connor.”

“You don’t want us to come in and lend a hand?” Gunner asked.

Carlos shook his head. “No. He’ll be dead or I will . . . or both. If not, I’ll bring him out.”

With that, Carlos slipped quietly into the darkness of the foliage, slowly making his way toward the silhouette that represented the cabin. Gunner and Wilson waited on the hillside, Gunner wearing the night vision equipment and watching Carlos for most of his approach. Just before entering the cabin, the Marine lay silently near the front steps, listening for any sound from within. After about ten minutes, he rolled slightly and gave a quick flash from his penlight laser toward Gunner’s position.

Carlos donned a gas mask apparatus with night vision capabilities and readied a small aerosol container, then began his approach to the cabin door. He picked the rather primitive lock on the door in seconds. Once inside, Carlos paused beside the entrance for several minutes, listening intently. He could detect the sound of deep breathing and the smell of alcohol and cigarettes.

The cabin was essentially one large room. He could see an L-shaped angle toward the south end where he assumed Wolff was located. The two other men were sleeping, one on the couch, and one on the floor, with several blankets wrapped around his dark form. Carlos pressed the top button on the aerosol device, emitting a slight hissing sound. A colorless, odorless gas escaped into the room, drifting across the body of each of the two sleeping men. Carlos then replaced the can in his side pocket and moved a step at a time toward the nearest man. He unsheathed his six-inch, serrated Fairbairn tactical knife and slowly knelt down beside the body on the couch. The man was turned, face toward the backrest. In one swift, but silent, motion, Carlos placed one hand over the man’s  mouth and sliced the Fairbairn across his throat, holding him quiet until his body relaxed. He watched the second man as the first bled out, ready to move quickly if he exhibited any sign of awakening.

He then rose quietly and took three stealthy steps to the other man, repeating the process with his Fairbairn until the body was breathless. Sheathing his knife, Carlos waited several long moments, listening intently for any sound of movement coming from the far corner of the cabin. Hearing none, he stood and moved toward the back of the cabin.

Inching along the back wall, one step at a time, waiting at each step and breathing shallow during his transit, Carlos took one more long inhale, retrieved the aerosol can, and then held his breath as he peered around the wall into the room that contained the bed. His night vision goggles reflected the body heat as a green glow of someone lying on the bunk, and there was a slightly stronger odor of alcohol in the air.

Carlos stooped and slowly duck-walked across the floor, keeping his head below the edge of the mattress and expelling the aerosol container as he progressed. The spray drifted over the prostrate form, and in about ninety seconds, Carlos could hear his breathing slow and deepen. At that point, he rose up, replaced the spray can in his side pocket, and withdrew his HK special ops pistol. With the barrel of the weapon, he poked the back of the sleeping man, eliciting no response. Certain the man was under the influence of the gas, he pulled a small leather packet from his side pocket and retrieved a syringe and vial, extracting a few cc’s of liquid and injecting it into Wolff’s neck. He then placed plastic cuffs on both wrists and ankles, using a longer plastic tie to secure the arms to the legs, essentially binding the man’s movement without tying him to the bed. Then he forcefully shook the man, slapping his face several times with no response.

Carlos returned to the front door, pressed his throat microphone button, and gave the “all clear” signal to the SAS troops on the hillside. He then turned on his small flashlight and began to survey the room. In the corner nearest the cooking area, he immediately spotted a briefcase and several sheets of paper strewn about the small dining table. On the floor next to the table was a black canvas case. When he opened it, he saw a  laptop contained inside. He removed his backpack and placed all papers and the laptop inside, then slipped the pack over his shoulders again. He then returned to the bedroom. There was slight movement from the sleeping man, but he did not wake.

Carlos approached the bed, pistol in hand, and watched as Wolff began to show signs of awareness. He could see the surprise in the Wolff’s eyes as his brain began to register.

“Buenas noches, Señor Wolff,” he said. “Comprende?”

Wolff gave no response, appearing not quite coherent. Carlos knelt on the side of the bed and slapped him across the face. “I said, do you understand?”

Wolff nodded.

“I am come to kill you . . . or make you a prisoner. You choose. You have been injected . . . to relax you. You hear, you speak, and you think, even, but only a little movement is possible for many hours. Do you understand?”

Again Wolff nodded.

“Say, ‘
yes
,’
Señor
Wolff,” Carlos said, still holding the pistol in full view of his prisoner.

Wolff nodded and softly said, “Yes.”

“Your two visitors today,
Señor
Wolff, who are they?”

Wolff angled his head, a quizzical look on his face.

Carlos rapped the restrained man on the side of the head with his pistol barrel. “
Señor
Wolff, I have your papers and your laptop. I have no need of you. Now choose. Answer my questions and come with me, or you join your friends in the room in front. They have no choice.
Comprende
?”

Wolff slowly nodded again.

Carlos struck the pistol barrel against the side of Wolff’s cheek, saying nothing.

“Yes, I understand,” Wolff responded.

“
Muy bien
. Now, let us make this decision. Do you want to live,
Señor
Wolff? If I deliver you to the people who want you, it is their choice. But at least you will survive this night. Now, who were your two visitors?”

“Indonesians. Guerillas from the islands.”

“What did they want?”

“Just to make contact. They were leaving tomorrow.”

Carlos didn’t believe him, but stood quiet for a moment, considering his options. He glanced at his watch and then at Wolff again. Both men shared a knowing look. If Wolff was as experienced as Carlos had been led to believe by both British intelligence and General Connor’s summary, he  knew that on many prior occasions, the roles had been reversed and it had been Wolff deciding whether or not someone would live.

Carlos reached in his pocket again and retrieved the small leather packet, withdrawing another syringe and vial. “You are going on a cruise,
Señor
Wolff. And you will live a while more.”

Once he had injected Wolff with a deeper sedative, he pressed his throat microphone and contacted his outside backup. “Coming out with one package. Meet me at the head of the south path.”

At the intersection of the paths heading toward the beach, Gunner took the inert body of Wolff from Carlos and carried him to the beach where he was placed in the Zodiac. Both SAS men nodded at Carlos and McIntosh and left without another word, heading inland to return home as tourists.

Sergeant Sean Macintosh cranked the small outboard to life, and the agile Zodiac gathered speed, climbed over the first few swells, and quickly disappeared into the darkness, headed directly off-shore toward
Rainbow Blue
.

In twenty minutes, they reached the yacht. Cameron tossed them a line and held the inflatable fast as they lifted the body onto the deck. Carlos unzipped the body bag to assure Wolff was still breathing. Pug and Cameron lifted the craft out of the water onto the aft deck, and Jenkins triggered the deflation device.

Cameron glanced at his watch. “Right, we’ve got about two hours till first light. We can be well over the horizon by dawn. Sean, you and Carlos get our guest below and secure him. I’ve got some canvas straps beneath the bunk.”

“Too right, Captain,” Macintosh replied. Both men struggled to lower the immobile body through the small hatch into the cabin.

Cameron moved aft, toward the wheel, passing Pug who was helping Jenkins deflate the raft. “Let’s get underway. Pug, pull up the anchor, will you?”

Pug moved to the bow and began pulling on the nylon rope, retrieving the anchor. He stepped to the mast and loosened the halyard securing the mainsail, then joined Cameron at the helm. In a few seconds the sail unfurled, took the off-shore breeze, and
Rainbow Blue
came about, headed away from Timor.

“Pug, why don’t you and Carlos get your heads down for a couple of hours. I’ll take the helm and the lads will shift off on stag with Wolff.”

“Agreed. Carlos said he should sleep till about eight.”

“That’s fine. If he wakes earlier, Sean or Graham will call us.”

Pug nodded and stepped through the hatch, passing Sean Macintosh in the main cabin.

“He’s out like a light, General. I’ll call you when he comes around.”

“Fine, Sean. Thanks,” Pug replied, heading forward to the double bunk space where he’d left his gear. Carlos was already lying on the port bunk. Pug lifted his sea bag, dropped it to the floor, and sat on the rack.

“How’d it go?” Pug asked.

“No problems. I put two down, then I sedated Wolff. Drilled him for about ten minutes and decided he might have more information, so I brought him back. Got some documents and a laptop.”

“Good, we’ll go over them in the morning. Do you think he’ll talk?”

“Probably not if he’s as much a professional as we’ve been led to believe, but they should have more luck at Thomson,” he said, referring to the Thomson Correctional Facility in Illinois, where all Guantanamo terrorists had been transferred. “If we still had Guantanamo, we’d have more options. With luck, the computer will tell us a lot. It never fails to amaze me how much these guys keep on their laptops, thinking they’re  secure. But we’ll try to get him to open up in the morning. I’ll keep him lightly drugged once he wakes up. I spoke English with a thick Spanish accent. Probably should continue using that tomorrow, keep everyone else quiet, and Wolff blindfolded.”