Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (17 page)

He heard the rattling of keys in the lock of his cell. Dinner was served. My last meal, he thought. He doubted they would waste food on him in the morning. He’d be dead before he got hungry.

The door opened and the jailer stepped back. A tall man in the uniform of the United States Army entered. He was wearing pinks and greens, the class A uniform of American officers, an olive green tunic and beige trousers. His brown shoes had been spit shined, but were now marred by grains of sand clinging to the gleaming leather surface. He wore the crossed rifles of the infantry on his lapels and the gold oak leaf of a major on his epaulets. He had a head of dark brown hair, and appeared to be about thirty years old, the same as el-Gailani. A bead of sweat escaped from the major’s hairline as he removed his hat. He brushed at it with his free hand.

“It’s hot as hell in here.”

El-Gailani frowned. “Yes it is,” he said in heavily accented English. “You get used to it.”

“Maybe not as hot as where you’re going tomorrow.”

“You think I will go to hell?”

“I do. You murdered a lot of people.”

“And you, Major. Are you going to hell for killing people?”

“Probably.”

“That does not bother you?”

“Not especially. It can’t be any worse than the past three years have been.”

El-Gailani laughed. “Maybe you are right.”

“I came to get you out of here.”

“Why?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“What?”

“I can’t discuss it here. I’ve got your release papers in my pocket.”

“I cannot see any reason to stay.”

“Put your hands behind you and turn around.”

El-Gailani did as ordered. The American pulled a set of handcuffs from the pocket of his tunic and put them on the Arab’s wrists, locking them down.

The major handed some papers to the jailer, who looked them over, and nodded. They walked out of the cell and exited the jail. The American handcuffed el-Gailani to the frame of the passenger’s seat in a jeep, and they left the execution ground bound for Damascus.

Jessica and I were clearing the table while Jock finished his coffee. “There has to be a connection,” I said.

Jess put a stack of dishes in the sink. “What is a corresponding relationship between banks?”

I thought about it for a minute. “I think it depends on the banks, and how they put together an agreement. Basically, it’s an agreement between banks where they help each other with liquidity management and short-term borrowing and investment needs. They may have an agreement that one bank will cash the other’s checks, and take deposits of each other’s customers.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It’s probably a lot more complicated than I know, but then I don’t know much about it. It does seem a little odd that a start-up bank in Riyadh would have a corresponding relationship with an established Swiss bank. I don’t see what would be in it for the Swiss.”

“Saudi cash?”

“Well, maybe, but Saudi Arabia didn’t have that much back then. Their wealth all came about after the war.”

Jock brought his cup to the sink. “Allawi is tied to this in some way. A guy like him doesn’t just hire out muscle. He’s involved.”

“I don’t get this,” I said. “Wyatt’s list didn’t have any Arabic names on it. The whole thing seemed to revolve around World War II types and the possibility that some of them got out of Europe after the war. Are we on a wild-goose chase? Maybe Wyatt stumbled onto something to do with Islamic terrorists and the list is meaningless.”

“If so,” said Jessica, “why would they be concerned that we were
looking into people on the list? Why would Hassan at the archives be interested in my research?”

“I agree,” said Jock. “Somehow, they’re all tied together.”

“Can we find out anything about Hassan?” I asked.

“I already have,” said Jock. “I asked my agency to check him out. He’s just a stringer of sorts. He’s a member of a radical mosque in Cologne, but we don’t have any information that he’s involved in any terrorist activity. I think he’s been asked to pass on the information if anybody comes looking for certain people in the archives. Maybe de Fresne’s name tripped a wire, or maybe it was somebody else you checked on, even if there was no information. If you typed a name into the archive’s computer, it might have been one that Hassan was monitoring. Somebody will be discussing this with Hassan this morning.”

Jessica looked at her watch. “I need to make reservations back to Paris. I’ve got to be at work on Monday.”

Jock stared at her, a look of consternation on his face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. People have been trying to kill us. If you go home, you’re probably going to be dead.”

Jessica blanched. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“We don’t know that,” I said. “It might make sense to the people trying to kill us. We’ve gotten somebody’s attention, and I don’t think they’re going to leave us alone now.”

“But the embassy is expecting me back on Monday.”

“It’s Friday,” I said. “Let’s give it another day or two. Jock can square things with your bosses.”

She was reluctant, but agreeable. “Okay. But this is getting tiresome.”

My cell phone rang once. Another text message. I flipped the phone open and looked at the tiny screen. I was staring at a picture of Logan Hamilton tied to a chair. A man wearing a ski mask was pointing a gun at his head.

I showed the picture to Jock and Jessica. No one spoke for a moment, shocked at what they saw. Jessica looked at me. “Do you know that person?”

“My best friend on Longboat Key. Logan Hamilton. What the hell is this all about?”

My phone beeped again. Another text message.

Mr. Royal, you and Dr. Connor will meet me at the marina on the Tampa end of the Gandy Bridge at 11:00 p.m. on Monday. Drive to the point and wait for me. If you fail to show, Hamilton dies.

I looked at Jock. “They didn’t ask for you.”

“They don’t have any idea who I am. They probably think I’m just some hired hand. You and Jessica are the ones they want for some reason.”

“I know that area,” I said. “They could come in by boat and take us, or kill us, and be gone before anybody knew there was a problem. If there’s a police presence, they just don’t bring the boat in.”

“We can’t do anything about Logan from here,” said Jock. “Let me make a couple of calls.”

“Okay. I’m going to call Bill Lester. This could be a hoax of some sort. A digitally altered picture.”

Jock left the room, and I placed a call to Lester’s cell phone. I knew he slept with it by his bed. It was 2:00 a.m. in Florida.

A sleepy voice answered. “This better be good.”

“Bill, I’m going to forward you a picture and a text message I just received. Look at it and call me back.”

“Are you sober, Matt?”

“Never more so. Take a look at the picture.” I hung up, and forwarded the picture and the message to Bill’s phone.

Two minutes later, my cell rang. “What the hell is going on?” asked Bill.

“I don’t know. Can you find out if Logan is missing?”

“I just called his condo. No answer. I’ve got a unit on the way over there now.”

“Let me know what you find out.” I closed the phone and told Jessica what the chief had said.

“Good morning.” The voice was female and heavily accented. I looked up to see the Blattners coming into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Herr Blattner, Frau Blattner,” I said. “I’ll find our hostess and see if she can get some breakfast for you.”

“I’ll get her,” said Jessica, and left the room.

“Herr Blattner,” I said. “Have you ever heard the name Mohammed Allawi?”

“No, not that I remember. Who is he?”

“A Saudi banker who lives part-time in Frankfurt. He owns the house where the men chasing us went to ground last night.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the man. I can’t imagine why he would try to kill me.”

Jessica came back into the kitchen, followed by the hostess. She spoke to the Blattners in German, and went to the stove to fix them breakfast.

Jock came back into the room and motioned us to follow him. We went into the living room just as my cell rang. Lester. “Matt, Logan’s not at home. His bed hasn’t been slept in, and there’s no sign of struggle. His front door was unlocked, but it always is.”

“Try Marie Phillips. Logan could be there.”

“Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

“Nothing,” I said to Jock and Jessica.

Jock nodded. “I had my people take a look at your phone records.”

Jessica interrupted. “That was quick. You can do that?”

“Yes,” said Jock, “we can. Both the picture and the message were sent from a computer in the Selby Library in Sarasota.”

“At two in the morning?” I asked.

“Yes. They’re certain that’s where it came from. Somebody must have broken into the library to use the computer. That would make the message pretty much untraceable.”

I shrugged. “They gave us until Monday to get there. Why?”

“Maybe they hope to get you while you’re still in Europe. Or they might be worried that you can’t get a flight soon enough to get there before Monday.”

Jessica put her hand on my arm. “Matt, I know this is about your friend, but I don’t see how I can just take off for Florida. I’ve got a job.”

“I don’t think you’ve really got a choice. Jock can square things with the embassy, and you’ll be a lot safer with me than you would be in Paris.”

She turned to Jock. “What do you think?”

“Matt’s right. If we go today, we’ll have time to set something up. Maybe get ahead of the bad guys, find Logan, and figure out what this mess is all about.”

“I’ll see about some airline reservations,” I said. “It’s probably too late to get on a plane today.”

Jock grinned. “All handled. You two are scheduled on a Delta flight out of Frankfurt Monday morning. It’ll get you into Tampa at about five in the afternoon.”

“I thought we were going before that,” I said.

“We are. There’ll be a government Gulfstream at Rhein-Main Air Force Base this afternoon. It’s already booked out of here, and the customs people have vetted the flight manifest. The three of us aren’t listed anywhere, but we’ll be on that flight. With the time change, we’ll land in Sarasota just after dark today. Anybody checking on you will expect you to be on Delta on Monday.”

“Jock, you continually amaze me,” I said.

“Yeah, well I amaze myself sometimes.”

My cell rang. Bill Lester. “Matt, we found Marie. She’s okay, but she was tied up, lying on the sofa in her living room. She said she opened the
door for a visitor at about nine this evening, last evening I guess now, and three men came in with guns. They tied her up and took Logan with them.”

“So it’s not a hoax.”

“No. I’ve got the sheriff’s crime-scene investigators on their way over there now. Maybe they’ll turn up something.”

“Can you call them off?”

“Why?”

“We need to keep this very close, Bill. Logan’s life depends on it.”

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

“I don’t know, but it’s serious. There are some bad guys chasing us around Germany, and now Logan’s a hostage. I’ll be home by Monday to meet them, like the message said.”

“I know that marina. There’s a long channel running up to where you’re supposed to meet. It’s the only way in and out. If they come in by boat, we can slip in after them and block their way out. There’s only one way in by road too. I think they’ve built themselves a trap.”

“These guys aren’t idiots. I don’t think they’d set themselves up that way. You can bet they know about the entrance and exit problems. They’ve got something else in mind.”

“I’ll get in touch with the Tampa police and see if they have any suggestions. They’ll know that area better than we do.”

“Bill, don’t do anything until we talk again. Let’s keep this close for now. If cops show up, they’ll kill Logan. Jock Algren is with me, so we’re not completely helpless on this end of things.”

“Ah, good old Jock. Well, if he’s in the mix, I feel a little better. Give him my regards, and y’all keep me in the loop.”

“We’ll do that.”

“I’ll keep this within my department for now. My guys won’t blab, but I can’t keep a lid on it forever.”

“I understand. Thanks, Bill.”

The horizon was ablaze with the lights of Tampa. As the plane banked over Egmont Key to line up on the runway at Sarasota-Bradenton, I could pick out Anna Maria Island and Longboat Key by the lights that separated the dark waters of the Gulf of Mexico from those of Sarasota Bay. We had flown nonstop from Frankfurt in the big executive jet. Jock explained that we had been designated as a military flight for the controllers, and the airport had been alerted that we would not require customs.

The wheels of the landing gear sang briefly as we touched down. We taxied to the ramp of a private, fixed-base operator and into a hangar. The pilots shut down the engines, and opened the door, letting the small stairway touch the floor. Jock, Jessica, and I were the only passengers.

A black Suburban sat on the tarmac just outside the hangar doors. The air was alive with the roar of a commercial jet on its takeoff roll. The smell of burned aviation fuel rode the warm breeze, the temperature in the mid-seventies even after dark. We were back in Florida, and I was glad to see the last of the snow.

Jock led the way to the vehicle, and we climbed in. The keys were in the ignition. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“I’ve arranged to put us up with a retired agent who lives in Lakewood Ranch. He has a big house, and since his wife died, he’s lived there alone. He’ll be glad for the company, and it’ll keep us hidden. We’ve got to figure out how to get Logan out safely.”

We drove out of the terminal area to University Parkway and then east until we came to the sprawling upscale neighborhood just east of I-75. Jock negotiated the streets, using the GPS navigation system built into the dash of the government SUV. We pulled into the driveway of a large house.
The garage door glided open. Jock pulled in and parked. The door slid closed.