Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (22 page)

Farouk went down. He hadn’t had time to react from the first man’s entrance. He was sitting in his chair watching the action with a detached air, as if he wasn’t sure what was happening. A heavy slug from the second intruder’s weapon caught Farouk in the chest, pushing him over backward, the look on his face turning to surprise and, in an instant, to the slackness of death.

Jock fired twice, catching the second man in the chest and head. He died as he fell to the floor. The window on my right exploded with the impact of high-velocity bullets. Incoming. Logan and Burke were firing back, what we used to call suppressing fire, keeping whoever was out there at bay. Jock had disappeared through the back door.

Jessica was okay, shaking a little, but not hurt. She pushed at me, trying to get me off her. “Be still,” I said. “This isn’t over.” She quieted down and lay still. The Arabic speaker was under the table on which his equipment rested. He was balled up in a fetal position, his hand covering his head. He worked for Jock’s agency, but he wasn’t a field agent.

The sofa was between the front door and me. I eased my head up so that I could see over it. There was nothing but the two dead men. The
smell of cordite was heavy in the room, the cold air assaulting us through the open door and broken window, stirring the smoke left by the weaponry. Burke and Logan moved cautiously toward the window. I heard a volley of shots from outside, the sounds of pistol fire, no AKs. I moved quickly to the front door, stood with my back to the wall and slid down onto my haunches. I slowly moved my head over to the opening at about knee height, hoping that whoever was out there wouldn’t be looking that low for a target.

I saw an Audi parked on the road about two hundred yards from the house. Jock was walking toward two bodies lying on the ground, their blood marking the snow like black amoebas. I wondered why it wasn’t red, but knew it had something to do with the cold, and with the angle from which I viewed the scene.

Jock saw me, and waved me out. “That’s all of them. Anybody hurt in there?”

“Farouk’s dead, but everybody else is fine.”

The others joined us and helped us move the bodies inside. There were no close neighbors, but we didn’t want anybody driving by to see two dead men on the front lawn.

Jock picked up Farouk’s cell phone, punched in some numbers and stared at the tiny screen. “Farouk had a damned GPS system in his phone. Shit. I should have thought of that.”

“That’s how they found us,” said Burke. “They must have seen the bodies, realized Farouk was gone, and locked into his GPS signal. Damn.”

“He knew about the GPS,” I said. “He took a chance his buddies would bail him out. I wonder if he said anything to alert Allawi.”

“I think that’s a safe bet,” said Jock. “Allawi’s in the wind. We may never find him.”

Burke pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Ski, can you get into the house without being seen?”

Silence for a beat. Then, “I want you to search the place. See if you come up with any documents, anything that will tell us where Allawi might be.” Burke gave him a synopsis of what had happened at the safe house and hung up.

Burke turned to Jock. “Can you get these bodies handled?”

“Yes. We keep piling them up. Sooner or later, my director is going to get tired of this.”

Burke said, “Let’s go get Ski. He’ll have the place picked clean by the time we get there.” He looked at the Arabic speaker who’d gotten into a chair and was finally calming down. “We need you to go with us in case we have to read documents in Arabic.”

“No sweat,” said the Arabic speaker. “You guys are a lot of fun.”

We took both cars, Jock’s rental Mercedes and Burke’s Acura. Logan and the Arabic speaker rode with the general. An hour later we pulled into parking places on Allawi’s street. Two Frankfurt police cars were parked in front of the house, another in the driveway, blue strobes reflecting off the windows of the houses on either side of the street. Uniformed officers stood in a knot on the sidewalk, tucked into cold weather gear, slapping their hands together to keep warm. Little puffs of clouds escaped their noses as they exhaled into the cold air. A coroner’s van made its way down the street and turned into the driveway.

There was no sign of Olenski.

buenos aires, argentina
july 1945

The wind off the Rio de la Plata was bitterly cold. The heavy topcoat worn by the American did little to blunt its force. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself in a futile attempt to find a little warmth. He was wearing a three-piece wool suit under the coat, white shirt, regimental tie. His black lace-up shoes reflected the lights of the quay.

A tugboat was pushing an old ship, the M.V. Don Zierke, a tramp with a straight-edged bow, into the wharf behind the chain-link fence. The American’s companion was of medium height and stocky. His large nose was red, the sign of a man fighting a cold. From time to time, he’d put a handkerchief to his face and blow his nose. He wore a long overcoat over black trousers. A purple zucchetto, the skullcap of a Roman Catholic bishop, perched on the back of his head of gray hair.

Just as the weather in Europe was moving toward a mild summer, the American had flown into Argentina in the middle of its winter. No matter. He’d only be here a few days. Then back to the States. The OSS money deposited in the account controlled by Monsignor Petranovic in Genoa had a long reach.

The American had arrived in Buenos Aires a week before. He’d sought an audience with the bishop, a man called Augustin Barrere, whose name he’d been given by Petranovic. The bishop was expecting him, and he was shown to a comfortable study in the rectory next to the church. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, casting a warm glow into the room.
Bookcases lined the walls, each filled with leather-bound volumes. Thick Oriental carpets covered a hardwood floor, the furniture leather and manly looking. The bishop offered a snifter of brandy.

The American took a sip, frowned, the alcohol burning his throat as it went down. He coughed, slightly. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a shot of good brandy.”

“Enjoy. How can I be of help to you?” The priest’s English was good, but accented by the Rioplatense Spanish spoken in the area.

“I’m not sure when the ship from Genoa is supposed to get here, but I need to meet my man and get him out of Argentina.”

“The ship will dock in seven days, weather permitting. It is making good time from Italy, but it is an old and slow ship. How will you arrange to get your man into the U.S.?”

“I didn’t say we were going to the U.S.”

“Sorry. I just assumed that since you are an American officer, that’s where you’ll go.”

The American’s lips twitched, perhaps a smile, but one with a hint of steel. “I paid extra so that no one would remember that I’m a serving officer.”

“No one knows other than two people in Genoa and me. Your secret is safe.”

The American relaxed. “I’ve got my end handled, but I’ll need your help in getting him out of Argentina.”

“Do you have a passport for your man?”

“Yes.”

“I will need to have it for a few days to get the proper clearance.”

“Okay.”

“What name is on the passport?”

“Andrew Bracken, but that’s not the name he’ll be using after we clear your country.”

“Tell me where you are staying, and I will be in touch when I have more definite information.”

The American handed over the passport and left the bishop sipping another snifter of good brandy. He spent the next few days sightseeing and
tasting the amenities of a city not ravaged by war. His trip from Europe had been long and arduous, and he enjoyed the leisure time to overcome its effects.

The cold weather continued, and on the sixth day a messenger came from the bishop. The American was handed an envelope containing the passport and necessary exit documents in the name of Andrew Bracken. There was a note telling him to meet the bishop at the port the next night, and directions to the rendezvous.

On the appointed night, he found himself standing on a wharf on the Rio de la Plata waiting to rescue a man he loathed. Sleet was in the wind, the temperature dropping. He snuggled down into his coat, and wished the damn boat would get settled in its berth.

The ship came abreast of the wharf. Men on the bow and stern threw lines to longshoremen on the dock. The heaving lines were brought in and the heavy docking lines were slipped over bollards. The ship rested. A gangway was put over the side, and a man dressed in suit and tie went aboard. A customs agent.

The bishop and the American moved toward the gate where an Argentine soldier stood guard, his old Lee-Enfield rifle positioned at parade rest. He snapped to attention as the men approached, and said, “Buenas noches, Excellencia.”

The bishop nodded and spoke in Spanish, a language the American did not understand. The soldier relaxed and opened the gate. They moved toward the gangway, and stopped a few feet away.

A priest, dressed in a flowing black cassock, no overcoat, left the ship. The American moved toward him, and said, “Good evening, Monsieur de Fresne.”

The priest tensed, looked closely at the American and relaxed. “Major,” he said. “So good of you to meet me. I’m freezing.”

“Come along. I’ve got a coat in the car.”

They walked to the bishop and together went out the gate, the soldier again snapping to attention.

“What now?” asked de Fresne. “I’ve been on that fucking boat for three weeks. I need a bath and some good food.”

“The bishop will drop us at a hotel,” said the American. “We’ll be here for a few days, and then we’ll be going north.”

“I hope it’s warmer there than here.”

The American grinned. “I think you’ll like Florida.”

Burke and Logan were parked behind us, across the street from Allawi’s house. The general was talking on his cell phone. He pulled out onto the street, lowered his window, and motioned for us to follow. He turned right at the corner and drove straight for about three blocks, slowed and pulled to the curb. We were in a shopping district, with low-rise buildings housing shops and small markets. A man, head down, carrying a briefcase, walked purposefully from the doorway of a shop that sold secondhand clothes. He was wearing a long overcoat, frayed at the elbows and cuffs. His head was covered with a knit hat riding low on his forehead and pulled over his ears. He walked to the curb where Burke’s car sat, motor idling, the exhaust visible in the cold air. The back door of the Acura opened, and the man got in. Burke pulled back into traffic. Jock let two cars get between us and then pulled into the street.

“Was that Olenski?” Jessica asked.

“I think so,” said Jock.

“I’m glad he got out before the cops got there,” I said. “Maybe he found something.”

We drove through the city streets, the snow coming harder, the windshield wipers straining. My cell phone rang. Burke.

“We’ve got Ski,” he said. “I don’t think we’re being followed, but I want you guys to peel off and make sure you lose anybody that may be tailing you. Meet me at my apartment in thirty minutes.” He gave me an address in a neighborhood near the consulate.

I told Jock what we were doing. He took the next turn and spent twenty minutes driving evasively, doubling back, turning into parking lots,
going through one high-rise parking garage, and around traffic circles, exiting at high speed, cutting off other drivers.

We found the address Burke had given us. We parked and took the elevator to the top floor. Burke, Logan, Ski, and the Arabic speaker had just arrived. “Come in,” said Burke. “This apartment is owned by the consulate. They house visiting diplomats here and in another apartment one floor below. This is my home away from home.”

Ski threw the old overcoat and hat across the back of a sofa. “I heard you guys had a bad time of it. We should have thought about the GPS thing. A lot of cell phones have that now.”

“What happened with you?” I asked.

“I got into the house and found Allawi’s study. His desk had a stack of papers on it, but they were in Arabic. This briefcase was sitting on the floor behind the desk, so I opened it to put the papers in and found another stack of documents. These were in English.

“I was going through the desk drawers when I heard the sirens. Sounded like they were coming my way, so I went out the back door. There was a lady standing in the kitchen when I left. She might have been a cook or something. She was wearing an apron, and there was a bag of groceries that she’d dropped on the floor. She was crying and begging me not to shoot her. I think she must have come in to work and found the bodies. Called the cops.”

Burke put the briefcase on the dining room table. “Let’s see if there’s anything here that’ll help us.”

He pulled a sheaf of documents with Arabic script and handed them to the translator. “See what you can make of this.”

He looked at the papers written in English. “There’s a lot here. Let’s divide these up and see if we find anything.”

Olenski went out to a neighborhood Italian restaurant and returned with several kinds of pizza. We sat around the table, perusing the papers and munching. Occasionally, someone would remark on a document. They all seemed to have to do with Allawi’s banking empire; mostly business letters from branches around the world. Some were orders for oil drilling equipment, a few were in Spanish. Jock took those, but there was nothing of interest to us.

Jessica was nearing the bottom of her stack of documents when she raised her head. “This is interesting. It’s a utility bill from Florida Power and Light.”

“What’s the name on the bill?” I asked

“Allawi.”

“Does it have a service address listed?”

“Palm Beach, Florida.”

I looked at my watch. It was nearing six o’clock, almost noon on Longboat Key. “I’m going to call Debbie, see what she can turn up with her magic computer.”

“I doubt that’ll do us much good,” said Jock. “Even if Allawi owns that house, he’s probably got places all over world. We don’t know where he’s gotten off to.”