Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (23 page)

“It’s worth a try.”

Debbie took what information I could give her and said she’d get back to me. She called in an hour. “That house is owned by Mohammed Allawi, whose mailing address is Frankfurt, Germany. Do you need any more information on it? Building plans? Costs?”

“Not right now, Deb. Thanks.”

“What did you find out?” asked Logan.

“Allawi owns the house and has his tax bills sent to Frankfurt.”

“If he’s heading to Florida, he won’t make it before tomorrow,” Jock said.

“Is there any way we can check?” Logan asked.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said, and picked up my phone. I called Chief Bill Lester on Longboat Key and told him I needed a favor.

“Where are you, Matt? And where the hell is Logan?”

“We’re in Germany.”

“Crap. Sorry I asked. I don’t want to know any more about this.”

“No, you probably don’t. Do you know the police chief in Palm Beach?”

“Sure. We’re both on the board of the Florida Police Chiefs Association. I see him at meetings all the time. Why?”

“Well, it has to do with that favor I need.”

“I hope you’re not thinking about screwing up somebody else’s island.”

“I just need some information. There’s a guy named Mohammed Allawi who owns a house in Palm Beach. I need somebody to go by there on some subterfuge and see if Allawi is in residence.”

“Is anything going to come back to bite me on this?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay. I’ll tell the chief over there that we’re checking out a story that Allawi is involved in drugs or something and is supposed to be in Palm Beach. He can send an officer out to make sure Allawi is at home.”

“Wait until tomorrow, Bill. I think he’s on his way from Germany.”

“What’s this all about, Matt?”

“You really want to know?”

“Nope. Forget I asked.”

“Call me tomorrow as soon as you find out something.”

“Sure. What about Logan?”

“He’s with me, and he’s talked to Marie. I’d appreciate it if you’d handle this like a nonevent.”

“Man, you and your buddies are going to cost me my job one day.” He hung up.

We finished the pizza, and Olenski left for his quarters. The rest of us bedded down on the floor, giving Jessica the lone bedroom. We were past tired. The trip to Frankfurt, three hours of sleep, and the day of activity had taken its toll. I slept like the dead and didn’t awake until past nine in the morning.

It was snowing again, the flakes piling up in drifts along the street. I heard a truck outside, straining, its tires spinning on the icy pavement. I got out of the bedroll Burke had given me in place of a bed. Jock and Logan were still sleeping on theirs. I heard noise from the kitchen, the general making coffee. I could smell it and was almost overcome with the intensity of my need for caffeine.

I went to the half bath off the small foyer, brushed my teeth and washed my face. I joined Burke in the kitchen, and he handed me a mug
of steaming coffee. “That was fun yesterday,” he said. “I haven’t done anything like that in a long time.”

“I appreciate your help.”

“I want Wyatt’s murderers, too, L.T. Where do you go from here?”

“If we can find Allawi, I’m going after him.”

“I have to get back to Berlin today. I wish I could go with you.”

“Get another couple of stars for Wyatt, old buddy. He’d be proud.”

“Ski and I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. He’s on his way over with a car to take us to the airport. You can stay here until tomorrow morning. I’ve squared it with the consulate people, but somebody else is coming in tomorrow. From Turkey, I think.”

“Thanks, Burke. I’ll let you know what we’re doing.”

The others got up, drank their coffee, and ate pastries brought by Olenski. The general and his sergeant said good-bye, wished us luck, and left for the airport. The day dragged by, boredom and anxiety our companions. Jock made a couple of phone calls to see if he could get a jet in position in case we needed to leave for Florida.

I took Jessica aside, sat next to her on the sofa. “Jess, if we go, it’s a one-way trip. We’ll either get Allawi or we won’t. Either way, we won’t be coming back.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“That you should go back to Paris, and pick up your life. I think the danger’s passed. If not, it will in a few days. Stay in the embassy where you have security, and I’ll call you in a couple of days and let you know what happens.”

“Matt, I need to see this through.”

“You’ve been a tremendous help. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without you. But now, we’re going to see more of what we saw yesterday. People are going to be trying to kill us. Logan and I were trained for this a long time ago. Jock, too.”

She flared, her eyes narrowed, her face flushed. “I can handle myself.”

“Not in this league, you can’t. You’ll get somebody killed. Every one of us will be watching out for you when we need to be on the top of our game.” I said it more harshly than I meant to. I smiled, trying to soften the
blow. “Jess, you’re incredible. You’re bright, you’re beautiful, and you’re tough, and I want to get to know you better when this is over. But that can’t happen if you’re dead.”

Her face softened. “Okay. When this is over, you bring your sorry butt to Paris.”

“Or, you could bring your pert little one to Longboat Key.”

“Pert? Nobody ever called it that before.”

“Probably,” I said, “because nobody’s ever studied it as closely as I have.”

I put Jessica into a cab for the airport in the early afternoon. A security man from the embassy would meet her in Paris. She’d keep a low profile until I called her with the all clear. Jock’s influence had ensured that the ambassador wouldn’t ask too many questions.

As darkness was painting the windows, Bill Lester called. “Your man is in Palm Beach.”

“You sure?”

“The chief himself talked to him. Saw his passport. It’s Allawi.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

“Remember, this thing better not bite me in the butt.”

I laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.”

I told Jock and Logan what Lester had said. “I guess we’re headed for Florida. How the hell do the airline people do this?”

Jock laughed. “They’re younger. Let’s roll. The Gulfstream’s at Rhine-Main.”

We came in by boat, beaching the twenty-footer in front of the Allawi mansion. It was two in the morning, a dark night with low clouds obscuring the moon. Jock, Logan, and I were dressed in black jumpsuits, camouflage paint smeared on our faces. We each had an M-16 and a holstered nine-millimeter pistol. Jock carried a dart gun in case there were dogs.

As we came in toward the beach, I dropped a stern anchor, a Dan-forth whose flukes would grab the bottom. I dragged the forward anchor onto shore and set it deep in the sand. There was little surf, and I thought the boat would ride comfortably.

We moved up the broad lawn toward the house. A stone patio flanked the back of the structure, with French doors leading into the family room. The swimming pool was to the side, so as not to interfere with the view of the ocean from inside the house. There were no lights showing, but we’d assumed that there would be motion-activated security lights closer to the house. We were prepared to rush the place as soon as there was any sign of alarm.

The houses along this part of the beach were placed far apart, generous lawns taking up the space in between. The fact that Florida was running out of water didn’t cause any concern to this segment of the population. Acres of green grass were a sign of oblivious consumption, no thought given to the cost, which in itself was a sign of wealth. Let the farmers worry about water. These people had golf to play and balls to attend. They needed to glitter in their riches, and they did so with a thoughtless disregard for the rest of the world.

The night was quiet, the sound of a gentle surf teasing our ears. We crouched low as we approached the house. Lights flared in the darkness,
bathing the lawn and us in white light. We ran toward the house, crouched, presenting as small a target as possible. We used our rifle butts to knock out the glass in the French doors, reaching in to open them. We rushed through the family room to the foyer and up the stairs.

A man was coming out of the first room on our right, wearing only pajama bottoms, a pistol in his hand. Not Allawi. Jock shot him in the leg. He went down, moaning, holding his thigh. Logan bent to search him. He was clean. Logan picked up the gun, handcuffed the man’s right wrist to his left ankle, put his finger to his lips in a shushing motion, and went to check the other rooms on the floor. Jock and I moved to the end of the hall where double doors guarded the master bedroom. Jock turned the knob, and the door opened.

The room took up the whole end of the wing, with windows overlooking the ocean on one side and the road on the other. We rushed inside. Allawi was sitting on the side of the bed, confused, alarmed, and unarmed. He was a small man, five six or so and 130 pounds. He was wearing short-sleeved pajamas. His head was covered by black hair graying at the temples. His skin was a dark red orange, the color of a ripening persimmon. A middle-aged man cowered next to him, his hair mostly gone to baldness, drawing a blanket to his neck.

Allawi was agitated, fear written on his face. “Who are you?” His English was accented, the rounded vowels of his native tongue overwhelming the sharp edges of his speech.

“We’ve come to talk about Laurence Wyatt,” I said.

“Who?”

I pointed my rifle at the other man in the bed. “I’m going to shoot your friend the next time you tell me a lie.”

“No. Not Mustafa.”

“Tell me about Wyatt.”

“Okay. Let Mustafa go.”

I waved the rifle toward the door. “Get out, Mustafa.”

The man threw back the cover and darted from the bed. He was naked, his skin several shades lighter than Allawi’s. He was thin, and I could see the bones of his spine as he ran from the room, almost running over Logan who was coming in.

“What the hell?” Logan shouted.

Jock laughed. “That’s Allawi’s playmate. He’s harmless.”

I turned back to Allawi. “I’ll kill you where you sit unless you tell me why you had Wyatt killed.”

“I didn’t. It was the major who ordered it.”

“Major?”

“Yes. Major McKinley.”

“Who is this Major McKinley?”

“He’s not a major anymore. He used to be, and so that’s what we call him.”

“Who is he?” I brandished the rifle, willing Allawi to hurry with his story.

“He is William McKinley. He lives near Boston.”

“Why would he order Wyatt’s death?”

“Because of the group.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“McKinley was a major in World War II. In the OSS.”

I was puzzled. “The Office of Strategic Services? The forerunner of the Central Intelligence Agency?”

“Yes.”

“He’d be an old man by now.”

“He is.”

“So what does an aging former army officer have to do with Wyatt’s death?”

“The major helped my father and another man get a lot of money out of Europe after the war.”

“De Fresne?”

Allawi was surprised. His eyebrows shot up, his eyes widened. “Yes.”

“The money from the Jews in Vichy France.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure. My father was a man named Abdul el-Gailani. He fought with the Syrian underground during the war. Fought the British and the Free French. He was captured and was about to be executed when the major got him out of prison and sent him back to Saudi Arabia.”

“Tell me about the money.”

“My father’s family had a relationship with a minor prince of the House of Saud. For a price, the prince helped him start a bank, got all the permissions required by our government. My father changed his name to Allawi and arranged to become a corresponding bank with the Confederated Bank Suisse. That wasn’t hard, because CBS had twenty million dollars de Fresne had taken from the Jews.”

“What happened to de Fresne?”

“The major got him out of Europe and set him up as an American. My father, de Fresne, and the major split the money three ways. De Fresne needed the major to stay alive and they both needed my father’s bank to launder the money.”

I heard sirens in the distance, coming closer. Jock and Logan reacted, moving to the windows that fronted on the street. “They’re coming this way,” Jock said. “I can see the blue lights.”

“My silent alarm,” said Allawi. “Do not shoot me. It will only go worse for you when the police arrive.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I said. I thought about shooting the little bastard on the bed, but if we didn’t make it out of the house before the cops got there, I didn’t want to face a murder charge.

We raced down the stairs and out the French doors onto the rear lawn. I jumped into the boat and started the outboard while Jock and Logan brought in the anchors. I backed off the beach, got a little depth under me, and wheeled the bow to the east. We headed straight out to sea, the boat dark, gliding over the black water of the Atlantic Ocean.

We’d rented the boat from a place on Singer Island, just across the Palm Beach Inlet. We brought fishing gear and told the man that we’d be night fishing the south double ledges, a natural bottom formation that lies about three nautical miles south-southeast of the inlet. Nobody would be suspicious of three tired fishermen returning to port after a fruitless night on the water.

We threw our weapons and jumpsuits overboard and used seawater to wash the paint off our faces. If we were stopped by law enforcement on the way to the marina, we didn’t want to be found with incriminating evidence.
We emptied our live bait well, returning some relieved shrimp back to their homes. The Coast Guard would know that real fishermen wouldn’t quit until they’d used all their bait.

Our return went without a hitch. We tied the boat to its assigned pier, got in the rental car, and drove north on Singer Island to our hotel. It was a little after three in the morning.

We were gathered in my room, drinking beer, trying to dampen the adrenalin rush we’d all been running on since we approached the beach more than an hour before.