Against All Enemies (22 page)

He blinked in the bright light. He was standing in a big room, probably a warehouse, he reasoned. Strewn out in front of him was the wreckage of his B-2, all arranged inside a broad white stripe painted on the floor. At first, it didn’t make sense to him. But as the guards pushed him around the wreckage, he realized the white stripe outlined a B-2 and the wreckage was placed in its approximate location. It was obvious someone knew a great deal about the B-2. “What do you see?” one of the guards barked.

“Wreckage from an aircraft,” he mumbled.

“Your aircraft!”

Terrant knew better than to lie at this stage, so he mumbled some incomprehensible words and staggered as if he was on the edge of physical collapse. The canvas bag was jammed back on his head and the guards half-dragged, half-prodded, him back to the truck. They drove around for about the same length of time, and this time he was certain they were going in circles before they reached their destination.

Again, the guards dragged him down a corridor and pushed him into another room. Out of the bottom of his hood, he counted five pairs of boots standing in a semicircle.
What now?
he thought. His hood was removed, more gently this time, and he was looking at the biggest Asian he had ever seen. The man stood about six-foot-six and was shaved bald. He wore a People’s Liberation Army uniform with the rank of general.
Where did you come from?
Terrant chanced a glance around the room. Half were Arabs, the other half Chinese.

Kamigami cut loose with a stream of Cantonese as one of the Asians interpreted. “The general wants to know about the BLU-113 bombs you were carrying.”

How did he know that?
Terrant thought. “We weren’t carrying bombs,” he lied. A torrent of Cantonese and Arabic erupted around him. A slight flick of Kamigami’s hand and the room fell abruptly silent. A long pause. Then, in a soft and quiet voice Terrant found at total odds with the image in front of him, Kamigami spoke a few more words in Cantonese. Again, the Asian translated.

“The general is a patient man but you must not lie to him.” The interpreter handed him two sheets of paper.

“No doubt the confession you want me to sign,” Terrant said, letting the pages slip to the floor.

“No,” the interpreter replied, “these are questions the general wants answered. The general has directed that you have time to consider your answers. The next time, he will expect the answers, not lies.”

“And if I have no answers?”

“That would be most unfortunate for Capt. Douglas Holloway.”

On cue, the guards pushed Terrant out of the room, this time without his hood. They led him down a side corridor and stopped in front of a heavy steel door. They removed his shackles, opened the door, and shoved him inside. Much to his surprise, they only dropped the two pages of questions on the floor and left, not bothering to chain him to the wall as before. Capt. Douglas Holloway was standing in the middle of the cell.

Without a word, the two men shook hands, their grips strong. They held on to each other, finding strength and hope after eight weeks of solitary confinement. But they knew better than to speak. Holloway stepped to a wall and pointed to a micro TV camera above his head. From directly underneath, he was outside the camera’s angle of view. He motioned Terrant to his side and gestured for him to get down on all fours. Holloway stood on his back, now able to reach the camera. With a maddening slowness, he tilted the camera so it only viewed the far corner of the cell. Out of sight of the camera, he showed Terrant the microphone he had found. With a care that would have done a neurosurgeon proud, Terrant separated the thin black leads and snapped the filaments without breaking the black insulation.

Terrant mouthed the words, “Can we talk?” Holloway shook his head and motioned for them to continue searching the cell. Together, they went over the cell, looking for other bugs. Satisfied there were no more, Holloway sat down on a bunk. “Fuckin’ ragheads,” he muttered.

“Are you okay?” Terrant asked.

“Still bruised, but I’m fine. How ’bout you?”

“The jaw’s much better, but I’m faking it. Did they show you the wreckage?”

Holloway shook his head. “What about the fuckin’ Chinaman?”

“Yeah, we met.” Terrant picked up the two pages of questions and handed him one. “He wants an answer to these.” He looked at his friend. “Doug, he’s threatening you if I don’t comply.”

“Hold out as long as you can.” Holloway said. “But I would appreciate it if you’d start throwing some bullshit around before he gets serious about the threat.” He scanned the page of questions. “Jesus H. Christ! Someone knows a hell of a lot about the Beak. What the hell were we trying to bomb anyway?”

“Not what,” Terrant replied, “but who?”

“You think the Chinese?”

“Seems like it.”

11:20
A.M.
, Monday, June 21,
Over Florida

Art Rios let the plush leather seat of the Hawker Horizon, Durant’s latest business jet, suck him into a state of drowsy bliss. The sixteen-million-dollar, two-engine aircraft was a honey to fly, and Rios would have preferred sitting in the left seat on the flight deck. But circumstances change and his real job was to dance careful attendance on his employer, who was sitting in the seat opposite him. For some reason, Durant preferred facing backward when he was not at the controls. Although Durant’s eyes were closed, Rios knew he was hard at work.

“Are you sure?” Durant asked without opening his eyes.

“We are now,” Rios answered. He consulted his folder, making sure he had all the facts straight. Two of his best agents had been back-flushing the source of Meredith’s information about the downing of the B-2 bomber for three weeks. At first, they had encountered a stone wall. Then a significant amount of money had changed hands. But like all “bought” information, it had to be verified and that had taken time. “We would never get a conviction, but Serick did leak it to Meredith. We just don’t know why.”

Durant’s eyes opened and flashed with anger. “Consistency has never been Stephen’s strong suit. He wants an excuse for an aggressive and hard-line policy in the Middle East. If the Arabs won’t give him one, he’ll manufacture it.” He thought for a few moments. “I suppose I should tell Agnes.” He lay back in his seat and closed his eyes. Rios waited while he worked another problem. “Are we okay with FinCEN?”

“Everything’s shortstopped,” Rios said.

“And Geneva?”

“A bit more problematic,” Rios replied. “But we should be okay.”

“I’ll talk to Heydrich and reinforce his backbone,” Durant said. Heydrich Mueller was the president of Credit Geneve, an obscure Swiss bank with huge reserves owned by Durant.

Rios laughed. “He’ll find that an uplifting experience.”

Durant switched subjects again. “How close are we on the rescue mission?”

“Close, very close,” Rios answered. “We’ve got a few details to work out but other than that, we’re ready to go.”

“Good,” Durant said. “We’ve almost run out of time.” The F
ASTEN
S
EAT
B
ELT
light came on warning them to strap in for landing at Hurlburt Field, the home of the 16th Special Operations Wing.

Lt. Col. Gillespie prowled back and forth like a caged tiger in front of the small crowd that was gathered in the mission planning section of the wing’s intelligence section. The helicopter pilot’s bright red hair and green flight suit bagging on his skinny body made Durant think of a lean and hungry tiger in search of a good meal. A schematic of the compound at El Obeid and a chart showing their route were tacked to the wall behind him. “Sir, the secret of success in special ops is to plan the hell out of the mission, practice until it’s second nature, then improvise like mad when we do it.”

He traced the route on the chart. “The plan is simplicity itself. We launch out of Bangui in the Central African Republic with Combat Talon MC-130s and Pave Low helicopters. The Combat Talons will airdrop Delta Force onto the objective.” He pointed to a schematic of the barracks at El Obeid. “They will free the two pilots and move to this point”—he pointed to an area near the compound—“and the helicopters will extract them approximately twenty minutes after the attack begins. Sir, I’ll let the commander of Delta Force outline how they plan to free the pilots and move them to the pickup point.”

The army colonel from Delta Force stood in front of the chart. He was six feet tall and moved with agile grace. Corded muscles ran down his thick neck and Durant wondered if the colonel was all hard lines and no brains. His short and concise briefing dispelled any doubts about his competence. Delta Force had constructed a mockup of the El Obeid barracks at Fort Irwin in the Mojave Desert and had been practicing for two weeks. They were ready to go.

Gillespie stood up. “It’s nine hundred miles to the target and another eight hundred miles to egress. We will land on an aircraft carrier in the Red Sea. Because of the distances, the helicopters need to refuel four times.”

“Given the porous nature of the Sudan’s air defenses,” the Army colonel said, “we’d prefer to set up FARPs, forward air and refueling points, on the ground.”

“Our experience with FARPing is not good,” Gillespie told them. “We prefer to use our own C-One-thirties. We can do it with two additional HC-One-thirty-Ps from the Ninth Special Ops Squadron. They refuel us inbound to the target. The two Combat Talons that insert Delta Force can refuel us on the way out. It’s simple and gives us flexibility.”

Durant and Rios quietly exchanged a few words. “It sounds like the air-to-air refueling option works best. Go with that.”

Gillespie shook his head. “In special ops, you never know what works best.”

A Navy captain stood up. “The Navy is ready to go and the
Nimitz
will be on station here.” He pointed to a position in the Red Sea. “Navy Seals are ready to go in for a rescue should a helicopter go down. However, my admiral is worried about Air Force helicopter pilots landing on an aircraft carrier, especially at night.”

“That’s a piece of cake,” Gillespie said. “If your admiral’s worried, I’ll fly a demonstration mission and put his mind at rest.”

“I’d like to see that myself,” Durant said. “Do you mind if I go along?”

“Why not?” Gillespie replied.

8:05
A.M.
, Tuesday, June 22,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

Toni was at the front desk talking to Linda when FBI Special Agent Brent Mather entered the legal office. Toni looked up and smiled, instantly recalling when they had collided on the Jefferson stakeout in Kansas City. “Hi,” she said. “Linda, this is agent Brent Mather.”

Mather reached across the desk and shook her hand, capturing the older woman with his hazel eyes and good looks. “I’m with the FBI, ma’am.” Linda returned his smile. He turned to Toni. “I’ve got something you might like to see.” He held up a videocassette. “Someplace where we might watch it?”

“Is it about Sandi Jefferson?” Toni asked. He nodded and she led him to the witness waiting room. “We can watch it in here. Let me get Major Blasedale. She’s already here.” She hurried down the hall to find the lawyer. “Major,” she said, “the FBI agent I told you about is here. He’s got a videotape.” Blasedale followed her to the waiting room. Like Linda, she was immediately impressed with Mather.

“I prefer Brent,” he told her when Toni made the introductions. The TV set was already turned on and the tape loaded. He hit the Play button. “This is from the service station in Lone Jack three weeks ago when Mrs. Jefferson was jacked up by the local sheriff.”

“Pun intended?” Toni quipped. They watched as the tape started to roll. “The sergeant who drove up in the pickup took this, didn’t he?”

“Correct,” Mather answered.

“Talk about coincidence,” she said. “It was lucky he was there.”

“It was no coincidence,” Mather replied. “He’s one of ours.” They watched as the tape played. Mather froze a frame. “We have a problem with this guy,” he said.

“That’s Jim Bob,” Toni said.

“Harrison,” Mather said. “Jim Bob Harrison. But that’s all we’ve got on him. We ran his fingerprints and came up totally dry.”

Toni remembered the time she and Harry first encountered the man. “Jim Bob stopped Harry and me at a roadblock when we first arrived here. A guy from the First Brigade said he wasn’t from around Kansas City.”

Mather nodded. “We talked to the same people. Then we checked with the county office where he applied for the parade permit for the demonstration at the main gate. Nothing. It turns out he’s been using fake IDs.”

“So you were also on top of that one,” Toni said, impressed with the FBI’s efficiency.

“Oh, yeah. When we reviewed the tapes from the demonstration we even identified you and Sutherland. But on Jim Bob, we have nada, not a damn thing. This guy is slipperier than a salamander.”

Sutherland walked past the door carrying two briefcases. “Hank,” Blasedale called, “you need to see this.” She smiled when she introduced him to Brent Mather and explained why he was there. “He’s the FBI agent Toni told us about.”

“Right,” Sutherland answered, wondering why Mather had to deliver the tape personally. Mather hit the Play button and they watched in silence as the tape replayed.

“Mrs. Jefferson photographs well,” Blasedale said. It was true, Sandi Jefferson looked much softer and more vulnerable than in real life. “Now if she dressed—” Blasedale’s voice trailed off. She didn’t want to seem catty. At least not so early in the morning.

“More conservatively?” Mather replied.

“Less like a hooker?” This from Toni.

“Humm,” Sutherland muttered in annoyance, more at Mather’s presence than anything else.

“There’s one more thing,” Mather said, closing the door to the room. They all looked at him expectantly. “Did you hear about the demonstration in Phoenix, last night?”

“Who hasn’t?” Sutherland replied. “It was on the news this morning. I heard a woman was killed.”

“Actually,” Mather replied, “she was lynched.” They stared at him, shocked to silence.

“Was she black?” Toni asked, her eyes wide.

“Yeah. She was just driving by, trying to get home, and some thugs from a white supremacist group pulled her out of her car. It got pretty ugly.”

“How come it wasn’t on the news?” Blasedale asked.

“It will be,” Mather said. “Probably about now. The authorities were able to sit on it until the crowds went home. Our information indicates it was a setup. The bastards are trying to bait the black community into rioting. But so far, cooler heads have prevailed. We won’t be so lucky next time.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Sutherland asked.

“Because we think Whiteman is next. My bosses are meeting with your wing commander right now and want to get all your minorities moved onto base.”

“Is it because of the court-martial?” Blasedale asked.

“Probably,” Mather answered. “We’re seeing an outbreak of demonstrations and riots everywhere.”

“Is it racial?” Toni asked, worried about her family.

“I’d say about a third of the time,” Mather replied. “People are simply going crazy and Meredith isn’t helping with his calls for arming his Neighborhood Brigades.”

“Anything new on Sandi Jefferson?” Sutherland asked.

Mather pulled out his notebook. “Nothing significant. Other than shopping and a weekly visit to a beauty salon, she’s staying at home. We did flesh out her background. High school dropout from the hard side of town in Saint Paul, Minnesota. Went to work as a manicurist, owned the shop by the time she was twenty, traveled a little, met Jefferson, married just before he was assigned to Whiteman, sold the salon, honeymooned in Europe. A definite move up the economic ladder.”

Sutherland thought for a moment. “Do you have anything on that woman Toni saw having lunch with Sandi at Nordstrom’s, the day of the incident at Lone Jack?”

Mather shook his head and looked embarrassed. “We were distracted by the incident and then focused on Jim Bob. We think it was probably a chance meeting with some old friend or a wife. If she shows up again, we’ll get her.”

An inner voice told Sutherland they had missed something important. “That would be nice,” he muttered.

Mather checked his watch. “I’ve got to go.” Toni walked him to the front desk. “Dinner?” he asked.

“I’d love to,” she said, giving him a lovely smile.

Sutherland stood in the hall talking to Blasedale until Mather had left. “What the hell does he want?” he muttered.

“Toni,” Blasedale replied.

1:45
P.M.
, Wednesday, June 23,
El Obeid, The Sudan

Kamigami replayed the tape for Jamil bin Assam while al Gimlas sat quietly behind his desk. Assam twitched with anger as the tape played out. “You have your confessions,” Kamigami said. “And we have more of the same.”

“This is not a confession,” Assam ranted. “This is worthless! And what is this ‘Beak’ they talk about? It means nothing.”

“The Beak is slang for the B-Two,” Kamigami explained. “You heard them admit they were on a bombing mission.”

“It is not what I want,” Assam growled. His English was heavily accented but easily understood.

“General Assam,” Kamigami said, “you employ me as your chief of security. As long as I am in charge, I will give you the best advice I can. On this matter, I am telling you that your best defense against the Americans is the absolute truth. The Americans want us to lie, to fabricate evidence, to force confessions, even torture the pilots. That will give them the excuse they need to react, and I assure you, they have the capability to do whatever they want. They only lack the will.” He let his words sink in before getting to the hard sell. “Use the truth, take the will to act from them, and you will remain master of the situation.”

Dealing with the truth was a new concept for Assam. His instincts demanded that he dissemble and lie. Even walking a straight line was abhorrent to his nature. He hesitated. “Give the Western world hard evidence they can believe,” Kamigami urged.

“Look what General Kamigami has accomplished in three weeks,” al Gimlas added. “You were very wise in finding a man who understands the way Americans think.”

It was enough. “I will put them on trial,” Assam announced, “when the Americans court-martial the martyr in Missouri,” He rubbed his chin. “But I am worried the Americans may use the trial as an excuse for another attack on my laboratories.”

“There are always ways to improve your defenses,” Kamigami said. “Let me examine the laboratories.”

“Impossible,” Assam snapped.

“I only need to see the exterior to evaluate your defenses,” Kamigami coaxed, “not the inside.”