Diamondhead (23 page)

Authors: Patrick Robinson

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-

BOOK: Diamondhead

4.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

“Okay, Mr. Morrison, old chap, let’s not prolong this call because I have no doubt your business needs an element of security. Tell me what you need.”

Mack was stunned at the straight-shooting Englishman’s words. But he recovered fast and said quietly, “We need to have someone removed from the face of the earth.”

“Uh-huh,” replied Raul, as if he had just been asked to lend someone a ten-dollar bill. “Where is he?”

“France, probably Brittany.”

“Uh-huh. Are you ready to reveal his name?”

“Not yet. That’s a ways off,” replied Mack. “Do you have rates for such projects?”

“Straightforward contract starts at three hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Goes up depending on the target’s personal security. Could end up costing a million, and maybe more. Is he well known?”

“Yes.”

“Then we start at a million and rising. Bigger the risk, bigger the price.”

“I understand. Does this mean you’ll undertake the project no matter what, if the money’s right?”

“Almost. But we have turned down a couple of huge jobs. Mostly because both targets were heads of state, and that was a step too far.”

“I see. Are you the biggest operation of this type?”

“Yes. I believe we are. But I imagine you’re asking if there are alternative sources for you to try, and the easy answer is no. If we won’t take it on, no one will.”

“Raul, you have been very helpful, and you will understand my reluctance at this stage to go further. It would be remiss of me to have you and your colleagues fully acquainted with our plan, only for you to decide not to proceed. This would somehow leave you with knowledge that could place both myself and my colleagues in grave danger.”

“Mr. Morrison. If we ever stooped to that level, we would not be very long in this business, or perhaps not even in this world.”

Every instinct he had told Mack Bedford not to reveal the target. He also knew that if he was to make any progress whatsoever in this onerous project, ultimately he had to reveal the target. Harry Remson had specified that Mack alone must make this decision. If Harry had been here, he would have understood the quandary. This was the moment of truth. Either Mack Bedford was going to tell the mysterious voice in Marseille precisely what he intended to do, and who was to be assassinated, or he would ring off and call back another time.

He decided to swerve away from the critical path of the conversation. “Should you agree to undertake the contract,” he said, “and we were able to settle on a price, what arrangements would you wish us to make with regard to payment?”

“Banker’s draft or wire transfer, Swiss bank, numbered account.”

“We had already thought along those lines. We would prefer to deposit the money in our Swiss account in Geneva, and then have the cash removed to a lawyer’s office in Geneva, where your man would pick it up in person, subject to satisfactory identification.”

“That would be perfectly agreeable to us.” Raul knew when he was talking to the real deal, a genuine heavy hitter with the wherewithal to make something happen and the ability to pay the correct price. “There would, however,” he said, “be the question of a first payment and then the final payment when the contract was complete. I imagine you have also considered that?”

“We have, and that may be a sticking point. My colleagues naturally would not forward to you a large down payment, with the chance that you could just keep it and not complete the work. In those circumstances we would have zero chance of recouping any of the money.”

“Equally, Mr. Morrison, it would be unreasonable for you to expect us to undertake an operation in an area of the utmost danger that could see us all tried and executed, not without any compensation whatsoever to begin the project. We could easily end up either dead or incarcerated—or, worse yet, broke.”

Mack Bedford chuckled. “Raul, I have no doubt you have tackled such stuff before. What’s the usual drill?”

“Mr. Morrison, we will require minimum expenses of fifty thousand dollars. And if we are not to be paid until the completion of the contract, we must know precisely who we are working for. Which ensures clients pay us promptly for dangerous work.”

“What if we could not risk you, or anyone else, knowing who we are? What then?”

“Fifty percent down, the other half on completion.”

“And in those circumstances, you do not even want to know who we are?”

“Correct. Even though we run the immense risk of you knowing who
we
are.”

“Checks and balances,” said Mack. “The way of the modern world.”

“The entire issue of us knowing your identity is our only security,” said Raul. “Most people, perhaps unwillingly, stump up that first down payment to protect their anonymity. And we have never once failed to keep our side of the bargain. We are the acknowledged world professionals in the business.”

“I guess I have to assess whether we are prepared to place our own futures in your hands,” answered Mack. “And that’s an awful lot of trust.”

“Either that or pay the price up-front,” said Raul. “By the way, may I assume you are calling from the United States?”

Mack’s mind raced. His cell phone was untraceable. He could be anywhere. He answered the question in a strangely pressured manner. “No,” he said, “I’m not. I am American, but right now I’m calling from London.”

“Is that your headquarters?”

“Yes,” said Mack. “Right here in London.”

“And now you must tell me the identity of your target because we can progress no further. I must assess the risk and the price. You must assess your priorities—the secrecy, or the desire to protect your money until the last moment.”

“I cannot make that last step without further consultation with my people,” replied Mack. “I’ll need time. Maybe two or three days. But I’ll be back to tell you, one way or the other. Same time.”

He snapped the phone shut and stood there on that lonely stretch of shoreline watching the Kennebec River flowing out toward the Atlantic. He dialed Harry Remson’s number and asked to meet him at the house as soon as possible.

Harry arrived marginally after Mack and listened carefully to the account of the contact with the hit men from Marseille.

“It’s a bit of a dilemma,” said Harry. “Plainly, I don’t want to hand over possibly a half-million dollars to a bunch of criminals who will vanish instantly and take the cash with them. And the alternative is to reveal my identity, which is more or less out of the question. If I’m going to do that, I might as well shoot the sonofabitch myself.”

“I don’t think you need to reveal your identity,” said Mack thoughtfully. “But someone has to satisfy them that we are on the level, prepared to stand behind the contract.”

“I was rather hoping, in the end, that might be you,” said Harry. “But I had not thought it through properly, not at that point.”

“So which of the two options do you prefer?”

“I’m not crazy about either of them,” said the shipyard boss. “But I’d rather risk the cash than my name. And I’d sure as hell rather risk the cash than have the goddamned yard closed down.”

“Which I guess brings us to the even more difficult question of revealing to them precisely who it is we wish to have killed.”

“You got any thoughts on that?”

“Just one. We cannot get even to first base without telling them.”

“And, of course, they might turn down the job as too risky?”

“Yup. They might. But I do get the feeling these guys are principally interested in the cash. If it can be done and they think there’s a fair chance of getting away with it, they’re gonna give it the old college try.”

“Mack, I’ve mostly built my life on making tough decisions. And right now, I’ve just made one of ’em. We have to tell these guys who we want rubbed out. You didn’t throw the astronaut phone away, did you?”

“Hell, no. It’s right here.”

“Then let’s knock the ball right back into their court. And tell ’em now. We want them to hit Henri Foche. They can’t trace us. NASA gave me their word on that. Let’s go for it and tell ’em what we want.”

“Okay. But I don’t want to do it from here in case Anne comes back. I’ll take a walk to a lonely spot down by the shore. And I’ll call you right back. If it’s a go, I guess we’ll need that e-mail address, so they can show us a plan.”

“See you later, buddy,” called Harry as he climbed back into the Bentley and hurled gravel as he rocketed the slick dark-blue sports car out onto the deserted road.

Once more, Mack Bedford set off for the secret cove where he and Tommy had caught the bluefish. And there he once more dialed the number in Marseille. It was 10:45 now, not his call time in the French seaport, and the phone was answered by the machine.

“This is Morrison calling from London for Raul,” he said.

Instantly, the familiar voice came on the line. “That was quick,” said Raul. “We usually consider that a good sign.”

“Raul, I want you to listen very carefully. First I am going to suggest a plan and a payment. And then I am going to tell you the name of the target. Is that agreeable?”

“Perfectly.”

“Okay. This is going to require a recce and a plan of action that suits both of us. While you complete it, I am going to leave a payment of fifty thousand U.S. dollars with a lawyer in Geneva. When you have had time to consider the project, you can let me have the name of the man who will collect it. Meanwhile, the man we wish to eliminate is named Henri Foche. He is believed to be—”

“
HENRI FOCHE!
You have to be joking! That’s like a contract on that Russian billionaire who owns Chelsea Football Club in London. He’s got more security than the U.S. president. It’d take an army.”

“Bullshit,” snapped Mack. “He’s not a head of state. He’s just a politician running for office in a pain-in-the-ass European republic that is probably going broke.”

Raul, a.k.a. Reggie Fortescue, laughed despite himself. “Not quite, Mr. Morrison. Henri Foche is going to become president of France. Trust me. And I have no idea which banana republic you are representing, or why. But I can tell you this. I can think of no more difficult person in the whole of France to kill and then escape afterward.”

“Well, will you take it on?”

“Perhaps. But we are talking a very great deal of money.”

“We have a very great deal of money, but we’re not spending it stupidly. Gimme a price.”

“Mr. Morrison. We would not even continue this conversation for less than a two-million-dollar flat fee—win, lose, or draw. I do not know whether you quite understand. Monsieur Foche is a very popular man here in France, but he has sinister connections. He is believed to be in some way involved with the international arms business at a very high level. You know—aircraft, warships, missiles. He is surrounded by bodyguards, men of a rather unsavory type. Not officers and certainly not gentlemen. Before I speak to you again, I need to have a conference with our most experienced and professional operators.”

“I understand. By the way, where does Foche actually live?”

“He has a house in the city of Rennes. That’s in central Brittany, where he also has a political office. When he launches his campaign on behalf of the Gaullists, it will be from Rennes. But like many men of his type, he keeps an apartment somewhere in Paris.”

“When will you decide if the mission’s go?”

“Give us twenty-four hours. Call at the usual time.”

“Is the price firm? Two million?”

“Firm. If my colleagues will undertake the contract, it’s two million U.S. dollars.”

“If it’s firm, it’s agreeable.”

“Oh, one more question, Mr. Morrison. Were you in the military?”

“Why do you ask?” replied Mack.

“Civilians don’t normally ask if missions are go.”