Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (34 page)
“Okay, Harry,” said Mack. “E-mail those details to these guys in Bethesda, Maryland. Here’s the address on this card. Put a line in telling them you’re sending these requests on behalf of Lt. Cdr. Thomas Killiney. He’s already called. Tell them the photographs will be sent by courier tonight. And have your bank in France wire thirty thousand dollars directly to their bank—right here on this card, all numbers and details.”
Harry turned out to be a top-class secretary, firing off the information in all directions. Then he said, “Anything else, Captain?”
“Yup, fire up the Bentley and drive me to Portland. Right away.”
Harry Remson had not hopped to it that smartly for years. But he did so today, heading down the stairs, into his car, and out onto Route 127, north to Bath and then Brunswick, before heading down the coastal highway to Portland. Twenty-seven miles, all fast.
In the city, Harry was a mere chauffeur, driving Mack from an optician to a hair stylist and then to one of those photographic shops that specialize in passports. He assisted with a disguise that he thought made Mack look ridiculous, a blond wig and mustache, with rimless reading glasses. Mack went inside and purchased six photographs, which took care of the Jeffery Simpson passport and license.
Then he went to another branch of the same store and had Harry fix him up in a wig of long, curly black hair and a bushy black beard—this latter piece of gear being a remnant from Mack’s SEAL days when he sometimes worked among tribesmen. Once more he had six photographs made, which put Gunther Marc Roche right on the map.
Then they went back to the first store, and Mack had a half-dozen photographs done of himself without disguise, thus creating a perfect look-alike for Patrick Sean O’Grady.
They immediately headed back to the shipyard, where Mack carefully captioned each picture and Harry had his own secretary whistle up FedEx and then check that the e-mail had arrived at the French bank. After all that, they strolled into town, to Hank’s Fish Shack, down on the wharf, and treated themselves to a couple of lobster rolls and iced coffee.
They had said little since they left the yard. It was Mack who finally broke the ice. “Getting yourself shot by your enemy is more or less an acceptable risk in my trade,” he said. “But to fuck up the paperwork would be regarded as kinda silly.”
Harry laughed. “Mack,” he said, “you have no idea how confident I am that you are going to pull this off and everyone’s problems get solved.”
Mack took a deep and luxurious bite of his lobster roll and muttered, “That’s why I didn’t want to fuck up the paperwork, right?”
At around two o’clock Harry drove back to the shipyard. Mack elected to walk home with his disguises crammed into his pockets. He was feeling tired, having hardly slept. The sofa was nothing like as good as his bed. Anne had called down just once to check he was there, and he took this to mean some kind of truce. But the hurt of her words had stayed with him, and while the truce was okay, he felt too wounded to go for a full reconciliation. He hoped she had not meant it, but the sting of her attack had not left him, and he had thought of little else when he walked over to Remsons at seven thirty that morning. And now, as he turned onto the long country road where they lived, a feeling of dread settled upon him. Had she perhaps meant it?
And then he saw it. Parked way up the road, maybe four hundred yards, right outside the house, blue lights flashing, was an ambulance, its rear doors open with a stretcher being loaded in by two paramedics.
Mack broke into a run, pounding up the lane, terrified that Anne had tried to commit suicide. But then he saw her come running out of the house and saw the doors slam shut with the two assistants in the back, presumably with Tommy. He raised his arm and shouted,
“WAIT!”
“WAIT!”
But the ambulance accelerated away, and as Mack came thundering into the front yard there was only Anne, standing by herself, desolate, inconsolable. She did not throw herself into his arms, but simply stood there, repeating, “He’s so ill, he’s just so ill. And I’m supposed to just stand aside and watch him die.”
Mack walked up to her and embraced her at last. He said quietly, “Tell me what happened.”
“I could not stop him from being sick, and he was getting frightened. I didn’t know where you were, so I called Dr. Ryan, who said it was not that bad, but he was bringing Tommy in immediately. He told me to leave for the hospital one hour after the ambulance left.”
Mack steered her toward the house and decided to play his ace right now. “Anne,” he said, “Tommy’s going to Switzerland. I’ve raised the money. So get the brochures and make the calls. He can leave right away if they’ll take him.”
Anne turned around in disbelief, and for the first time in days, a smile lit up her tear-stained face. “He’s going?” she said. “He’s really going?”
“You’re both going,” said Mack. “Everything’s arranged, paid for in advance. Call them and get the dates, and I’ll fix the tickets. And get their bank details; the money’s being wired from France.”
Anne Bedford stood there in shock, trying to pretend this was not just a dream. Finally, she said, “It’s Harry, isn’t it? I know it’s Harry.”
Mack replied, “There’s just one condition to this. You must never again ask me how I raised the money. And you must never mention to anyone that the money was raised. Say nothing. Because it’s no one’s concern except ours.”
Anne came toward him slowly and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Did I ever tell you, Mack Bedford, that you’re the most wonderful person I ever met?”
“Coupla times, I think. You also mentioned that you hated me.”
“Well, I don’t, and I spent the entire night wishing I’d never said it.”
“Amazing what a million bucks will do, right?” he chuckled.
Despite everything Anne laughed, slapped him playfully on the arm, and went to find the brochures.
“It’s after eight o’clock in the evening in Switzerland,” called Mack. “They might not answer.”
“Yes, they will. It says in the brochure their phone is 24/7—anyone can call anytime, and there will be staff to take care of you.”
“At a million bucks a pop, I guess they can afford a few extra staff,” muttered Mack as he prepared coffee in the kitchen.
“What did you say?”
“Who me? Nothing. I’m just trying to work the coffeepot.”
Mack could hear Anne on the phone. He took the coffee and mugs out onto the porch, and waited quietly, his mind full of details about his forthcoming mission. His first concern was fitness. He had done little hard exercise for a week, and for a Navy SEAL that was a long time. He needed a program that he would draw up this afternoon.
Then Anne appeared, her face lit up with joy. “He’s going,” she said. “They’ll take him. They even had his diagnosis from Dr. Ryan on computer. We’re leaving on Tuesday. The clinic will send a car to meet us at Geneva Airport. The lady I was talking to said if she ever had any disease with similarities to leukemia, and she could have any surgeon in all the world, she’d have Carl Spitzbergen. And that’s who Tommy’s having. I’m just so happy, Mack. And thank God.”
Privately, Mack was not absolutely certain God would have been thrilled about the way the money was being raised, but he replied softly, “Thank God is right. Will you be okay going to the hospital without me, or do you want me to come?”
“No, you stay here. I can do the journey blindfolded. Here’s the bank details you wanted. I’d better drink this and go, but it won’t be too bad. Dr. Ryan said Tommy would be much better and can come home with me. They can’t do everything, but they can stop nausea.”
Thus, Anne went her way, and Mack went his, walking back to the shipyard and handing the Swiss bank address and numbers to Harry, who promised to have the money wired “this day.”
The next part took some serious willpower. Mack walked back to the house and pulled on his combat boots and canvas shorts. Maine did not have long, sandy beaches like Coronado, and he settled for the coastal road, setting off at a slow jogging pace and then hardening his stride. He came through the first mile easily, but this past week of soft living immediately started to take its toll. There was a dull pain in his upper thighs, and his breath was shorter. He knew the signs. He was coming up light—no longer at the level of fitness expected of a SEAL commander, who had also served a couple of terms as a BUDs instructor. Mack could feel it, a deadening in his stride, and he solved it the way he solved everything, pushing harder, driving through the pain, pounding across the ground, making every stride count, making every stride the toughest he ever ran.
Coming to the little bay that washes up to the granite cove on his right, the ground began to rise, and as it did so, Mack hit the gas pedal, accelerating, driving forward with strength he had to find. He was pushing, punishing, pumping, going for the hilltop with every ounce of power and determination he had. And that was a lot. Even in his present state of fitness, he would still have finished out clear of any BUDs Class fighting its way along the Coronado beach. But that was not the level he wanted. Mack wanted Superman, mountain lion, sinews like blue twisted steel. He wanted the level of supreme conditioning that made him unlike other men, the way he had always been: Honor Man, right? The best. Ever since he was selected by his peers, in his own BUDs Class, the first year he became a SEAL.
He reached the brow and glanced right to see the glistening Kennebec bay on this calm July day. For a split second he considered stopping just to see the seascape of his youth spread before him, the waters where he had learned to sail, to fish, and to swim. But he cast the thoughts from his mind and faced the downhill run with suitable grit. Again he accelerated, running fast, covering the ground at almost top speed, trying to keep the jarring at bay, trying to keep his balance, knowing the faster he traveled downhill the easier it was. He reached the bottom without falling and slowed slightly along the flat ground at the head of the bay.
He had covered two miles and had still not achieved his second wind. He was breathing hard, feeling tired, and not at all relaxed in the run, as he knew he should be. But he pushed on until he reached the end of the bay, and there he hit the rising ground, a steep hill that he and every one of his boyhood buddies had hated on their bikes, hated it every time they had to pedal up it. Dead Man’s Hill, it was called, because sometime, a couple of hundred years ago, a ship had wrecked right here in the bay after grounding on the granite ridges. Somehow, while they were attempting to get off, a powder keg had blown and killed most of the crew. The bodies were brought on shore, and the local carpenters had constructed coffins on the hillside, ready to transport the deceased to the local cemetery.
Mack faced up to Dead Man’s Hill with misgivings. He had traveled fast and was still blowing hard, but as he began to climb, he growled,
“HIT IT, MACK! LET’S GO!”
He surged forward, arms pumping, combat boots hitting the blacktop. Up ahead he could see a cyclist, wearing Olympic spandex shorts but struggling. And in Mack’s mind this was Osama Bin Laden trying to get away. And this put a fury into his stride. He was charging up the hill, running each stride as if it were his last, catching the cyclist, driving on, making every yard the hardest yard he ever ran.
“HIT IT, MACK! LET’S GO!”
He surged forward, arms pumping, combat boots hitting the blacktop. Up ahead he could see a cyclist, wearing Olympic spandex shorts but struggling. And in Mack’s mind this was Osama Bin Laden trying to get away. And this put a fury into his stride. He was charging up the hill, running each stride as if it were his last, catching the cyclist, driving on, making every yard the hardest yard he ever ran.
The cyclist, who was not even a member of al-Qaeda, was a young local schoolteacher, and he stared in astonishment as Mack Bedford came pounding past him. It crossed his mind that whoever the hell this was, he’d probably committed some kind of crime. Ordinary joggers do not normally run with that kind of desperation. He watched Mack storming up to the brow of the hill, and was still pedaling disconsolately when the former SEAL commander vanished, hurtling down the other side, heading for the three-mile mark, checking his watch, trying to make up for the lost week of easy living.
Somewhere on the far side, Mack found his second wind, and the running grew slightly less painful. He settled down and made the four-mile mark in twenty-six minutes. Not bad. He turned around immediately, without stopping, and set off for home, sweating hard, but pleased he was done with that first lap.
About a half mile down the road he met the cyclist and raised his right hand in salute to a fellow athlete. But the rider was more exhausted than Mack, and did not return the greeting in case he fell off. It did occur to him, however, that whomever this lunatic might be, he was almost certainly returning to the scene of a crime.
Mack kept going, running steadily, but still making the yards count, stretching out, testing his body, building his lung strength, the way he’d taught so many young tigers out there on the sands of Coronado. There was no other way to do it, except to keep striving, keep forcing himself onward, taking the pain, knowing that there will come a day when it would all come together, when you ask truly searching questions of your body and get the right answers—
Make it count, Mack, all the way. Make it count.
Make it count, Mack, all the way. Make it count.
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