Liberty (23 page)
Authors: Stephen Coonts
“Come,” Mohammed said when he reached him.
Naguib gave him a guilty look and shoved the beer away with one hand.
“Come,” Mohammed repeated in Arabic. “You aren't supposed to be here. You know that. Allah is watching.”
“There is no harm,” Naguib argued halfheartedly as he climbed down from the barstool. He pulled money from his pocket and left it on the bar for the drinks.
Mohammed laid a hand on Naguib's arm and led him away. He missed the wink the blond woman gave Naguib and the smile she got in return.
When the two Arabs had left the room, the blonde reached for her purse. She removed a notebook, glanced at her watch, and wrote something in it.
When he awoke on Saturday morning, Tommy Carmellini padded into his kitchenette and fired off his coffeemaker. As he waited for the dark brown liquid to drip through, he rubbed his eyes and examined the new day out his kitchen window. Sunbeams were peeping through gaps in the clouds.
You gotta admit, having a box full of money in the basement must be a warm fuzzy for Arch Foster. So how did good ol' Arch come by a hundred grand in cash? A hundred and fifteen grand, to be precise. Maybe he saved his lunch money for the last 152 years.
Carmellini eyed the amount of coffee in the pot, then slipped the pot from the maker and held a cup in its place. Only spilled a few drops. When the cup was full, he reversed the process. He blew on the steaming brew, then sipped experimentally.
The real question was, What was he, Tommy Carmellini, going to do with the information he had acquired? If he reported the money in Foster's basement to the honchos at the agency, they would want to know how he knew it was there. Confessing to a felony didn't appeal to Carmellini, this morning or any other. What about an anonymous letter? In all likelihood someone would whisper about the letter to Foster or even question him about its
allegations, so the money would be long gone when the cops or FBI arrived with a search warrant.
allegations, so the money would be long gone when the cops or FBI arrived with a search warrant.
A pretty problem.
As he showered and got dressed this morning he thought about it. About going back and getting the cash. After all, sending postcards to the police wasn't going to accomplish anything. Arch had probably gotten the money doing something slimy. Why shouldn't Carmellini do something a wee bit nasty to keep that miserable pecker-head felon from enjoying the fruits of his ill-gotten gains? It wasn't like Foster inherited a box full of cold cash from his kindly, white-haired uncle who adored him. Or did he? Well, it would be easy enough to find out.
He paused at his dresser as he considered what he knew of Archie Foster and his buddy, Norv. He thoughtfully removed his pistol from the drawer and loaded it. Put it in his pocket. Just in case.
Those two bastards were listening on the bugs. He wondered what they were listening for.
Oh, well. Time to go get a bagel and a cup of real coffee. He cycled through the kitchen to turn off the coffeemaker, then left the apartment, locking the door behind him.
“He's coming down,” Norv Lalouette told Arch. “The front door just closed.” They were sitting in a van parked near the service entrance to Carmellini's apartment building.
Arch was in the driver's seat. He started the van, drove it over to where Carmellini's red Mercedes was parked. He turned off the engine. Watching in the rearview mirror, he spotted Carmellini coming out the main entrance of the apartment building. Arch had parked in such a way that Carmellini would probably walk right between the van and another vehicle to get to his car. Yes. He was walking their way.
“Here he comes. Get ready.”
As Carmellini walked by the rear of the van Arch opened the door and pointed a pistol at him. “Freeze!”
Carmellini stopped in midstride, about four feet from Foster, who had dropped out of the driver's seat and now had the pistol leveled belt-high, with both hands on the butt.
“Hey, Foster, what's thisâ”
That was as far as Carmellini got, because Norv Lalouette had gone out the rear doors of the van, and now he whacked Carmellini in the head with a sap, a hose weighted with lead. The lights went out for Tommy Carmellini, and he collapsed.
“Quickly, now,” Arch said, pocketing his pistol and scanning the parking lot to see if anyone was watching. Apparently not. “Get his legs. Let's get him in the van and get going.”
Sixty seconds later, Foster jumped back into the driver's seat and started the engine. He pulled the shift lever into gear and fed gas.
In the back Lalouette used a plastic tie on Carmellini's wrists and ankles, then put a strip of duct tape over his mouth. Working quickly, he produced a syringe and bottle of liquid. The next time the van stopped at a traffic light, he drew some liquid into the syringe, then turned Carmellini's right arm so he could see the veins. Carmellini worked out, obviously. Lalouette picked a vein and jabbed in the syringe. Only after he had given the big man the injection did he take the time to search him. He passed Carmellini's pistol, wallet, and keys up to Arch.
When Tommy Carmellini awoke, the process was gradual, a gentle dawning of consciousness. He tried to move ⦠and couldn't! He was lying on his back.
He could feel his legs and hands and arms, feel himself lying on something, but he couldn't make his arms and legs move. He couldn't focus his eyes. He was looking up, but he couldn't decide what he was seeing.
He tried to make a noise. Something on his mouth. He filled his lungs with air and tried to talk. He couldn't make a sound, not even a moan. He couldn't turn his head, couldn't move. He was totally helpless.
“Hey, he's awake.”
Someone came into his field of view. He recognized the blurry face. Foster!
“How you doing, Tommy?”
He didn't try to speak.
“Sorry it had to be you, Carmellini. You shouldn't have broken into my house. My stuff was a little out of placeânot much, but a little. I could tell someone had been in there pawing around, and you are the only burglar I know. And you weren't in your apartment when this little crime was being committed. Then this morning, you're packing heatâa rod in your pocket. Tsk, tsk, tsk. It's all circumstantial, I know, but Norv and I are the judge and jury and we've convicted you. Not going to take a chance on you, Tommy. Wish it could have been different, but you are too much of a nosy asshole.
“You
are
an assholeâdo you realize that, Tommy? Probably don't give a shit, do you? Yeah, I know. Just lie there and don't say a word like the asshole you are.
are
an assholeâdo you realize that, Tommy? Probably don't give a shit, do you? Yeah, I know. Just lie there and don't say a word like the asshole you are.
“'Course you couldn't say a word if you tried. We've given you an injection, Tommy, to make you easier to handle. We're going to kill you. Going to put you in an airplane with concrete around each foot and haul you fifty miles out over the Atlantic. Then we're going to shove you out. Maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe you'll get killed on impact with the water. Needless to say, you'll go down feet-first. If the impact doesn't kill you, I doubt that you'll swim far with thirty pounds of concrete on each foot.”
Arch Foster leaned over, placing his eyes inches from Carmellini's. “We'll have to wait for the concrete to set up. Takes at least twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night, Carmellini, we put you in the plane for your last ride.” Foster chuckled. “Could kill you now, of course. You'd be sorta stiff tomorrow night, but not too bad. Yet killing
you now would spoil the fun. You see that, don't you, Tommy? For thirty-six hours we get to savor the thought of that asshole Carmellini lying here paralyzed, unable to move, thinking about the fall. Oh, yeah, you'll be thinking about it, all right. You'll lie here thinking about how it will feel when you hit. Kersplat! It'll be like falling off a twenty-story building. Oh, yeah, you're going to think about
dying
.”
you now would spoil the fun. You see that, don't you, Tommy? For thirty-six hours we get to savor the thought of that asshole Carmellini lying here paralyzed, unable to move, thinking about the fall. Oh, yeah, you'll be thinking about it, all right. You'll lie here thinking about how it will feel when you hit. Kersplat! It'll be like falling off a twenty-story building. Oh, yeah, you're going to think about
dying
.”
Arch Foster chuckled. He walked away still chuckling.
Tommy Carmellini tried by sheer force of will to move one finger. Just one.
And failed.
Arch chattered with Norv Lalouette while they stirred water into premixed concrete. Tommy Carmellini could hear the water running from the hose into the buckets, the sounds of bags being ripped, the shovel clanging against the metal pails. He was completely unable to move. He couldn't even focus his eyes on the ceiling. He could hear okay, though.
“Too bad, Carmellini, that you couldn't see the advantages of working with us. You weren't man enough to just up and ask what the deal was. Naw, you had to break into my place and snoop. I always said you were the kind of guy who couldn't be trusted, didn't I, Norv?”
Norv grunted.
Arch returned, looked at Carmellini's face. He reached and ripped the tape from Carmellini's mouth. “You might drown in your own spit if I leave this on,” he said, and laughed. “Hey, Norv, he can't even close his mouth.” He addressed his next comment at the paralyzed man. “Drool all you want, big guy.”
“I told you that was good stuff,” Arch told Norv. “It's some sort of ketamine derivative. Never seen it work before, but I got it from a guy who used it in China a couple of years ago. Said the effect was awesome.”
“Okay, I'm a believer. Go easy on the water in the concrete, man, or it'll never set up. Don't let it get soupy.”
They worked with the shovel for a few seconds, then
Arch said, “Yeah, that's enough water. Stir it up good. When it's ready we'll jam his feet in.”
Arch said, “Yeah, that's enough water. Stir it up good. When it's ready we'll jam his feet in.”
“Shoes on or off?”
“Off.”
Tommy Carmellini could feel someone peeling off his shoes, but he had no control over his legs. Or his bladder. He could feel a spreading cold wetness.
“Hey, he just pissed himself.”
“What did you expect?”
“Maybe we ought to shoot him. Won't stink up the place so much.” That was Norv. He was a hell of a guy.
“Naw,” Arch told him. “More fun this way.” He chuckled.
They pulled Carmellini down the table and jammed a foot into each bucket. He felt the slimy cool wetness. The buckets were sitting on something below the table level, so Carmellini's knees were bent ninety degrees. He knew that, too, although for the life of him he couldn't move those legs.
“Wha'dya think? Should we give him another injection?” Norv asked that.
“The juice is good for forty-eight hours. Another shot would stop his heart and breathing.”
Arch put his head over Carmellini's face, and grinned. “See you tomorrow night, asshole. I'm going to think about you all evening, lying here paralyzed, waiting to make the big splash tomorrow night. That's as old as you're going to get.”
“That's enough, Arch. Let's lock up and get going.”
“Okay.”
“I still think we should shoot him now.”
“Waste of a bullet,” Arch replied. “And we'd be doing the bastard a favor. I don't like him that much. The fall will probably kill him, and if it doesn't, he'll drown. That's more his speed.”
He stepped over to Carmellini and whispered in his ear, “Think about the fall.”
The lights went off. A little daylight leaked through the
joints in the tin siding, so the building didn't become truly dark. Carmellini heard a door close and the sound of a padlock clicking. A moment later he heard a vehicle start, then it drove away.
joints in the tin siding, so the building didn't become truly dark. Carmellini heard a door close and the sound of a padlock clicking. A moment later he heard a vehicle start, then it drove away.
He listened for minutes. He was alone.
He tried to move his arms. No. Then his head. Close his mouth. Move a finger. Speak. All to no avail. He couldn't move a single muscle. He was totally and completely paralyzed.
He lay there on the table motionless for the longest time. He heard airplanes start and taxi, occasionally a plane went overhead. The motors sounded like piston engines. Once he thought he heard a jet, but it wasn't loud. Every now and then he heard car doors slamming far away, twice he heard voices. He concluded that he was at a general aviation airport, probably in a private hangar.
When his vision got extremely blurry he realized he was crying.
“Where's Tommy this morning, Zelda?” Jake Grafton asked, then winced. He kept forgetting that her new name was Sarah. Sarah Houston.
“I don't know, Admiral. We haven't seen him.”
“Probably breaking into a bank or something,” Zip Vance said grumpily. They were in front of the computer terminals in the SCIF, or technocenter, as Tarkington had labeled it, in the basement of a CIA building on the Langley campus.
“I suppose,” Jake agreed. He produced a list from an inside pocket. “Here are three names. I want you to construct dossiers on these people, find out everything you can about them.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. Money, telephone records, e-mail correspondents, Internet sites visitedâwhatever you can get. I'm looking for somethingâanythingâthat shouldn't be there. It's time to try out the system you've been constructing.
These people knew that the Russians had given us an American traitor named Richard Doyle, who was spying for them. When they learned that he had been fingered, one of the three probably told someone they shouldn't have told, someone without access. It's probable that Doyle was killed by someone who had the time and money to dispose of the body so it couldn't be found.”
These people knew that the Russians had given us an American traitor named Richard Doyle, who was spying for them. When they learned that he had been fingered, one of the three probably told someone they shouldn't have told, someone without access. It's probable that Doyle was killed by someone who had the time and money to dispose of the body so it couldn't be found.”
“He's missing?”
“Vanished into thin air.”
“Perhaps Doyle was spirited out of the country,” Zelda mused.
“It's possible,” Jake said, “but I doubt it. If he was in Russia we would have heard something, a hint over a telephone, a sighting, something. He's dropped completely out of sight. I'm betting he's dead.”
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