Liberty (30 page)

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Authors: Stephen Coonts

BOOK: Liberty
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“No,” he said.
“But that man who came in last time—who is he?”
“Just a friend I share a room with. To save money. That's all.”
“You speak terrific English, honey. Easy to understand. You musta been here in the States a long, long time?”
Five minutes later she said, “Some of the girls are worried about me with you. I like dark, foreign men, they're so cute. I know there's nothing to it, but with the terrorism and all, a girl's gotta be careful.”
Naguib's eyes darted around, his jaws worked soundlessly, and he swallowed several times.
Bingo
, Suzanne thought.
A half hour later Naguib looked at his watch with a start. He had been here twice as long as he figured. “Suzanne, I gotta go. Gotta get a little sleep and go to work tomorrow.”
“Oh, baby,” the blonde said, and gave him a kiss that
almost caused his heart to stop. “I wish you and I …” She left it hanging, her face inches from his.
He walked out into the night. Crossing the second parking lot, Naguib stopped and stared at his surroundings. This was what he was giving up, this place, these women—life so sweet and precious. He was throwing it all away for the great hereafter. Murdering millions for the glory of God. On the word of holy men ranting in Arabia and Cairo, Tehran, Kabul, and Baghdad, preaching the glories of Paradise although they weren't anxious to hurry there themselves.
In a few weeks he would be dead along with millions of others, Suzanne would have to find another fellow to give her what she wanted, the holy men would be ecstatic … and
this
was what he was leaving.
This!
The rush when a woman was close, the shock of her hand brushing his groin, the feel of her breast, the warm sensuousness of her kiss, the sliding perfection of her tongue on his.
Life
. When he had a woman pressed against him and his hands on her body, he could feel the beat of life, feel it coursing through him and her.
What a fool he had been, planning to waste life. He could see it plainly.
Mohammed was waiting for him outside the motel unit. In the dim light Naguib could see the fury on his face. He didn't care.
“I don't want to be a martyr,” he said to Mohammed.
“Where have you been?”
“I don't want to be a martyr. I want to find a woman who loves me that I can love.” Naguib was realistic enough to realize that Suzanne might not be the one. Still, he believed that the right woman would make everything in his life better. “I want to get a job and a woman and have children. Two at least, I think.”
Mohammed backhanded Naguib casually across the mouth. The blow was unexpected; Naguib lost his balance and fell. “I hope for your sake you have not betrayed your brothers. If you have I will personally cut your throat. The
hour approaches and you speak of treason. What kind of man are you?”
“One who wants to live,” Naguib managed as his head cleared. He stood, swaying gently to and fro. When his head had almost cleared, he jabbed Mohammed sharply on the chin, staggering him. He followed and hit him with the left. Then again with a well-timed right with everything behind it.
The cool hardness of the crushed shells brought Mohammed around. He got to his knees, looking around for Naguib, trying to see the attack he knew would come. On his feet he swayed as he waited, then he was aware that someone was standing near him looking at his face.
“Who are you?”
“Fred Smoot. I'm the landlord, laddie-buck. Now hold still and let me see how bad you're hurt.”
Naguib was nowhere in sight. “Did you see who hit me?” Mohammed tentatively asked Fred. He was trying to think up a way to avoid the notice of the police.
“Yeah,” Fred said as he examined the blood flowing from Mohammed's eyebrow. Cuts there usually gushed. “One of the guys you room with. The big one. He's got a hell of a right on him, fella, so I'd try to keep my head out of the way of it, if I were you.”
“This is no large deal,” Mohammed said, ignoring the blood, wanting to ensure that Fred would not call the police.
“His left ain't bad either.” Fred finished his examination. “You need to get that cut washed out. The old woman can do it and put a couple Band-Aids on it to hold it together so you won't need stitches.” Fred sighed. “Like a good fight myself. When I was young I was always ready if somebody wanted some action. Little tussle gets the juices flowing and clears the air, but I want no more of that horseplay around here, understand? You'll get the tourists all lathered.”
Brushing the shards of crushed shells from his hair, Mohammed followed Fred toward the office, thinking
about how he had lost Naguib and what he would have to do.
At eleven o'clock Tuesday Harry Estep called Jake Grafton. “Those CDs that Anna Modin gave you are gold.”
“What's on them?”
“Bank transaction records. Walney's Bank in Cairo is in the business of financing terrorists. One of the groups they finance is the Sword of Islam.”
“Where are the bombs?”
“That isn't on the CDs.”
“Did any of that money come to America?”
“Don't know yet. But the big news is that a big chunk came from here.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Looks like it came to Walney's sorta all at once through eight or ten accounts. The money was shuffled all over hell to try to prevent it from being traced. What we see is the stuff coming into Walney's and what Walney's did with it. We then have to compare that info with the records of other banks. We think we've found a trail.”
“Provable in court?”
“No. Maybe one of these days, but not now. The problem is that banks are the ultimate washing machine; they make money a commodity—bucks come in one window and go out another and all the dollars look alike. A transfer could be a loan, a payment to settle a check or a set-off—whatever. If the people at the bank are writing fiction, creating bogus backup … you can envision the possibilities. Anyway, what it boils down to is this—a sizable chunk of change, maybe two million, went through Walney's and on to guys we think are dirty. We think it came from the U.S., but it will take a lot of work to nail that down.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The CDs are a big piece of the puzzle. We still don't have all the pieces and never will, yet with these pieces we can begin to see what the puzzle looks like.”
“Tell me about the searches of Foster's and Lalouette's stuff.”
“Foster had a hundred and fifteen thousand bucks cash in his basement, right where Carmellini said it would be. Nothing else of interest yet.”
“Modin thinks that the guy who runs the bank in Cairo may send assassins to kill her. I agree. What can we do to protect her?”
“You want me to put that on my to-do list?”
“I guess,” Jake said dryly.
“I interviewed her this morning. She named names in Cairo. Wouldn't answer a single question about Ilin or the SVR.”
“Claims she doesn't work for the SVR. And she's trying to protect Ilin.”
“Terrific.”
Jake hesitated before he asked the next question. He thought he knew the answer, but he wanted a professional's opinion. “Do you think Anna Modin is telling the truth?”
Harry Estep sensed the gravity of Jake's query, and considered his answer before he spoke. “She thinks she is, I believe. She's letting us see that portion of the picture that Ilin let her see. That's about as good as it gets in this game, I guess.”
“We need to get her into a witness protection program or something. She flew here with a Russian passport and took a cab from the airport to my house. If assassins are after her, she won't be hard to find.”
“I'll see what I can do. Maybe you should put some pressure on the top echelon.”
“That I can do.”
“She's given us the disk and named names. Why would they risk an assassination?”
“How would I know? I've heard those guys spell revenge with a capital R. Why are you asking me?”
“You know everything else, Admiral. If you figure out why the sky is blue and male dogs like fire hydrants, let
me in on it, huh? I've always wondered about those things.”
Callie Grafton and Anna Modin had a late lunch Tuesday at one of Callie's favorite haunts in Georgetown, not far from the university. Callie insisted on practicing her Russian and Anna worked on her English, so they smiled often as they told each other about themselves and corrected grammar and syntax errors. Callie noticed that Anna relaxed as the luncheon went on.
She had not been relaxed this morning when they went to the parking garage for the car for the trip to the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. Before she left the elevator she stopped Callie with a hand and eased her head out. She reminded Callie of a hunted animal, hesitant, listening, looking at everything.
In the car Anna refused to wear a seat belt, preferring to be free to bail whenever and wherever.
“This is America,” Callie said gently. “One doesn't normally meet assassins on the way to lunch.”
“These people are very dangerous,” Modin said matter-of-factly. “They have much money, much hate, and they kill easily, as if it is of no importance.”
Callie didn't ask about the interview with the FBI, and Modin volunteered nothing. At lunch the conversation swung to Callie's work, teaching languages at the university, so after lunch she took Anna to her office. The spring semester was in full swing; the place was jumping. Callie had called in that morning and been given a day off, so a chat with the department head was in order. As she visited with him, Anna chatted with two of the instructors in Russian. Callie introduced her as Anna and gave no last name.
As they left the building, Modin paused again in the doorway and surveyed the scene carefully.
“How long do you think they will hunt you?” Callie asked as they walked toward the car. Perhaps Modin's
paranoia was catching; Callie no longer questioned Modin's assessment of the situation.
“Until they kill me or die themselves. Even if they die others may try.”
“Won't they give up after a while?”
“Never.” Modin made a fist and squeezed it. “God is like this with them. They are afraid to be afraid.”
“And you agreed to steal from them for Janos Ilin?”
“Someone has to fight them,” she said simply. “I do not have his courage—no one I ever met does—but I go where he leads. He is a great man.”
“Do you love him?”
Modin looked surprised. “No,” she said. “Not lovers.” After a moment of thought she added, “Soldiers, I think.” She glanced at Callie, apparently wondering if she understood. “A man must have something to fight for, something bigger than he is.”
“Some women, too, apparently,” Callie shot back.
She drove the car toward the U.S. Naval Hospital in Bethesda. “We will stop and see a friend, if you don't mind.”
“Fine, fine. A lover?”
It was Callie's turn to look embarrassed. “No. Friend. Sometimes he works for my husband.”
“Sick?”
“Sore feet. Very sore. Some men were going to kill him and stuck his feet in concrete.”
“In America, even, where there are no assassins. Shocking!”
“Isn't it?” Callie agreed.
They found Tommy Carmellini occupying one of the two beds in a double room on the third floor. The second bed was empty. When Callie first saw him he was flipping through television channels and looking glum. His face lit up when they walked into the room. “Mrs. Grafton! Wow! Am I glad to see you! Find a chair. Sit on that empty bed. Please sit.”
“This is Anna. She's our houseguest.”
“Pleasedtameetcha.” Carmellini stuck out his hand. “Forgive me not getting up. They stole my pants so I won't boogie.”
“Ah, the usual indignities,” Callie said.
“Boogie?” Anna asked.
“Run away,” Callie explained.
“There oughta be a law,” Carmellini stated firmly. “Sit, please!”
“How are your feet?”
“Sore.” He peeled back the sheet to display one of the bandaged units. “Did your husband fill you in?”
“Oh, yes.”
“It was a long damned weekend, I am here to tell you. Thought it was my last.”
Anna Modin scanned the bright, cheerful, sunlit room and marveled at the contrast with the Russian hospitals she remembered. Then she took a careful look at Tommy Carmellini, the broad shoulders, craggy good looks, and ready smile. Even in a hospital gown, the muscled arms and thick wrists and weight lifter's veins told her that he did more than push paper for a living.

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