Retribution (22 page)

CHAPTER 39

 

R
obert Tranthan sucked on his Marlboro as he scrolled down on the computer screen reading the daily news summaries.

It went on to say that the husband and father, a Sadik Zabara, was missing. Tranthan smiled.

The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He looked at the screen. It was a secure cell phone, nevertheless, little would be said.

“Yes?”

“Step one requires payment.”

“Payment is keeping me happy.” Tranthan wasn't very tolerant with a loose operative.

“Payment.” The voice repeated the words.

“What about Scott?”

Even with a secure line, it was bold to mention names.

He next heard a click.

The Agency knew of certain freelance operatives. In fact, the age of terror had encouraged their use. The bombing at the Boston Marathon only renewed certain officials' authority to seek help elsewhere, away from all scrutiny. And Tranthan knew who to use. They came cheap for someone at the highest level of the CIA. And they were well beyond the subpoena power of Congress.

It had to be done incrementally, and with the mission still on.

CHAPTER 40

 

C
lark stopped to stretch just short of the opening in the woods to their mountain trail. The temperature had dropped into the twenties and was expected to last like that for several days. The muddy puddles on the road froze during the night, but the sun would warm them up during the day, turning the ice back into liquid. And when the sun set, the puddles would then turn, again, into solid ice. The first sign of winter.

Clark still was riding the high from the marathon, but her muscles felt like boards, inflexible and unbendable. Especially after nearly four hours of running on pavement. Even with the months of training, the pounding had taken its toll. She could barely get out of bed for a day or two after the race. But the run had hooked her.

“Look at that sky.” As she spoke, the steam from her breath clouded the perfectly clear, cobalt-blue sky. The northwestern front from Canada had cleared out all of the clouds. The sun sparkled in the chilled air.

A ten-miler would mean two laps of their mountain trail. With the bright sun, it wouldn't take long for the body to produce enough heat to overcome the chill. She looked at her watch, trying to gauge the time. It was a new Nike Triax Mia with several functions that she knew she would never learn, but it kept her pace and time. Plus, it was cute. It was her reward for running more than twenty-six miles.

He should be home soon.
The run next week would be the same, but she would be doing it with him. She smiled at the thought.

Clark heard the rumble of a car on the gravel road. She and Parker lived alone here on their small mountain. Visitors who started on the road usually gave up after several miles. If they got far enough, the
NO TRESPASSING
signs turned the stubborn ones around.

“Hey!” Clark saw the Stewart County Sheriff's patrol car and the driver who pulled up in front of the lodge.

“Hey, Ms. Clark. How's it going?” Deputy Mack Dennson had a round, happy face and looked perpetually younger than his years. He'd been with the Sheriff's office for more than ten now.

“What are you doing this far out in the middle of nowhere?”

“You know Will told me to check on you, right?” Mack smiled. “And you know how we follow the colonel's orders.”

She laughed, but Mack was half-serious. He'd served a short tour in the Marine Corps, so a favor to another Marine was not a problem.

“I'm fine, but I appreciate your checking in.”

“You have my cell?”

“Yep.” She recited it from memory.

“Exactly. How about some protection?”

Mack was asking whether she had her own firearm.

“I have the pistol he gave me.” She had never felt comfortable with the small Glock. She didn't even know the caliber, but it fit easily in her hand. The
pop, pop
of the bullets made her hand sore between the thumb and forefinger. But Will had insisted on her learning to not only shoot the pistol but also reload the clip and chamber the rounds. William was insistent that once a month they go out to the stump behind and below the lodge for target practice. Afterward, he would clean it with the same rag and a solvent that would stink up her kitchen. And then he would put it in the drawer near their bed, with the two clips full of the tiny rounds. One clip was kept in the pistol and the other next to it.

“Good. Going out for a run?”

“Yeah. Want to go?”

She knew that Mack thought she was crazy. And given Mack's waistline, she knew he'd take it as a joke.

“No, ma'am. But thanks.”

“
Unit twenty-six, status?
” The patrol car radio chirped up with a call.

“No rest for the weary.” Mack grabbed the mike.

“Twenty-six, I'm out at the Parker farm.”

“Let me go check on some of my bad boys. You would think this cold weather would slow some people down.”

“Yeah.” As a veteran court reporter, she knew exactly who the bad boys were. And she knew that cold weather didn't matter a whit to any of them. “Well, thanks again.” She waved as he turned the patrol car around.

Clark would never see Mack alive again.

CHAPTER 41

 

William Parker looked at the ticket in his hand for Flight QR076. Qatar Air's Flight 76 departed Gatwick's north terminal gate 26 at 9:30
A.M
. He sat on a bench seat just across from the gate, watching the different passengers standing in line to board the Airbus A340 wide-body aircraft. A man and his wife were the first to board.

The woman walked behind the man, dressed in her black embroidered
abaya
with a black shawl that together covered her from head to toe. The man with her, however, wore Western clothes, a perfectly tailored charcoal pinstriped suit with black shoes that shined like freshly minted silver coins.

Parker continued to study the two first-class passengers. He wore a white shirt with a black-and-white striped tie. His beard was well trimmed and the eyebrows were as thick and black as the beard. The edge of a large gold Rolex watch showed just beyond the white cuff of the shirt, and a gold ring with a large emerald was on the small finger of the same hand as the watch. The gold complemented the brown tone of the man's skin. Parker noticed a pen in the left front pocket and from that realized the man was right-handed. The man was a distant cousin of a royal family, not directly in the tree of hierarchy, as he was leaving Gatwick on Qatar Air and not a Gulfstream.

The man, Parker guessed, was in London as a representative of the royal family negotiating cable television rights or franchisees for a new Pizza Hut or something similar. The wife, now back in her sari, would go shopping at Harrods, spending thousands of pounds sterling on colorful dresses, in sharp contrast to the simple, silk black robe she was now wearing. She wouldn't be able to wear them in Qatar, but they would wait in her closet for the next trip to New York or Aspen or Paris. At night she would stay in the room, receiving room service while he and his driver would go to the lounges. The ones that were forbidden in Qatar.

Once back in Qatar, a Bentley would pick them both up at the airport, taking them directly to their home, probably somewhere near Suhaim Bin Hamad on the C-ring outside the capital, where he would immediately change into his white silk
dishdasha thobe
and
shimagh
scarf.

Parker ran a hand over the scraggly beard on his face and the itch of the fast-healing cut on his forehead. Parker was still sore from being thrown back by two separate concussion waves. He felt as if he had just gotten out of the ring after a ten-round bout. Being so worn and sore probably helped him play the part of Zabara at the airport. Certainly, he was dressed perfectly for the role—that is to say, poorly. He would not be sitting in first class or business. He noticed the eyes watching him as he passed through security, following him like radar. With just a small, worn Nike bag over his shoulder, Parker passed through the security gate, where British security took everything out of the bag. He was searched twice, in detail. As he walked down the long concourse, Parker noticed a security tail that followed him to the gate. It shouldn't have been any surprise. He perfectly matched the profile. Sadik Zabara's passport noted the religion was Muslim, he was from another country, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and he was traveling alone. He looked the part—like a man who had little to lose.

It's a miracle they let me on this plane.
William leaned forward with his elbows on his legs.
That is, if I get on.

Parker rubbed his face again and thought of the several deaths. Zdravo and the child, Amirah, were dead. And probably Hernandez.

“This is the final boarding announcement: All passengers for Qatar Air's Flight 76 to Doha, please board at this time.” The attendant making the call stood behind her desk dressed in the fancy crimson uniform. Qatar Air was a five-star airline that served Dom Pérignon in the front with chilled caviar in first class. In the back, the travelers with worn Nike bags sat shoulder to shoulder.

How can this possibly help Hernandez?
Parker asked himself as watched the last of the passengers show their boarding passes and leave the lounge. With Moncrief, he could stay in London, follow the trail, and have a chance to locate Enrico.

He slid his hand into his pocket until he touched the PDA.

Even if Scott didn't want to help in the search for Hernandez, both Parker and Moncrief had plenty of contacts from which to rebuild the trail.

“Thinking about it, aren't you?”

Parker turned to see Scott sitting down next to him. For a moment, he was disappointed in himself that he hadn't seen this coming.

“Yousef probably has somebody watching us,” Parker said quietly, unhappy at the risk Scott had chosen to take.

“Yes, I thought of that. I didn't want to say anything until the last one got on. We know everyone else here. Did you see the
Times
?”

“Yes. They aren't looking for Sadik Zabara very hard, are they?”

The lead headline was the two bombings and deaths of six. Sadik Zabara, a radical journalist, was missing.

“No, you will slip through their fingers,” Scott said.

“And the rest here are all friendly.”

“Yes.”

William looked around the gate. There were only a few remaining. In a quick glance, he knew Scott was right. The few remaining were dressed like businessmen, tourists, and airline staff, but they were all shaped like linebackers.

“It doesn't help that they're all dead.”

“I didn't plan that.” Scott's voice had a trace of regret. “But I've got it covered.”

“How?”

“It has been leaked that Mossad did it trying to get Sadik Zabara. They freaked out because of a feared plot to take down an El Al.”

Parker had to hand it to Scott. Once the word
Mossad
filtered through to Yousef, he wouldn't hear anything beyond that.

“Who was really behind it?”

“I'm not sure you would believe me.”

“Since it is my life, go ahead.”

“We think it's someone from the home team.”

This is what Scott had suggested immediately post-explosions. Parker had been groggy at the time, though, and afterward had hoped it wasn't true. Now he looked straight ahead as Scott talked, waiting for him to elaborate.

“NSA picked up a garbled conversation. It mentioned what sounded like a cell in Canada.”

“Wait. What about the home team? What are we dealing with here?”

“Honestly, I don't know. All we can do is forge ahead. I'll let you know if I find anything to back my hunch. But meanwhile, remember the Canada item.”

“Why is that?” Parker asked, irritated.

“I'm just saying, if you get the chance, if the subject comes up with Yousef, look for any reaction he might have about Canada. Okay?”

Parker nodded. “What about Hernandez?” Parker's hand stayed in the pocket of his jacket. He could feel both the PDA and the pack of chewing gum.

“Listen, I know you don't trust me. I doubt that you even like me.”

Parker's face didn't disagree.

“But I do know this. The guy you are going to see . . .” Scott paused, “can be traced all the way back to Pan Am. And if Hernandez were sitting here, he would tell you to go. Someday Hernandez's little girl will be getting on an airplane, or walking through a train station, or visiting New York.”

“I hear you. But I'm still asking: What are you going to do about Hernandez?”

“Mr. Parker, if he is alive, I will find him.”

William Parker looked deep into Scott's eyes and, for the first time, believed him.