Sahara (58 page)

“Do you know this Harvey?” asked Bock blankly.

“The name isn’t familiar,” murmured Sandecker. “I’ve never heard Dirk mention anyone called Harvey.”

“Is there such a place in Washington as the AT&S saloon with a singer by the name of Judy?” Bock inquired.

“Not that I’ve ever been in,” Sandecker answered, searching for a clue in the recesses of his mind. “And the only singer I ever knew named Judy was—”

The answer struck Sandecker with all the suddenness of a slap in the face. The ingenious simplicity, the elementary code was obvious to anyone who was an old motion picture buff like the Admiral. He might have known, he might have guessed Pitt would have played on that knowledge. He laughed.

“I fail to see the humor,” Bock said sternly.

“They’re not running for the border into Algeria,” Sandecker stated triumphantly.

“What did you say?”

“Colonel Levant’s force is heading south toward the railroad running between the sea and Fort Foureau.”

“May I ask what brought you to that conclusion?” Bock asked suspiciously.

“Dirk’s thrown us a conundrum, a common riddle that Kazim is unlikely to solve. Judy the singer is Judy Garland and Harvey represents a movie she starred in called
The Harvey Girls.”

“How does the AT&S saloon fit in the picture?”

“Not a saloon, but a song. The hit song Judy Garland sang in the movie. It was called
The Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe.
The name of a railroad.”

Bock said slowly, “That explains why Levant sent a report that Kazim’s communications people could easily intercept. He misled them into believing he was heading north into Algeria.”

“When in fact they’re traveling in the opposite direction,” Sandecker finished.

“Levant has rightly assumed that crossing the Mali/Algeria border did not guarantee safety. Men as ruthless as Kazim have no qualms about ignoring international law. He will pursue our force until they are all slaughtered.”

“The next question is what do they do after reaching the railroad?”

“Perhaps steal a train,” suggested Bock.

“Makes sense, but in broad daylight?”

“There is more to the message from your man, Pitt.”

“Please go on.”

“The next part reads, ‘Also inform the Admiral that Gary, Ray, and Bob are going over to Brian’s house for fun and games.’ Can you interpret this?”

Sandecker thought a moment. “If Pitt is still coding in movies then Gary must be Gary Cooper. And I’ll guess that he means Ray Milland.”

“Do you recall a picture they starred in together?”

“I do indeed,” Sandecker fairly beamed over the telephone. “Dirk might just as well have hung out a neon sign. They starred with Robert Preston and Brian Donlevy in a 1939 epic called
Beau Geste.”

“I saw it when I was a boy,” said Bock. “The story was about three brothers who served in the French Foreign Legion.”

“The reference to Brian’s house suggests a fort.”

“Certainly not the Fort Foureau hazardous waste facility. That would be the last place Levant would go.”

“Is there another fort in the area?”

Bock paused to consult his maps. “Yes, an old Legion outpost several kilometers west of the waste project. The very one, in fact, Massarde named his project after.”

“Sounds like they intend to hole up there until dark.”

“I would do the same if I was in Colonel Levant’s place.”

“They’re going to need help,” said Sandecker.

“Precisely the reason for my call to you,” said Bock, becoming brisk and businesslike. “You must persuade the President to send an American special forces group to assist in bringing Levant and the freed captives out of General Kazim’s territory.”

“Did you discuss this with Secretary General Kamil? She carries more weight with the President than I do.”

“Unfortunately, she was suddenly called away to an emergency conference in Moscow. You are the only one I can turn to on rush notice.”

“How much time have we got?”

“Virtually none. Daylight will come in their part of the desert within two hours.”

“I’ll do what I can,” promised Sandecker. “I only hope the President hasn’t gone to bed yet, or I’ll pay hell getting his aides to wake him.”

49

“You must be out of your mind, demanding to see the President this time of night,” Earl Willover said angrily.

Sandecker looked at the President’s Chief of Staff who was neatly attired in a dark double-breasted wool pin stripe that showed only the slightest sign of creases in the pants. Sandecker wondered if the man ever left his office and slept standing up. “Take my word for it, Earl, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t urgent.”

“I won’t wake the President unless faced with an international crisis that endangers the security of the nation.”

So far Sandecker had held his temper in check, but it began to slip away. “All right, tell him there’s a taxpaying voter downstairs in the White House office who’s mad as hell.”

“You
are
mad.”

“Mad enough to charge up to his bedroom and wake him myself.”

Willover looked like he was on the verge of a boiling fit. “You try it, and I’ll have the Secret Service take you in custody.”

“A lot of innocent people, including women and children, are going to die if the President doesn’t act.”

“I hear that old story every day of the week,” Willover sneered.

“And make jokes about the victims, right?”

Willover finally lost it. “You’ve got an answer for everything, you arrogant anchor-clanker. I can break you any time I want to. You understand?”

Sandecker moved close enough to Willover to smell the man’s minty breath. “Listen up, Earl. One day the President’s term of office will be over and you’ll only be another one of the great unwashed public again. Then I will ring your doorbell and tear out your liver.”

“I bet you would too,” came a familiar voice.

Sandecker and Willover both turned and faced the President who was standing in a doorway in his pajamas and bathrobe. He was nibbling from a plate of canapés he held in one hand.

“I sneaked down for a late snack from the kitchen refrigerator and overheard heated voices.” He stared at Sandecker. “Now suppose you tell me what this is all about, Admiral.”

Willover stepped in front of Sandecker. “Please sir, it’s a matter of little consequence.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Earl. Okay, Admiral, speak your piece.”

“First let me ask you, Mr. President, have you been briefed on the latest developments on the Fort Foureau operation?”

The President looked at Willover. “I was told that your men, Pitt and Giordino, had managed to escape into Algeria and that they provided vital information regarding Yves Massarde’s corrupt and unscrupulous hazardous waste operations.”

“May I ask what your response is?”

“We’re calling for an international environmental tribunal of European and North African legal representatives to meet and discuss a plan of action,” answered Willover.

“Then you don’t plan to . . . I believe you said, Mr. President . . . ‘go in and take the place out ourselves.’“

“Cooler heads have prevailed,” said the President, nodding at Willover.

“Even now, with proof that chemicals leaking from Fort Foureau are causing the expanding red tide, all anyone is going to do is sit down and talk about it?” Sandecker said, controlling his exasperation.

“We’ll discuss this another time,” said the President, turning to return to his bedroom upstairs in the White House. “Earl will set up an appointment.”

“Did Earl also brief you on the Tebezza gold mines?” asked Sandecker suddenly.

The President hesitated and shook his head. “No, I’m not familiar with the name.”

“After Pitt and Giordino were captured at Fort Foureau,” Sandecker went on, “they were taken to another one of General Kazim and Yves Massarde’s sinister enterprises, a little-known gold mine where opposition and dissident prisoners are enslaved and worked to death under the most barbaric and inhumane conditions. A number of them were French engineers and their families Massarde imprisoned so they couldn’t return home and expose Fort Foureau. My men also found the missing World Health Team that was supposedly killed in a plane crash, all horribly starved and exhausted from overwork and little food.”

The President gave Willover a cold stare. “It seems I’m kept in the dark on a number of matters.”

“I try to do my job fielding priorities,” Willover offered hastily.

“So where is this leading?” the President asked Sandecker.

“Knowing it was useless to ask you for a special force,”

Sandecker continued, “Hala Kamil again came to the rescue and volunteered the United Nations critical response team. With Pitt and Giordino to guide them, Colonel Levant and his force landed in the desert near the mines, conducted a successful raid, and rescued twenty-five foreign national men, women, and children—”

“Children were forced to work the mines?” the President interrupted.

Sandecker nodded. “They belonged to the French engineers and their wives. There was also an American, Dr. Eva Rojas, who was a member of the World Health Team.”

“If the raid was successful, what is the urgent problem?” demanded Willover.

“Their transport, the aircraft they flew from Algeria, was destroyed on the ground at the Tebezza airstrip by fighters of the Malian air force. The entire force along with the rescued captives are trapped in the middle of Mali. It’s only a matter of hours before Kazim’s military finds and attacks them.”

“You paint a bleak picture,” said the President seriously. “Is there no way they can safely reach the Algerian border?”

“It would matter little if they did,” explained Sandecker. “Kazim won’t hesitate to run the risk of a confrontation with the Algerian government to stop the captives from exposing the atrocities at Tebezza and dangers of Fort Foureau. He’ll send his military deep into Algeria to destroy them and guarantee their silence.”

The President went silent, studying the canapés without biting into one. The implications of what Sandecker had told him were not to be brushed aside as he knew Willover was about to advise. But he could not stand by and do nothing while a backwater despot murdered innocent foreign citizens.

“Kazim is as bad as Saddam Hussein,” muttered the President. He turned to Willover. “I’m not going to hide under the covers on this one, Earl. Too many lives are at stake including those of three Americans. We’ve got to lend a hand.”

“But Mr. President,” Willover protested.

“Contact General Halverson at Special Forces Command in Tampa. Alert him for an immediate operation.” The President stared at Sandecker. “Who do you suggest to coordinate this thing, Admiral?”

“General Bock, commander of the UN Critical Response and Tactical Team. He’s in contact with Colonel Levant and can provide General Halverson with constant updates on the situation.”

The President set the canapés aside on a credenza and placed his hands on Willover’s shoulders. “I value your advice, Earl, but I’ve got to act on this one. We can kill two birds with one stone and take half the flak if the operation goes sour. I want our Special Forces to secretly infiltrate Mali, rescue the UN tactical team and the captives. Then get the hell out before Kazim and Massarde know what hit them. Afterward, perhaps we can figure a way to neutralize the Fort Foureau waste project.”

“You get my endorsement,” Sandecker smiled broadly.

“I guess nothing I can say will change your mind,” Willover said to the President.

“No, Earl,” said the President, retrieving his canapé tray, “we’re going to close our eyes and bet the bankroll on an inside straight.”

“And if we lose?”

“We can’t lose.”

Willover looked at him curiously. “Why not, sir?”

The President matched Sandecker’s smile. “Because I’m dealing the hand, and I have the greatest confidence in our Special Operations Forces to kick slime like Kazim and Massarde into the bog where they belong.”

Several miles west of Washington, D.C., in the Maryland countryside, a large hill rises above the flat surrounding farmland. Passing motorists who take the time to notice the anomaly think of it as merely a geological trick of nature. Almost none know that it was secretly man-made from soil that was excavated for a command center and shelter for the capital city’s politicians and military leaders in World War II.

During the cold war, work never stopped, and the subterranean spread was enlarged into a vast storeroom for the nation’s records and artifacts dating back to the first pioneers who settled the eastern coastline in the 1600s. The interior space is so expansive it is not measured in meters or acres but in square miles or kilometers. To those few who are aware of its existence it is known as ASD (Archival Safekeeping Depository).

Thousands of secrets are buried away in the seemingly unending archival storage bins of the depository. For some strange reason, known only to certain very few bureaucrats, entire sections of the depository hold classified material and objects that will never be revealed to the public. The bones of Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan and Japanese records of their execution on Saipan, the secret conspiracy files of both Kennedy assassinations, the intelligence of Soviet sabotage behind American space rocket and shuttle accidents and the retaliation at Chernobyl, staged films of the Apollo moon landing hoax, and much, much more—it was all filed and stored away, never to see the light of day.

Since St. Julien Perlmutter didn’t drive, he took a cab to the small Maryland town of Forestville. After waiting on a bus stop bench for nearly half an hour, he was finally picked up by a Dodge van.

“Mr. Perlmutter,” asked the driver, a government security agent wearing regulation mirrored sunglasses.

“I am him.”

“Please get in.”

Perlmutter did as he was told, thinking to himself that all this subterfuge was a childish game. “Don’t you want to see my driver’s license,” he said acidly.

The driver, a dark brown-skinned African-American, shook his head. “No need. You’re the only one in this town who fits the description.”