The Accused (51 page)

Will was no longer wondering what he had to decide. His only question was how he would tell Fiona.

“Do I need to get to the airport immediately?”

“Yeah—I'd say so.”

“What do I look for?”

“There's a red-and-blue jet in the international-cargo section. It's marked ‘Liberty Cargo Company.' There's a flight crew waiting for you. They'll land in Mexico City, and we'll have some folks there to meet you.”

Will hung up and then took some time to pray. After that, he dialed Fiona. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to tell her. He didn't want to share the feeling of foreboding that he had. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, and how this first year of marriage had been the greatest time of his life. The two of them had talked about having children, and he wanted that. And he wanted to raise a family
and grow old with her. And to spend the next forty years of his life waking up every morning seeing her face on the pillow next to him.

But in his message, he had to settle for something much less. He got voice mail at home and on her cell phone also. So he left a very short message.

Fiona—this is Will. I have one short side trip before I get home. I'll love you forever, and whatever separates us now—the oceans or the mountains, or anything else—will never change that. I'll see you at home, darling.

On his way out of the hotel with his luggage, he left a message with the front desk for Len Redgrove and Jacki Johnson, letting them know he had had to take an early flight out and would meet with them back in the U.S.

Then he hailed a cab to the airport. He found the small blue-and-red jet on the tarmac. A pilot and copilot were leaning against the small stairway that had already been lowered.

“Mr. Chambers?” the pilot asked.

Will nodded, scampered up the stairway, and settled into one of the seats.

In a few minutes he found himself winging over the medieval spires of The Hague and heading back to Mexico City—not yet knowing exactly why.

But he was unable to shake the distinct and overpowering impression that there was something very final about this journey.

79

M
AKING HIS WAY THROUGH THE CROWDED
lobby of the airport in Mexico City, Will was not surprised to see Pancho waiting for him. But this time he had a serious expression, and didn't smile. The Mexican shook Will's hand, patted him on the back, and then led him quickly toward the exit.

“How was your flight over?” Pancho asked as they reached the door where his cab was waiting.

“Bumpy,” Will replied. “They had to take a wide swing because of the hurricane headed this way.”

Pancho opened the glass door, and as the two men stepped outside the airport building they were hit by a stiff breeze that made their jackets flap.

Will climbed into the back of the taxicab, and not surprisingly, the American agent with the bull neck was in the backseat waiting for him.

The agent was blunt.

“I'm going to give it to you straight, Will,” the man said. “We need you on something. Colonel Marlowe is waiting for you at a site near that house in Chacmool. He is carrying a briefcase. There's a meeting. You know who Manuel Abdal Vega is?”

“You're kidding, of course,” Will replied sardonically. “Of course I do. He's the guy who set up the Chacmool trap with the help of the AAJ. He's a sympathizer with the terrorists. And he works in the Ministry of Tourism for the Mexican government.”

“Yeah, all of that's right. There are a couple more things you need to know, though. There are a lot more things you can't know. But since you received a security clearance as part of your defense of Marlowe
back at Quantico, the top dogs thought it would be okay to bring you in on this on a limited basis.”

Will gave him a befuddled look.

“Here's the deal, Will,” the agent continued. “Vega has sent out signals that he is ready to turn, and deliver to us some highly sensitive and invaluable intelligence information—all for a very large price, of course. So Marlowe carries that price inside a briefcase to a meeting. Marlowe gives the briefcase to Vega, and Vega delivers a piece of information.”

The attorney was staring at the agent, but it was clear that one large piece of the puzzle was still missing.

“What does this have to do with me? Why did you bring me down to Mexico City? I'm getting the impression that you've volunteered me for something I didn't ask for. I'm a lawyer. I'm not a soldier. What is it you want from me?”

“You're not a lawyer today, Will. And you certainly don't need to be a soldier. But we need you to be something else.”

Then the agent paused and gave his fellow passenger a sympathetic look.

“You do much fishing?”

Will didn't respond. But it didn't take him very long to figure out the homespun metaphor.

“I used to do game fishing. Out on the ocean. Blue sky. Blue ocean. Yellowfin tuna. Sailfish. Marlin. Yeah, I used to do some fishing when I was younger.”

Inside the car it was quiet. The only sounds were the whining of the tires of Pancho's taxicab as he motored down the federal highway—and the whistling of the wind that was now blowing harder.

“So—” Will broke the silence. “I'm the bait. That's it, isn't it?”

“Your friend—Damon Lynch—has been told you're back in Mexico. We made sure he got the word that you're going to be there with Marlowe. We are hoping that Lynch shows up—and that he has the AAJ with him. In short, you're the raw meat, and they are the flies.”

“Sounds lovely,” Will commented, staring out the window and watching the trees and underbrush sway wildly in the mounting wind.

“So what do you think?” the agent asked after a long period of quiet in the taxi. He could see the anguish on his companion's face. “If it
helps, we've got a Kevlar vest for you. And we've got folks who'll be looking after your backside.”

None of that was of any great comfort to Will. He opened his wallet and looked at the photo of Fiona once more. It was a picture he had taken of her on their honeymoon. She was at the railing of their hotel room, the azure blue of the ocean behind her. The sun was on her face, on which there was a look of bliss and beauty.

He slipped the snapshot out of his wallet and put it in his top pocket, just over his heart. He had the sinking feeling he must surely do this mission—but that, just as surely, it might come with an enormous price to pay.

“Just tell me one thing,” he said quietly. “Is this just about capturing or killing some terrorists? Or is it about saving some lives?”

The agent leaned toward Will with a look of unrehearsed candor.

“You're going to be saving the lives of some Americans.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

After another moment, he added something.

“All right. Count me in.”

After more than an hour of driving, Pancho turned down a small dirt road that led to a private airstrip. A small jet was on the landing strip—the stairs down, the pilot waiting.

As Will mounted the stairs, he noticed that Pancho and the agent were still standing on the tarmac.

“This is where we say goodbye,” the man said, and he reached out and shook the attorney's hand.

Not smiling, Pancho gave a last, solemn wave to Will as he ducked into the small jet. Debris was starting to blow across the airstrip with the approaching storm front.

Taking a seat, Will shouted up to the pilot.

“I've had some flying experience in bad weather before. On a small plane. Just give me a guarantee you're going to get me down safely—without any fancy stunts.”

The pilot laughed and told Will to buckle in.

“There's a strong crosswind, but we'll get you down before that hurricane gets too close to shore,” he said.

As the plane winged down toward the Yucatán, and the canopy of the jungle became thicker and greener, Will could see the treetops
tossing with the high wind like a blue-green sea. The jet was buffeted considerably, but the pilots were handling it with poise.

Will wasn't really worried about the flight, or the hurricane, or much of anything else—except surviving. And getting back to Fiona, and gathering her in his arms. And finding a way, somehow, to make sure they could enjoy a long life together and die of old age.

The jet dropped down so dramatically that Will almost became sick. Then it touched down roughly on a small airstrip in the middle of the jungle.

As they taxied down the strip, branches and leaves and dust were blowing wildly across their field of vision. He heard the pilot comment to his copilot about wind shear as they brought the plane to a stop.

The men quickly lowered the stairs, and gripping the handrails tightly, Will slowly descended onto the broken concrete below. Now the wind was blowing so hard that there was a high, whining whistle everywhere. The pilot pointed to a car that was waiting about two hundred feet away. There was someone sitting behind the wheel.

Will closed the front of his raincoat, hiding the bulletproof vest that had been given to him. As he walked to the car, fighting the mounting tempest, his eyes were searching for a glimpse of who was inside—and as he drew nearer, the driver's features became clear.

The man behind the wheel rolled down the window.

“Hurry up, Counselor,” shouted Caleb Marlowe. “We've got a very tight schedule.”

80

W
ILL
C
HAMBERS RAN THE LAST FEW FEET
to the car, clutching his jacket together, and jumped into the front seat next to Caleb Marlowe.

“Let me start off by saying that I'm really not glad to be here,” he shouted over the noise of the wind.

Marlowe smiled and nodded. Then he reached over and patted Will's shoulder.

“Don't worry, Private Chambers, you'll be okay.”

They drove through the storm that was now ripping through the jungle. They were on their way to Chichén Itzá, Marlow told him, and a rendezvous point by the Sacred Well of Sacrifice. Here and there they noticed the Mayan locals boarding up their windows against the approaching hurricane. Occasionally, small flocks of pink flamingos and white herons flew past them, a startling contrast to the darkening sky as they winged their way inland toward safety.

His companion explained as many of the details as he could of the planned meeting with Manuel Abdal Vega. Much of it made no sense to Will. And worse than that, it sounded as if he and Marlowe would be meeting with Vega in the open, at the rim of the huge gaping well, with no supporting military to defend them. Even to the lawyer's nonmilitary understanding of logistics, it sounded as if the two of them would be sitting ducks.

“Can I just point out some flaws in this plan?” he asked. “You're giving a briefcase with money to Vega in return for some intelligence information. But I'm coming along to attract Damon Lynch and—hopefully—armed members of AAJ. Maybe even Abu Adis himself. So what happens if they are watching, and waiting for us? What happens when they come up to us and surround us—and start shooting?”

“You're going to have to trust me on this,” Marlowe replied. “Whatever information I give you, you might be tempted to share with someone else if this thing goes bad and you get captured.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Just be visible. Just be there with me.”

None of that was reassuring. Will patted his top pocket to make sure the photo of Fiona was still there.

The two men were silent. The wind noise had now reached a low moan, and occasionally, a gust would buffet the car, pushing it sideways. The tops of the jungle trees on both sides of the road were flattening out almost to forty-five degrees under the power of the massive air currents sweeping in from the ocean.

“There was this commander…” Marlowe said loudly, finally breaking the silence, “this commander, Joshua,” he continued. “He had orders to advance, take all of Canaan. The first hostilities were at Jericho. It was a flat, open place on the edge of the desert. An oasis with palm trees. Vegetation. Springs. Surrounded by mountains. Joshua and his army had to take that place first.”

Will was silent. Listening, as the whining, roaring wall of the hurricane closed in on them.

“You know the rest,” his companion said, his voice raised so he could be heard over the storm. “The city fell, and Joshua marched on to the battle of Ai.”

Will had heard the Old Testament story, and he nodded.

“But before the fighting began, Joshua had this encounter,” the other man continued. “He sees this big warrior standing off in the distance. The warrior has a huge sword drawn in his hand. So Joshua says, Hey—are you for us—or are you for our enemies?”

And then Marlowe paused, and swallowed, and stared ahead for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and went on. But in a voice more passionate than Will had ever heard before.