The Last Spymaster (38 page)

The leafy campus of Georgetown University was quiet, most students and teachers in classrooms, when Frank Mesa finally found the correct lecture hall. Still wearing his zippered jacket and cotton chinos, he settled into a seat at the back and hunched low, so colorless no one noticed.

From between the shoulders of students, Frank studied the political science professor—Rudi Gruhn, Ph.D.—who stood at the podium, lecturing. Rudi had acquired a basketball-size belly, pink cheeks, and a passionate delivery. He had to be in his mid-forties now. The course was called “The Merchants of Death.”

“Our time’s nearly up,” he was saying, “so I’ll close with a legendary trafficker from the late 1800s and early 1900s. His name was Basil Zaharoff. He was outgoing, a natural pitchman who claimed to be Greek when it suited him. Zaharoff was highly successful until he started repping submarines and discovered he couldn’t talk anyone into buying one because of the high price. He was desperate. So he went to Greece and ingratiated himself by saying he was ‘first a Greek, a patriot like yourselves, and only second a salesman.’ Then he did something new—he offered to sell on credit. The result was the Greeks bought one sub. If you recall your history, you know Greece and Turkey hated each other. It was a historic feud that flamed into blood-soaked combat periodically. So, of course, Zaharoff went to Turkey next. He terrified them with stories about Greece’s menacing new sub. By the time he’d finished, they’d outdone the Greeks and bought
two
submarines.”

Laughter rippled through the young audience.

Professor Gruhn let the amusement ebb. When an uneasy restlessness took hold, he spoke into it: “Zaharoff left an enduring legacy. He proved to
the industry that the most practical means to maximize profit was to sell to all sides any way you could, because that bred conflict, and conflict led to war, and war meant increased demand for weapons.” The students were silent. “Lying, inciting fear, and selling on credit are still basic principles followed by modern traffickers. Who can tell me which country produces the most weapons, and which country sells the most weapons, and which country makes the most profit from weapons today?”

Hands rose.

“No, no.” He shook his head. “
Tell
me.”

They shouted it out: “The United States.”

He gave a clipped nod, slammed his lecture folder together, and stuffed it into his briefcase. There was a hesitation, then the students were on their feet and moving to the doors, quiet at first but soon talking—but not about the lecture. They had more pressing issues of a personal nature on their minds. Still, Frank hoped Gruhn had planted intellectual seeds that might grow into critical thought, perhaps even good deeds.

As the aisle began to clear, Frank pushed against the flow, heading toward the podium. When the professor noticed Frank, his pink cheeks paled. Briefcase in hand, he hurried toward a rear door.

“Forget it, Rudi.” Frank kept his voice low but made certain it carried. “You know you have to talk to me.”

For several seconds the professor’s stubby body was nimble. He slipped through the doorway like the athletic gunrunner he once was. Frank caught up.

“You know better than to come here.” Gruhn did not look at him. “I’ve rebuilt my life. I’m completely out of the business.”

“I don’t have time to leave messages and hope you’ll phone back. I need to talk to the Italian, your old boss—Tiberius DeLoreto.”

Frank had been around so long he knew something the new generation of arms merchants did not—that Georgetown’s renowned terrorism expert, Professor Rudi Gruhn, had once been DeLoreto’s protégé, as close as a favored son. Even in those days Rudi had been smart, which told Frank he would have done everything possible to keep tabs on the dangerous and vindictive DeLoreto.

“If I tell you,” Rudi Gruhn said, “I never want to see you again.”

“Done. Talk.”

When they were finished, Frank said, “I’m impressed with the way you’ve turned your life around, Rudi. But if you tell anyone about this, you
will
see me again.”

As Frank headed back across campus, his new cell phone vibrated against his hip. He grabbed it and felt an electric surge of excitement—Ben’s voice was on the line.

“This is a conference call, Frank,” Ben announced. “The shipment’s going to a highly ambitious and dangerous new terrorist network called the Majlis al-Sha’b. . . .”

Outside Herndon, Virginia

Something wet and cool nudged Elaine’s arm. She shoved it away. It was back immediately, pushing harder. Her eyes snapped open. Bright sunlight sliced through the window glass on either side of the heavy damask curtain. For a moment she did not know where she was. Then Houri butted her arm again, ran to the door, and was back, giving the arm an even harder prod.

She leaped out of bed, still dressed. “Jay!”

“Jesus, Elaine. Keep your voice down.” His warning sounded clearly through the wall.

The house’s silence seemed to throb with threat. Elaine slammed her feet into socks and tennis shoes and checked the clock. It was noon. She snatched her shoulder bag and rushed into the hall, pulling a brush through her hair. Jay’s back was disappearing downstairs. He had his Browning in one hand and was slinging his backpack onto his shoulder with the other. She dumped the brush into her bag and pulled out her Walther. Then she ran.

Ben Kuhnert was waiting at the bottom, looking up, his golden skin flushed. He was covered with dust. “I just got here. Company’s coming.” His black eyes glinted with anger.

As Jay landed and she followed, Ben backed up, pulling Houri by the collar. Panting, Houri twisted from side to side. He released her, and she ran around the room and into the kitchen.

“Who is it?” Jay asked.

“Don’t know yet.”

“No one drove in?” Jay showed only his usual neutral expression but radiated a heightened alertness. He looked rested, as if he’d had twice the five hours she figured. His short hair was combed, the dark circles under his eyes had vanished, and the athletic slouch had returned to his shoulders. His beard was a gray mat.

Ben shook his head. “I’m assuming they’re arriving on foot because they don’t want to warn us. Too late. We’re warned. I’ve got things to tell you. We’ll do it fast.” He held up the front page of
The Washington Post
.

Elaine inhaled sharply. There was the same CIA mug shot that had been on the TV news last night. The headline gave her indigestion:

Ben tossed the newspaper onto a sheet-draped sofa. “I put the license plates from my old station wagon on the Jag last night after you went to bed. That’ll help. I’ve called the others, and they’re making progress. Seems both the GyroBirds and StarDusts have been stolen, plus Palmer and Elijah found out about three other products that are missing, too.”

“Any direct connection to Jerry and Mr. G?” Jay wanted to know.

“They’re still investigating, but I’ve got a big-ticket item for you—the identity of the buyers. Let’s move, and I’ll tell you.” Ben hurried into the kitchen. Houri was waiting. “I’ve locked the house and turned on the alarm system, but that won’t be enough to stop our visitors if they’re who we think they are.” He opened the pantry and took out a dog’s halter. Straps hung from both sides. “The buyer is a group called the Majlis al-Sha’b. In English, it’s People’s Assembly. Think of it as a terrorist U.N. and military mall combined.”

Elaine swore. “A ‘military mall’?”

“It’s as bad as it sounds.” As Ben described the group, he hunched down, and Houri stepped into the halter. “Most are jihadist czars, but the rest are leaders of political extremists like the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia, which is connected as hell, as you know.” He stood up.

“With their funding and diversity,” Jay said worriedly, “they could create an arc of crisis from Marrakesh and Bangladesh to Paris and New York. I hope like hell the shipment hasn’t changed hands yet. What did your source say about that?”

“He didn’t know the exact time, but he says it’s going to be sometime tonight.” Ben took sunglasses from a drawer and used a slipknot to tie them to Houri’s halter. “This shipment is supposedly so big and deep it’ll launch
them.” He unhooked the pager on his hip and attached it to the other side of her halter.

Houri’s ears were raised and alert. She gave a soft woof.

“I know, girl,” he told her. “I’m hurrying.” He grabbed a large white handkerchief and an adhesive bandage impregnated with antibiotics. He looked at Jay. “He told me something else. A ghost from the past’s involved—Faisal al-Hadi.”

A shadow seemed to pass over the spymaster’s face. “What about alHadi?”

“Al-Hadi approached my source to invite his group to join the Majlis last year. My source refused, but he kept in touch.”

Houri lifted her muzzle and growled.

“She says they’ve arrived. No more time.” Ben rushed to the sink and grabbed a thin-bladed filleting knife.

Frowning, Jay hurried toward him. “Ben, what are you—” He looked at the bandage then down at Houri, who hovered beside Ben, and nodded to himself. “Go ahead. I understand. Good plan.”

There was a second’s hesitation. Ben pushed his jacket sleeve up over his elbow.

“Ben!” Elaine ran to his other side. “Don’t!”

Jay pulled her close and held her. “It’s necessary.”

Ben’s jaw tightened, and he sliced the top of his arm. Blood poured.

Jay released her and used the handkerchief to soak up the blood, then pressed it against the wound to slow the bleeding. “Put on the bandage, Elaine. Do it quickly.”

The cut was narrow and livid. As she taped the bandage, Ben handed her the garage key. At the same time, Jay crouched. Houri licked his cheek, and he fastened the bloody cloth into another of the harness’s straps. Blood dripped to the linoleum.

“What’s most critical is finding Raina.” Ben rolled his sleeve over the bandage. “So Houri and I will be your diversion. Get moving. Both of you. My girl and I have work to do.”

“Ben, we’re grateful,” Elaine said softly. “Good-bye.”

As the older man nodded, Jay said simply, “Thanks, Ben.”

They exchanged a long look that crossed continents and decades, their ages showing clearly in their seamed faces and thinning hair. And then it was gone.

Jay stuck out his hand.

Ben ignored it. He pulled Jay close and thumped his back. “Good luck. If I never said thanks for everything, it’s only because I’m shy.” As Houri loped to the door, he snagged a lightweight dog coat from a hat hook. It was the same color as the amber animal. “We’re going to keep them very busy as long as possible to give both of you a good start.” He fastened the coat over the harness, hiding it. He stood up and put on sunglasses that were identical to the ones he had fastened to the harness. “Go!
Bismillah!
” He pulled out his Browning.

“He’s right, Elaine. Where to?”

There was a lump in her throat. “This way.”

She ran down the short hall, Jay at her heels. As they crossed the living room to the other side of the house and through Ben’s office, she described Ben’s hidden escape route and what both must do.

“Got it.” He pushed past her and opened the glass door onto a stone walkway, a gray ribbon through the sun-splashed lawn. It led all of the way around the big main house to the two cottages. Some twenty feet distant were woodlands, lush with ferns and blue wildflowers. He surveyed cautiously and stepped outdoors.

Gun in hand, she followed. Suddenly a gunshot sounded from the driveway, and a second responded.

“Don’t think about it,” he ordered. “The best thing we can do is get the hell away so Ben and Houri can, too.”

She nodded, and they ran toward the garages.

The noontime sun pulsed over Ben Kuhnert’s compound. The air smelled combustible, of dust and promised heat. In quick succession, two more bullets slammed into the stone corner of the cottage where Ben hunched, Houri behind him. He ducked as shards of stone exploded. By allowing his attackers to think they had him pinned, he had figured out where they were, and how many—six.

One was at the corner of the main house near the kitchen. One was positioned between two sycamores on the driveway just before it entered the woods, to stop anyone’s leaving. One darted along the driveway’s low hedge, trying to close up on the far corner of the cottage where Ben was. Two were across the drive, nearly opposite him, at either side of that cottage. And the last was also across the drive, skirting the trees toward the main house where his office was located.

“That should be enough time,” Ben muttered to himself.

He reached behind and patted the dog, then he made his hand into a fist and rotated his wrist, telling her they were shifting to signals. She butted the fist with her nose in acknowledgment. He pointed and closed his thumb and forefinger, indicating which plan they would follow, although he knew she already realized it from the way he had loaded her harness.

He dropped flat and rolled out around the cottage and rose up a few inches. He squeezed off two bullets in quick succession at the man who was the greatest threat to Jay and Elaine.