The Toymaker (31 page)

The carefully selected parking space was seldom used since it was located at the far end of the lot next to a metal garbage drum. He rifled through the articles disposing of everything that connected him to the past week. He opened the trunk and pulled out another backpack with all new credentials. He cleaned and bandaged his shoulder. It was a flesh wound and hadn’t bled much. He threw everything old in the garbage drum, doused it with lighter fluid he’d stored in the trunk, and set the contents of the drum ablaze.

Arlo Delgado ceased to exist. He was now Esteban Menendez, astronomer at Planetario de Pamplona—the Pamplona Planetarium—on his way to Madrid to catch a flight to the United States to attend an astronomy conference in Manhattan.

A backup plan…always have a backup plan.

† † †

Fuerte de Socoa

Saint-Jean-de-Luz, France

Exhausting was underestimating the intensity of the nine-mile swim to shore. It was grueling, backbreaking punishment. Fortunately, the incoming tide, large swells, and strong winds pushed them toward shore at a much faster pace than Jake expected. Kaplan had fallen behind a few times but Jake knew Kaplan’s Special Forces mindset wouldn’t allow him to quit. The water was cold and each time Kaplan lagged behind, he complained of the shivers. Jake mimicked a drill sergeant and Kaplan would snap out of it and start swimming at a faster pace.

Twice he thought he saw fishing boats heading out for a day of fishing, neither close enough to get a visual on the two men in the water. He’d tried using the remaining flares to grab their attention but they were duds. He’d been able to launch one flare before he and Kaplan jumped in the water but that was hours ago. Because of the roughness of the water, Jake imagined only the crustiest old salts would brave the brutal Cantabrian Sea.

It was daylight now and the sky was bright although a high overcast layer obscured the sun. The wind and tide were taking them well east of San Sebastian. At first he’d resisted but he knew the two of them couldn’t overcome the current and wind so he allowed it to take them where it wanted. And where it wanted, he found out, was nearly thirty kilometers east of San Sebastian on the French shores of Saint-Jean-de-Luz.

Jake guessed they were about one kilometer from shore when he noticed the breakwaters protecting the small town. Waves slammed against the stone walls sending plumes of water skyward, at times nearly ten meters high, jetting up and over the walls. Fortunately, he thought, the current would place them west of the breakwaters at the foot of a stone building that resembled an ancient fort.

They were close, maybe forty meters from shore when Kaplan let go of his flotation cushion and swam ahead. “Jake. We made it.”

At the same time, Jake felt his feet hit a rocky bottom. “Gregg, wait.” He yelled.

A ten-foot wave swelled behind Jake, allowing him to ride the wave on his cushion like a body board shooting him past Kaplan by ten meters.

The same wave picked up Kaplan, spun him sideways and crashed him into the rocky bottom.

Jake stood in knee-high water. He looked back as Kaplan surfaced. Blood streamed down his face, a gash across the top of his forehead.

“I’m okay.” Kaplan stammered.

Another wave, a more powerful wave, picked Kaplan up and hurled him into the tiered rock bottom.

“Gregg.” Jake shouted. He took two steps forward when he caught a glimpse of Kaplan’s life vest then it disappeared. Until the sea released its grip, Kaplan would remain under water.

Jake waded through the sea foam, reaching his hand into the water, grasping for any part of Kaplan. In his peripheral vision he saw another wave coming. His hand latched onto something, Kaplan’s life vest. He grabbed it and ducked underwater allowing the wave to hammer over the top of him. He held on tight as the water dragged him and an unconscious Kaplan along the bottom.

As the water receded, he grabbed Kaplan’s vest and pulled him toward shore—dry land only a few meters away—when another, smaller wave broke and pushed them closer. Jake fell on his haunches and felt the sharp rock dig into his leg. Adrenaline numbed the pain. He rose to his feet and leaned into his efforts to drag Kaplan to shore. Two feet of water, five meters to go.

He heard it before he saw it. Another mammoth wave bearing down across the rocky bottom with its sight set on them. Water rapidly receded underneath his feet as the wave sucked in as much as it could before spewing it out. With a thunderous crash the wave broke two meters in front of him. He pulled hard dragging Kaplan toward dry land. He stepped in a hole and fell. The wave cascaded over him driving Kaplan over him like a bulldozer through a pile of dirt.

His whole body ached. He was bruised and scraped. He stood, grabbed Kaplan’s vest and pulled him up the rocky slope. For the first time, he noticed the unnatural position of Kaplan’s leg.

He rolled Kaplan to his side and checked for breathing.

Kaplan coughed up water. “My leg. My leg.”

“Your leg’s broken. It looks bad.” Jake said. “You got a good-sized knot on your head too.”

“But we made it, right?”

“Yeah, buddy. We made it.” Jake looked around. “I don’t know where we are, but we made it. You stay here while I go get help.”

“I’m sure as hell not going anyplace.”

Jake looked at Kaplan’s leg. “Right.”

CHAPTER 63

J
AKE SAT ACROSS the hospital café table from Lieutenant Travers Heuse of France’s GIGN. The same man he’d met days before in Paris, wearing the same blue jeans, the same tweed jacket and with another smelly cigarette dangling from his lips while he spoke.

“So Khan got away?” Heuse asked.

“He did.”

“Any idea where he’s going this time?”

“No.”

“This is getting to be like a bad habit. Me sitting with you after you let Khan get away…yet again.”

“I don’t like it either.” Jake stared at the inch-long ash dangling from the end of Heuse’s cigarette, waiting for gravity to pull it loose. “I’d like to go check on Gregg.”

“He’s still in surgery. They must put a temporary pin in his knee.” Heuse pulled the cigarette from his mouth, tapped the long ash loose, letting it fall to the floor. “The break was not good. The doctor said Monsieur Kaplan will limp when he walks. The rocks are treacherous in the heavy surf, no?”

“It was just the highlight of a nine mile swim.”

 After he’d left Kaplan on the rocks, he’d climbed the sloping cliffs then scaled the rock wall surrounding the fort. Within minutes of locating a staff member, there were a dozen or more people lining up to rescue the crippled Kaplan from the rocky beach. Then they were transported to the hospital in Biarritz where he was treated for minor abrasions and a sprained ankle.

Kaplan wasn’t so lucky. He’d suffered a concussion, three broken fingers on his left hand, and his left leg was broken at the knee. When Jake pulled him from the water, Kaplan’s left leg made a twenty-degree bend at the knee in the wrong direction, out to the side. Jake knew months of physical therapy and rehabilitation lay ahead for Kaplan.

“Monsieur, you have been most troubling for the French government. Might I suggest you leave France and not return for a long while.”

“And he’ll be happy to oblige you, Lieutenant.” Jake recognized the voice. DCI Scott Bentley. “As soon as Gregg is released, we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Admiral, Sir.” Jake stood to his feet, and then he remembered Bentley’s orders about protocol—or rather the lack of it—and discretion. Jake motioned with his hand. “Director Bentley, Lieutenant Travers Heuse.” Why is Bentley always showing up unannounced?

Heuse looked nervous. He obviously knew who Bentley was from their dealings over the Paris debacle, but face-to-face with one of the most powerful men in the world, Heuse looked intimidated. Jake fought back a smile.

“Director?” Heuse said. “To what do I owe the privilege?”

Bentley ignored him. “Jake, go to Kaplan’s room and wait for me. I’d like to have a moment alone with Lieutenant Heuse.”

“Yes sir.”

† † †

The medics helped a sedated Kaplan into the CIA Challenger and prepped him for the flight to Washington, DC. One of Wiley’s two Citation 750s sat next to it on the ramp just west of the main passenger terminal at the small French airport.

“Where’s Mr. Wiley?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know for sure, but I suspect El Paso.” Bentley opened his leather portfolio briefcase and pulled out a large brown envelope. “He and I have a meeting tomorrow at The Greenbrier in West Virginia.”

Jake stared at the envelope barely listening what Bentley was saying. “The Greenbrier. The hotel with the bunker?”

“One and the same. Elmore said he's sending you to New York?”

“So I've been told.” Jake wondered if Bentley had information on Khan. The material he’d gotten from the redheaded woman named Francesca at Peine del Viento in San Sebastian was speculation but so far, Wiley had produced good intel. “New information on Khan?”

“No, Jake. I’m afraid not.” Bentley sidestepped. Jake could tell he was uncomfortable. “You can read this on the plane.” He held it out then pulled it back as Jake reached for it.

“What?”

“Listen, Jake. There are many things that have happened over the last few months that you thought was misfortune. But what’s in this envelope removes many doubts.” Bentley extended the envelope to Jake but held on to the end.

Jake’s stomach tightened.

“You’re going to be enraged. Now, more than ever, you’ll need to focus. You must control your emotions. I think Wiley has done a great job with you. He says he’s done nothing, but I see a difference.” Bentley pointed toward the Challenger. “And so does Gregg. I don’t know why you dumped Gregg in San Sebastian. I don’t want to know. I suspected you struck out after Khan on your own. But obviously you had some other motive. What’s in this envelope isn’t about Khan, it’s about you.”

Bentley went silent.

He surmised the director was letting the words sink in…and they had. “What about me?”

“This is your past, your present, and might very well shape your future. It depends on what you do with it. How you handle it.”

“Sir, you make it sound terrible.”

“Jake, the contents of this envelope will enrage every cell in your body.” Bentley let go of the envelope.

CHAPTER 64

I
AN COLLINS CHECKED on the woman. She’d been drugged since they arrived at his villa on Ios. Same drug he’d used on the cheerleader in Dallas eight months ago. Same drug he’d used many times. It’s greatest benefit; it kept her quiet and compliant.

He was setting a trap. A trap for a man he despised. The man who had remained just out of his reach. The man who’d ruined his life and his livelihood. His hatred consumed him. He could not rest until the man met the same demise as his parents.

He kept the woman in the basement of a two level building located at the highest point in the small harbor town. Down there she would never be heard. Eventually he would move her to another location, someplace a little more obscure. He could never be too careful.

By now, the man would know. The anger must be welling up inside him. He would be blinded by it. He would be able to think of only one thing. The same thing that had driven Collins for so long.

Revenge.

Collins had baited the hook. It wouldn’t be long now, a few days at the most and the man would come looking for him. Looking to kill him. Blinded by hatred. And that would be his downfall. And in some sick way, Collins would be sad, for the man had proven to be a most formidable opponent. And even though they’d only squared off once, the man had gotten the upper hand and won the round. The match wasn’t over yet, though.

No. The next round, the final round would be his victory.

The trap was set and waiting, and soon the man would walk into it.

Soon, Jake Pendleton would be dead.

† † †

Esteban Menendez checked into Manhattan's plush Excelsior Hotel, the site of the astronomer’s conference to be held over the next two days. The highlight was the Hayden Planetarium inside the American Museum of Natural History, which was directly across the street. His tenth floor hotel room offered him a bird’s eye view of the museum. He had no intention of attending the conference. He planned to strike fast—then disappear.

He checked his watch, 8:00 p.m., one hour until his contact would pick him up at the hotel entrance. He unpacked, putting his things away in the drawers, closet, and the bathroom. He wanted to give the appearance he had settled in for several nights.

It was his first time back in the United States in fifteen years, ever since he switched his allegiance to Islam and worked his way through the ranks of Al Qaeda. It shouldn’t have been so easy to get into the inner circle of the terrorist organization, but it was. He’d successfully planned many attacks throughout the world and, though not his fault, had paid dearly for the unsuccessful ones.

This would be his final mission. All preparations were made and this attack was a lone
wolf attack, the hardest for the infidel to defend against. His only problem, he didn’t want to die. He knew from his brush with death at sea. Now, more than ever, he wanted to live.

This attack would happen. Al Qaeda would get its rightful credit and all appearances would be Hashim Khan died in the most atrocious act of suicide bombing the country had ever witnessed. Khan would fake his death and disappear. Disappear without a trace. Not the CIA. Not Al Qaeda. No one would find him.

Ever.

He’d been planning this attack for more than a year. No better place to get lost in a crowd than New York City. One more name change. One more identity alteration. One last temporary disguise. He’d arranged everything in advance, without stepping one foot in the country. His new credentials, all U.S. were sitting in a safety deposit box at a bank in Midtown Manhattan. He had the key to the box. For the right price, anything could be moved without fear of exposure. It’s all about whom you know and how well you pay. Mostly, how well you pay.