Under Siege (26 page)

“What else? What’s his pattern? New town. Contacts?”

“We know he used al Qaeda once, maybe twice,” Stroh said. “I’ll check with the local law and see what they know about the bunch. This place is big enough. There could be a local cell.”

Murdock nodded and used his Motorola. “All hands report to my cabin, right now,” Murdock said.

The fifteen men hurried in. Jaybird was the last one.

“The kid was climbing the outside of the hotel naked, so he had to crawl inside and get dressed before he could come,” Senior Chief Neal said. A bunch of hoo-oooh agreed.

“Badri made another money demand, accompanied with a threat, if he doesn’t get confirmation within twenty-four hours, that he’ll chop off the First Lady’s right hand.” Murdock said. “We’ve got to find this bastard. He must be in a hotel. DeWitt and Gardner, take the men and split up
the hotel section of the telephone directory and start canvassing them. Dig into everyone you can find and ask about three Arabs and a white woman. Hopefully, they’ll stand out and be remembered. Go.”

The men filed out into DeWitt’s room, and began to work. Murdock looked at Stroh, who was on the phone.

“Three? Why haven’t you done something about them?” Stroh listened and grunted twice. “Give me the names and the addresses. We’re facing a serious disaster unless we find these people in a rush.” He wrote on a scratch pad on the telephone table. “Yes, I understand. We’ll be making a survey, a peaceful inquiry of some kind. If we need you, we’ll give you a call.”

Stroh put down the phone and looked at Murdock. “He said the cop I should talk to is on holiday. They got the names of al Qaeda members here a couple of weeks ago from a computer search of an international roster. Sloppy of al Qaeda. Some LEA put it together in Britain.”

“So why are the cells just sitting here and not doing anything? Can’t the cops take them down?”

“This police captain said the Arabs involved haven’t done anything illegal. It’s not against the law to belong to al Qaeda or any other organization.”

“Let’s go pay them a visit.” Murdock went to the door and looked in the hall. Two SEALs in their tan civilian clothes were heading for the stairs.

“Mahanani, Tate. On me. You’ve got a new assignment. Both of you have your Glocks?” the men nodded. He took the sheet of paper Stroh had worked on. “We’re going visiting, trying to make new people in town feel welcome.”

“You got addresses?” Mahanani asked.

“Three. If we’re lucky somebody might be home.” He looked at the CIA man. “Stroh, you with us?”

“Why not? You look short-handed.”

“We can always call in the reserves. You have any teeth?”

Stroh patted his waist. “Nice little .32 with an eight-round bite. When do we leave?”

They took the new rental Murdock had arranged. It was smaller and four people filled it. The first address was a business firm halfway across town. They found it after a fifteen-minute search along one of the main shopping streets. It was a curio and antique shop featuring art, glass, and metal products from Asian and Arab countries. Murdock took Tate into the store and left the other two in the car.

Murdock and Tate both wore civilian floppy hats to conceal their white side give-away haircuts. Murdock approached a clerk.

“I’d like to talk to the manager.”

“What about?” the male in his thirties and all Arab, asked. “Maybe I can help you.”

“No, this involves a rather large purchase. I need to see the owner or manager.” Murdock saw there were no other customers in the small store.

The Arab frowned. “I really shouldn’t disturb him.”

“Take me to him and I’m sure he’ll be glad you did.”

The clerk took a deep breath. “Follow me,” he said.

Murdock waved to Tate. “Lock the front door,” he whispered. Tate nodded.

Murdock followed the clerk to a back storage room, then to a small office. One man sat inside at a desk. Murdock pushed the clerk inside and drew his automatic.

The manager looked up in alarm. He had been working on a computer, which he tried to shut down.

“Don’t touch it,” Murdock said. “Move over to the wall.” He looked at the screen. It was filled with Arabic writing.

The two Arabs scowled at Murdock and whispered to each other.

“No talking,” Murdock snapped. “We know you’re a cell for al Qaeda. Your shop is understocked and the goods overpriced. How many members do you have?”

“I am a merchant. I try to make a living. I don’t know what this al Qaeda is.”

“You’re lying,” Murdock said. He looked at Tate, who had now joined them. “Keep them here. I’ll look around the rest of the operation.”

He did, but found only two more rooms. One was outfitted as an apartment and it was evidently where the men lived. Murdock went back to the office. Tate had tied the hands and feet of the two Arabs, who now sat on the floor. He was checking out a filing cabinet and the desk. He shook his head.

“I can’t find anything that looks like al Qaeda material. No list of targets, members, anything like that.”

“Maybe they’re inactive. Keep them here for eight hours. If you don’t hear from me on their telephone, let them go and get back to the hotel by taxi. I don’t want them to warn any other Arabs in town that a search is underway.”

Outside, Murdock shook his head and walked back to the car. He turned to the back seat. “Now, mister CIA big shot. Where is the next possible al Qaeda address on your list?”

Badri paced up and down the hotel room. He glanced at Mrs. Hardesty now and then, but didn’t say anything. She was watching a ballet on television. He snorted. Ballet was a pile of nonsense. Bad acting, ridiculous convoluted dancing, and music that was strident and not even pleasing to listen to.

He jerked his thumb at his two men. “Pack up, we’re getting out of here. We’ve stayed in this hotel too long. They could be checking.”

“Where to?” one of the soldiers asked.

“I have an old friend in Durban. I looked him up before we left home. He’s still here and I have his address. He’s the leader of the only real active al Qaeda cell in town. Mrs. President and I and the money will 20 in our rented
car. You wait a half-hour then you two come in a cab. I’ll give you the address. It should be interesting, talking to a man I haven’t seen or worked with in almost ten years.”

“What if I won’t go with you?” Eleanor Hardesty asked.

“Simple. I’ll knock you out, tie you up in a sheet, and take you out the side door and into the car. No one will notice. You want that?”

The First Lady felt a wave of anger and fear. He would do just what he said he would. “No, I think I can manage to walk to the car.” She stared at him hard. “You really mean that about cutting off my right hand, or was that a bluff?”

“Did I bluff about your finger?”

“But a whole hand. I couldn’t write or type or use the computer except with one hand. I would have a hard time dressing myself. How would I cut up a nice juicy steak?”

“Yes, so many problems. I’m sure the president will think of all those things when he decides to send the money. Don’t worry, he’ll send it and you’ll save your precious hand. Now get up, we’re moving. I’ll carry both the bags. You try to run or contact anyone and I’ll drop one bag and shoot you dead before you move two steps. Do you fully understand how precarious your life is right now?”

“I understand.”

It took Badri a half-hour to drive to the outskirts of town and then find the quiet street with the stand-alone house. He had put the two bags of money in the car’s trunk and locked it. He paused at the curb and watched the house. It was supposed to be the real power in most of South Africa for al Qaeda. He hoped it was still active and could help protect him. For the past hour he had felt strange, like something bad was going to happen. He had tried to shake it off, but it kept coming back. The move to this house, where he would be among friends and countrymen, should help. He took Mrs. Hardesty’s arm and guided her up the walk to the front door. His knock brought a slow opening of the door an inch and a dark eye that stared out at them.

“I’ve come to see my countrymen,” Badri said in Arabic.

“I don’t know you, go away.”

Badri put his foot against the door so it wouldn’t close. “I come with good news from groups all over the world.” It was the universal words that were known by all al Qaeda members everywhere. It was supposed to open doors and to make you instant friends.

“Who is the woman? She is not one of us.”

“Actually she is my prisoner, and I need help controlling her. I can pay for our keep. We are in a difficult situation for the next twenty-four hours.”

“You can pay?”

Badri took six of the one hundred dollar bills from his pocket and pushed them through the opening. They were grabbed immediately and pulled out of his hand. A moment later the door opened and an Arab with a full black beard and dark eyes stared at them.

“Does Fathi Alsunar still work with you?”

The man’s face broke into a smile. “You know of the great Fathi? Yes, he is our leader. We do many good works for Islam. Come in, come in.”

The house was South African, but had been tempered with Arabic pictures, a wall hanging, and oriental rugs on the floor. The smell of incense filled the room. Two men sat at a low table near a fireplace. One stood. The other remained seated, smoking a long-stemmed pipe that ended in a water bowl. Badri stared at the seated man. The others watched.

“Fathi?” Badri asked.

The man looked up, his eyes heavy, his movements languid. Then his face brightened. “Badri, you son of a bastard camel. What are you doing in my town?” He spoke in Arabic and Badri responded in that language.

“Working. Working for the good of Allah and Iran and the faith of Islam.”

“You always were a shithead, Badri.” He stared at the First Lady. “And who is your American friend?”

“Just a friend I’m keeping safe from her people. Can you help me?”

“Never let it be said that Fathi has turned away a fellow Arab in trouble or who needs help.” He waved one hand and two men who had been standing near him relaxed and removed hands from under loose-fitting shirts. Probably moving hands off pistols, Badri thought.

“Sit, my friend, sit, and we will eat and drink and remember the good times in Tehran. What was it, ten years ago?”

“At least, old friend,” Badri said.

“First, the payment. We need another six hundred American dollars to let you stay here.”

“That’s reasonable. I hope to be gone tomorrow by noon. Until then I feel the need of my own people and sanctuary.” He took a roll of bills from his pocket and was peeling off six when a rough hand hit his wrist and he dropped the roll that had three thousand dollars in it. The money fell to the table where Fathi picked it up and nodded.

“Yes, just about right. We know who the American lady is. We read the paper and watch the TV news. A valuable hostage, the wife of the president of the most powerful nation in the world. We didn’t know it was you who kidnapped her. Now we wonder where you have the rest of these brand new American hundred dollar bills.”

A man grabbed Badri from behind and lifted the automatic pistol from his waistband. Fathi smiled.

“Now, old friend, Badri, who lied about me back home and drove me out of the country, we’ll see just how good a friend you are. Where is the ransom money?”

“I radioed them this morning. They are to deliver it tomorrow at the airport. Why are you doing this?”

“You lied about me years ago.” Fathi shook his head. “Now you don’t even remember.” He stared hard at Badri. “I promised myself I would gouge your eyes out if I ever saw you again. Now I have compassion. You aren’t worth it. I’ll simply have you shot and dumped in the garbage.

Your friend is another matter. She is a meal ticket. She can be a source of income for years. We can ask for ransom every month. Get fifty million a month for her. The president will pay. He’s a compassionate man. We’ll have the finances to work again. It’s been difficult to get any money since Osama passed on. As for you, Badri, you think small. It’s good that you came to us. Now all I have to do is decide which of my men will have the honor of killing you.”

When Murdock eased into the car on the street outside the Arab store, he asked Stroh over the Motorola where the next al Qaeda cell was.

Mahanani had the answer.

“We’ve been kicking that around, LC. There’s a close one. and one way across town. The one here is on the outskirts but closer, so we figured you’d want to go to it rather than wasting time.”

“You’ve got the city map, tell me how to get there.”

“Okay. Right down this street for about a mile, maybe more, then take Imperial Avenue.”

“We’re moving. That last location was a bust. Nobody knew anything and we didn’t find any hint of al Qaeda. Tate is baby-sitting them so they don’t warn anyone else that we might be calling.”

Murdock used the Motorola.

“DeWitt, are you in range?”

“Barely, Commander, but I copy.”

“Good. I’m feeling naked out here. Gather up five more men and meet us on Imperial Avenue. I’m really feeling naked. Bring along three MP-5s. We might need them. Just a hunch.”

“I’ve got four men here. Will stop by the hotel and pick up the long ones. Out.”

“How far do we go out on Imperial?” Murdock asked.

“Looks like about ten blocks,” Mahanani said. “We can
stop near the end and lead DeWitt on the Motorola to where we’re waiting.”

Later Murdock worked it that way. The two SEALs met outside the cars and talked, then got back in and Mahanani directed Murdock to the right street. They found the address.

In the daylight the only way they could go up to the house was in the open. The house looked freshly painted. The lawn had been recently mowed and trimmed. It looked like a pleasant suburban house. Murdock looked at his helpers.

“Stroh, you get baptized on this one. You’re with me. We walk up to the house and take the soft, gentle route. You at least have a suit on. That won’t scare them. You know what to ask.”

The two men left the car two houses down and walked up to the two-story brown and white house. Murdock knocked on the door and stepped back, leaving the talking to Stroh. After a respectable time, they heard the door open.