Blood Covenent, page 43
“Bold words,” Abassi mocked. “You are not death,” smiled Abassi.
Harper brought the Glock to eye level and took up the slack on the trigger.
“Do you wish to die today?” Abassi taunted, “True, you might kill me, but they will tear you apart before your friends have a chance to finish their killing. Therefore, we both die. Are you so certain of your personal destiny?” Abassi spread his hands as if to embrace death, Harper, or both.
Harper swung abruptly to the bodyguard not masked by Abassi’s body and fired twice before dropping behind the Range Rover. Hayes took out the other bodyguard.
Abassi remained standing. He looked behind his shoulder at the fresh corpses. There were replacements.
“You have a black soul. Do you now end my life as well?”
They agreed on one thing. He did have a black soul. He never spoke as he fired again, aiming for the top of Abassi’s turban where there was some air above the hair. The Turban popped off Abassi’s scalp and unraveled in the wind. The smirk slowly died on the Mullah’s lips.
Harper realized he would enjoy killing the Mullah. He fought the urge to lower his point of aim and paint another orifice between his eyes. For this moment, hewas death. The reaper was not opening his arms for him. Instead, the reaper was urging to give into his temptation.
Shoot!
Death was an old acquaintance. Harper strained in his stance. His eyes glistened and there was a communication between him and Mullah that transcended words. There, in those brief moments while life hung in the balance of a four-pound trigger pull and the terrible war raging in Harper’s soul, Abassi understood the seriousness of the man standing before him. Perhaps he was not ready for Paradise quite yet.
Shoot!
Somewhere in the haze, Harper remembered the terrible finality when he killedHarlequin. The hunt was over, the bombs secured. The fight ended and he did not wish to kill again. The blood lust boiling his rage and fueling his anger subsided when he realized he had finished the job. Killing was not necessary, and would not have been needed exceptHarlequin chose to attack. Hechose to attack. Mercy was a foreign concept.
Shoot!
Harper’s arms trembled. He hated this smug man standing here. He hated the death brought about by this ill-conceived assault on his country, and he hated the foolish policies that encouraged the likes of Abassi to think they could get away with their attacks on America. Harper understood in those moments he was not here to defend a corrupt administration and a do-nothing Congress, he was here to defend an idea. Because when it is all over, America is an idea calledfreedom, and freedom is a precious commodity. It is not cold-blooded murder.
Shoot!
“No,” he whispered, and lowered the Glock.
Abassi realized he was holding his breath and adrenalin was surging through his body.
“Remember my words, Mullah. Iam death and I will find you.” He strode past the Iranian down the goat track and towards the road. His ears listened for the slightest movement behind him. He would not hesitate a second time.
CHAPTER 41
Lake Forest, Illinois
Sunday, August 1, 1999
1:00 P.M. CDT
Harvey flipped the key in his hand. A slow smile emerged on his lips as he turned the lock and the cabin hatch slipped open. He saved the Bureau the expense of a stuffy competency hearing, and turned his badge in on Friday. He worked out a deal to ensure he got something from his retirement account and gleefully ignored their stern warnings. There was no farewell dinner. Disgraced agents are lucky to find they are not facing indictments and jail time.
Of course, Harvey did put his last week as an FBI agent to good use. He tracked downHarlequin ’s escape hatch, and he suspected he was on the trail leading towards a substantial pot of gold. He had spent the time since the last nuclear weapons were taken into custody working his way through the contents ofHarlequin’s pockets—keys and receipts.
He scrambled down the steps into theLady Slipper II and walked through the two staterooms and salon. Everything was neatly arranged and there was a sense of readiness about the yacht. The fuel tanks were topped off, and, according to a receipt, the fuel was purchased on July 20. The potable water tank was in similar shape. He checked the lockers in the galley and found a Remington 870 Special Purpose Marine Magnum. The shiny nickel-plated barrel was perfect for a boat. The corrosion-resistant barrel and synthetic stock were virtually impervious to moisture and salt deposits. It was the kind of weapon someone took along on a sea voyage if they expected trouble. In the middle of the Great Lakes, or further, 9-1-1 was just three meaningless numbers.
Harvey worked the shotgun’s action and detected the scent of Hoppe’s No. 9 solvent. He leaned forward to examine the rest of the locker and pulled out a couple boxes of three-inch magnum 00 buckshot shells. There was a gray silicon cloth and the brown tinted bottle with the yellow Hoppe’s label further back in the cabinet. He set the shotgun upright against the counter. The rubber butt plate at the end of the stock gripped the non-skid surface deck. Harvey arranged the ammunition boxes next to the sink.
He started going through the rest of the cabinets and found a plentiful supply of flour, sugar, canned meats, and vegetables. He checked the labels and found the freshness expiration date stretched into the next year. There were paper plates and plastic spoons, garbage bags and a variety of other supplies waiting to be used.
Next, he rifled through the salon. There, in a long flat drawer, he found the chart.Harlequin mapped a route through Lake Michigan and into Huron, then a second chart detailed the southern shoreline for Ontario. A number of spots were marked with red circles. Harvey sat back, staring at the chart. No dockage, no port—what was along the southern coast?
Going north through the Great Lakes made sense. It provided a relatively quick escape into the North Atlantic using the St. Lawrence Seaway. The prevailing winds would send any fallout east over Ohio, Michigan’s Lower Peninsula, or Indiana. Harvey could not conceive of a weather pattern capable of driving it north over his proposed route during the summer months. No wonderHarlequin gave up the St. Louis weapons to Harper;Harlequin never intended to use them. A last shot before bugging out?
Harvey found the safe without too much trouble in the master stateroom. While he had surrendered his badge on Friday, no one asked him for his paper credentials. He presumed they assumed it was in the same vinyl wallet where he carried his badge. What was in the wallet was a photocopy of the real thing. He had made the switch over a year ago after ending up in a pond up to his navel and ruining his ID. After he replaced his credentials, he kept the real set in his overnight bag. The Bureau’s pencil-pushers would figure it out sooner or later. Harvey decided it was not his problem.
The locksmith examined the paper credentials more carefully than most people, but he probably trafficked in less-than-savory types. Once he was satisfied, the safe in the master stateroom was popped in ten minutes. Harvey thanked him and paid him the hundred dollars in cash after getting a receipt. He explained he needed it for his expense account reimbursement. After the locksmith departed, Harvey tossed the receipt into the trash. The days of filling out overly complicated forms were over.
He pulled the Rossi .357 Magnum out of the safe and popped the cylinder open. Six nickel-plated rounds hung in the cylinder. Each had a Federal Arms head stamp on the cartridge base. He flipped the gun over and dropped the rounds into his hand. The nasty hollow points with slanted channels carved into the edges of the bullet’s cavity and an even nastier post rising up from the center looked up at him. He hefted the rounds in his hand and figured they were 158-grains each. Federal always loaded its stuff hot.Harlequin wanted to make sure no one got too close to his secrets. A wisp of Hoppe’s No. 9 and the sheen of gun oil greeted his senses.Harlequin prepared this weapon for the journey as well. He pocketed the shells and tossed the empty revolver on the bed.
Eagerly, Harvey reached into the safe. He pulled out an open box of shells. He slid the plastic tray out of the cardboard carton and counted six empties. He set the ammo on the vanity. Eleven packets of bills came out next. It came to ten thousand dollars in American hundred-, fifty-, and twenty-dollar denominations, and another ten thousand in the same denominations of Canadian money. The last packet was a binder of fifty-one hundred-pound notes. There was close to twenty-three thousand dollars using the current exchange rates!
Harvey lingered on the money. He thumbed through the bounded stacks, breathing their aroma. Money has a scent unique to itself, and lots of money simply magnifies the effect. He closed his eyes, a chuckle rumbling through his throat, and then Harvey popped open his eyes and stopped. This was play money forHarlequin . He had transferred thirty thousand dollars to the debit account at First Chicago. This was just to get somewhere else.
Reverently, Harvey stacked the money on the vanity. Play money or not, twenty-three thousand dollars was a tidy chunk of change. He tapped it again to make sure it was real, before he returned his attention to the safe. The days of alimony and tuition payments were quickly slipping away. There was a sealed yellow envelope with a wire clasp. He opened the clasp and watched as two safe deposit keys dropped into his hand, followed by a signature document and account numbers. Harvey stared at the two keys: one was chrome and the other was a dull golden tone. He picked them up and realized the bank name was not inscribed on the keys—probably a security precaution. Two keys suggested two banks, and two banks suggested an even tidier amount.
The documents identified the account numbers and bank addresses. The first was to a bank in Toronto, and the second was a bank in the Caribbean. Harvey’s fingers trembled. He had found part of the mother lode!Harlequin never put a great deal of money in a single place; instead, he behaved like a crazed squirrel preparing for the once-in-a-century winter. It would be a treasure hunt!
He perused the passports. They were excellent forgeries. Harvey had examined all manner of false documents working counter-intelligence, and these were the best money could buy. He guessed they came out of Austria, Germany, or Switzerland. The photographs did not even show the same man. Harvey remembered the makeup kit they found in New York and he turned to the vanity. After a short examination, he found the wigs, powder, and photographs of the peopleHarlequin intended to emulate.
Harvey went back to the salon and examined the chart.Harlequin had marked the waypoints and estimated sailing times, and jotted down notes in the margins. It was a perfect escape plan. Once launched into the lake, he was free of airport surveillance, bus stations, and trains. The massive security net and subsequent publication of his face and description were negated by the fact he was sailing away isolated on a boat. By the timeHarlequin reached shore, he would be an entirely different person. The trail would grow cold, and he could simply vanish behind the anonymity money could purchase.
The problem with all his calculations was that they didn’t take into account running afoul of Harper. All this money and planning might lead to the people behindHarlequin. Certainly, those people should be stopped, but whom could he tell?
Feldman had weaseled himself back into the Director’s good graces. At the end of the day, the Bureau was a good-old-boys club and Feldman might as well be a charter member. The Director needed a sacrifice for a number of Senators and Representatives privy to the nuclear detonations in Connecticut and off Bloodworth Island. Harvey made it easy for them. His resignation coupled with his cowboy style provided the needed deniability for the Bureau. A report written by the FBI Director, the Attorney General, the White House Chief of Staff, and the National Security Advisor cobbled fact and fiction together in a pleasing and somewhat misleading manner.
The National Security Advisor did not want to hear about suitcase bombs anymore, or even pursue the scant leadsHarlequin left. The administration was comfortable letting the incident sink beneath the headlines of school shootings and Welfare reform.
The State Department had quietly issued stern warnings to the obvious front line terrorist states like Iraq, Sudan, Libya, Iran, and North Korea explaining the United States would hold their countries liable for any terrorism or mass destruction perpetrated on American soil. It amazed Harvey that it had taken this long for such warnings to be issued.
The Joint Chiefs and the strategic commands did not want anyone else to kill. The rumors circulating inside the Beltway about a Peace Enforcement Mission to East Timor—a vital United States interest—further stretched strained logistic commands. The annihilation of a real enemy, and the elimination a potent threat, did not seem part of the military mission anymore. They were far too busy being peacekeepers, peacemakers, and peace enforcers. Harvey always thought the purpose of war was to break things and kill people, but such sentiments were probably politically incorrect in the new military.
Louis Edwards had quietly receded into the shadows he inhabited. The phone numbers he had for Edwards were inoperable, and Harper seemed to be swallowed in the same grayness. If anyone planned to do something, it would be Edwards. Harvey doubted he could get sanctions for such a mission. He considered Harper for a moment longer and nodded knowingly to himself. Harper was Edwards’ not-so-tame wolf. Was the wolf loose again? God help his victim. The more Harvey considered Louis Edwards, the more certain he became in his knowledge that things would not be left hanging.
Perhaps he was lying to himself. Self-deception was nothing new to Harvey. He had messed up his marriage and his family. TheJob became a suffocating presence in his life, and his wife decided to make the choice easier for him. He had nothing to return to. What does a disgraced, unemployed special agent do?
Follow the money.
Harvey gathered things together in the master stateroom. He changed into some blue jeans, an I DON’T DIAL 911 T-shirt, and some flip-flop sandals, and started back up the stair to the bridge. He had a service ticket for work performed on theLady Slipper II. He sported a boony hat as he settled down behind the helm. He made sure he understood all the controls. An hour later Harvey cast off the mooring lines and turned the twin Volvo diesels over.
The 502 horsepower engines rumbled up through the superstructure with a comforting roar. It was time to leave Chicago, West Yellowstone, the Bureau, and Feldman behind. He wondered what they would garnish once the alimony payments came to an end. Somehow, Harvey figured his ex-wife’s lawyers would find something he had forgotten.
TheLady Slipper II moved slowly though the marina and out past the NO WAKE buoys. He gave the yacht some gas and headed into the solitude and anonymity of Lake Michigan. It was a Sunday afternoon and all manner of sailboats, motor launches, jet skis, and fishing boats were bobbing like glimmering multicolored balls. He continued to move away from the shore, and the noise of the close-in vessels. The land receded like a phantom in the blue gray haze. Harvey decided it would be a good life.
CHAPTER 42
Libyan Desert
Tuesday, November 16, 1999
The entourage traveled across the shimmering desert sands towards a rocky canyon. Inside the camp was a stand of gray-green French army surplus tents. There was a small radio mast in the center, and armed sentries watching what passed for a road. In reality, it was little more than a wide footpath. A small well was bracketed by two scraggly looking date palms. There was a line of jeeps parked along one end of the camp away from the firing range. The four-by-four posts with plywood sheets stood before a sand berm. The posts and plywood were pockmarked with ragged bullet holes, and the sand was littered with dark green Chinese and Russian spent shell casings.
The camp was located in the Al JufrahBaladïyah. A safe province far from the cooling Mediterranean Sea breezes and deadly strike forces embodied in the British Special Air Service and American Navy SEAL Teams. It was a little less than three hundred kilometers from the Gulf of Sidra, and a little more than seventy-five kilometers south of Waddān. Waddān was the only major town in Al Jufrah. Other camps lay secure in the vast wilderness provided by Libya’s interiorBaladïyah’s of Ajdābiyā, Surt, and Tubruq.
The caravan of three black Mercedes snaked across the desert floor. They too had weapons and guards. The man sitting in the rear seat of the middle Mercedes considered the possibilities of the day. The heavy curl of Cuban smoke wafting from his cigar filled the rear compartment with a blue haze. A wet bar was generously stocked with Kentucky bourbons, German beers, and French wines. Marxist thought and Islamic fanaticism served his purposes when they were convenient. He removed his tinted glasses to more closely examine one of his most precious secrets.
He had spent the money and his man Aswad gladly took delivery of the goods from the fat arms dealer in Beirut. The possibilities were quite endless. He had acquired so many adversaries during his reign: America, Egypt, Chad, Israel, and England. Now he possessed the means to exact a severe and singular revenge. The question was how to use it.
Mohmmar Qadaffi chose to wear his startling white robes in place of the colonel’s uniform with the gold braided shoulder boards and meaningless chevrons denoting nothing more than Qadaffi’s self aggrandizement. He chose the Bedouin robes of his youth, harking back to his belief that he was chosen leader for a Pan-Islamic revolution destined to sweep the European and American strutting peacocks from history’s stage.
Qadaffi came to power during a pre-emptive coup, not only against the self-proclaimed King Idris I of Libya, but also against a group of senior officers plotting a similar fate for the twenty-year-old Idris dynasty. Qadaffi emerged as the winner at the age of twenty-seven, and thirty years later he ruled one of the few remaining terrorist frontline states.
Anwar Sadat decided to make peace with Menachem Begin at Camp David and ruined Egypt’s leadership in the Arab World. Qadaffi watched Gamel Abdel Nassar’s dream of an Arab league collapse in a sea of gushing optimism and American dollars. Jimmy Carter took a practical and cynical approach to peace. He purchased the good graces of Egypt and Israel with billions in annual American aid.
