by Fritz Galt
The Wrong Man
Complete International Thriller Box Set
Fritz Galt
Also by Fritz Galt
Mick Pierce Spy Thriller Series
Double Cross
Thunder in Formosa
Geneva Seduction
Fatal Sting
Brad West Spy Thriller Series
Destiny of the Dragon
Mind Control
The Shangri-la Code
International Thrillers
The Trap
China Gate
The Accidental Assassin
Patient Zero
Comoros Moon (short stories)
International Mysteries
The Maltese Cross
The Canton Connection
Chasing the Tiger
Other Novels
Summerville
Lost Cutlass
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The Wrong Man
Complete International Thriller Box Set
© Copyright 2018 by Fritz Galt
All Rights Reserved.
No part of these books may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the authors.
All characters in these books are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue and opinions expressed are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Nothing is intended or should be interpreted as expressing or representing the views of any U.S. government department or agency of any government body.
The Wrong Man
Complete International Thriller Box Set
Table of Contents
Book 1 The Accidental Assassin
Book 2 China Gate
Book 3 The Trap
About the Author
Book One
The Accidental Assassin
Chapter 1
Dean Wells stepped out of his hotel in Aleppo, shaded his eyes and looked up and down the street. The two-lane thoroughfare was choked with pedestrians, motorbikes and cars competing for space with food stalls and stopped delivery trucks.
It was Sunday. And in Syria, that meant a workday.
“A taxicab, Mr. Dean?” the hotel doorman asked. “Perhaps to your food club?”
Dean smiled and shook his head. “La mamnuun.” No thanks.
He had work to do: U.S. Government work.
He took a deep breath and waded into the busy sidewalk. Women hidden in burqas picked through local produce. Children squealed and ran freely. He ducked under an awning and slid between hunks of mutton and camel meat that buzzed with flies.
At the top of the hill, he stopped and looked beyond the bustle of Aleppo, the cultural and culinary capital of northern Syria. Nut and fruit orchards stretched as far as he could see. If only the rest of the Middle East were as peaceful and prosperous.
He was already sweating through his business suit. How could women survive in those black, all-concealing robes? Not so long ago, women in Syria wore white, open-faced headscarves. It was unnerving how a wave of fundamentalism had swept over the Middle East.
A car swerved around a stopped van, jumped the curb and came straight at him.
He found the bookshop he wanted and stepped through the doorway just as the car wedged with a metallic shriek between the building and a juice stand.
Oranges and pomegranates rolled across the street and steam rose from the engine of the car. Despite the loss of property, no one seemed hurt.
It was cool inside the shop. The neatly aligned books all had Arabic titles. He translated a few titles in his mind. They were sacred Koranic texts.
The small shop was empty except for a chubby man standing at a counter stacking up Syrian pounds. The denominations were large; the value was small.
Dean approached him directly. Was this his contact? He studied the white hair, the broad features, the heavy gold ring. Palestinians lived all over the Middle East, from Syria to the Gulf States. Was this the Palestinian middleman for the militant he wanted to meet?
“I have some items for Abdul Aziz,” Dean said, referring to the militant by name. He wouldn’t open his attaché case in public, but it contained tens of thousands of dollars and two student visas to America for Abdul Aziz’s daughters.
The man kept counting the money.
Dean glanced around the shop. It was the kind of business that didn’t attract much foot traffic. Outside, an argument was heating up between the food stall operator and the driver.
Dean started to repeat his message concerning his items for Abdul Aziz when a shot rang out at the doorway. The dispute was getting ugly.
The bullet zinged into the shop and the owner hit the deck.
Dean ducked between bookcases.
Who were they shooting at?
Syria was becoming a dangerous place. Not so many years ago, he had spent leisurely summers in Damascus watching passers-by and sipping Turkish coffee. There were no angry words spoken on the crowded streets. Now, people had short tempers and seemed on edge.
The street came to a standstill. The shop’s air, with moldy paper and musty leather bindings, had a new smell. Gun smoke.
The incident was interfering with his mission.
The bookshop owner began to gasp on the floor. It was not the sound of exasperation.
Footsteps on the sidewalk receded into the hum of the city. Maybe one of the ubiquitous plainclothesmen was chasing the gunman.
Dean rose to his feet and looked over the counter. He was surprised to see blood spurting from the bookshop owner’s chest. The man’s lungs had collapsed and he writhed in pain.
“Good God,” Dean said, and knelt to help him. “I thought you had al-Qaeda protection.”
The man winced and nodded.
Dean had to keep him alive long enough to answer some vital questions. He pressed a palm over the wound in the center of the man’s chest. Blood bubbled up between his fingers.
“Who will deal with me?” Dean whispered.
A bundle of yellowed pages fell from the man’s hand and fluttered to the floor. Dean squinted at the familiar-looking script, handwritten characters punctuated with curious dots. It was an ancient Hebrew text.
He had no time to read the words, but could appreciate the time and effort it had taken to create the manuscript.
He wasn’t there for an ancient manuscript, yet here it was, close to the blood that spurted from the man’s chest.
“This is a symbol of our good faith,” the man said in a fading voice.
Dean pressed a second hand over the wound. It felt sticky and warm.
“Read the first page,” the man said with closed eyes. “There you will find Aziz.”
The man rolled his eyes toward Dean with a jerky motion.
“Only you can bring us peace.”
Then the man’s face relaxed. The blood stopped flowing. He was dead.
Footsteps were returning. Dean had little time to react. He wiped his hands on the man’s shirt, gathered the pages and stuffed them into his attaché case. Then he headed for the back door.
A moment later, he slipped into an alleyway and quickly put distance between him and the shop. With luck, no one could place him at the scene.
He had to get the parchmen
t to Washington for analysis. It would reveal where he could meet Abdul Aziz, the Palestinian militant. But it would take several days to get the coppery smell of blood and the bookstore owner’s imploring look out of his mind.
Chapter 2
Northern Virginia in April was as beautiful as anywhere in America.
Carla Martino approached the front gate of the Central Intelligence Agency and took in the white, pink and purple blossoming trees. She opened her convertible roof and let her chestnut hair fly in the breeze. April might be the cruelest month, but it was also the most spectacular.
Her job as a clinical psychologist for the CIA was a professional challenge that she welcomed. It satisfied her patriotic side, having grown up a scrappy Army brat, and exercised her empathetic qualities that soaked up the wide range of personalities she found there.
Once past security, she made her way to her third-floor office. Ron McAdam, her boss, was chewing on a fingernail with a mug of coffee in the other hand.
“Follow me,” he said. “We have a security situation.”
“Is this an April Fool’s joke?”
“I wish.”
Moments later, they strode across the lawn toward the Security building. She had a cup of coffee in one hand with a briefcase in the other. “What’s going on?”
She was more accustomed to routine psychological tests and the occasional spot check around the headquarters. Rarely was she summoned away from the Mental Health Unit so abruptly.
Ron sneezed, nearly spilling his coffee. He wiped his runny eyes. “You’ll find out when we get there.”
Inside Security, the receptionist directed them to the elevators. Carla preferred to get some exercise. “C’mon,” she said, and headed for the staircase.
She took the four flights at a steady pace. But at the top, her heart was pounding. She wasn’t wheezing, but Ron was.
“Can’t handle the exertion?” she said.
He shook his head. “It’s the tree pollen.”
She wasn’t the fittest person in the world, given her hearty appetite and long work hours, but she was able to exercise on the paths of her beloved Falls Church without worrying about an allergy attack.
They were greeted by Matt Nelson, a large man with a serious look on his face. As head of Personnel Security, he was responsible for the trustworthiness and capability and the operationally safe environments of CIA employees. Clearly something was bothering him.
Matt directed them to sit down and handed them a photograph. “Know this guy?”
Carla took the grainy image. It showed a square-shouldered man with nicely combed blond hair, kind blue eyes and a neat blue suit. “Can’t say I do.” She handed it over to her boss.
Ron snatched the photo and stared at it. “Sure, I know him. Been in the agency as long as I have. Name is Dean, ah, let me think, Walsh, or something like that.”
“Close,” Matt said. “Dean Wells. Works undercover at the State Department. He’s a Near East specialist and speaks fluent Arabic.”
Carla looked at the handsome face with its wooden expression. “He does look like a State Department stiff.”
“He played the part well, until yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?” she asked.
“Murder.” Matt pointed to the photo. “That picture appeared this morning in Al Ba’ath, Syria’s national newspaper. The article described a shooting in Aleppo. A bookstore owner was gunned down in public. And a number of witnesses identified our man.”
“Where is he now?” Carla asked, imagining him in a Damascus dungeon.
“He managed to escape from Syria before the police closed in. He’s due to arrive at Dulles…about now.”
Carla and Ron exchanged glances. Criminal investigations weren’t their bailiwick.
“Sounds like a matter for Security,” Ron said. “Maybe this was part of an undercover operation. What do you need us for?”
Matt took the picture, put on reading glasses to study it, then set it on his desk. “I need you because our man claims he didn’t do it.”
“Of course he’d deny it to the Syrians,” Ron said.
“He’s telling us he didn’t do it. Claims it’s a case of mistaken identity.”
“I’ll buy that,” Carla said.
“Then how could five witnesses claim they saw him do it?”
Ron’s eyes shifted to Carla. She stared at the photo on the desk. This was her specialty: personality disorders. Matt was right to have alerted her to the problem. It could be a simple case of trying to get away with murder, which could be easily resolved with a polygraph test. Or perhaps he was set up, which the FBI could uncover. Or maybe it was a case of something deeper, some sort of denial, which only she could diagnose.
Ron rose to his feet. “Do you have his security file?”
Matt slid a thick folder across the table. Ron scooped it up and ceremoniously handed it to Carla.
“Here you go,” he said. “Meet Dean Wells.”
Chapter 3
From the Security office, Carla called the Near East area office and set up a meeting with Dean Wells in one of her examination rooms. Then she settled in to read Dean’s security file.
An hour later, she headed back to the Mental Health Unit. As part of the support staff at the CIA, Carla and Ron’s department had no analytical or operational duties. They surveyed and interviewed employees to help maintain a happy, productive workforce. They used tests common in the business world to assess job satisfaction, workload, job stress and relationships between management and employees.
Carla’s particular expertise in clinical psychology gave her the added responsibility of assessing individual cases. She could shove off many cases to the staff psychiatrists who could order up drugs, psychoanalysis and other therapies necessary to get the employee on the road to recovery. But several cases required further study of the individual’s background, the work environment and any deep-seated neuroses or psychoses that might underlie the problem.
She employed a small staff of clinicians who could administer a battery of tests on subjects and two part-time researchers who did the legwork necessary to interview relatives, colleagues and other acquaintances.
It was standard stuff in a corporate or university setting. Diagnosing spooks was another story.
She turned the corner and stopped at her receptionist’s desk. With a dark, stoic face, the woman indicated that someone was waiting in one of the examination rooms. Carla tried to read her eyes. They usually told her all she needed to know: “head case,” “ego trip,” “sicko.” This morning, she picked up something like “dream boat.”
Her receptionist handed her the file that had come up from Personnel. “He’s in Room 1,” she said, and gave Carla a wink.
Carla was mystified and slightly annoyed. “I have only doctor-patient relationships.”
Which was true of all her relationships. Not only had she never become involved with a patient before, she had never become involved with anyone. Growing up in a military family meant moving from one stateside base to another. That left a trail of broken friendships, half-hearted emotions and a tendency to be drawn to people with crew cuts.
Her hard-driving approach to doctoral studies at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville had left her little time for men. Her daily work routine severely curtailed a social life. And as a member of the staff, she was, according to the standards of her profession, not to fool around with her patients, who she regarded as colleagues.
She knew better than to get personally involved with her cases, and would certainly steer clear of a potential murderer.
She had spent the past hour reading an account of the crime translated from Arabic by the embassy in Damascus. For most, the shooting in a crowded market would make fairly dull reading. The motive could have been as mundane as a robbery or as lurid as a love triangle. But the article gave no details and she was left to assume that any explanation was possible.
However, the case inv
olved an American operating undercover, perhaps even on a mission. What were the odds of there being no connection between the mission and the murder?
She glanced briefly through Dean’s personnel file as she leaned a shoulder against the door marked “Room 1.” A thumbnail sketch of his career showed a Master’s degree in Middle Eastern Studies at Harvard, training at Camp Perry, a string of State Department assignments, mostly in the Near East, followed by lengthy descriptions of some of the operational details, which she skipped over. His rank and pay had climbed steadily over the years, indicating a stable career. Then she came to the part of the file that she dreaded most to read. She hated when families were involved: a shocked wife, stunned children.
There was no problem. “Marital status: Single.”
She sighed with relief and opened the door to the examination room.
The room was nothing like a medical examination room. The patient didn’t sit in a gown on the edge of an examination table. Instead, he stood in a blue business suit near the oak coffee table and thumbed through a copy of the latest National Geographic. It was interesting that someone so steeped in foreign cultures could still find something of interest in that magazine.
He turned and dropped the magazine when she entered. The first things she noticed were his blue eyes. They had the wisdom of a sea captain and the shining youth of a schoolboy.
“Did you know,” he asked, “that any carbon dioxide we emit remains in the atmosphere for thousands of years?”
She didn’t know how to take the question, but played it like a schoolteacher. “That’s very interesting.” She extended a hand and offered a warm, if patronizing, smile.
His touch was soft and supple. He gave her a keenly observant, but friendly looking over.
She took the opportunity to do the same to him. His large hand enveloped hers. Likewise, his head seemed oversized. His light-colored hair was swept over his temples in a vain sort of way. Like most outgoing men, he seemed easy to read.
