The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  He worked his way through makeup and wardrobe with purpose. He took his job seriously, just as he managed the team at Governor Hunter Bradley’s mansion.

  If anything, he took the Academy Awards even more seriously. Should anything happen at the show, not only would the California economy go down the toilet, so too would his career.

  He felt like the little Dutch boy with a finger in every leak. One unplugged hole in the defenses, and the entire dam would give way. The enemy, whoever they might be, would not get lucky on his watch.

  He fought off a perverse curiosity as he walked past starlets stuffing themselves into bras, and perspiring stage managers reading off lists of names. The same hysteria took over the set each year, and it always surprised him what barely contained chaos it all was. He certainly couldn’t operate that way.

  He walked past world-renowned stars with their Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences handlers, who did need identification badges. Those about to perform an act were having their wardrobe and makeup adjusted in small cubicles while they waited nervously for their number to come up.

  Many celebrities who were taking part in the introductions also had to be seated in the audience during certain times since they were also nominees for awards. The whole process of nominating, awarding and receiving seemed incestuous to him. And it was logistical hell for a floor manager.

  But for the head of security, the place was a snake pit of potential disasters of a magnitude far greater than any single actress’ career.

  And then his phone beeped.

  He picked it up. “Fulham,” he said.

  There was a long pause on the other end, with miles of static separating him from his caller.

  “Speak up,” he barked. “I can’t hear you.”

  “This is Osama. We have men positioned to destroy your Academy Awards.”

  “Who is this?” Brett double-checked, unsure he had heard correctly. He stepped back against a wall in a darkened corner of the dressing area.

  “This is Osama bin Laden,” the soft, heavily accented voice said. “I want you to release top al-Qaeda leaders in captivity and also release Saddam Hussein or the Oscars will evaporate in a cloud of radioactivity.”

  “Is this a threat? Because if it is, mister, you are subject to federal prosecution.”

  “I already have three outstanding warrants for my arrest,” the caller responded calmly. “Now don’t give out another award until you have released my men from Guantánamo and released Saddam from captivity, or your show will evaporate in the blink of an eye.”

  The phone line went dead.

  Brett cursed. He speed-dialed his office on the premises. “I want you to trace that call. Did you record it?”

  “We’re tracing it right now,” his lieutenant said. “And we have it on tape.”

  Brett stepped out of the shadows. The lurid backstage lights revealed popular movie stars with ugly expressions. It was a show onto itself. But he couldn’t dwell on that. The surreal comedy backstage and polished production on stage were destined to become a nuclear bomb busting drama the likes of which had never before been broadcast to the American home.

  He dialed his strategic consultant on the police task force and told him the story.

  “What should we do, Matt?” he asked.

  Without much deliberation, Matt replied, “Don’t let anything stop the show. If we give in to these guys, they win.”

  “I’ll get back to you.” He called his Hispanic operational commander who was in direct contact with all the units and explained bin Laden’s threat.

  “I need time to scout out what elements he has in place,” Hernandez said. “All evidence to the contrary, we should proceed with the show.”

  “Well, I want every badge checked, every suspicious object examined and every locked door opened. And I want it yesterday.”

  Brett took a deep breath and dialed the Governor’s Mansion in Sacramento.

  The assistant told him to wait.

  While he stood hunched over with the cell phone squashed against one ear and a finger plugging his other ear, Brett heard the beep of call waiting.

  He switched over to his other line. It was his office communications team.

  “We traced the call, sir. It appears to have come from western Pakistan.”

  “My God. Can you get the FBI to verify the voice print?”

  “They’re already on their way over here. But we’re pretty sure that’s where the call originated.”

  “Good work. Thank you.”

  Damn. He spent the next two minutes frantically running out of the building and through the cool night air to his operations center before a calm voice came over the line, “This is Governor Hunter Bradley.”

  “This is Fulham. I’m shitting bricks right now. I just got a terrorist threat. My office traced it to western Pakistan. He said he was Osama bin Laden.”

  “My, aren’t you playing with the big boys,” the governor said from his mansion.

  “I’d rather not. I couldn’t tell if it was him or not. The FBI is verifying that. But in the meantime, we have to assume that the call was real.”

  “I agree. And what was the specific threat?”

  “Something about releasing al-Qaeda prisoners from Guantánamo and Saddam from captivity, otherwise he’ll blow up the awards ceremony with a nuclear bomb.”

  He could hear the governor sucking in his breath.

  “There’s more, sir. He told us not to give out another award until the prisoners were released.”

  “Damn him. He’s holding our ceremony hostage.”

  “Not to mention several thousand guests, among them Hollywood’s elite. What should I do, sir?”

  The governor was decisive. “Inform the Academy that we have to suspend the ceremony for unspecified reasons until further notice.”

  “Will they buy that?”

  “Are they willing to suffer the consequences? On the other hand, if this prolongs the show, just think of all the ad time this will give them.”

  Brett shook his head.

  “About the prisoners,” the governor went on. “I’ll call the White House at once.”

  Brett let his phone hand drop momentarily as the governor hung up. His phone dangling by his side, he looked up at the illuminated edifice to the glory of American cinema. Where was the bomb planted? Above…outside…inside?

  His arm throbbed as he gripped the phone. Every muscle in his body was tense.

  At last he studied his phone and speed-dialed the Academy’s president.

  “This is Captain Brett Fulham at Security. I have bad news for you….”

  Chapter 7

  Sean dragged his weary body out of the fetid harbor in Haikou, just moments before the launch rammed into the pier behind him. Sean was already hoofing it down the street when the skipper managed to jump ashore.

  He had to find somewhere in the sprawling capital city to disappear. Then he’d be on his way to Beijing.

  Pounding in his bare feet and dripping clothes across a four-lane, Sean found himself weaving in and out of shoppers along a palm-lined boulevard fronted by shabbily maintained office buildings and stores. The skipper’s shoes slapped on the sidewalk just half a block behind him.

  Sean found a side street and turned down it, his heart pumping, and his legs stretching out for speed. He streaked past hair salons bathed in pink lighting. Fruit vendors beckoned to him with mangos, sugar cane stalks and green coconuts.

  He zigzagged down several lanes, squeezed between the ever-tightening walls of Portuguese-style buildings. He dodged between palms. Maybe he could hide from view. But the skipper managed to keep up, perhaps following the shocked onlookers that Sean left in his wake.

  He needed more cover. He was too exposed on the city streets, and the shops were far too small to melt into.

  Then he saw a familiar sight, a wooden gateway standing squarely over the entrance of a public garden. He veered into its quiet confines, apparently designed
around a tomb. Several arched bridges later, he found himself behind the artificial cliff of a rock garden created to resemble a canyon.

  The sound of footsteps had stopped. He heard only the faint voices of couples strolling through the shaded park. Perhaps the skipper was waiting for him to reemerge from the park. Sean checked out his options. Aside from ponds, bridges, tree trunks and shrubs, the garden offered little in the way of long-term cover.

  He glanced down the rockery, with the razor-sharp edges on every rock face. If he were careful, he might be able to climb the thing and boost himself over the garden wall.

  If only he had shoes…

  His feet were already burning from the run along the pavement. He had nearly stumbled and fallen over sharp pebbles. Now he had to rest his weight on a couple of toes that gripped spiky rocks.

  Either he endured the pain, or he would give himself up to al-Qaeda. It was his choice.

  He left behind droplets of blood as he scaled the cliff, bracing his feet against the faces of the opposing sides. It was a daunting fifteen-foot climb, and each toehold magnified the pain of the preceding step. He had to lean on his hands to distribute his weight. His palms took on the indentations of the uneven surface.

  A small boy looked up from ten feet below.

  “Go on, kid. Scoot.”

  The little guy watched his upward progress without comment. Then he kicked off is sandals and prepared to follow.

  “Shoo,” Sean said with a vigorous gesture. “Go away.”

  The boy’s small nose crinkled up. Then he broke into tears, turned and ran away.

  “Sorry, kid.”

  At last he reached the crest, a flat surface that was flush with the top of the garden wall. He scrambled to look over the edge.

  An alleyway followed the outer contour of the park. An open kitchen faced him, a woman stirring dumplings in a steaming vat on the back step of her apartment. The alley was barely wide enough for two people to stand abreast, no more. The woman was alone and preoccupied.

  He lowered himself from the top of the wall, his hands slipping on the rounded tile surface.

  He could hold on no longer and aimed his feet to land squarely in the center of the alley. The moment he struck the paved surface, he bent to a squat, trying to absorb the impact with his knees.

  His soles exploded with white-hot pain.

  He squeezed his eyes shut for ten seconds and tried to will the pain to transform into the opposite sensation, pure pleasure. For a moment it worked. It felt like his feet were gliding down an icy glacier, leaving steam in their trail.

  He opened his eyes and straightened up. Only the woman noticed him. She didn’t seem startled to see him suddenly materialize, as she poured cold water over her steaming broth.

  It was time to blend in. He brushed off his sleeves and chose a direction in which to head. A sunny street lay one way, and the garden wall curved off in the other.

  He chose the street.

  Sunlight was filtering through the traffic of a commercial district. As people bumped against him on the sidewalk, he noticed that his clothes were no longer wet.

  The old town behind him, he was among businessmen ambling off to their favorite lunch places.

  Then he saw a hotel with a massive marble façade and a honeycomb pattern of windows. Taxis pulled in and out, ferrying fashionably dressed men and women.

  He could blend in there. He hobbled to the entrance, careful for his feet not to leave a trail of blood on the marble.

  Inside, he saw a cloud of blue cigarette smoke. The more, the better. He merged into the smokescreen.

  The reception desk appeared by the staircase. Could he bluff his way into checking into a room? He could leave the next day without paying his bill.

  Just then, a matronly woman in a pink silk jacket with tooth-shaped buttons approached him. She was stout, with a round white face that seemed primed for conversation.

  “Are you looking for a girl?”

  Just then he caught sight of the skipper in his distinctive white uniform drawing up short on the sidewalk.

  “Yes, a girl would be fine.”

  “Please take a seat,” the woman said, escorting him to the lobby’s bustling coffee shop. He joined the groups of men in business suits with loosened collars slurping down bowls of soup. Too bad he had ditched his sport coat in the harbor. He no longer fit in with the swank crowd.

  The matron offered him a plush chair. It was so sooty, he didn’t want to touch it.

  Young women had been circulating through the coffee shop. They now gravitated toward him.

  The matron lined them up in a row of seven beauties, their individual expressions calculated to appeal to different tastes in companionship.

  The front door opened behind him, and he heard the familiar slap of shoes on the hard floor.

  He had to make a quick decision. He pointed to the one with the shy smile.

  “Nine hundred yuan,” the matron said.

  It was not the time to bargain, but nine hundred yuan was outrageous and demanded a counter offer.

  “If I like her, I will pay you three hundred.”

  The woman considered for a moment.

  “Two hours for five hundred.”

  Sean forced a smile. “Hou le,” he said. Very well.

  The women giggled at his Chinese and dispersed, all except the shy one.

  “I’ll swipe your credit card,” the matron said, her palm outstretched.

  The skipper was checking with the reception desk, probably asking if a foreigner had passed by or checked in. The ladies behind the counter seemed too busy counting money to deal with him.

  Dissatisfied, he turned back to the room.

  “Okay, here,” Sean said, sliding the wet billfold from his rear pocket. God, his fingers were scratched and sore. He handed the credit card over. “But I want that back.”

  “Okay, mister,” the matron said in a worn, threadbare way.

  Sean watched her leave with the card. How long would it take for the hotel to realize that the VISA card was worthless? With luck, they would merely copy the card and bill him later.

  The girl was trying to talk to him. “My name is Li Wei,” she said.

  He forced a smile and turned her by the shoulders to block the skipper’s view of him.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “I arrived here three weeks ago from Yunnan,” she said. “Do you want a tittie massage?”

  He considered various responses. If he offended her, he could lose his cover.

  The skipper was rapidly approaching the coffee shop.

  On the other hand, how could he impose himself on the poor girl? She couldn’t be a day over eighteen, if such legalities counted for much in the world of prostitution.

  In the end, he couldn’t afford to create a scene. He gave her a smile. “Sure, Li Wei. A massage would be fine.”

  “Psst.”

  Tudman Grier straightened his bow tie as the professional comedian’s voice whispered over his earpiece.

  “This is Steve.”

  Standing just off camera onstage at the Academy Awards, Tudman frowned. Steve didn’t need to either whisper or introduce himself, and he was interfering with his train of thought. He was just about to formally congratulate the singers that were reaching the climax of their number.

  “You’ve got to stall for time,” Steve said. “Don’t introduce the next celebrity to hand out an award.”

  Tudman checked the cue cards. He was supposed to introduce a neophyte starlet next.

  “I repeat, don’t introduce the next celebrity.”

  Tudman glanced around, confused. Then who should he introduce?

  The cue card man was giving him the cut sign, whatever that was supposed to mean. Still just off camera, Tudman gestured to the man who was prompting him. “What?”

  The man pointed to the teleprompter at the podium.

  Tudman stepped forward and forced an appreciative smile at the campy renditi
on of an old favorite that had been given new life by a new generation of musicians.

  The teleprompter read, “Cut to commercial.”

  Okay, he could handle that.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much,” Tudman told the audience, bowing in his best imitation of Goofy. “And now for a word from our sponsors.”

  A crescendo of blockbuster music rose in the auditorium and the stage went black for the commercial.

  Tudman held his index cards up to the light that emanated from the wings. There wasn’t supposed to be a commercial. There had just been a commercial.

  He waited for Steve to come over the earpiece and explain.

  Before anyone got their act together to inform him what was happening next, the spotlight turned on again. Tudman was live, onstage, without a script.

  The spotlight burned down on him as he stood behind the podium, and a red light illuminated above a close-up camera. The music died away and left the stage in silence.

  Tudman looked around, held his earpiece and stared at the camera. In his best Southern drawl, he quoted Ross Perot’s running mate. “Who am I and what am I doing here?”

  It got some laughs. But he was dating himself. He needed to come up with something the teens could relate to.

  “But must we always talk about sex.”

  A louder chorus of laughs—strained, nervous laughs.

  “That reminds me of a joke my grandmother used to tell…”

  He was dying out there. How long was he supposed to keep this up?

  Then Steve’s voice whispered in his ear. “Forget the grandmother. Tell them about the awards so far.”

  Tudman switched tactics and swung around to the right to face the audience from a different angle. He pointed to those seated to the far corner of the auditorium. “So, how do you like the show so far?”

  The audience in that area cheered.