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

by Fritz Galt

  “Then you just wait and see.”

  “I’m not waiting for anything,” he whispered harshly. “I gotta know now what the hell’s going on out there. We’ve got a timetable for another attack here, and the CIA is spinning its wheels.”

  “Do you still trust me?” Ferrar asked.

  “It’s getting harder by the day.”

  “I need someone in DC who trusts me.”

  Connors threw his free hand up. “You won’t find many of us left.”

  “Thanks. I knew I could count on you. I’ll call you later.”

  Connors turned and growled into the phone. “I’ve been through ten elections. I’ve been in DC longer than most Congressmen can imagine. I’ve worked my way up the ladder. You’re talking about ruining a twenty-year career here,”

  The sounds of a harbor had ceased at the other end. The line was dead.

  Connors looked around at his office. The entire staff was gaping at him. “So, what are you looking at?” he shot out.

  He relaxed his grip on the phone and set it softly in his receptionist’s hand.

  “You don’t have to pull out your résumés just yet.”

  A day and a half after Ferrar’s call to Connors, a smartly dressed British businessman with sandy-colored hair and wire-rimmed glasses sat on an Airbus reading an Eric Ambler suspense novel. The plane was just approaching Bahrain International Airport in the Persian Gulf.

  Ferrar closed the book, leaned back and reflected on the past thirty-six hours. From the Karachi port master, he had filed for public information and received it. The ship he had identified as bearing Pakistani bombs was bound for Bahrain and it would be arriving that day.

  That had presented him with his next dilemma. How could he slip through the notoriously tight Pakistani security screen and then avoid an international warrant for his arrest while entering Bahrain?

  He was fairly adept at disguise on his own, but he had needed a friend to create alias documents for him. He realized that forged documents were a very sensitive subject and not issued lightly, but fortunately he had a long-time friend, Gerald Higgins, at the British Deputy High Commission in Karachi who was willing to go out on a limb for him.

  Aside from the forged passport, a bigger problem was trying to get some visas for the region. Gerald had to use all his accrued wasta to procure a visa for Saudi Arabia, the nearest neighbor to Bahrain. The Saudis hassled anybody trying to enter their country, and quick twenty-four-hour service to obtain a visa offset all of Gerald’s stored up goodwill with the Saudis.

  “I’ll be heavily in their debt,” Gerald had reminded Ferrar. “I’ll have to perform a few favors of my own.”

  “And I owe you something, too,” Ferrar had replied, then walked out of the heavily-guarded British compound with his new identity and all the necessary credentials to pass in and out of the region.

  He felt the airplane bank in its descent, and a female flight attendant started dutifully reciting a passage from the Koran over the cabin speaker.

  Looking out his window in the first-class section of his Pakistan International Airlines flight, Ferrar was struck by how verdant the island of Bahrain looked in the hot, noonday sun. In a region made up of deserts, Bahrain seemed mostly oases, with mantles of lush date groves, agriculture using desalinated water, and abundant spring-fed vegetation. Perhaps it really was the Garden of Eden as some historians postulated.

  No bigger than thirty miles from north to south and ten miles from east to west, the relatively flat piece of land didn’t look like the economic powerhouse that it was. Rich in oil, the nation had leveraged its wealth in the 1980s with savvy investments, education and generous laws favoring banking institutions.

  It had become the Switzerland of the Gulf, and a highly unlikely destination for Pakistani arms.

  From the air, he noticed that the airport was adjacent to a container port, and a ship not unlike the one leaving Karachi thirty-six hours before was already berthed. In addition to the normal port facilities, a strange system of trolleys hanging from cables delivered bauxite minerals from a local smelter to the cargo port.

  The plane descended low over the water and approached the landing strip. He could make out various military vehicles stationed at regular intervals around the perimeter of the airport.

  If they were after him, he needed to collect on the last of Congressman Connors’ debit to him.

  He took the air phone from the armrest of his plush seat and dialed an anonymous number in London, followed by a number in Washington.

  It was standard operating procedure for the CIA to use an electronic cloaking service that masked the caller and receiver’s location, but he had rarely used it in his career.

  Connors’ groggy voice answered, “Who is this?”

  “Sorry to wake you, old chap.”

  “Who is this?” Connors repeated, this time more suspicious.

  “You know bloody well who this is.”

  “Okay, Ferrar. Drop the phony accent.”

  Ferrar turned serious, but retained the accent. “You’ve got to contact the Agency. Call off the bloodhounds that are after me, and I’ll give you a piece of news that might end this al-Qaeda crisis.”

  The plane was dropping steadily, a minute before landing.

  “Will you do this for me?” Ferrar asked urgently. “For our country?”

  “Okay, what’s the news?”

  It was time to talk. “Yesterday, I watched a ship leave Karachi, Pakistan, steaming for Bahrain. It was carrying bombs from Pakistan.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Pakistan was in the business of exporting arms.”

  “That’s not the only thing that makes this case unusual. You mentioned a timetable for an attack on the homeland. And I’m sure you’ve been given classified intelligence that it’s al-Qaeda.”

  Connors grunted in the affirmative.

  “Can you put two and two together?”

  He heard Connors suck in his breath. It was common knowledge that Pakistan possessed a dangerous stockpile of weapons, including nuclear weapons, not to mention that China helped them build bombs and rockets.

  Connors came back slowly, “Pakistan in possession of ‘The Bomb’ is a scary enough concept, but the specter of them shipping such weapons of mass destruction to some even less stable country or group is positively chilling.”

  “Try this on for size: they’re shipping it to bloody al-Qaeda.”

  “Holy Mother of God.”

  “Now don’t tell this to the Agency until I call you and let you know I’m free. First, I need proof that they’ve called off the chase for me. Then and only then will I contact you and you can divulge this information. I hate to do things this way, but otherwise they won’t believe me.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m landing in Bahrain as we speak, and the place is surrounded by security.”

  “Okay, Bahrain.”

  “Now, call off the dogs. At once.”

  Checking out his window, he could make out that the vehicles surrounding the airport were Army Jeeps. Either the war against terrorism had brought all countries to a state of extremely high alert, or his anonymity had been compromised and his destination ascertained.

  If the Bahrain military captured him, the CIA station in Bahrain would be all over him at once. Not only were they going to nail him for the Tora Bora massacre, but worse, his lack of credibility being what it was, they might not buy his story of dangerous weapons leaking out of the region.

  If Connors could get through to the CIA and they would drop their security blanket promptly and in some verifiable way, Ferrar would be free to trace the bomb shipment.

  If Connors couldn’t get through…

  The flight attendant walked down the aisle for the final check.

  He could use a stiff drink.

  “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said. “Is Duty Free still open?”

  “For our First-Class passengers,” she replied. “What would you like
?”

  “A bottle of Bombay Gin would hit the spot,” he said, relieved that she could still take his order. He handed her a roll of rupees.

  She smiled. “I’ll have it waiting for you as you deplane.”

  After a dry country like Pakistan, he could use a drink into a reasonably moderate Muslim country like Bahrain.

  They landed with a thud and taxied all the way to the end of the runway. There they came to a halt, spun abruptly and headed back for the terminal building, a white outpost in the searing midday heat.

  Several prop planes sat in a dusty tie-down area. Alongside the terminal, the only other aircraft in sight was refueling. It was a late-model Gulfstream V, perhaps Bahrain’s presidential airplane.

  Along the concrete fence surrounding the perimeter of the airport, the Jeeps began heading away in puffs of dust. When the Pakistan International Airline flight finally came to a halt, the only vehicle remaining was a loading ramp truck on the tarmac. It rolled up to the plane to help the passengers alight.

  Ferrar stepped out into bright sunlight and an oppressive wave of heat. After Afghanistan, he liked the heat.

  He felt someone shove an object into his ribs and looked down. The flight attendant was handing him a bag with his gin in it.

  “I’m so very grateful,” he enunciated with his most precious British accent.

  His only luggage was a canvas carryon, and his only clothes were a well-tailored blue business suit. He looked like one of the many bankers who flew in and out of Bahrain on quick stopovers to conceal their profits in offshore banks, or to collect cash from offshore investments.

  His British passport read “Henry Swinden,” and his embarkation card read “Hyatt Hotel.” With nothing to claim, he was soon walking through a sliding glass door into the airport lobby.

  He exited the relative cool of the terminal and stepped up to the taxi waiting line. There, a uniformed man carefully sized up his appearance and stature. For a moment, Ferrar wondered if the man were part of the country’s tight security apparatus. Then the man turned abruptly and ordered a slick new Mercedes to pull out of the line of waiting Nissans and other Japanese imports.

  “Hyatt Hotel in Manama, if you please,” Ferrar told the driver in his best imitation of a British business tycoon.

  He handed the attendant a tip, consisting of his remaining Pakistani rupees, and climbed into the air-conditioned cab.

  The driver, a man in Arab headgear and reflective sunglasses, eased the Mercedes away from the curb.

  “Turn off the air con,” Ferrar requested, and rolled down his window.

  December was mild and slightly wet in Bahrain, but nothing like the cold dampness of Peshawar. The breeze felt pleasant as they drove, and Ferrar relaxed even more.

  Office buildings in Bahrain were clearly not like the high-rises of Dubai. They were relatively low to the ground and sedate, though trimmed with gold.

  Many people seemed to live in family compounds. High above the three-story, gray walls, palm trees emerged from central courtyards.

  The countryside grew more rural, and he was interested to see how relatively poor people looked on the roads. Much of the country’s wealth had yet to trickle down to the man on the street.

  The four-lane soon turned to a two-lane, and buildings began to peter out. Ferrar gradually realized that they must not be heading for the capital city at all.

  “I didn’t mean a resort,” he said. “I meant downtown.”

  The driver nodded and continued driving implacably. “We will get there, inshah Allah.”

  The wire fence of a military base appeared ahead. It was flying an American flag! Ferrar remembered all at once that the U.S. military used Bahrain as a major military outpost in the Gulf.

  And, the driver was slowing down.

  Instantly, Ferrar threw an arm around the driver’s neck and pulled back. The man gasped and clawed at the fabric ceiling of the Mercedes. His feet kicking the wheel of the car, they began to swerve off the pavement onto loose gravel.

  Ferrar dragged the man fully into the back seat and pinned his arm behind his back.

  “Who are you?” he shouted.

  The man only howled.

  As the car decelerated, Ferrar pulled the side door open and rolled the man into the rocky desert.

  The car was heading straight for a line of palm trees along the side of the road. Ferrar launched himself into the front seat and landed with both hands on the steering wheel.

  He spun the wheel and the door slammed shut. The treads shot out gravel, and he found himself driving on the road again, this time headed back into town.

  Gingerly, he slid himself fully into the driver’s seat. In the rearview mirror, he spotted a line of military Jeeps catching up rapidly, yellow lights flashing on their roofs, American flags fluttering from their hoods.

  The Mercedes taxi had good pickup, and soon he had outdistanced the Jeeps. But surely they would call in reinforcements.

  He had to get rid of these guys and make his way to the container port. As he approached the airport, he saw that his only option besides the parking lot was a service road that led around the airport, following the perimeter wall.

  As he circled around on the dusty access road, he glanced through gates into the airfield. He was surprised to notice that another jet had landed. It was loading up at the cargo apron.

  A truck bearing the name “Port Management, Ltd.” was just departing through the gate.

  At the next heavily guarded gate, he caught a glimpse of the aircraft’s internal winch beginning to pull two containers into its airplane’s belly. The containers were strapped with red tape. It was the bombs!

  Suddenly yellow lights appeared before him. The Jeeps had circled the airport in the opposite direction and were approaching him at full speed.

  He pulled to a halt and took a closer look at the lettering on the side of the cargo plane. “Canary Islands Express.”

  “Canary Islands my ass,” he muttered.

  Connors was not getting through to Langley. The Director’s office had not returned his calls all the previous day, and now had him on hold three attempts in a row.

  Finally, the line picked up.

  “Yeah, Connors, I know it’s you,” CIA Director Lester Friedman said, a certain smugness in his voice. “I’m a busy man, you know.”

  “And I’ve got something important to tell you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Okay, here goes. I got a phone call from Ferrar less than an hour ago,” Connors said, and waited for a reaction.

  “I’m still listening.”

  “He gave me some news for you about al-Qaeda, but I can’t divulge it to you until you call off the manhunt.”

  “We don’t negotiate with terrorists. We capture them and put them behind bars.”

  “Hold on, Lester. Now hear me out,” Connors said angrily, and dropped into his desk chair to calm down. “You call your attack dogs off Ferrar and I’ll tell you what al-Qaeda is up to.”

  “I’ll have Ferrar in detention in a matter of minutes. He can explain himself to me personally.”

  “There are limits on how far you can go to coerce someone these days. Why, you might not get the information you need in weeks. On the other hand, if you let him go free, I’m prepared to blab the whole story to you in a heartbeat.”

  Friedman paused, then came back, this time sounding more serious. “So, Ferrar is willing to trade information for his freedom.”

  “That’s the size of it.”

  “He’ll sell anybody out. There is no depth to which that man will not stoop.”

  “Are you interested or not?” Connors fumed.

  “Okay, I’m interested.”

  “You call off your hit men, and Ferrar will call me once he feels he’s safe. At that point, I’ll give you his information.”

  “I can’t believe I’m being blackmailed by a Congressman,” Friedman said.

  “I think that this information will be wort
h it. For our country,” he added.

  Connors hung up, sat back and closed his eyes, a twenty-year career on the line.

  Ferrar watched the row of American military Jeeps coming to a halt before him.

  He stood on his brakes and skidded to a halt.

  Behind him, the pursuit Jeeps pulled up cautiously.

  Ferrar opened his car door and stepped onto the dry, rocky ground. The roar of turbine engines increased from the airstrip.

  As Ferrar stood up, the Canary Islands Express rocketed down the runway in his direction, its black nose shimmering in the waves of heat.

  A moment later, the jet with its cargo of bombs launched itself over his head and took a wide, banking turn to the north and west.

  Packs of soldiers approached him from the front and rear, their rifles drawn. Ferrar turned to them and straightened his necktie.

  “Halt,” a voice ordered from behind the men.

  The soldiers froze, their bayonets poised mere inches from Ferrar’s throat.

  Ferrar lifted an eyebrow and looked at the commander who stood on the step of his Jeep, a radiophone to his ear.

  The man threw his phone down with disgust.

  “Let him go, boys.”

  Stripping down for a swim at the al-Khobar beach resort in Saudi Arabia, Ferrar paused a moment to lean back on his colorful beach towel.

  After the American troops had let him go in Bahrain, he decided he needed a bit more separation from his fellow countrymen. He had taken a bus fifteen miles across the King Fahd Causeway, a bridge over the blue waters separating Bahrain from Saudi Arabia.

  All passengers had been ordered by border control to climb out of the bus with their possessions. Standing in direct sunlight for over an hour while each passenger was thoroughly searched, Ferrar had tried to decide how to hide his bottle of gin. He’d heard of foreigners sneaking into Saudi with goatskins wrapped around their ankles and alcohol concealed in shampoo bottles. In the end, he decided that the gin would serve better to divert attention away from his passport. And indeed it did.

  In the end, he had surrendered the unopened bottle to the customs official, who dressed him down in Arabic, looked sternly at the bottle as if it contained an evil genie and roughly pushed him through passport control. The flap had caught the attention of the immigration officer. He shook his head at Ferrar’s ignorance and gave only a perfunctory glance at his passport and visa and waved him through.