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

by Fritz Galt

  Ferrar pulled a tube of suntan lotion and a cell phone out of his bag. He set the lotion on his beach towel and first dialed Congressman Connors.

  “Connors, it’s me. They let me go.”

  “Thank God. Can I call the CIA back?”

  “You bet. Tell them the news about bombs leaving Pakistan, and give them one more piece of information. The bombs are on a Canary Islands Express cargo flight from Bahrain. I don’t know where the plane is bound, but I’m sure our boys in Bahrain can pick up the trail.”

  “What great information, Ferrar. Our nation owes you one big debit of gratitude.”

  “Let’s hope the Agency can get to those bombs before they’re turned loose on us. I have a sneaking suspicion that they might be more than your run-of-the-mill explosives.”

  “You think they might be…”

  “That’s right,” Ferrar said. “Nuclear weapons.” He began to smear sun protection across his bare chest.

  “But isn’t Pakistan supposed to be on our side in the war against terrorism? Who could make them pull such a stunt?”

  “I’ll tell you who. His first name is Tray and his last name rhymes with revoltin’.”

  “Lester Friedman is not going to buy that.”

  “Then don’t tell him.”

  “He’s scarcely gonna believe anything I tell him anyway, what with Pakistani nuclear weapons, Canary Islands, etc.”

  “Just call him up,” Ferrar said with a smile. He turned off his phone and setting it in the sand beside his sweating bottle of Evian.

  Chapter 9

  The sun was setting over Université du Québec, and dinner smelled as good as usual in the cafeteria kitchen. But the cafeteria itself wouldn’t be cleaned that night.

  Instead, the rooms housing the maintenance staff would be spotless.

  And nobody cleaned more tidily than a terrorist cell trying to cover its tracks.

  The men circled like animals in a lair, looking for tidbits of evidence that might tip off police as to exactly who had lived below the campus cafeteria for the past two years.

  The overcast sky was dark by seven p.m. as the men stood on the curb beside their suitcases. A white van pulled up and the group boarded without a word. Within a minute, the six men were traveling south through busy evening traffic.

  On the outskirts of the city, the van pulled into a shopping strip. The driver hopped out and slipped a bankcard from his wallet. At the outdoor cash machine, he punched in a PIN and took out the full limit of three hundred Canadian dollars. Then he slipped a second card into the machine and withdrew another three hundred dollars.

  He stuffed the money into his shirt pocket under his windbreaker and returned to the van.

  At midnight, the van was still on the road, drifting over the gently rolling hills of southern Quebec. They passed unnoticed through many small towns, each with its snug little community, insulated by miles of farmland and protected by a long border from events in the United States.

  The van’s zigzag route took a generally eastern tack, and soon they were passing over a bridge with a large sign that read, “Welcome to New Brunswick.”

  It was not yet morning in the Friendship Heights neighborhood in Northwest Washington, DC, and Congressman Connors had to get Ferrar’s life-or-death information to the CIA before the Canary Island Express flight landed somewhere and offloaded the bombs.

  But, he reasoned, the only way to get Director Friedman’s full attention was to take the news straight to him at Langley, and to hit him with it the moment he arrived in his office.

  That gave him an hour to shower, shave and dress.

  Outside, the sky was still pitch black when he sat down to a plate of bacon and eggs.

  “Thanks, Sweetie,” he told his wife Lucy, thanking her for the early breakfast.

  She nodded across the table and continued to read the Washington Post. Headlines speculated about when the stock market might recover and announced scientific breakthroughs on the mouse genome. No news about an impending terrorist attack somewhere in the United States.

  For a small-town Sooner girl, Lucy Connors had grown mighty sophisticated over the years. Flooded by the mass media, she trusted everything she read. Their daughter Melinda had suffered from the same hubris, thinking that the southern Philippines would be the perfect place to vacation and get away from it all. She had nearly lost her life to kidnappers, and so had Lucy trying to rescue her in the impenetrable Muslim-held jungles.

  When the lives of the Connors family were at stake, George Ferrar had come through. Now America was on the line and Ferrar was coming through again.

  The two yellow yolks stared up at him for a long time. He had no appetite. He had work to do.

  He leaned over to kiss his wife good-bye, and she looked up with surprise.

  Without explanation, he jogged out into the cold, hopped in his car, nursed its engine to life, switched on the headlights and peeled rubber heading off for Chain Bridge and Langley.

  The director would hear details of the al-Qaeda plot straight from his mouth.

  Lester Friedman paced angrily up and down the length of his oak-paneled Langley office. He never should have trusted Congressman Connors. Every fiber of his being told him that he should have apprehended Ferrar. But the traitorous weasel got away, and for the past seven hours, Lester had nothing to show for it.

  If Connors didn’t come up with some solid piece of intelligence, Lester knew that his ass was on the line.

  “It’ll all work out, sir,” Charles White, his aide, tried to comfort him.

  “Like hell it will. I’ll spend the next twenty years of my life in San Quentin for letting our only shred of evidence on this attack slip through my fingers.”

  “Congressman Connors has a lot to lose, too.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t run the goddamned CIA.”

  Just then his receptionist stepped into the room. “Congressman Connors is here to see you.”

  “Let him in, for God’s sake.”

  Connors walked in and sensed the mood in the room. Apparently thinking better of offering a handshake, he took a seat opposite Lester’s desk.

  “Thanks for coming in personally,” Lester said, trying to contain his impatience and his annoyance at himself. “Now what’s the information?”

  “First of all, thanks for not taking Ferrar into custody. I think we have a workable relationship with him now.”

  “I did my bit, now you do yours,” Lester snapped.

  Connors nodded. “There are Pakistani bombs, possibly nuclear weapons, leaving Bahrain via an air cargo service called Canary Islands Express, on its way to do al-Qaeda’s bidding.”

  “What are you talking about? Pakistan wouldn’t contribute any kind of weapons to the terrorists. They’ve gone out on a limb to take our side.”

  “That’s the word from Ferrar.”

  “Then it’s a diversion, a smoke screen. I’m going to get that son-of-a-bitch if it kills me.”

  “Lester, get hold of yourself,” Connors admonished. “You’ve lost all objectivity. I’m not so sure you’re focusing on the real problem at hand.”

  “Ferrar and Ferrar alone will lead us to the killers,” Lester said. “And I was wrong to let you persuade me otherwise and let him slip through my fingers.”

  “I’m sorry you don’t believe him.”

  “Believe him? I’ve got all my men and the entire Pakistani ISI behind this investigation trying to track down what the hell Beaver Tail is and what al-Qaeda can possibly pull off by December 11. How in the world could Ferrar possibly come up with more solid intelligence than all these people put together? He’s in hiding, for God’s sake. He’s merely trying to save his hide. The only reason he wants to contact us is to shake us off his trail.”

  “Well, at least look into this Canary Islands Express that’s flying around with Pakistani-made bombs.”

  “You want to send me on a wild goose chase, too? What do the Canary Islands have to do with anything
?”

  “Maybe you don’t want to hear how he came by this valuable piece of information that could save our nation,” Connors said, clearly trying to dig under his skin.

  “I don’t care to hear any of his disinformation. You can take it with you out of this office.”

  Connors stood up, livid, but kept his voice under control. “He said that your son is still alive…”

  Lester smashed his fist onto his desk. “Will he stop at nothing?”

  “…and that Tray is behind the bomb shipment.”

  “You may leave this building at once.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this,” Connors said, shaking his head. “But I thought you would be relieved.”

  Then he slowly dragged himself out of the office.

  Lester glared at his aide.

  “Nuclear weapons from Pakistan? What kind of fool does he think I am?”

  Connors reached the Rayburn House Office Building by mid-morning, went straight to his office and closed the door. From his pocket, he pulled out Ferrar’s untraceable international mobile phone number.

  “Yes?” a voice answered on the other end of the line. Again, Ferrar was using that annoying British accent.

  “It’s me,” Connors said. “He didn’t buy it.”

  There was a long pause. “Ratchet it up a notch. Call the Pentagon, or the president.” Ferrar had dropped his phony accent and sounded troubled.

  “Ferrar, you don’t get it. This whole thing is looking crazier by the minute. I’m afraid your lead is going nowhere.”

  “Mr. Congressman, there’s a plane flying around up there with possible nuclear weapons on board. Are you gonna just stand by and watch it slam into the United States?”

  “I’m sorry,” Connors said. “I’ve done all I can.”

  He set the phone down gently.

  Perhaps Friedman was right.

  Chapter 10

  After their long night on the road, the six custodians in their white van turned onto a gravel parking lot. An illuminated sign over the low structure read “Rigby Motel.”

  The driver pulled up beside a short, flatbed truck and came to a halt. The truck carried two metal cargo containers, each wrapped in red tape.

  He shut off his engine, popped his door open and slid off his seat. He shook the kinks out of his legs and confidently approached Room Number 11.

  The door opened before he reached it, and he walked straight in, disappearing for a moment into the darkness.

  A minute later, he reemerged dangling a key between his fingers. He walked along the front of the building and unlocked the door to Room Number 12. The light turned on inside as he checked it out.

  Then he returned to the doorway and motioned for the others to follow.

  The van’s door slid open and the five young, dark-haired men walked silently the short distance into the room.

  In al-Khobar, Saudi Arabia, the red disk of a setting sun bathed the large city around Ferrar’s hotel in a pink glow. He sat on his balcony sipping from a bottle of warm Evian and watching families parade along the city’s long corniche.

  Who could tell that five years before, nineteen U.S. Air Force servicemen had been blown up in their quarters, thanks to a truck bomb sent there by either Iran or al-Qaeda.

  Ferrar would not rule out al-Qaeda playing some part in the Khobar Towers attack.

  Just to be safe, he’d head back inside. It was time to call in reinforcements.

  He slid the balcony door open and stepped into the air-conditioned cool of his room. He picked up the room phone and placed an international call through the anonymous number in London.

  The call finally passed through to Virginia.

  “Central Intelligence Agency, may I help you?” an operator answered.

  Ferrar wondered if she were more of an operative than an operator.

  “Get me Deke Houston, please.”

  “One moment. I’ll connect you with his home number.”

  Seconds later, Deke’s sleepy voice answered. “Deke, here.”

  “Okay, Deke, old buddy, it’s time to rise and shine. This is George Ferrar.”

  “Ferrar? Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Believe it or not, you’re our lucky winner tonight on ‘Dialing for Desperados.’”

  Deke had spent some good years in Lebanon and Cyprus. Then, after his marriage hit the rocks in Caracas, he had plummeted into the trenches of Virginia to live out the rest of his tattered career and shattered life. Like many disillusioned case officers hanging around the halls of Langley, Deke had only one goal in mind: to avoid down-sizing or getting canned before he reached the minimum retirement age when he could take the money and run.

  “Still monitoring the UN embargo on Iraq?” Ferrar asked.

  He had last operated with Deke during the Gulf War. At the outbreak of that conflict, Deke was still in the hot seat as a specialist in the regional office for the Iran-Iraq War. It didn’t help Deke’s career much when the horse that America was backing in the long-term, bloody conflict suddenly bucked on the West and charged into Kuwait. It left the desk jockeys with their petards way down.

  Nevertheless, George knew him for what he was. A damn fine mind, capable of making sense out of a royally screwed-up world. Deke was a kindred spirit, and thus a friend.

  “Naw, I’m burning classified documents from our economic blockade of Pakistan right now,” Deke replied.

  “I wouldn’t be so confident about Pakistan.”

  “I hear you’re doing even worse than I am. Word has it you’ve gone off the reservation, if not off the deep end.”

  “Actually, I’m trying to undo an al-Qaeda plot.”

  “Ah-ha.”

  He seemed to have Deke’s attention. “In fact, my plate’s pretty full and I’d like to dish some of the small potatoes off to you.”

  “Exactly what are you trying to accomplish?”

  “First, I need to intercept a weapons shipment, possibly nuclear bombs, that al-Qaeda is smuggling into the United States.”

  “A noble and worthy cause.”

  “And second, I’m trying to track down Tray Bolton and figure out where these weapons are headed.”

  “So you’re chasing ghosts now. Or haven’t you heard? You killed the man.”

  “Deke, listen. Bolton’s still alive, but he’s turned. He’s in deep with the Pakistani ISI, shipping bombs out of Karachi. I need you to intercept those bombs.”

  “Why not alert the director?”

  “I tried that. But nobody seems to believe me these days. In a way, I can see why. Maybe once I elude all our own hit men, I can try to clear my name. But that’s a long way down the road right now. In fact, tracking down Bolton and eliminating him would go a long way toward solving all my problems.”

  “If Bolton’s alive, you don’t have to kill him, you know. Sounds like if you find him, that’s proof enough of your innocence.”

  “I’m not really looking for revenge,” Ferrar said. “I’ve seen him alive, and I have reason to believe that he’s up to something big and bad.”

  “So, what did you have in mind for me?”

  “How’d you like to intercept the bombs? While you’re at it, you might scout out the rest of Maine on a pre-retirement mission.”

  “That’s where they’ll be hitting our shores?”

  “Exactly. It’s a logical gateway to enter the States. Lots of islands and boat traffic. They’ve got two container loads of bombs headed for Beaver Tail Island, a small islet off of Bar Harbor. I’m betting that there’s a bomb or two onboard that shipment.”

  “So, you want me to follow a tip from a totally debunked ex-spy.”

  “I know my credibility is shot to hell,” Ferrar said. “Let’s call it an anonymous tip.”

  “Who would ever send me on official travel based on an anonymous tip?”

  “Just ask for some time off. You’ve got tons of vacation leave, I’m sure. I’ve got a cottage on Beaver Tail. You can use i
t. Just ask a local to get you to the island. The cottage is the smaller of two family cottages there. You can’t miss it.”

  “I suppose I could use a little diversion,” Deke conceded. “How do I get into this cottage of yours? You got a key under the doormat?”

  “Hey Deke. It’s Maine. We don’t use keys.” Then on a more serious note, he said, “Can you bring someone for backup?”

  “Hey, Ferrar, we all know you’re out of your mind. Do you want everyone to think I’m nuts, too?”

  “Okay. Have a nice vacation. I’ll try and meet you there.”

  Chapter 11

  Tray Bolton stepped out of his motel room, a leather briefcase swinging from one hand. Daylight was breaking slowly over the lonely stretch of road outside Fredericton, New Brunswick.

  He lingered a moment to study the layers of roiling clouds. His flannel shirt and denim jeans might not be enough for the cold. He shivered slightly and headed for the next motel room. There, he gave two short raps on the door.

  The door flew open and the six occupants filed out, splitting into two groups. Two jumped into the white van, and the other four slipped into the cab of the truck.

  He hiked himself up into the driver’s seat of the truck and gunned the engine to life.

  He put the truck in gear and began to lead the small caravan out of the motel parking lot. In his rear-view mirror, he checked that the two steel containers were still well secured to his trailer.

  At a turn-off before the capital city of Saint John, the white van split off and sped to the west. Ahead of Bolton, the Atlantic Ocean lay seething on the horizon.

  He aimed his truck in the opposite direction, on a northeastern route toward the town of Sussex.