by Fritz Galt
General Kessler nearly choked. “Are you saying that the operation should fail?”
“It would be to our long-term advantage,” Adam replied. “Imagine us riding in on our white horses. What a perfect excuse, to rescue our troops from terrorists and ultimately save India.”
Charles felt his blood pressure rising. “Adam, you’re engaging in wild speculation. It could mean the lives of men in uniform. Furthermore, if they fail, it could mean the uncontrolled spread of a lethal disease.”
“All I’m saying is that I want the nuclear test ban treaty signed, by both India and Pakistan. We need to put pressure on both sides, and just plain talking hasn’t done it thus far.”
Vic seemed to be mulling Adam’s ideas over thoughtfully. “We have to look at the long term,” he said. “Grudgingly, I’d have to concur with Adam that a larger show of force would be to our advantage, although sabotaging the operation to trigger a larger assault might be going a bit too far.”
The president stared at an angry circle of faces from the active and former generals.
“Okay. I’ll go along with widening the communications loop. Put out a Code Two to our forces in the Indian Ocean and Persian Gulf. Park, I want the fleet and air commanders fully briefed on Fatal Sting and have them prepare responses in case things go awry. And Park, I want hourly updates on the operation’s progress.”
As the meeting adjourned, Charles smiled as he overheard Lucius turn on the secretary of state with a venomous tone.
“Adam, what the hell have you pulled behind my back?”
A briefcase wasn’t a very unusual thing to carry on a domestic flight from Bombay to Goa. Unless it contained two million dollars, a king’s ransom in an impoverished country like India.
But no amount was too much money for Fred Butler to spring his daughter free from a religious cult and terrorist organization.
He had mixed feelings about Keri’s exploits. She had a very receptive personality, a quality he found completely lacking in himself. When he and Linda had first learned that Keri was missing, they automatically assumed that she had joined a cult.
The business with a terrorist spreading malaria and holding her hostage seemed a tad fishy to him. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was a willing, if unwitting, participant. He had an image of her pulling a Patty Hearst and resisting at the last moment as he handed over the cash.
People did kooky things for causes. What an embarrassing moment that would be to try to work out a family crisis in front of the terrorists and commandos.
He clutched the thick briefcase between his knees and watched the coastline drift below.
From the air, Goa appeared green and mostly flat. Jagged coastal outcroppings were separated by wide rivers that extended deep into the jungle.
The plane flew south of the main city, Panjim, and landed. As they taxied toward the terminal, he was struck by a terrible thought.
What if Abu Khan’s gang tried to snatch the money from him before he got a chance to take back Keri. They might even attack him at the airport. He would never see his daughter again, and the Navy team wouldn’t be able to track down Abu and the vaccine.
He either had to ditch the briefcase or find a disguise.
He glanced around the cabin of the passenger plane. He was the only foreigner onboard. Abu’s men could pick him out in an instant. He would have to conceal the money first.
The plane turned slightly and halted at a painted parking spot on the tarmac.
Passengers immediately jumped to their feet.
Warm air rushed in from the front and rear exits.
Seated in the midsection of the plane, he had a choice of departing from either end. People disappeared quickly from the cabin, leaving him alone and squeezing the briefcase in his lap.
Out his window, he watched the passengers walking like a line of ants toward the gleaming white terminal.
An airhostess stopped by his row and smiled at him. “Are you leaving, sir?”
“You know,” he said, trying to stall for time. “That’s a funny thing. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is this Goa?”
She looked out the window in a humorous attempt to double check. “Yes, it is.”
“I think I’m supposed to be in Bombay right now.”
“We just came from Bombay,” she said, and flashed a worried frown.
He glanced out the window. The last passengers were disappearing in the terminal.
“May I walk with the crew to the terminal?” he asked. “I may need some security.”
“Certainly,” she said. “But there’s nothing to worry about. Should I phone the airport and have them send out an escort?”
What luck. “That would be perfect.”
A few minutes later, he had sweated through his shirt in the hot cabin. A rounded white Ambassador with a yellow light on top drove toward the plane from the far end of the terminal.
“There’s your escort, sir,” she said. “They can walk you through the airport.”
“Thank you,” he said.
He descended the ramp to the car. A man in a brown uniform held the door for him.
“Watching your head, sir,” the man said, and helped Fred duck into the back seat. When all the doors were closed, the driver started the engine and began to steer toward the passenger terminal.
“No,” Fred said. “Take me around another way.”
“Having luggage?” the guard asked.
“No. Just get me out of the airport.”
The driver and guard conversed briefly, and the car swung around. They passed through a gate in a concrete wall and were suddenly on the main road leaving the airport.
“Where are you going to, sir?” the guard asked.
Fred had no idea. He had never been to Goa before, and nobody on Diego Garcia had mentioned the name of a hotel.
The guard sat patiently as they drove.
“Listen, do you mind taking me all the way to a hotel?”
“Okay, okay.”
Then Fred got the distinct impression that the guard intended to make a little money off this diversion. Maybe charge ten dollars or something outrageous.
He stared at the smug, subservient face before him in the front seat. The guard was trying to take complete advantage of him and separate him from his wallet. He should have taken his chances at the airport.
He hefted his briefcase onto the seat beside him.
“What do you charge?” he asked.
“Nothing, no money. This is my job, sir.”
Right. And in the hotel lobby in Bombay, the two beautiful young women he had slept with didn’t want anything, either. He remembered their ungrateful faces as he dropped five ten-dollar bills in each of their laps as he checked out of the hotel.
Suddenly, the driver began speaking loud and fast. His eyes flashed repeatedly up to the rearview mirror.
The guard turned around in his seat and looked out the back window.
A Mercedes was nosing its front bumper within inches of the Ambassador as they sped along.
“Dangerous driver,” Fred said.
“Not a dangerous driver. Dangerous man.”
“Who is it?”
The guard exchanged glances with the driver. Then he turned to Fred. “Who are you? Why is he wanting you?”
“Never mind that. Who is he?”
“Big time gangster, sir. We are stopping for him.”
“No, you aren’t,” Fred cried.
The driver had slowed and was about to pull over.
“Here,” Fred said, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a thick wad of thousand dollar bills. He thrust them in the driver’s lap. “Keep driving.”
The driver tried to hand it back to him.
Fred insisted.
The guard glanced with interest at the money, but the driver put on his signal to pull over.
“Drive, drive,” Fred shouted. “The money’s yours.�
��
The Mercedes pulled alongside them on the two-lane road that swept under a row of shady trees. In the flicker of shadows from the trees, Fred saw inside the Mercedes. The muzzle of a handgun pointed out the backseat window at his driver.
The Ambassador squealed and fishtailed as Fred’s driver hit the brakes. The Mercedes sped past, a bullet knocking a silver hood hinge off the Ambassador, inches from the driver’s face.
The Mercedes swung around to block the Ambassador’s progress. Just then a truckload of workers, rounding a corner from the opposite direction, slammed at full speed into the Mercedes.
The car spun in two complete circles and wrapped itself around a tree. The truck careened toward the Ambassador. Fred’s driver tried to speed out of the way, getting clipped on the rear bumper as he did. They skidded sideways down the road for several yards, the burning rubber creating noxious smoke.
The engine coughed, and they came to a halt.
Fred heard an auto horn blare without stopping. He stared out his window directly into the back seat of the Mercedes, its windows shattered by the impact. Someone’s head hung out the back door window, the dark skin impaled on shards of glass. A bloody arm hung out the window with a handgun still clinging to the pale, pink fingertips.
The driver of the Mercedes lay slumped over his steering wheel, his forehead smashed against the car horn.
Fred felt blood draining from his face. Sweat poured from his palms.
Suddenly, the horn let up, and in the eerie silence that followed, the only sound was a radiator hissing and a distant voice repeating something inside the Mercedes.
The truckload of workers had long since disappeared. Hit and run. Fred’s guard and driver hopped out of their car and stood arguing in some language at the side of the road.
Fred popped open his door and struggled to stand up. He limped toward the Mercedes. In a daze, he wondered abstractly if the men were dead. He pulled the handgun from the gunman’s fingers and hefted it. It was a sleek automatic pistol, like something used in the military. To his surprise, it was heavy. Funny, he had thought that all guns were light like toy guns.
Anyway, it was his now. He slipped it into his pocket.
He stumbled to the broken front window. A mobile phone lay on the front seat. He reached through an opening in the glass and picked it up.
An Indian voice was saying, “Hello. Who’s there? Someone answer me.”
He cleared his throat. “Who is this?” he asked slowly.
“I demand to know with whom I am speaking.”
“This is Congressman Fred Butler, Ninth District, the golden state of California.”
“Butler. We’ve got your daughter here. You may pick her up at Fort Aguada at five p.m. this afternoon.”
“Fort Aguada. Five p.m.” He repeated.
“Do you have the money?”
Fred suddenly remembered the briefcase hanging from his other hand. “Right here. You will bring my daughter?”
“Certainly. We will see you at five p.m.”
Who was this man who didn’t seem to worry about losing a brand new Mercedes, or bothering to ask about his two dead henchmen?
In silence, the guard and driver took Fred on to the nearest hotel. Fred signed the register and picked up his room key. He didn’t even bother to check what the hotel was named.
The airport guard was standing behind him in the lobby when Fred noticed him holding the stack of thousands in his hand.
“That’s all I’m going to give you,” Fred said.
“I insist,” the guard said, handing back the money. “It is my job, sir.”
So a stack of thousands wasn’t enough.
Then the guard saluted and left.
Fred blinked. In the glaring sunlight beyond the retreating guard, Fred made out the driver kicking the wheels of his damaged Ambassador. What were they getting out of the deal?
He shrugged and stuffed the money into his pocket.
His new hotel room was a standard rectangle. He had seen the same layout a thousand times in other hotels the world over. He threw the drapes open for more light and was greeted by a magnificent view. Below his window, palm trees ringed a swimming pool, and a sleepy ocean basked in the sunshine beyond.
“Welcome to the Cidade de Goa,” an old porter said, waiting by the door. Fred reached in his pocket and nearly pulled out a thousand to give to the man. What was the difference?
Then reason got the better of him, and he found a ten-rupee note, patted the man on the back and locked the door behind him.
He sat on the corner of the bed and rubbed his eyes. Where in the world was he? Who was he? He felt like a runaway train narrowly escaping danger at every turn, feeling nothing and barreling toward some unknown goal.
On the other hand, he had summoned enough wits to evade killers at the airport. He had smelled death after a high-speed chase. And he had found his way into a swank resort hotel.
He pulled the telephone onto his lap and dialed the number Alec had told him to memorize. It was an odd, long number, one for a cell phone.
Several satellite relays later, a voice answered from somewhere across town. “Mick speaking. Who is this?”
Fred smiled. “This is Bond. James Bond.”
Chapter 39
Armed with Fred Butler’s instructions, the DEVGRU team strode toward the fort wearing olive-drab combat fatigues. After a day spent hanging out in Mick, Rajiv and Swamiji’s cottages, they were back in action. Their heavy leather boots hit the dirt road with dry crunches, the only sound on that still afternoon.
With the sun due to set behind the fort within an hour, the heat was diminishing rapidly and a slight sea breeze picked up.
Mick and his half of the team hiked to a ditch beside the arched gate to Fort Aguada and jumped behind a stone wall.
Wiping off the damp band inside his helmet, Mick mentally reviewed his battle plan one last time. The unusual landmark at which Fred Butler said the ransom exchange would take place determined his strategy.
Fort Aguada was built nearly four hundred years ago by Portuguese soldiers colonizing the western coast of India. They had built similar forts further north along the coast, but this one protected Portugal’s main treasure in India, the city of Goa.
After a long voyage from Portugal around the hostile African continent, Goa was the first source of fresh water for a ship’s crew. The fort was built on a natural spring and hence was given the name Fort Aguada.
Mick gulped the dusty air. He could also use a drink from the cool well.
The moated fortress stood atop a dramatic sea face at the mouth of Mandovi River. The wide, muddy channel was navigable several miles inland past paddies to firm land abutting a jungle. On that soil, Portuguese colonists had built a city vaster and more populous than Lisbon or London. In its prime, Goa was the largest city in Asia, a maritime trading center for all of Asia, from China to Persia, and an embarkation point for Europe. Today, only the church and fort remained.
He knew the fort from a previous visit to Goa, and its proximity to the hotel had made his work that much easier.
The southern and western walls of the square structure were built on sheer cliffs that fell down to the sea. The northern and eastern slopes faced land and were surrounded by a series of moats, from which a five-meter wall rose.
The dirt access road, pitched on an uphill grade, approached the fort from the east. It stopped before a permanent land bridge over the moat to a small opening in the fort. It was the only passage through the three-meter-thick stone walls.
Mick had decided to divide the DEVGRU detachment into two teams. Team One would wait with him in the shallow moat just south of the fort entrance. Team Two would enter the fort and drop down a ventilation shaft into underground vaults below the fort’s sunny roof terrace.
He hefted the sniper rifle in his hands.
His orders to both teams had been to hold fire and let him get a good angle on the terrorists. He was the only one in Tea
m One who could identify Abu Khan, so he got the honor of potting the terrorist.
Alec waited inside the fort with Camille and Team Two. Of that team, Camille was the only member who could identify Abu Khan.
Stationed in trees fifty meters from the fort sat three Land Rovers with their drivers.
As seventeen-hundred hours approached, he saw a trail of dust on the road below. The vehicle stopped twenty meters from the entrance. When the dust settled, he could see that it was a taxi.
He watched Congressman Butler step out of the cab and motion to the driver to wait for him.
The congressman straightened and looked around, a heavy case hanging from one hand.
He took a few uncertain steps toward the fort and located the entrance. He looked around, but there were no other cars present. Nor could he see any undercover American soldiers, although he could assume that they were there.
At last, the congressman ventured toward the arched portal.
Strange. For the previous three hours, Mick had covertly watched the fort. During that time, nobody had come from Abu Khan’s group to lay a trap for the congressman.
Abu Khan must either be very confident or very cunning.
The congressman’s leather soles crunched closer, then headed over the land bridge. Soon the sound ceased. He was inside where he would encounter several options. One set of steps headed up to the roof, a ramp led gently up onto a rampart and several grills blocked steps down to the vaults.
Mick couldn’t see or hear what route the man had taken.
With each passing minute, he grew more impatient. He doubted whether Abu had planned a trick. It was the terrorist’s choice of site, and India was his turf.
He wouldn’t expect a counter-terrorist team to be waiting there, ready to machinegun his guts to the wall. No one in Abu’s organization could possibly have any knowledge of Operation Fatal Sting.
