Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  When he shouted at the vehicle, no one replied. His shovel struck metal, and he quickly scraped around the area to avoid damaging the car. Five minutes passed before he finally located a door window, cleared it with his glove, and shone his flashlight inside to illuminate a body slumped behind the wheel.

  Corporal Knox quickly reversed his flashlight and broke the window with the butt end, knocking shattered glass aside as he reached into the car. The body was frozen solid. The man wore a large TSA patch on his jacket shoulder.

  Corporal Knox hung his head at the realization that he just found a law-enforcement officer. He removed his gloves and took a white laminated card from his wallet, which he held up to the beam from the flashlight.

  “Saint Michael, heaven’s glorious commissioner of police,” he began.

  “Make us the terror of burglars, the friend of children and law-abiding citizens, kind to strangers, polite to bores, strict with law-breakers, and impervious to temptations. You know, Saint Michael, from your own experience with the devil that the police officer’s lot on earth isn’t always a happy one, but your sense of duty that so pleased God, your hard knocks that so surprised the devil, and your angelic self-control give us inspiration.

  “And when we lay down our nightsticks, enroll us in your heavenly force, where we will be as proud to guard the throne of God as we’ve been to guard the city of all the people. Amen.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  2030 March 13, 2003

  The Bridge Apartments Newport, Rhode Island

  Imam Abdul hadn’t heard from Nizar for three days. His eyes, ears, and muscle hadn’t checked in, and neither had Marwa. He feared the worst. It was entirely possible Nizar had been trapped in the snow when he drove to Newport. Abdul had no way to know if Marwa returned to her apartment. His master in Jeddah would not be pleased with the turn of events.

  Snow fell for three days, closing I-195 from Boston to Newport. Nizar’s attempt to comply with the graybeard’s demands ended when Nizar lost control of the old Maxima at forty-five miles an hour and slammed into the blunt end of a guard rail.

  Abdul was forced to cajole Commander Zaid Jebriel to go to the whore’s apartment and the infidel’s building to see if the traitorous bitch was there. She couldn’t have disappeared on the navy base. The weather in and around Newport was every bit as bad as Boston's, and Jebriel’s driving skills on snow were so poor, he dared not venture out and had to wait until the roads were sanded and cleared.

  As soon as snowplows removed the snow from the roadway, Jebriel swept two feet of snow off his Mercedes and attempted to open the door, only to find all doors frozen shut. He banged and pulled on the door handle repeatedly until the door suddenly broke free, upending the Saudi officer’s feet over his head. He remained with his arms and legs spread-eagled, his torso parallel with the ground for a microsecond before he crashed down. His tailbone took the majority of the impact, followed by his head.

  One split-second later, Jebriel writhed in pain, one hand on the back of his head and the other cushioning his butt. Momentarily paralyzed by the impact to his coccyx, he tried to move his legs, and they refused to respond. He tried several times until panic at the thought of becoming a cripple and freezing in the hell hole called America seized him.

  He was hyperventilating when he finally felt his legs tremble and shake uncontrollably, as the numb nerve in his tailbone slowly responded to the rush of adrenalin and synapses firing garbled commands.

  After lying on packed snow for several minutes, his legs responded even more spastically, and he gingerly flexed his toes and tried to lift his legs. Elation filled him, while cold raced through his thin coat and trousers. After four minutes on the ground, his heart rate was almost back to normal.

  Trying to sit, he found any movement made his stomach churn, so he laid down and rolled over. He managed to kneel, then, using the Mercedes door handle as a brace, he gathered his feet under himself and stood. The car seat beckoned. He shuffled forward gently and gingerly sat in the car. Unsure his legs would respond, he used his hands to place them into the car. He fished from his pocket the car keys with a trembling hand. When the Mercedes started, he ran the emotional gamut from terror to relief and wept.

  Twenty minutes later, the car heater almost roasted him. All bodily functions returned to a bruised state of normal. Taking a large breath, he depressed the brake and moved the transmission to drive to tentatively pull onto the roadbed of the Bridge Apartments, where all Naval War College international officers were housed.

  Traffic was light, but driving was treacherous. He drove very cautiously, with the trip to Marwa’s apartment taking almost an hour.

  As he approached the apartment, he saw three emergency vehicles out front, light bars flashing. He drove straight ahead slowly, unable to contain his emotions, and ignored the pain in his head as he observed what appeared to be police at a woman’s door.

  One emergency vehicle winched a red Mercedes convertible onto its long, angled flatbed. Jebriel drove gingerly toward the other side of town.

  An hour later, he waited to turn toward the War College’s main gate. Ignoring spurious muscles spasms, he noticed he was behind two large black Chevy Suburbans with blacked-out windows and multiple antennas sprouting from the roofs. The black vehicles meant to enter the base.

  The gate guard waved them to the side, allowing Jebriel to proceed and show his ID to the guard. Jebriel’s special ID card for NWC international students allowed unfettered passage onto the base, and the gate guard smartly waved his arm in approval for the old bronzed Mercedes to proceed.

  The Suburbans intrigued Jebriel, and he tried to appear inconspicuous as possible while not running over the guard. He glanced at the black vehicles, and, as he moved past the front doors, a woman driver dressed in black glared at him. He stopped at the sign ahead and checked his rearview mirror, as his back cramped from all the torso movements, while the knot on the back of his head throbbed. A white Navy security truck pulled in front of the two Suburbans and approached the rear of Jebriel’s car.

  Just as he moved forward and prepared to turn right, the Navy truck’s blue lights flashed and rotated, and a siren went off. Jebriel hit the brake with both feet and froze, sending spasms down his spine. His head felt ready to burst.

  The three vehicles drove past him on the left. Greatly relieved, he crept through the intersection like a snake passing behind a sleeping mongoose. His newfound curiosity told him to follow the intriguing parade of vehicles that turned off their pulsating lights.

  When the three trucks appeared headed toward the other side of the small base, their brake lights came on, showing they planned to stop before Building 7. Jebriel drove straight ahead to a plowed parking lot across the street and perpendicular to Building 7, choosing a spot with a good view of the building’s front door and lounge. Turning off the engine, he waited. Frost billowed from the vehicles’ exhaust up the slight hill, occasionally obscuring his view of the front door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  2130 March 13, 2003

  Building 7 Newport Naval Station

  Two heavily armored black Suburbans idled downstairs. A knock on the door of room 307 announced a contingent of US Federal Marshals had arrived to escort Ms. Kamal to the Newport State Airport. A chartered business jet with a cleared air crew would fly the highly touted passenger to the Warrenton-Fauquier Airport in Virginia, where Agency staff would take Marwa to a safe house for processing.

  Inside the room, Marwa held Duncan tightly and was on the verge of tears.

  “You can’t do that,” he said. “Look at me. Marwa, you’re an incredibly strong woman. You’ve come a long way to break free, and now you’ll be doubly free. Don’t cry or they’ll think I was mean to you.”

  “I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Remember what Bogie said. ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ Marwa, we’ll always have Newport. We’ll always be close, and we’ll be together again soon. I asked you before if
you trusted me. You said yes, and now you’re ready to begin a great adventure and a new life."

  “You’ll be fine. These guys will take good care of you. When you have the chance, call me, even if they say you can’t. I’ll have the Grinch check on you once you’re settled. When I’m out of here, I’ll visit and see if you forgot any of your lessons.”

  She buried her head against his chest and clutched him tightly. Finally, she released him and took a deep breath.

  “I’m OK and ready,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you, Duncan Hunter.”

  “You won’t get rid of me anytime soon. I promise. I’ll miss you.”

  Opening the door, he saw the hallway cluttered with four armed women in black SWAT uniforms. One held a badge and ID in her hand.

  “Good evening, Ladies.” Duncan opened the door until it struck the door stop.

  “Mr. Hunter, I presume?” asked the husky, short-haired US Marshal.

  “Yes, Ma’am. This is Ms. Kamal. She’s pretty special, so I’d consider it a personal favor if you take care of her.”

  Two blonde US Marshals stepped into the room, and looked around carefully. One picked up a small rollerboard which appeared to go with the shockingly beautiful woman with damp eyes.

  “We will. Ms. Kamal, please follow me.”

  Marwa looked up at Duncan, reached up one final time, and kissed him hard, flicking her tongue over his lips as they separated. Even with all the women standing around, the electricity and chemistry behind the kiss stiffened him. It was painful to see her go.

  She stood back down on her feet, turned, and looked away. Two US Marshals led her down the hall. Marwa walked beside her escort, with the remaining Marshal following. They didn’t talk as they marched down the corridor. The only sound was the creak of leather boots on the tiled floor.

  Hunter watched them disappear into the elevator at the far end of the hallway. Closing the door, he walked to the window, his heart full of sorrow and optimism. Parting with Marwa was harder than expected. Over the last four days, the couple formed an unbreakable bond. Unburdened from years of training in being submissive, she quickly transitioned into 100 hours of freedom to do anything she wanted, including helping Duncan shower.

  Three minutes later, Duncan watched two black Suburbans follow a US Navy security pickup down the outlet road toward the main gate. When their taillights vanished, he plopped on the sofa. The disturbed air reeked of sex.

  With his head in his hands, he rubbed his eyes and felt slightly embarrassed. They must have smelled that, he thought sheepishly. Not much I can do about it now.

  He was acutely aware of In My World playing softly in the bedroom. His Blackberry buzzed, startling him from his reverie.

  He received an e-mail from Lynche.

  Think you kicked over a hornet’s nest. My old place says someone, presumably AQ, ordered a hit on her.

  Hunter quickly typed a reply. Thought she was low level. Call me when able.

  His Blackberry rang immediately with an incoming call. “She’s considered low level for now,” Lynche said. “I don’t think they know she’s alive. They’re covering their bases.”

  “She just left. Thanks for all your help.”

  “I tried to come get her myself, but they vetoed that idea. They want her bad. War with Iraq is coming. I understand they sent a jet for her. She’s a hi-pri resource now. It’s pathetic that my old place doesn’t have many professional native Arabic-speaking analysts on staff.”

  “Break, break,” he said, using military code to change the subject. “Any work on the horizon?”

  “Art has a couple things local and down south. Everyone’s busy with one war and another on the way. Looks like there’ll be lots of overseas work. Africa is completely untapped.”

  “And completely wild. At some point, we’ll need our own jet and C-130. We can’t rely on the Air Force all the time.”

  “Agreed, but we can’t afford anything like that. Not yet anyway. What were you thinking?”

  “I’m just thinking. Hey, what’s the other meaning of Inshallah?”

  “Besides God willing or if God provides?”

  “That’s the one. Inshallah, Mr. Lynche.”

  Completely confused, Lynche replied, “Good night, Maverick.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  2145 March 13, 2003

  Parking Lot Charlie Newport Naval Station

  Commander Zaid Jebriel gripped the steering wheel of the creaking, cooling, old Mercedes and gingerly leaned forward, using his sleeve to wipe the advancing frost from the windshield. He expected the people in black to return to their vehicles at any moment.

  Minutes earlier, as he turned into a parking space facing Building 7, he observed four women in heavy black uniforms with something partially obscured because of the frost. They stepped from the black vehicles’ rear doors. Over the sound of his cooling engine, he heard the doors slam shut a second after he watched them close.

  The sole driver in the white pickup remained in the truck, engine running, as the single exhaust pipe leaked a narrow column of steam.

  The windshield continued to frost over quickly without the defroster on, requiring Jebriel to move forward and back, inviting spasms from tailbone to his atlas, the topmost vertebra. After a dozen attempts to wipe away the accelerating window frost, he started the engine again, and the defroster quickly cleared the windshield.

  He counted five dark uniforms rushing from the building. Confused, he again gripped the steering wheel and pulled himself closer for a better look. The lettering on the back of the nearest figure read US Marshal.

  Then he realized they had another woman with long, dark hair. She wasn’t in black and wasn’t as short as the others. It had to be the Imam’s spy. She was a prisoner.

  The three vehicles moved away, turning left at the intersections until they were about to pass in front of Jebriel to head back the way they came. Panicked, he tried to get out of their line of sight.

  Jebriel twisted, trying to push his head down toward the passenger seat, but his confused spinal cord wouldn’t allow him that much latitude or responsiveness in movement. Once his body was in motion, he realized his mistake and tried to protect his face, as he crashed heavily against the dash amid the buttons and levers of the Mercedes’ heater controls. His arms, failed to respond adequately to prevent facial trauma.

  As the vehicles passed in front of the Mercedes, blood erupted from his broken nose, while broken teeth caromed from the dash toward the passenger seat. Jebriel howled in pain. His back locked in spasms, and his arms went limp. He sobbed in his blood as he lay face down in the passenger seat.

  “I hate women!” he screamed, blood spurting across the seat and floorboard.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  2000 April 5, 2003

  Annapolis Yacht Club Annapolis, Maryland

  “Pick up the phone, Maverick!” an impatient Greg Lynche barked. He and Connie sat on the club porch, enjoying the view of the Chesapeake and the camaraderie of the latest J-105 fleet meet. Three years earlier, Greg and Connie were blessed with a very disciplined race crew and won several races, including the J-105 Sailboat Racing National Championship. They were treated like sailing rock stars and Greg was just reelected chair of the race committee.

  Connie raised a glass of wine to toast the love of her life. Greg, grinning, touched goblets with her. Life was very good in Annapolis and became better when Greg finally concluded that Duncan Hunter was the guy he wanted as a partner in his consulting business. Art Yoder had other ideas. Greg didn’t like it at first, but when he and Duncan teamed for one of Yoder’s high-priority, high-stakes missions, the money flooded in as Lynche negotiated good terms on the contracts while Hunter planned the operations, ensuring he was at the controls of the quiet airplane.

  Connie loved Duncan, because he was always there, taking care of the older, lankier Greg. She loved him even more when he helped push the Lynche family income into a stratospheric tax bracket.
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  When Duncan drove the completely rotisserie restored Porsche 928 to the club and tossed her the keys, saying, “Happy Birthday, Good Looking,” there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.

  It broke her heart that all Duncan wanted was meat on the grill and potatoes and beans for dinner when he visited. A visit meant Duncan was taking Greg to some wild place they couldn’t talk about.

  Greg was exasperated. There was work on the horizon, and he had to reach Hunter.

  Patting his hand, Connie said, “Greg, he’ll pick up the call in a minute or two. He always does.”

  After four rings, the Blackberry connected. “Yes, Sir?”

  “When are you coming down this way?”

  “I’ll be in Carlisle the week of the fourteenth through the nineteenth, then I thought I’d stop by.”

  “Can you stop by Flight Safety on Long Island on the way?”

  There was a long pause before Hunter said, “Are you shitting me?”

  “I’m not. You’re amazing, Hunter. Can you make it?”

  “Do you have a time slot? What day?”

  “We have the twelfth and thirteenth. The books are on their way. You’ll have them Monday.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Wait till you see her, then tell me. I just want to confirm that you’re the luckiest shit on the planet.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  0840 April 9, 2003

  A Safe House near Quantico, Virginia

  After the end of her seventh polygraph interview, Marwa folded her hands in her lap and waited.

  “She’s clean,” the short, balding, myopic polygrapher said, summing up the weeklong marathon of interviews and polygraphs.