Last Op

by Jamie Fredric

  “A wood chair and length of rope on the floor. You can take a look for yourself.”

  Townsend motioned for his man to go to the basement. “What about the wife?”

  “Nothing yet. Joe’s upstairs scoping it out.”

  They both turned hearing Adler coming down the stairs. Grant asked, “Anything?”

  “Nothing too specific,” he answered.

  Grant recognized the expression on Adler’s face. “Come on. Tell me what you found.”

  “Just this.” Adler handed Grant Victoria Henley’s ID card. “It was behind a lamp on the side table.”

  “Why the hell did she even bring it? How could she think anybody would show up here, least of all us?” Grant questioned under his breath.

  Adler added his own comment. “Unless the commander somehow managed a way to signal her when they were being taken from the house.”

  “Possibly,” Grant said, “but she sure took one helluva chance.” He handed it to Townsend.

  Grant refocused his mind on the dead detective. He turned and walked into the dining room. Three of the four wooden chairs were angled away from the table. He stood quietly and closed his eyes as he pictured the dead man. He tried zeroing in on the slash across the man’s throat.

  “Am I interrupting?” Adler asked.

  “Affirmative,” Grant replied, while continuing to keep his eyes closed. Adler sat on one of the chairs. Clasping his fingers behind his head, he watched Grant and waited.

  “Joe, take a look on the carpet around the table.”

  “Gonna give me a hint?” Adler got down on his knees and started crawling.

  Grant got down on all fours. Sliding his hand across the carpet, trying to feel through the nap, he searched around the opposite side of the table. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  Townsend came into the room, stopped, then just stared at the two men crawling on the floor. “Did you gentlemen lose something?”

  “I’m hoping one of the visitors did, sir,” Grant answered.

  Adler reached under one of the chairs and picked up something with his fingertips. “I win!” he announced.

  As he stood, Grant and Townsend walked to him. “It’s some kind of red stone, skipper.” He dropped it in Grant’s outstretched hand.

  Grant held his hand open, giving Townsend a chance to look. “It’s what I was afraid of, sir.”

  Townsend picked the stone from Grant’s palm, holding it between two fingers. He held it up to the light. “What makes you say that?”

  “The way your man was killed, sir. That slash was violent. It had to be made by someone who’s experienced in using a type of knife sharp enough to split a hair, sir...and I mean lengthwise.

  “The type of knife I’m thinking of is called a ‘janbia.’ It’s carried in a scabbard. Some of the fancier scabbards have jewels set in them.”

  “And you think this stone came from one of those?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “Right now I can’t give you a name, sir, but I’ll bet Joe’s ass at least one Arab was here, possibly Libyan.” Adler ignored the “ass” remark.

  Grant lowered his head, knowing it was time to bring Townsend up to speed on the St. Mawgan situation, without releasing anything about nukes. He pulled a chair close. “Sir, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll fill you in on why Joe and I are here.”

  When Grant finally finished, Townsend could only shake his head. “And you think the IRA and the Libyans are working together, by hiring this Labeaux character?”

  “No, sir. I can’t see them doing that. Those two aren’t about to share.” Grant stood in front of Townsend. “Look, tomorrow there’s one plane coming into St. Mawgan, possibly with cargo.” Grant looked at Adler, who was nodding, as both of them thought the same thing. “So what if neither group knows about the other being involved? What if Labeaux has his own plan? What if he has no intention of turning anything over to either one?”

  “Then what’s the point? I mean, aside from the money he’s probably been paid, what would be his reason?”

  “We haven’t asked CIA to give us background information on Labeaux. It’s time we did. Maybe we can find something in his past that’ll help answer the question, sir.”

  Townsend stood, handing the stone to Grant. Seeing his men waiting in the kitchen, he said, “I guess there’s no reason to monitor this place any more.”

  Grant nodded in agreement, “Don’t think so. Whoever was here sure as hell won’t be coming back after finding one of your men spying on them, sir.

  “Joe and I will call the States once we’re back at base.” Grant changed his thought process again, focusing on how the Arabs got to England. “Sir, how many old airfields are there within a twenty mile radius?”

  “You think they came by plane?”

  “With a small plane, they could’ve come in under radar, sir. And how many fuel stops depended on where they actually departed from. But I’m sure it could be done, sir.”

  “We can check on those airfields back at the office.”

  Grant started walking toward the kitchen. “One more request, sir. Can you check on a vehicle registration for Colin Webb?”

  “I’ll take care of it personally.”

  “Thanks. Look, I know you want to get Detective Sergeant Moore back to Newquay, sir. It’d be our privilege to drive him wherever you like.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Captain.”

  Chapter 19

  St. Columb Major

  2150 Hours

  Colin Webb sat on a sofa bed in his four hundred square foot studio flat, nervously puffing on a cigarette. Since he’d been home, he’d looked at the alarm clock on the side table at least ten times. One more time wouldn’t hurt.

  Smashing the stub of his cigarette in an already full ashtray, he pushed himself off the sofa, and went to the kitchen area. He hadn’t been home in over three days. The flat smelled of rotting food from week old garbage. Dishes in the sink were encrusted with food he didn’t recognize, nor remembered eating.

  Opening a small fridge tucked under a cabinet, he grabbed one of two remaining bottles of Beck’s. A bottle opener stuck out from under wadded up dirty napkins. He opened the beer, flipped the cap onto the counter then walked to the living room, sucking on the beer.

  Again, he looked at the clock. In one hour he’d drive to the harbor and wait for Quinn. Labeaux’s orders were to tell Quinn that at two fifteen p.m. the explosives were to be set off and the guards were to be taken out. The plane should be on the ground, getting ready to off-load. That was all he had to tell Quinn. Then he’d report back to Labeaux.

  His eyes found the clock again. There was still another fifty minutes before the meeting. That should leave him enough time for a pint at Sailor’s.

  Finishing the last mouthful of beer, he tossed the bottle. Aiming for the overflowing garbage bin, it hit the edge, knocking over garbage. “Gotta take one more piss,” he mumbled. Ignoring the mess, he went into the bathroom.

  Coming back to the entryway, he lifted his jacket from a hook and slung it over his shoulder. He grabbed his keys from the side table.

  He barely had the front door open, when it came crashing into his face, sending him reeling backwards. “Holy bloody fuck!” he shouted, trying to regain his balance.

  Grant and Adler, dressed totally in black, came storming in with their .45s aimed directly at him. Adler grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him onto the floor. He held him down with a foot pressed hard against the small of his back. Grant quickly closed the door, then yanked the curtains together.

  “What the bloody fuck?! Who the fuck...?!” Webb yelled, squirming under Adler’s heavy boot.

  Adler leaned toward him. “You seem to have a limited vocabulary, friend. I’d advise you to keep your goddamn mouth shut, unless we ask you a question. Got it?”

  How could Webb refuse with the barrel of a .45 pointed at his head?

  Grant did a se
arch, albeit a quick search of the small flat, then looked out a back window, seeing a row of garages. A single security light lit up the narrow alleyway. He hustled back to the living room.

  “Sit him up,” he said to Adler, motioning with his gun. Adler jerked Webb up to a sitting position, pressing his gun to the back of his head.

  Grant stepped in front of Webb, who looked up, and defiantly asked, “Who the fuck are you?” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, the realization hit him. These two were Yanks. He broke out in a cold sweat. There was only one reason for them to be here...and it wasn’t robbery!

  Grant squatted down so he was eye to eye with Webb. Resting his arms on his thighs, with his weapon in full view, he responded, “No time for introductions. Just tell us where the hell Victoria and Jack are?”

  Webb lowered his eyes, focusing on Grant’s hands, hands covered with scars, hands that could probably snap his neck in a heartbeat. “Labeaux will kill me if I tell you.”

  Grant’s response: “That’d be letting you off easy. We have other plans if you don’t tell us what we wanna hear.”

  Webb shot a glance at the clock. Grant asked, “Have somewhere to go?” Silence. Grant looked up at Adler who grabbed the back of Webb’s collar. He started dragging him across the carpeted floor onto dirty vinyl tiles near the sink.

  “No! Fuck! Wait! Wait!” Webb shouted frantically, as he tried to break free from Adler’s grasp.

  “Change your mind?” Grant asked as he stood.

  Sweat rolled down Webb’s face. “I’m supposed to meet someone at the harbor.”

  “This someone have a name?” Grant asked.

  Webb took a deep breath. “Callum. Callum Quinn.”

  At least one question was answered. Labeaux still didn’t know Quinn was dead.

  And the reason for this meeting?”

  “I’m...I’m supposed to confirm the time....”

  “Don’t stop now,” Grant said.

  “I’m supposed to tell him when the explosives are to be set off.”

  Grant reasoned there wasn’t any need to continue this line of questioning. But he may as well put another thought in Webb’s mind. “I can tell you the explosives thing isn’t going to happen.”

  Webb looked up at Grant with confusion and now fear in his eyes. “What?!”

  “Well, you see, Quinn and his men sorta met with an unfortunate accident while they were on their boat, a boat loaded with all those nasty explosives.”

  Adler leaned close to Webb’s ear, then cut loose: “Boom!” Webb nearly came out of his skin.

  Grant stood up, bitting his lip, holding back a laugh. He cleared his throat before asking, “Are Victoria and Jack alive?”

  “They were when I last saw them.”

  “Where was that?”

  “The airfield.”

  Adler gave a thumb’s up as he looked at Grant. Right again.

  “I’m assuming they’re not just sitting in the middle of the airfield, so where? Are they in some kind of building?”

  “Yeah. There’s an old concrete building. They were on the main floor, in a room by the stairs.”

  “Was anybody else with Labeaux?”

  Webb pictured the two Arabs, then remembered what the one did to the man in the driveway. It sent a violent chill through him. He shuddered.

  “I’m waiting,” Grant said, leaning closer.

  “Two. Two other blokes.”

  “That’s all? Only two?”

  Webb nodded.

  “You’re not fucking with us, are you?”

  “No, goddammit!”

  Grant went near Adler. “Doesn’t sound like anybody else is involved.”

  “Need to make any phone calls?”

  “Let’s finish here.” Grant stepped in front of Webb again. “Would these ‘others’ happen to be Arabs?”

  Webb nodded, surprised anyone would even make that assumption.

  “How about some names?” Adler asked.

  Webb craned his neck, trying to look back at Adler. “I never heard any.”

  “I’m assuming these two came in by plane,” Grant said.

  “Yeah,” Webb answered as he wiped sweat from his eyes.

  “Did you happen to get a look at any markings, like maybe a flag or country name painted on the tail?”

  Webb scrunched up his face, as if he was trying to picture the plane. “I didn’t recognize it, but it had two...no, three wide stripes; black, red and green, or maybe red, black and green.”

  Grant’s stomach knotted. “Can you describe one or both of the men?”

  Webb remembered looking in his rearview mirror, seeing eyes staring back at him. “They had dark eyes. Really dark, scary eyes. Both men were about his height,” he said pointing over his shoulder at Adler. “One was heavy; thick and wide across his chest. He’s the one who sliced that guy’s throat. Fuck! His hands were the size of bloody, fucking shovels. Scary shit!”

  At that moment Grant and Adler knew who it was. Razzag Aknin, bodyguard of Abu Massi.

  A few years back Aknin and Massi were running terrorist operations in the Libyan dessert. Grant and Adler participated with the SAS (Special Air Service, a corps of the British Army) in an operation to destroy the camp’s ammo supply. It was during that raid when the two Americans came practically face to face with the two Libyans.

  Adler set charges around the piled boxes of ammo while Grant and two SAS officers held off the Libyans. With timers set, the four men started retreating, firing weapons as they tried to distance themselves from the impending explosion.

  Aknin and Massi suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Enraged and unbelieving at what they were witnessing, the two ran across the camp toward the foreigners, each brandishing a dagger in one hand, a pistol in the other.

  Several more Arabs came at the Americans and SAS men from the right. One of the SAS officers was hit, catching a bullet in his thigh. Grant struggled to lift him over his shoulder, watching the advancing Libyans. Adler and the other SAS officer emptied their weapons, reloaded, then fired again.

  There was a brief moment when the eyes of Aknin and Massi met the eyes of both Americans, their faces burned into their brains. The Americans and SAS men started hauling ass, when a moment later the explosives went off, knocking Aknin and Massi to the ground, dazed. Trying to raise themselves from the sand, they saw only blurred forms running across the sand toward the horizon.

  *

  “You got a pencil and paper?” Grant asked Webb.

  “In the drawer above the fridge.”

  Adler went into the kitchen, trying to avoid stepping in spilled garbage. “Jesus! It smells like a shit hole in here!” he said under his breath. He rummaged around in the drawer, finding a stub of a pencil with a broken point, and a single piece of paper with one clean side. He handed Grant the paper, then took his K-bar from his leg strap and whittled the pencil to a point.

  Grant dropped the pencil and paper on Webb’s lap. “Draw a diagram of the airfield and which direction we’ll be coming from. Show the building and topography.”

  “Topography?”

  “You know...those little things we call trees, bushes, hills. Any water around?” Webb shook his head, just before Grant snapped a finger against it. “And make sure you show the plane and the Rover.”

  A dim light went on in Webb’s brain. “You’re the ones who were at the harbor the night...” He cut himself off.

  “Care to finish that sentence?” Adler asked.

  “No!”

  While Webb struggled with the drawing, Grant said to Adler, “Get the throat mikes; may as well get ready.”

  Adler opened the door, and checked to make sure things were clear. Hiding his weapon behind his back, he made a dash for the van.

  Grant leaned over Webb, looking at the half-ass diagram, when Adler came back. He already had his mike in place, but let the earpiece hang outside the collar of his jacket. He handed one to Grant.

  “Here,” Webb said, holding
up the paper.

  While Grant adjusted the wire of the throat mike, Adler took the diagram, trying to make sense of the scribble. He said to Webb, “Tell us what the inside of the building looks like. How are the rooms arranged?”

  Webb gave a description. As he finished, Grant said to Adler, “Check out front once more.”

  Adler closed the door behind him then quickly scoped out the grounds surrounding the flats. After a couple of minutes, he came inside. “Clear.”

  Grant reached down and yanked Webb up by his arm. “Come on. Let’s go see how accurate your drawing is.”

  “Like bloody hell!” Webb blurted out, as he attempted to break free of Grant’s hand.

  Grant squeezed harder, making Webb wince in pain. “Listen you son of a bitch! You got yourself into this, and then you had the fuckin’ balls to involve your sister and her husband! Your own sister, for Christ’s sake!”

  “She’s not my fucking sister!” Webb shouted, sounding more like he was trying to justify his actions.

  Grant grabbed Webb around the throat, wanting to squeeze until both eyeballs popped out of his head.

  Then he heard Adler’s voice, “Uh, boss.”

  Grant let loose. Webb coughed, putting a hand to his red throat. Grant shoved him toward Adler. “Put his ass in his car, driver’s side. You’ll drive the van. I’ll be right out.”

  Adler picked up Webb’s keys from the floor, roughly pulled him toward the door, then left the flat.

  Grant holstered his .45 and looked around for a phone,

  spotting one on a shelf. Resting his hand on the receiver, he thought about a decision he had to make. Should he call Colonel Donaldson and tell him the base could “stand down” or would he be “jumping” the proverbial gun? He was more confident there weren’t any others involved, and the IRA and explosives were out of the way. But he still didn’t have a clue of what Labeaux had planned.

  Maybe he should call for air support over the old airfield. As much as he could use the support, he didn’t want to ruin the “surprise” he and Adler were hoping to give Labeaux. More importantly, he couldn’t take the risk with Jack and Victoria inside the building.