by AJ Tata
“If this blows up, I’ll kill you,” she said.
“Now there’s a point worth debating.” He gave her a thin smile and flipped the lid off the lock box. Matt stared inside the container, getting a view not only of its contents, but of the world of Jacques Ballantine.
There was a small framed picture of a man and woman—Ballantine’s parents, Matt guessed—and two boys standing near the Eiffel Tower in Paris. They were all smiles and, Matt thought, very atypical of the average American’s perception of a Muslim family. The gold frame was tarnished and spotted, the glass cover cracked. Beneath the picture were a few pages torn from a book, most likely the small Koran he had just tossed to Peyton. Some coins littered the bottom of the box, surrounding a small cassette tape, the type found in an answering machine or handheld recorder.
“Bingo,” he said.
“You got it? You found the tape?” Peyton asked.
“Yes, the tape. Let’s go listen to it.”
They stuffed everything into the backpack, and Matt jammed the tape into his pants pocket. Once back at the house, he found an old tape player he had once used to record lectures in college. Sitting at the kitchen table, he popped the tape into the small, battery-powered machine and pressed play.
The voices sounded like geese squawking but were understandable.
Male voice: Hello, May. How are you?
Female voice: Fine, fine. Things are heating up here a bit, though. Do we have any guidance?
Male voice: Just got done talking to the secretary.
Female voice: Really? This is good. Finally getting some guidance on the build up of Iraqi forces on the Kuwaiti border?
Male voice: He wanted me to relay to you that we are staying out of this.
Female voice: You mean, staying out, like it’s okay if they attack Kuwait? You know that’s what he’s talking about doing—taking the Rumallah oil fields and maybe even the entire country?
Male voice: Yeah, we know. If you look back at history, those oil fields all the way down into Saudi Arabia really belong to Iraq.
Female voice: What about the cost of oil and gas. Won’t it skyrocket if Iraq takes these fields? Aren’t we concerned about the economy?
Male voice: Yeah, yeah, we are. We don’t think he’s going past Rumallah, so it doesn’t matter. Keeping Hussein on our team against Iran is more important than protecting some minor kingdom.
Female voice: Do you need me to talk to the secretary about this?
Male voice: No. He specifically asked me to relay this to you.
Female voice: Did the president clear this? Does he know?
Male voice: Indirectly.
Female voice: Indirectly? What the hell does that mean?
Male voice: You know exactly what it means.
Female voice: Sounds like I might be left holding this bag . . .
The sound became a static buzz, then resumed.
Matt looked at Peyton, whose eyes were the size of saucers and the color of the Caribbean Sea.
Male voice: Just make sure you communicate as clearly as possible to Hussein that we will not oppose him or take issue with any action he takes in the region.
Female voice: Okay, I understand.
The tape went blank, and Matt hit the stop button.
He stared at Peyton for a long time before either of them said anything.
“So, who are they?” he asked.
“Well, my guess is that the woman is the ambassador who took all the heat for telling Hussein it was okay to ransack Kuwait.”
“Right. Who’s the guy?”
“The tape quality is too poor to determine anything either way, even if you knew the guy,” she said.
“Do you remember what she said, that tape they kept playing out of Baghdad?” Matt asked.
“Something like, ‘We won’t take issue with Arab disputes.’ That’s not exactly it, but it wasn’t too far from what we just heard,” she said.
“She said, exactly, ‘We have no opinion on your Arab-Arab conflicts, such as your dispute with Kuwait. The secretary of state has directed me to emphasize the instruction, first given to Iraq in the 1960s, that the Kuwait issue is not associated with America.’”
Peyton looked at Matt and nodded, impressed.
Matt picked up the tape recorder, looked at her, and said, “Memorized it. If you really take a look at it, we gave them the green light, almost baited them into attacking Kuwait.”
“Well, we’ve got the conversation that started it on tape. Clearly it’s not the secretary of state because he references ‘the secretary.’ But it’s most likely someone high up because she’s not questioning him too much. She’s an ambassador, and she’s dealing with him instead of going to the main man,” Peyton pointed out.
“Right. So what does this tell us? Why would they be discussing this particular tape? Zachary specifically said, ‘Get the colonel’ as he was being pulled away. And I overheard the talk of the backpack and the tape. Could the colonel and the tape be connected?”
“Did the tape sound at all like Rampert?”
“Rampert was a lieutenant colonel during the Gulf War, but the ambassador wouldn’t have been talking to him.” Matt didn’t sound convinced of his own comment.
“Well, maybe,” she said, “but these special ops guys do some wild stuff. How do we know it wasn’t the political adviser for Schwarzkopf on the phone or someone like that?”
“Good point,” he said.
“And Zachary did say, ‘Find the colonel.”
“Right. But the tape really only tells us what we already knew,” Matt said, thinking out loud.
“Unless what we know isn’t the truth. You never heard the secretary of state take any grief for any of this. May Sandford, the ambassador to Iraq, was hung out to dry, perhaps even set up. Maybe he never gave those instructions.”
Peyton had this way, he was learning, of cutting to the chase, getting right to the point. He liked that about her. Not only was she exceptionally attractive, she was bright, had a quick mind, and might even have a sense of humor hidden in there somewhere.
“But why would someone tell the ambassador to tell Hussein it was okay to take Kuwait?” he asked.
“Why did Admiral Kimmel not act when he heard the Japanese were going to attack Pearl Harbor?”
“I get your point, but Kimmel was incompetent. This seems more deliberate. Like someone wanted Hussein to attack,” Matt said.
“Why would someone want Hussein to take Kuwait?”
“Someone looking for a war.”
Matt’s words hung in the air for a moment, circling like a hawk. Their analysis seemed right to him. Could Zachary have tumbled upon a conspiracy?
“So let’s assume that someone told the ambassador to say these things to Hussein for the purpose of starting the war,” Matt said.
“That sounds about right,” she said.
“The next level of detail is, why would someone want to start a war?”
“Well, we’ve been focusing on Rampert. There are theories about the military trying to start wars to prove their viability, test new weapons, show their stuff—you know, that kind of thing,” Peyton said.
“My experience has been that the military, the actual men and women in uniform and on the ground, are the least likely to be looking for a war. They’ve seen it up close and personal. That wouldn’t make sense.”
“Maybe Rampert, if it is Rampert, was told by someone to say these things.”
Matt stood and paced toward the kitchen stove and then turned around. “But again, why would someone want to start the Persian Gulf War? Who benefits from that?”
“Oil companies, for one,” Peyton said.
“The president and secretary of state at the time both had big oil connections. That’s a possibility, but would seem too obvious. The president then was a better man than that. I don’t think he’d send young Americans to their deaths so that his buds in the oil business could make a buck or two. Doesn’t flush.”<
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“Maybe it wasn’t that high up. Maybe someone knew that the president would react if Iraq attacked Kuwait. So they kept the intel about Iraqi maneuvering below the noise level of the National Security Agency.”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” Matt said. “But again, why? Who?” Matt stared at the spine of mountains then moved his line of sight toward the South River that framed the north side of the property. Its banks were full from the spring thaw, which always brought new growth. In the last year he had believed he lost a brother and a mother, both supposedly buried in the soil upon which he stood. He had also lost Meredith’s love as she found herself more suited for the ultra-powerful circles in which she now operated. Just like Kari Jackson, Matt thought to himself, thinking of his college girlfriend who had moved to the Manhattan financial district. But really, who could ever love a man whose goal in life was to kill every son of a bitch that wanted to do harm to his country. There was that edge . . . and also the mere logistical fact that he was usually away conducting missions.
“Who?” Matt said again. His mind drifted to Rampert, an unlikely possibility, in his view. And then he latched onto something, like a gear catching.
Lantini. Frank Lantini had been involved in detainee interrogations in the first Gulf War when he was an Air Force officer prior to working his way into the CIA.
“Ronnie Wood,” Matt said more to himself than to Peyton. “It has got to be Ronnie Wood. Lantini.”
Peyton ignored the comment, stood and walked over to him. “Can I do something?”
“It’s Frank Lantini, aka Ronnie Wood, the former CIA director. I can see it now. He met Ballantine and began conspiring with him. For what, I don’t know. He started that war in the Philippines, and he’s got something to do with this one. The bastard is one of these academics with a vision. Smart by half.”
“Let’s forget about these Rolling Stones,” Peyton said. She lightly clasped his jacket lapel with thin, well-manicured fingers. “Can we? That’s wrapped up.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. Matt hesitated a moment, then slid his arms around her waist. She felt good, and he liked the way she smelled, clean and light. He noticed just a whiff of perfume as he nuzzled his head into her hair.
“What brought this on?” Matt took a step back.
“I think we bonded in Vermont.” She smiled. “C’mon.”
Matt followed her into the house and up the stairs. After a quick trip to the restroom, he peeked in Zachary’s old room. The bookcases were lined with football and baseball trophies, not unlike Matt’s room. Zachary had hung some of his military memorabilia on the wall when he had left the service and moved back home during the peacekeeping years of the nineties. After 9/11, of course, Zach had eagerly accepted returning to active duty at a lower rank than the rest of his West Point classmates. And now, Matt had been led to believe that he had paid the ultimate sacrifice.
Fond memories started to snake their way back into Matt’s mind. Strangely, when he had no opportunity to save his brother he felt fully responsible, yet when he had his brother in his arms and was knocked back by a firefight, he felt as though he had done well. Not good enough, but he was confident that he would retake Zachary. Something inside him told him that Ballantine wanted the duel with him, not Zachary. Matt figured that Ballantine might now see Zachary as the bait and would therefore try to keep him alive, so long as he didn’t become a liability.
He walked across the hall into his room and saw Peyton sitting on the bed kicking off her leather shoes. He did the same, and they stretched out on the quilt.
As Matt lay his head back against the pillow, he had an unwelcome thought: I’m close to something, am I being moved?
As Peyton laid her head on his chest, a tear slid down her cheek as she thought of what might happen next. Was there anything she could do to stop it? she wondered. Anything?
The ringing phone startled her as she wiped the tear away. It couldn’t be him calling, could it?
Listening to Matt’s heart beat she clutched him tightly, fighting her confusion and frustration more than out of any desire to pull him closer.
Chapter 39
Matt groaned with displeasure as the phone interrupted a promising moment with Peyton’s head resting peacefully on his chest.
“Hello,” he said without much enthusiasm.
“Matt Garrett?” the familiar voice said.
“Yes?” Matt replied, trying to place the voice. He felt Peyton stir and pressed his right arm into her to keep her from moving too much. This could be about Zachary.
“This is Colonel Rampert,” the voice on the phone said, “from special operations.”
Matt motioned to Peyton with his hand, and she moved tight against him. She leaned next to his ear, straining to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Yes, Colonel. What can I do for you? Are you okay?” He could hear a distinct thumping noise in the background, though he couldn’t quite place it. Images of Rampert conspiring to start the war in Iraq sprang into his mind quite easily, much to his surprise.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking. Well, two things actually,” Rampert said. Matt noticed his voice was not the same, crisp commander’s voice he had heard in the airplane.
“Okay, go ahead,” Matt said.
“First, you performed very bravely during that mission, and I’ve recommended you for a Presidential Medal of Freedom.”
Matt, newly suspicious, paused, thinking, Okay there’s the bait. “And the second?” he asked.
“Well, I thought you’d be happy about the nomination for the medal. It’s the closest thing a civilian can get to the Medal of Honor. You put your life on the line for us.”
“I could really give a rat’s ass about a medal,” Matt said, impatient.
Rampert paused and then said, “The second item is that we need to get our operative back. I need to talk to you about what you saw in the cabin.”
“Your operative is my brother,” he said. “So let’s be honest. And I was hopeful that this call was actually a notice as to his whereabouts.”
After another brief pause, Rampert said, “I understand. I can tell you more about your brother. I’ve got a helicopter heading up that way right now.”
“How soon will you get here?”
“About five minutes.”
“Need directions?”
“No, but thanks.” Rampert sounded amused.
“How many of your friends are you bringing with you?” Matt said.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He could hear the ice in the colonel’s voice. He pictured the man in his battle gear, stone-cold eyes set on the horizon through the windscreen of the helicopter. Something was different. Amiss. Matt’s instincts were wailing louder than the obnoxious chop of the helicopter rotors he heard in the background.
Why was Rampert so interested in getting his hands on Zachary? Could it be the “no man left behind” credo to which he and others in the special operations communities adhered? Or, as his instincts were telling him, was Zachary a liability? He imagined the colonel smiling wickedly like the haunting sliver of a diminishing moon on a cold February night.
“Now, I’m going to discuss with you how to get him back,” Rampert said. “And it’s imperative that no one else know about any of this. We are way beyond Top Secret here.”
“Well, Colonel, how do I know to trust you?”
Matt listened to the chopping noise of the helicopter rotor blades, muted through the telephone transmission.
“I can help you. I know some things that perhaps you don’t. It is important that we talk. And, of course, you can help me as well.”
Matt hung up the phone and looked at Peyton.
“We need to move fast. Rampert’s almost here.”
Peyton looked at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”
They quickly gathered themselves.
Inside the living room, Matt walked toward the gun case and opened the gl
ass door. He grabbed two weapons, a Remington shotgun and an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. He handed the shotgun to Peyton.
“Give me the one with no range, huh?” she asked.
“Just have it somewhere you can get to it. If Rampert’s the voice on the tape, this could get ugly.”
Matt and Peyton stood in the living room and watched through the bay window as the helicopter hovered briefly before shooting straight down to the ground.
“Look at that,” Matt said. “Makes me think Rampert’s our man. But there’s Lantini, too. Are they working together?” His questions were more rhetorical than anything, tumbling from his mind like an overstuffed closet door suddenly opened. Lantini the planner, Rampert the operator. Made sense.
They watched Rampert disembark from the helicopter and walk around to the front porch. They heard a knock on the door.
Matt looked at Peyton. “You can’t say the man doesn’t have style.”
“Figured all your friends did this.” Peyton smiled. There was something electric about her smile, as if she was about to enjoy something. Beyond the emerald-sea beauty, there was hardness in her eyes.
“I’m going to check and see who this is.” He walked down the hall, attempting to be as calm as possible. He had initially been worried about Peyton’s loyalties, but he could see now that he could concern himself with other matters.
Matt opened the door with his right hand, his AR-15 in his left. Colonel Rampert stared back at him wearing an Army combat uniform, or ACU, as Zachary called it, and a maroon beret that somehow made him seem even more menacing.
“Good evening, Colonel. May I help you?”
“Yes, may I come in?”
Matt considered his request. Standing next to the colonel, Matt saw that he was the man’s equal in stature. Matt’s shoulders were probably broader, though the colonel may have been half an inch taller.
“Listen, if you invite me in, I can answer some of your questions about Zachary,” Rampert said.
“The first thing I want to know is, Why is Winslow Boudreaux buried next to my mother out back?”
