The Last Spymaster

by Gayle Lynds

  “You think we talk about that sort of thing? You’re crazy!” But his bleary eyes narrowed, and he looked away uneasily.

  “You and your pals were drinking heavily. All of you were up until dawn. In conditions like those, people let things slip.” Elijah held up his cell phone. “You want my cooperation? Or do you want me to call DoD?”

  Dudek stared at the cell. He licked dry lips. “If the fed’s checks weren’t so goddamned big, I’d never bother. Yeah, there was another one. It was . . . strange.”

  Elijah leaned against the bed’s foot rail. “I’m listening.”

  “It’s camouflage material called Mirror-Me. The deal is, it makes things seem transparent by displaying whatever’s behind, in front. See, nanometric video cameras record the images and send them in real time to nanometric projectors that display them on the cloth. Mike—the head of the company that makes it—had some photos in his billfold. The stuff is creepy. Of course, the Pentagon loves it because of its military potential. Fighter pilots can ‘see’ through the bottom of their planes for safer landings and to dodge attacks. There’s all sorts of ways to use the cloth in urban warfare. The public’s not going to be able to buy Mirror-Me for quite a while—if ever.”

  “How much was stolen?”

  Dudek looked up uneasily. “Mike said they lost enough product for a hundred thousand cloaks. No way to know what it’ll actually be used for.”

  As a wave of disquiet rolled through Elijah, his cell phone rang. He checked the LED—Ben Kuhnert’s number.

  “I was never here,” he told Dudek. “Clear?”

  Karel Dudek grunted agreement, and Elijah turned on his heel and left.

  Once outside, he answered Ben’s call: “Did you get anything?”

  Reston, Virginia

  Palmer Westwood had spent the morning making phone calls, checking into Global Motors, Inc., the monolithic multinational that made and sold GyroBird drones. When he arrived at the office of the corporation’s regional security chief, he found a cup of steaming coffee and a cheese Danish waiting.

  “Hell, Palmer,” Clyde Ypres told him, “I never expected a legend like yourself to call. Your favorite Danish is the least I can do.” He had a horsey face and auburn hair that had lost its vibrant color, but his eyes were still as intelligent as ever.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” Palmer said. “It’s been a lot of years. I’d better skip the Danish. Show me around.”

  Carrying their mugs, the two men walked out into the world of modern defense manufacturing. As they passed windows showcasing scientists in white coats and goggles working over lab benches, Palmer led the conversation back to a mission that had unmasked Soviets secretly selling fissionable material to Third World countries.

  “You’re damn good, Clyde. I always admired the way you cracked that ring.” With that compliment, Palmer changed the direction of the conversation: “I hear Global’s got a hot new military product called GyroBird.” First he encouraged Clyde to describe the drone, and then he got to the point: “How are you handling the thefts?”

  Clyde stopped so quickly his coffee mug shook. “There was only one event.” He looked around. A door opened, and the noise of metal being cut whined through. Two men dressed in coveralls and gloves passed by and through another door. “I guess I’m not surprised.” Clyde followed the pair. “There had to be a reason you were here.”

  Once they were moving alone along a concrete sidewalk, Palmer lit a cigarette and pressed his point: “I’m doing some contract work for Langley. You know how short-handed they are these days. If you tell me everything, I’ll try to keep you and Global out of it.”

  “Yeah, and it’ll be my good deed for the year, too.” There was no bitterness in Clyde’s voice, just tired reality. “A week ago a shipment vanished off the dock. The next day, one of our warehousemen was killed by a hitand-run driver. Naturally, the dead man turned out to be my prime suspect. My people are still investigating, but I basically have nowhere else to go. Not a single lead. Whoever put him up to it knew what he was doing. I interviewed the widow, but she didn’t have a clue. I don’t know who got the GyroBirds or where they are.” His long face toughened. “If you know, tell me. I’ll take care of them—through legal channels, of course.”

  Palmer inhaled his cigarette, studying him. “You checked with security people at other companies?”

  “I did.” It was Clyde’s turn to peer thoughtfully at Palmer. “And, yes, a couple had thefts, too. One was called the Sky Sword. It’s a missile, fast as hell—Mach 3 at high altitude; or when it’s flying low to the ground, just sixty feet—Mach 2. At its fastest, it gives targets a maximum theoretical response time of just twenty-five to thirty seconds. That means it’s almost impossible for anyone to employ jamming and countermeasures, let alone fire missiles and quick-firing artillery in return. It’s got a guidance system you need only a laptop computer to control. But the real kicker is it’s shoulder-launched, and it’ll break down so small you can pack it into a music case. Once you slip into a country, you don’t actually need to get any closer than a hundred fifty miles to the target before you fire. That’s its range. And before you ask—their count is five hundred missing.”

  Palmer stared. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Terrifying, isn’t it? The second one is a tiny gun. It hangs off your key chain and looks like a car’s remote control but a little bit larger than normal. But if you punch the four buttons in the right sequence, it separates into a handle and a barrel. The darn thing has amazing firepower. It shoots two bullets. At the same time, aviation security machines can’t identify it. You just dump the key chain into the airline’s dish with your watch and pens, and it sails right through. It’s called the Retaliator and was developed for undercover forays into less-than-friendly nations. Two thousand are missing.”

  “Two thousand!”

  Clyde nodded soberly. “That’d take care of a lot of planes. Scares the shit out of you to think what terrorists could do then.”

  “It does indeed.” Palmer thanked him and walked back to his car, mulling. As he climbed behind the wheel, his cell phone rang. He whipped it out.

  “What’s your report, Ben?” He could hear the deep growl of a car’s big motor in the background. Ben was somewhere on the road.

  “Hold on. I’ve got Elijah on the line, too. I’ll call Frank now.”

  Georgetown

  The leafy campus of Georgetown University was quiet, most students and teachers in classrooms, when Frank Mesa finally found the correct lecture hall. Still wearing his zippered jacket and cotton chinos, he settled into a seat at the back and hunched low, so colorless no one noticed.

  From between the shoulders of students, Frank studied the political science professor—Rudi Gruhn, Ph.D.—who stood at the podium, lecturing. Rudi had acquired a basketball-size belly, pink cheeks, and a passionate delivery. He had to be in his mid-forties now. The course was called “The Merchants of Death.”

  “Our time’s nearly up,” he was saying, “so I’ll close with a legendary trafficker from the late 1800s and early 1900s. His name was Basil Zaharoff. He was outgoing, a natural pitchman who claimed to be Greek when it suited him. Zaharoff was highly successful until he started repping submarines and discovered he couldn’t talk anyone into buying one because of the high price. He was desperate. So he went to Greece and ingratiated himself by saying he was ‘first a Greek, a patriot like yourselves, and only second a salesman.’ Then he did something new—he offered to sell on credit. The result was the Greeks bought one sub. If you recall your history, you know Greece and Turkey hated each other. It was a historic feud that flamed into blood-soaked combat periodically. So, of course, Zaharoff went to Turkey next. He terrified them with stories about Greece’s menacing new sub. By the time he’d finished, they’d outdone the Greeks and bought two submarines.”

  Laughter rippled through the young audience.

  Professor Gruhn let the amusement ebb. When an uneasy
restlessness took hold, he spoke into it: “Zaharoff left an enduring legacy. He proved to the industry that the most practical means to maximize profit was to sell to all sides any way you could, because that bred conflict, and conflict led to war, and war meant increased demand for weapons.” The students were silent. “Lying, inciting fear, and selling on credit are still basic principles followed by modern traffickers. Who can tell me which country produces the most weapons, and which country sells the most weapons, and which country makes the most profit from weapons today?”

  Hands rose.

  “No, no.” He shook his head. “Tell me.”

  They shouted it out: “The United States.”

  He gave a clipped nod, slammed his lecture folder together, and stuffed it into his briefcase. There was a hesitation, then the students were on their feet and moving to the doors, quiet at first but soon talking—but not about the lecture. They had more pressing issues of a personal nature on their minds. Still, Frank hoped Gruhn had planted intellectual seeds that might grow into critical thought, perhaps even good deeds.

  As the aisle began to clear, Frank pushed against the flow, heading toward the podium. When the professor noticed Frank, his pink cheeks paled. Briefcase in hand, he hurried toward a rear door.

  “Forget it, Rudi.” Frank kept his voice low but made certain it carried. “You know you have to talk to me.”

  For several seconds the professor’s stubby body was nimble. He slipped through the doorway like the athletic gunrunner he once was. Frank caught up.

  “You know better than to come here.” Gruhn did not look at him. “I’ve rebuilt my life. I’m completely out of the business.”

  “I don’t have time to leave messages and hope you’ll phone back. I need to talk to the Italian, your old boss—Tiberius DeLoreto.”

  Frank had been around so long he knew something the new generation of arms merchants did not—that Georgetown’s renowned terrorism expert, Professor Rudi Gruhn, had once been DeLoreto’s protégé, as close as a favored son. Even in those days Rudi had been smart, which told Frank he would have done everything possible to keep tabs on the dangerous and vindictive DeLoreto.

  “If I tell you,” Rudi Gruhn said, “I never want to see you again.”

  “Done. Talk.”

  When they were finished, Frank said, “I’m impressed with the way you’ve turned your life around, Rudi. But if you tell anyone about this, you will see me again.”

  As Frank headed back across campus, his new cell phone vibrated against his hip. He grabbed it and felt an electric surge of excitement—Ben’s voice was on the line.

  “This is a conference call, Frank,” Ben announced. “The shipment’s going to a highly ambitious and dangerous new terrorist network called the Majlis al-Sha’b. . . .”

  35

  Outside Herndon, Virginia

  Something wet and cool nudged Elaine’s arm. She shoved it away. It was back immediately, pushing harder. Her eyes snapped open. Bright sunlight sliced through the window glass on either side of the heavy damask curtain. For a moment she did not know where she was. Then Houri butted her arm again, ran to the door, and was back, giving the arm an even harder prod.

  She leaped out of bed, still dressed. “Jay!”

  “Jesus, Elaine. Keep your voice down.” His warning sounded clearly through the wall.

  The house’s silence seemed to throb with threat. Elaine slammed her feet into socks and tennis shoes and checked the clock. It was noon. She snatched her shoulder bag and rushed into the hall, pulling a brush through her hair. Jay’s back was disappearing downstairs. He had his Browning in one hand and was slinging his backpack onto his shoulder with the other. She dumped the brush into her bag and pulled out her Walther. Then she ran.

  Ben Kuhnert was waiting at the bottom, looking up, his golden skin flushed. He was covered with dust. “I just got here. Company’s coming.” His black eyes glinted with anger.

  As Jay landed and she followed, Ben backed up, pulling Houri by the collar. Panting, Houri twisted from side to side. He released her, and she ran around the room and into the kitchen.

  “Who is it?” Jay asked.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “No one drove in?” Jay showed only his usual neutral expression but radiated a heightened alertness. He looked rested, as if he’d had twice the five hours she figured. His short hair was combed, the dark circles under his eyes had vanished, and the athletic slouch had returned to his shoulders. His beard was a gray mat.

  Ben shook his head. “I’m assuming they’re arriving on foot because they don’t want to warn us. Too late. We’re warned. I’ve got things to tell you. We’ll do it fast.” He held up the front page of The Washington Post.

  Elaine inhaled sharply. There was the same CIA mug shot that had been on the TV news last night. The headline gave her indigestion:

  CIA OPERATIVE ELAINE CUNNINGHAM IS MURDER SUSPECT

  Ben tossed the newspaper onto a sheet-draped sofa. “I put the license plates from my old station wagon on the Jag last night after you went to bed. That’ll help. I’ve called the others, and they’re making progress. Seems both the GyroBirds and StarDusts have been stolen, plus Palmer and Elijah found out about three other products that are missing, too.”

  “Any direct connection to Jerry and Mr. G?” Jay wanted to know.

  “They’re still investigating, but I’ve got a big-ticket item for you—the identity of the buyers. Let’s move, and I’ll tell you.” Ben hurried into the kitchen. Houri was waiting. “I’ve locked the house and turned on the alarm system, but that won’t be enough to stop our visitors if they’re who we think they are.” He opened the pantry and took out a dog’s halter. Straps hung from both sides. “The buyer is a group called the Majlis al-Sha’b. In English, it’s People’s Assembly. Think of it as a terrorist U.N. and military mall combined.”

  Elaine swore. “A ‘military mall’?”

  “It’s as bad as it sounds.” As Ben described the group, he hunched down, and Houri stepped into the halter. “Most are jihadist czars, but the rest are leaders of political extremists like the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia, which is connected as hell, as you know.” He stood up.

  “With their funding and diversity,” Jay said worriedly, “they could create an arc of crisis from Marrakesh and Bangladesh to Paris and New York. I hope like hell the shipment hasn’t changed hands yet. What did your source say about that?”

  “He didn’t know the exact time, but he says it’s going to be sometime tonight.” Ben took sunglasses from a drawer and used a slipknot to tie them to Houri’s halter. “This shipment is supposedly so big and deep it’ll launch them.” He unhooked the pager on his hip and attached it to the other side of her halter.

  Houri’s ears were raised and alert. She gave a soft woof.

  “I know, girl,” he told her. “I’m hurrying.” He grabbed a large white handkerchief and an adhesive bandage impregnated with antibiotics. He looked at Jay. “He told me something else. A ghost from the past’s involved—Faisal al-Hadi.”

  A shadow seemed to pass over the spymaster’s face. “What about alHadi?”

  “Al-Hadi approached my source to invite his group to join the Majlis last year. My source refused, but he kept in touch.”

  Houri lifted her muzzle and growled.

  “She says they’ve arrived. No more time.” Ben rushed to the sink and grabbed a thin-bladed filleting knife.

  Frowning, Jay hurried toward him. “Ben, what are you—” He looked at the bandage then down at Houri, who hovered beside Ben, and nodded to himself. “Go ahead. I understand. Good plan.”

  There was a second’s hesitation. Ben pushed his jacket sleeve up over his elbow.

  “Ben!” Elaine ran to his other side. “Don’t!”

  Jay pulled her close and held her. “It’s necessary.”

  Ben’s jaw tightened, and he sliced the top of his arm. Blood poured.

  Jay released her and used the handkerchi
ef to soak up the blood, then pressed it against the wound to slow the bleeding. “Put on the bandage, Elaine. Do it quickly.”

  The cut was narrow and livid. As she taped the bandage, Ben handed her the garage key. At the same time, Jay crouched. Houri licked his cheek, and he fastened the bloody cloth into another of the harness’s straps. Blood dripped to the linoleum.

  “What’s most critical is finding Raina.” Ben rolled his sleeve over the bandage. “So Houri and I will be your diversion. Get moving. Both of you. My girl and I have work to do.”

  “Ben, we’re grateful,” Elaine said softly. “Good-bye.”

  As the older man nodded, Jay said simply, “Thanks, Ben.”

  They exchanged a long look that crossed continents and decades, their ages showing clearly in their seamed faces and thinning hair. And then it was gone.

  Jay stuck out his hand.

  Ben ignored it. He pulled Jay close and thumped his back. “Good luck. If I never said thanks for everything, it’s only because I’m shy.” As Houri loped to the door, he snagged a lightweight dog coat from a hat hook. It was the same color as the amber animal. “We’re going to keep them very busy as long as possible to give both of you a good start.” He fastened the coat over the harness, hiding it. He stood up and put on sunglasses that were identical to the ones he had fastened to the harness. “Go! Bismillah!” He pulled out his Browning.

  “He’s right, Elaine. Where to?”

  There was a lump in her throat. “This way.”

  She ran down the short hall, Jay at her heels. As they crossed the living room to the other side of the house and through Ben’s office, she described Ben’s hidden escape route and what both must do.

  “Got it.” He pushed past her and opened the glass door onto a stone walkway, a gray ribbon through the sun-splashed lawn. It led all of the way around the big main house to the two cottages. Some twenty feet distant were woodlands, lush with ferns and blue wildflowers. He surveyed cautiously and stepped outdoors.