Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “And now?”

  “Now I live in Tampa. I am to hold myself ready in case I’m needed.”

  “Is this your first operation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were the men with you tonight?”

  “Their names were Anwar and Gamal. That may not be their real names.”

  “Have you known them long?”

  “No. They were sent to help me.”

  “How did they get here?”

  “They were smuggled into Tampa on a ship.”

  “What ship?”

  “I do not know. They never said.”

  Jock looked at me. “We’ve got five hours before he has to make the call.”

  I shrugged. “He can tell Farouk that things are fine.”

  Jock laughed. “I think they’ll be speaking Arabic. Even if one of us spoke the language, there could be a code word that would close things down.”

  “Okay. I’m tired. I’m not thinking too straight.”

  “I think it’s better not to make the call at all. Farouk might think there’s a problem with the phone, or something else that’s delaying Tariq’s call. It might create enough confusion to give us an extra hour or two.”

  “Any suggestions?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Let’s see if we can find out who owns that number in Germany.”

  An hour later we had an answer. Jock hung up his cell phone. “That number is a cell phone, a disposable one. Farouk bought it at a store in Frankfurt and paid in advance for its use. There’s no way to trace it.”

  “Another dead end.”

  “Not necessarily. If Farouk is in Allawi’s house in Frankfurt, maybe we can figure it out. One of our German-speaking agents is going to call the number at eight o’clock our time. We know Farouk will be expecting Tariq to call then, so he’ll answer the phone. The agent will talk to him, apologize for the wrong number and hang up. We’ll have a truck on the street in front of the house that has equipment to monitor any cell phone use in the area. If the phone’s in the house, we’ll know it.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The morning crawled along. We were all on edge, waiting for something to happen. We’d made a start, put a few pieces of the puzzle together, but we were a long way from the whole picture. We’d tied Tariq to a bed in one of the bedrooms. He was comfortable, and Jess checked on him occasionally to see if he needed anything. Jock or I would take him for bathroom breaks, but otherwise he was quiet.

  Tom Hickey had arranged for an agency clean-up team from Tampa to go to the Gilley Creek house and take care of things there. We didn’t want the bodies or the Nissan to be found and an investigation started. The car would be towed to the agency’s facility in Tampa and gone over by technicians. They might find something that would lead them to more terrorists.

  A little after nine, Jock got a call from Germany. He hung up, grinning. “Farouk was at Allawi’s house in Frankfurt. He waited an hour and then called a number in Riyadh. He talked to the man himself and told him he’d lost contact with Tariq. Allawi is heading to Frankfurt.”

  “Jock,” I said, “we need to talk to Allawi. There’s a connection there to Wyatt’s death.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, yet, but think about it. We stumbled across some names of Nazis in the Bonn archives. Then Hassan apparently alerted somebody to what we’re doing. Right after that, an Arab tells us to go home, and the next day the same guy shows up at the Blattners to kill us. He knows we’re there because his bosses tapped Blattner’s phone. The only reason they tapped his phone is because he had a tie to de Fresne, who put twenty million dollars in the Confederated Bank Suisse. The very bank that established a corresponding relationship with the Allawi Bank in Riyadh when it was a start-up, probably with no capital. Then the killer’s buddies follow us from Fulda, and they go to Allawi’s house. Now Tariq is trying to kill us in Florida, and he’s tied to Allawi through Farouk. Allawi holds the key to this puzzle.”

  Jock stepped out of the room, his cell phone to his ear. He was back in five minutes. “Get packed. We’re going to Frankfurt.”

  “How?” asked Jessica.

  “The Gulfstream is in Tampa. It’ll be at the Sarasota-Bradenton airport in an hour, fueled and ready to fly to Frankfurt. It’s about a nine-hour trip. Allawi is coming from Riyadh, which is about a six-hour trip, but his plane doesn’t have the range to make it all the way. He’ll have to land and refuel. With any luck, we can get to Frankfurt before he does.”

  “What about Tariq?” I asked.

  Jock looked at Tom Hickey. Tom said, “I’ll take care of it. We can have some of our guys out here from Tampa in a couple of hours. They’ll keep him on ice until you decide what to do with him.”

  Logan said, “I’m going with you. That bastard tried to kill me.”

  “You don’t have your passport,” I said.

  Jock laughed. “Come along, Tiger. You won’t need a passport the way we’re going in. If you need one to get back in the country, we can arrange that with the consulate in Frankfurt.”

  Logan called Marie to tell her he was safe and not to worry; that he’d be back in a few days, but there was something he had to do. He told her he was with Jock and me and asked her not to mention anything about his release.

  I called Bill Lester. “Bill, we’ve got Logan. He’s okay.”

  I could hear the surprise in his voice. “Where are you?”

  “Can’t say. Sorry.”

  “Are you coming back to the key?”

  “Not right away. And Bill, it’s important not to let anybody know that Logan’s been released.”

  “Damnit, Matt. I can’t have a kidnapping on my island and just forget about it.”

  “Look, I understand. But this is bigger than a kidnapping. Jock is running things here, and we need to keep everything under wraps for now.”

  “Ah, goddamnned Algren and the goddamnned feds. Okay. Jock knows what he’s doing, but you keep me in the loop. Understand?”

  “I do, Bill, and I’ll bring you up to date as soon as I can.”

  “Very soon, Matt.”

  “In a few days at the most.”

  By eleven thirty we were wheels up, climbing out over Sarasota Bay. I could see the islands, Longboat and Anna Maria, resting like two emeralds floating on the shimmering waters, separating the bay from the Gulf of Mexico. The wake of a motorboat cutting across the tip of Bean Point left a scar on the flat sea. I wanted to be on that boat, heading for the fishing grounds, a warm breeze in my face. Instead, I was on my way to a northern European winter, and a dicey mission that would result in somebody’s death. I hoped it wouldn’t be mine. Or my friends’.

  We flew deeper into the night, the jet eating up the miles and the hours. We landed in Frankfurt at one thirty a.m., tired and out of sorts. Jet lag was taking its toll on all of us. We taxied to the military side of the airport and deplaned on the tarmac next to another black Suburban. The driver was waiting for us. The cold wind blowing across the open space of the airfield cut into me, causing a shiver. I liked the Florida weather better.

  “Your agency must have gotten a deal on these cars,” Logan said. “I guess you buy in bulk, you get a good price.”

  Jock laughed. “Yeah. I think somebody at the top wants us to be inconspicuous. People probably think we’re the CIA or FBI.”

  “Right,” said Logan.

  We were bundled up in the heavy clothes we’d packed. We’d stopped at a store on the way to the airport in Sarasota and gotten Logan some winter clothes. I didn’t think he’d survive in the shorts and tee shirt he’d been wearing since he was kidnapped.

  “Where’re we going?” I asked.

  “To another safe house,” Jock said. “In a suburb called Oberursel. We’ll get some rest and then go get Allawi.”

  “How are we going to get to him?” Logan asked.

  Jock chuckled. “We’ll ask him nicely to join us.”

  “Just like that?” asked Jessica. She’d b
een quiet since we landed, lost in her own thoughts, chin buried in the heavy scarf she’d put around her neck.

  “Our invitation will be persuasive,” said Jock.

  “You mean kidnap him,” Jessica said.

  Jock waved his hand in the air, a dismissive gesture. “Something like that.”

  Logan let out a snort of disgust. “Bastard’s got it coming.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  genoa, italy

  may 1945

  Genoa. Ancient hometown of Christopher Columbus. The American was driving an open jeep, the sun glinting off the gold oak leaves attached to the epaulets of his Class A uniform. A private sat in the front passenger seat, his left arm hanging to the floorboard. A close inspection would have shown that the soldier’s wrist was handcuffed to the seat’s steel frame.

  The great port was in shambles. The British Navy had shelled it into oblivion, but the town was pretty much unscathed. It was late May, and the sun was warm, a welcome respite from the cold of Frankfurt. The American had spent the past six weeks waiting for the final campaign of the American 5th Army to rout the Germans in the Po Valley of northern Italy. That was accomplished, and the Nazi Army had surrendered in the first week of May.

  The American had gone to the military prison outside Nice that morning. He showed his credentials and a fake set of orders to the officer in charge, and left with de Fresne. The trip to Genoa was only about a hundred and fifty miles, but the roads were clogged with refugees returning home now that the war was finished. Ruined buildings dotted the landscape as the men neared Italy, a sign that the war had come this way. It took most of the day to reach Genoa.

  There had been little talk since leaving the prison. As they drove out onto the main highway, de Fresne asked, “Where are we going, Major?”

  “To Genoa.”

  “Not Rome?”

  “No. Plans have changed.

  “Why Genoa?”

  “You’ll go from there to Argentina.”

  “Argentina?”

  “Yes. It’s the gateway to the States.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to. Now, shut the fuck up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They drove into the city in the late afternoon, the major squinting into the pale sun. The American navigated along a road that skirted the bay, giving them a view of the destruction of the port. The stark beauty of the bay freckled with sunken ships and destroyed piers did not move the American. He’d seen it before, that and worse, and he had become inured to the horrors of war.

  They took a left onto a street running to the east and came to the Cathedral of San Lorenzo. The church had sustained some minor damage when a British naval shell pierced the roof and landed on the floor of the sanctuary without exploding. The American had heard that the bishop planned to leave it in the church as a reminder that in war evil can come to even the holy places.

  They parked and the major unhooked de Fresne. “If you try to run, I’ll shoot you.”

  “Don’t worry, Major. I’m with you.”

  As they entered the building, a priest wearing a cassock intercepted them. “May I help you, Major?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  “We’re here to see Monsignor Petranovic.”

  “May I tell him why you’re here?”

  “Tell him that Bishop Hudal sent us.”

  A look of surprise briefly crossed the priest’s face. He seemed confused, unsure of himself. “I do not mean to seem disrespectful, sir, but I don’t believe the bishop would send an American Army officer to see the monsignor.”

  “Father, there is a lot of money involved here. I desperately need his help in getting a good man out of the clutches of the de Gaul government in France. Tell the monsignor that I’m from the OSS.”

  “Give me a few minutes, sir,” the priest said, and turned and walked into the gloom of the cathedral.

  De Fresne turned to the American. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “There’s a large group within the Catholic Church, headed by Hudal in Rome, that’s devoted to getting Nazis out of Europe. Petranovic is Hudal’s man in Genoa. He can supply you with papers from the Vatican Refugee Organization, and those will get you a displaced person passport from the International Committee of the Red Cross. That’ll get you out of Genoa on a ship bound for Argentina. I have people in Buenos Aires who’ll take over from there.”

  “How do you know about all this?”

  “The OSS helps Hudal when it suits them.”

  “Do the priests get a cut of my money?”

  “No. I’ll see that they get paid well, but not from our money. From OSS funds.”

  “Are you just going to turn me over to the monsignor?”

  “Probably. Keep in mind that I have people in the group who’d just as soon toss you overboard as look at you. One misstep on your part, and you’re a dead man. You’ll be met when the ship docks in Buenos Aires.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we’ll get you to America.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The safe house was small, tucked behind a copse and a low stone wall. The trees were leafless, stark in their nakedness, standing guard against the night. The ground was blanketed with a light covering of snow that reflected the sparse light of a waning moon. The steeply pitched roof was bare, but small stalactites of ice hung from the eaves. The property sat on a dirt track that ran for half a mile off the main road leading to the Taunus Mountains in the near distance.

  Jock parked the car in the dirt driveway that ran next to the house. The agency man in the Suburban had taken us to downtown Frankfurt, where another gray Mercedes was waiting. It was nearing three when we arrived, but light shown in the windows of the house, providing a sense of safety and warmth, an oasis of good cheer in a bleak and snowy world.

  Jock had a key to the front door and let us in. The living room was small, with overstuffed furniture taking up most of the space. A fully equipped kitchen, three bedrooms, and a bath completed the accommodations. I heard the soft sound of a furnace somewhere in the house, and warm air flowed from vents in the baseboards.

  Jock sat in a chair, exhaustion written on his face. “We’ve got to move on Allawi today. If we hit them in mid-morning, Allawi should be sleeping. He’ll be as tired as we are after his flight. His men won’t be expecting anything in broad daylight.”

  “We?” asked Jessica.

  “Yeah,” said Jock. “My agency gives me plenty of support, but it can’t have its people involved directly in taking Allawi down. The Germans would raise nine kinds of hell if they thought we were operating in their country.”

  Jessica frowned. “What about you?”

  “I’m retired, pretty much. If my involvement came to light, the agency would just take the position that I’m a retired agent helping out a friend.”

  “Are four of us enough to do this?” asked Jessica.

  I spoke up. “First of all, there’re only three of us. You’re not going to be involved. Secondly, as soon as the sun’s up, I’ll call Burke Winn and see if he can give us a few soldiers from one of the antiterrorist units stationed around here. Those guys are used to operating out of sight of the authorities.”

  Jessica exploded. “Bullshit. I’m part of this. Those bastards tried to take me out, and I’m not going to sit around like a good little girl while you big hairy men do all the heavy lifting. I know how to handle a gun. My dad made sure of that. I’m going with you.”

  “Okay,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender. “Okay. We’ll work out a plan that includes you.”

  She smiled, all the bluster gone. “Okay.”

  Logan stood. “We need to get some sleep. We’ve got about four hours ’til sunup. We can’t do anything until then.”

  At seven o’clock, I called Burke Winn. “Are you in Berlin?”

  “No. I’m still stuck in Frankfurt. Where are you?”

  “Frankfurt. I’ll explain it later
, but I need some help. How many soldiers can you give me for a couple of hours?”

  “Two.”

  “Two? You’re a general for God’s sake.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t command any troops. I’m the frigging attaché, remember?”

  “Right. Are the two you’ve got any good?”

  “Among the best.”

  “Not embassy weenies, I hope.”

  “Yep. Olenski and myself.”

  “Olenski? Burke, I don’t need a typist.”

  “Ski is Ranger qualified. I brought him with me from the special ops command I had before I let them talk me into this dumb-ass job.”

  “Burke, this thing could blow up in our faces. I don’t want your career to go down the tubes.”

  “Is this about Wyatt?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m in. Are you by yourself?”

  “No. I’ve got three friends with me. One is a Vietnam infantry grunt who became a chopper pilot, and another works for the government — one of those agencies nobody knows about. The third is a female historian.”

  “Where can we meet?”

  I gave him directions to the safe house. “No uniforms and no official vehicle.”

  “Geez, L.T. I wish I’d thought of that.” He hung up.

  Winn and Olenski arrived two hours later, driving an Acura SUV. They were dressed in jeans, down jackets, and hiking boots. They came inside and hung their coats on the rack next to the front door. Both were wearing side arms that looked like .45-caliber semiautomatics. I introduced them to Jessica, Jock, and Logan.

  I explained who we were after and why. I gave them every detail I knew, told them everything that had happened since I’d visited the consulate the week before, and spelled out Jock’s and Logan’s involvement, as well as Jessica’s.

  “General,” Jessica said, “why are you here?”

  “I owe it to Wyatt.”

  “That’s it?” she said, a wisp of incredulity tingeing her voice.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned to Ski. “And you? Do you owe Wyatt too?”