“What are you going to do about McKinley?”
“I don’t know. I’m tired of killing people.”
“You haven’t killed anybody who didn’t deserve it. Lighten up on yourself.”
“I can’t let McKinley go. Besides, if LaPlante talked to him before he came here, McKinley knows I’ve got the MAD documents. He’ll come for me.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe you’d better come out to Houston for a few days.”
“Let me think on it, Jock. The only way I’m ever going to be safe is to get rid of McKinley. If I give the documents to the press, he won’t have any reason to go after me. Maybe that’s the solution.”
“Don’t do anything yet. Can you give me a day to figure something out?”
“Like what?”
“Like, for instance, your car bomber.”
“What about him?”
“The AP ran a story this morning about the Saudi diplomat dying in a car wreck.”
“Yeah. I saw it in the paper.”
“That was your bomber.”
“What?”
“Our buddy Tariq identified him from photographs. My agency confirmed that the diplomat was the bomber and then took him out.”
“Not a car accident?”
“Not really.”
“Are you suggesting that your guys take out McKinley?”
“They wouldn’t touch an American citizen, much less a U.S. senator. But, I know some guys who might. With the proper documentation.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
I stayed in the rest of the day dozing on the sofa. Logan called to say he was watching re-runs of Cops on his big-screen TV, and would be there all day if I needed anything. I ordered pizza to-go from Ciao’s restaurant, and drove the mile down the island to pick it up. I went to bed early.
The next morning, just as the sun was peeking over the mainland, burnishing the bay with bright colors, Jock called. “A guy’s coming to see you today. He’ll say that Fran Masse sent him. Give him the original MAD documents, but keep a copy. He won’t give you his name, and you don’t have to engage him in a conversation. He’ll be out of your hair in two minutes.”
“Who is he?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
I fixed breakfast, had my coffee, read the newspaper, and took a shower. I retrieved the documents from my safe, and drove to the UPS store at the Centre Shops to make copies. I only had to drive a mile, but I was getting a little paranoid. I looked carefully at everybody I met in the parking lots, and stayed aware of the cars around me on the short drive. I had my .38 in my pants pocket.
I returned to my condo and settled in to wait for Jock’s man. I hadn’t talked to Jessica since my return from Europe, so I called her at the embassy. I was put right through.
“Matt, how’re you doing?”
“Fine. It’s in the low seventies and the sun is shining.”
“Crap. It’s cold and drizzly in Paris.”
“Why don’t you come to Florida for a few days?”
“I’d like that, but I’m getting a lot of flak at work. One of my buddies says there’s some kind of pressure coming down on me from Washington.”
“What kind of pressure?”
“Nitpicking. I don’t know how better to describe it. A friend of mine at the State Department in Washington called to say they were getting pressure to fire me. Nobody seems to know just where the pressure is coming from, but it’s high up.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” I had an idea where the pressure was coming from, but I didn’t want to discuss it over an open line to Europe.
“Oh well, I’ll survive. I think. If not, I can always teach.”
We chatted for a while, and I hung up when I heard a knock. I went to the front door. “Who is it?”
“Fran Masse sent me.”
I opened the door to see a slight man dressed in a bright Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and running shoes. He had blond hair that fell over the tops of his ears, blue eyes. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, the kind that tint automatically when the sun hits them. They lightened visibly as he stood at the door. He extended his hand. We shook, and I invited him in. I offered coffee.
“No thanks. I’ve got to run. I’m told you have some documents for me.”
He had a slight accent that I couldn’t place. Middle European maybe, but he’d been in America for a long time. I handed him the manila envelope containing the original MAD documents. He thanked me and left.
I called Jock in Houston. “Your man just picked up the documents.”
“Okay. Stay loose, but stay on your toes. I think you’re all right for now, but we can’t be too sure.”
“What’s up?”
“Can’t tell you yet, podner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
The days unfolded slowly, one morphing into the next. I moved about the island armed, following no set pattern, but not skulking either. I was constantly aware of my surroundings, always on guard, eyeing strangers with suspicion. It wasn’t a pleasant way to live, but it gave me confidence that I’d at least keep on breathing.
Jock had called me on Friday, the day after the man picked up the documents, and told me that something was in the works. Senator George McKinley had been contacted directly and told that he could have the original MAD documents for a price, but that if Matt Royal was harmed in any manner, his secrets would be revealed to the press. There were ongoing negotiations concerning the price to be exacted for the papers and the manner of transfer.
“Jock,” I’d said, “that’ll cover my butt, but McKinley will be safe and maybe president.”
“Hang tough, Matt,” he said cryptically. “The situation is fluid.” Whatever that meant.
On Tuesday morning, pictures of Senator George McKinley and a piece on his death dominated the front page of the Sarasota Herald-Tribune:
TERRORISTS KILL MCKINLEY
Senator George McKinley, widely considered the front-runner for his party’s nomination for president, was killed last night in a bomb blast at his Rock Creek mansion in Washington, D.C. Details were sketchy at press time, but a Washington police spokesman confirmed that the senator is dead. A shadowy group that calls itself Allah’s Revenge has claimed credit for the bombing, saying that McKinley epitomized all that is wrong with American society. In a written statement e-mailed to news outlets, the group said, “Allah has struck down another infidel, one whose outrageous appetite for extravagance robs the world of needed resources.”
Senator McKinley’s father was murdered a week ago in his mansion outside Boston. That crime remains unsolved, and police admit that they have run out of leads.
The article went on to recount George McKinley’s rise to political prominence and discussed his family’s great wealth. The reporter postulated that the deaths of the senator and his father were connected, but wondered why Allah’s Revenge hadn’t taken credit for William McKinley’s death as well. Quotes from national leaders regretted the senator’s death and vowed that the perpetrators of such a heinous crime would be brought to justice.
I could put my pistol away. There was a fitting irony that the terrorists, funded by money stolen from Jews headed for extermination, killed the son of the man who was responsible for their good fortune. If the elder McKinley hadn’t gotten de Fresne out of Europe and recruited Allawi’s father to be their banker, there would have been no money for the younger Allawi to lavish on his pet terrorists.
Wyatt could rest easy now.
I probably wouldn’t.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
The Christmas season lightens the heart and brings a sense of fellowship that permeates the small world that most of us inhabit. In Southwest Florida, the season is rife with contradictions: Crosby’s “White Christmas” coming from the outdoor speakers while dining al fresco in seventy-five degree weather, posters of a jolly Santa climbing down a chimney in a land wher
e there are few fireplaces, waitresses in shorts and tee shirts wearing reindeer antlers.
The season had also brought Jessica Connor to Longboat Key for a visit with Russ and Patti Coit at their home in the Village. She and I spent a lot of time together and found that we enjoyed establishing a relationship without the tension of a manhunt. I never did tell her the whole truth of the ending of the story.
“I read that Allawi died of a heart attack,” she’d said over dinner one evening. “Did you ever find de Fresne?”
“Yes. Turns out he lived a couple of islands down the coast. He was an old man dying of cancer, and leaving his estate to the Israeli government to support Holocaust survivors. He died two days after I found him.”
“I’m glad they’re dead. In another few years there won’t be any of the old Nazis left. I hope there’s some after-life retribution. They deserve to burn in hell.”
“How’re things at the embassy?”
“A lot better, strangely enough. My friends in D.C. tell me that the pressure from above suddenly let up. I guess somebody just forgot about me.”
“I guess,” I said, but I thought I knew the reason the pressure had gone away. The cause of it was rotting in hell.
I didn’t think it would be helpful to our relationship for her to know that I’d been responsible for the deaths of William McKinley and Dick LaPlante. During the week that Jess had been on the key, we had moved closer and closer to a real love affair, making up for the time we’d missed while chasing ogres. One evening when a full moon hung low over the bay, we made love on the deck of my boat, anchored in a small cove behind Jewfish Key.
There is an old wives’ tale that holds that something good always comes from adversity. Perhaps there is truth in that aphorism, and the good flowing from the tragedy of Wyatt’s death was named Jessica Connor. We’d see.
On the day before Christmas, Jock, Logan, Burke Winn, and I sat under the trees at Mar Vista restaurant, enjoying the warmth of the winter sun and the view of a placid bay. The general and his wife had come to Florida for Christmas with friends in Naples, and he’d driven up for lunch. Logan had picked Jock up at the airport, and driven straight to the restaurant. He and I would have Christmas dinner at Logan’s, along with all the other displaced people that he invited every Christmas.
Logan said, “Jock, what ever happened to that bastard Tariq?”
“He’s not going to be bothering anybody for about the next fifty years. He somehow ended up in an Algerian jail.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Let’s just say that my agency has some reciprocal agreements with some of the more moderate Arab governments.”
“What about Hassan in Bonn?” I asked.
“He got fired from the archives, but he’s living with his parents in Bonn and working in a library. My guys scared the shit out of him. He dropped out of the mosque and moved on with his life.”
“So, Matt,” said Burke, “Wyatt’s revenge is complete.”
I’d told Burke what happened after we left Germany, and how the thing played out. “Yes,” I said. “Finally.”
The general had a serious look on his face. “I read about McKinley’s death, of course. I was surprised that Allah’s Revenge thought it necessary to take him out. They must not have known about his ties to Allawi.”
Jock grinned. “There’s something you guys should know about McKinley.”
“You been holding out, Jock?” asked Logan.
“Just until we got together. Turns out McKinley’s death resulted in my agency getting a lot bigger budget from Congress. There’s nothing like a dead politician to make the others a little more aware of the need to deal with the terrorists.”
The general laughed. “I think the military benefited some from that dose of reality, too.”
“And,” said Jock, “it seems that the congressional committee that oversees my agency felt that it would be prudent to loosen up a little and send us after Allah’s Revenge without restraint. A lot of those assholes are now in the arms of Allah and the virgins.”
I nodded. “Jock, who was the man who came for the MAD documents?”
“I don’t really know. Let’s just say that the Israelis have a long memory and even longer arms.”
“Are you saying that the Israelis had something to do with McKinley’s death?”
Jock grinned. “No, I’m not saying that. But, think about it. If somebody put a bug in the ear of a friend who happened to be an Israeli intelligence agent, and if that friend happened to want documentary proof, and if somebody could provide that proof, then theoretically, it could endanger the life of a very bad guy. And if that guy’s death happened to open the congressional purse and focus the congressional vision, and get rid of a very dangerous group of terrorists, then, well, hypothetically, you can see the advantage to it all.”
I laughed. “I can see that. Jungle justice is a little complex sometimes, eh General?”
“That it is, L.T. That it is.”
Wyatt's Revenge Page 23
