by Harold
He rose from the floor where he had been trying to sleep. But his captors kept a bare bulb illuminated in the high ceiling—too high to reach. He was sore, tired, hungry—and frightened.
Two men opened the door and motioned him out. One carried a truncheon and appeared capable of using it. The prisoner accepted the tacit invitation and stepped into the adjoining room. He had been blindfolded when he arrived, and welcomed the view of his immediate surroundings.
Directed to a chair, the man sat and was immediately grasped from behind. Two other thugs secured him with cargo straps around the chest, and abdomen, pinning his arms.
The older man turned from a companion and regarded the prisoner. In French-accented English, he said, “Your passport says that you are David Scourby, an Englishman. We know that you are David Olmert, and you are Israeli. You are working with at least two other Jewish agents, and you have been watching us. You are going to tell us why.”
Olmert’s mind raced. They didn’t know who I was before. That’s why it took three days. But they still don’t know about Alex and the others.
I have to tell them something.
“We were interested in the French security company.”
The inquisitor smiled grimly. His right hand snapped out, striking Olmert’s left cheek. “We know that! We caught you reporting their takeoff!”
Strapped into the chair, Olmert could only glare at his tormentor.
“Who did you report to?”
“To my superior, of course.” And so the game goes, each step leading to the next.
The Frenchman’s left fist struck the bridge of Olmert’s nose.
An ambidextrous bastard.
“Well?” The interrogator spat it out.
Olmert shook off the blow. “Nathan. That’s the name he uses.”
“Your accomplice is known to you by an alias?” Left, right, left. Hard, full-force punches, expertly delivered. This time they drew blood. Olmert tasted the salty tang on his tongue. He knew that his nose was broken.
Forcing himself to focus, he realized that he had seen the thug before. Through a rifle scope—the day the two competing contractors had been murdered along the Aozou Strip.
That knowledge settled over David Olmert like a shroud.
* * * *
N’DJAMENA
It was time.
“Etienne, call Gabrielle in here.” Marcel’s voice was irritated, petulant.
Etienne Stevin recognized the signs.
Olmert was again strapped to his chair. He looked the worse for wear following a full day of threats, cajolery, and beatings. Not even cigarettes to the soles of his feet elicited full disclosure.
Marcel Hurtubise tolerated Gabrielle Tixier for any number of reasons, not least of which was her sadomasochistic streak. She specialized in humiliation.
Entering the room, the young woman wielded a pair of scissors that she snipped playfully around her face. She wore a sleeveless blouse, tied at the midriff, with a pair of green shorts.
She strode slowly to Olmert, fixing his eyes with hers. She made a point of smiling and saw the fear cross his face. He knows what’s coming, she thought. C’est bon.
She traced the curve of his cheek with the point of the scissors, lingering around the eyes. Then she began cutting his shirt away. Marcel watched impassively; Etienne was less detached. He shifted on his feet and licked his lips.
Gabrielle gave the little-girl pout that she had mastered as a child. It had worked on Papa, up to the point that he became aroused by it. She had fled at thirteen and met Marcel six years later. Yes, he was cunning, violent, and amoral, but he was generally good to her. Sometimes she wondered why; childhood abuse often left victims doubting their own worth.
This was not one of those times.
She waved a manicured finger in the captive’s face. The sheen on his skin told her all she needed to know. Gabrielle Tixier had long since been able to sense the presence of fear.
“You are not very talkative, mon cher. Don’t you like to make conversation with your hosts?” She gave an exaggerated roll of her blue eyes. “Oh! Now I understand. All this male atmosphere. It is so dull, isn’t it?”
She stepped close and placed her hands behind Olmert’s head. She stroked his matted hair with her left hand, cooing at him.
Then, with her right hand, she snipped his left earlobe. He screamed in pain and surprise. “Bitch!”
“There, you see?” She caressed his cheek with her free hand. “It is so much nicer to talk to little Gabrielle. Actually, I am doing us all a favor. I have shown you that we make no idle threats, and perhaps that will save you much pain. Also, it may save us some time. It depends on you, mon petit.”
She held his jaw and snipped the right earlobe as well. Blood trickled down his neck. “Let that be a lesson to you, cheri.”
The pout again. “Now, won’t you tell me what Marcel and Etienne want to know? Please?”
Olmert’s face was reddened with fear and rage. He glared at her with hateful eyes. “Why should I talk? You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“Did I say such a thing? No, of course not. But as I said, you can save yourself much pain.” She curled the ends of her mouth. “Oh, yes. A great deal of pain.”
Slowly, as if choreographed, Gabrielle turned to the two men and nodded. They walked away without looking back. Olmert felt a shudder, a liquid tremor in his bowels.
Gabrielle clicked the scissors again. Without speaking, she began cutting away the rest of his shirt. It was awkward, as he was tied to the chair, but she proceeded with enthusiasm, humming to herself.
When the shirt was gone, she cut a slice from each pectoral. Then she turned to his trousers.
She pulled the tattered remains of Olmert’s pants from beneath him and flung them across the room. Then she leaned over him, allowing her breasts to press against his chest, and carefully snipped through his briefs. First the left side, then the right. The shorts fell away.
Still grasping the scissors, she clasped his head in her hands. Stroking his face, she gave him the little-girl pout. “Won’t you talk to Gabrielle, David? Before I have to cut you . . .” She glanced downward.
He turned his face away, choking down a sob.
Three minutes later Gabrielle emerged from the room. “He broke, poor boy. They always do, you know. But there is not much to tell. Most of what he said, you already guessed. He is working for a cutout, a private contractor with ties to Israeli intelligence. His field partner is an American. They were at the airport to confirm that the other contractor had left after . . . well, after their team disappeared.”
Marcel leaned forward. “What does he know about that?”
She shrugged. “I did not ask. You said you wanted to know why they were observing the other firm and who pays them.”
The former Legionnaire rubbed his stubbled chin. “All right. I will ask him myself, but he will not talk about that. He’s not stupid. He knows it would mean a bullet for him.”
“Then . . .”
“Then he gets a bullet anyway. Whatever he says.”
* * * *
15
BEALETON, VIRGINIA
Sandra Carmichael turned off Route 17, taking 644 eastward. Following the signs, she soon came to a private air park. She drove past the sign advertising orientation flights on weekends, May through October.
Terry Keegan was waiting for her. There wasn’t much activity on a Friday morning in April.
Sandy found him where he said he would be: with his head in the accessory section of an odd-looking, cherry red airplane. It had a racy, pugnacious appearance, from its chrome spinner to its round tail. She approached him from behind but he sensed her presence.
“Isn’t it great?” Keegan enthused. “I’m a one-third partner in this beauty. Beech built 781 of them and even though there’s a few hundred still flying, they’re real spendy.”
Carmichael was mildly curious. “Why’s that?”
“Well, this is
the Beech Model 17, better known as the Staggerwing because of the negative stagger of the top wing. It’s a classic from the golden age of aviation. It dates from 1932, so it’s an antique. You can fly to any air show in the country and automatically park with the exhibitors so you get to see all the other planes up close. Then you can fly home faster than most current light planes.”
“How fast is it?”
Keegan patted the propeller. “She’ll do an honest two hundred miles per hour straight and level, and she’ll outcruise some Bonanzas. In fact, Staggerwings won a lot of races in the 1930s. But she lands at about forty-five, so there’s not many places you can’t get into.”
Carmichael thought she should feign interest. “How old is this one?”
“It’s one of the last twenty, built in 1947.”
Carmichael looked into the cabin and emitted a low whistle. “Boy, it smells like a new car!”
“Yeah, we had the seats reupholstered last year. Mohair and leather were factory standard, so that’s what we got. Carries five people and all the luggage you can stuff into it.”
“Terry, are we going to fly or what?”
The former submarine hunter could not suppress a smile. “Hey, Colonel, why do you think I asked you to meet me here?”
Having already performed the preflight inspection, Keegan helped Sandy into the right seat, then settled in the left. After priming the Pratt and Whitney R985, he turned on the fuel pump, checked left and right, switched the magnetos to Both, and called out, “Clear prop!” The Wasp Junior settled into a throaty rumble. He waited a few minutes, allowing the engine to reach operating temperature.
The pilot closed his door and, satisfied with the pressure and temperature gauges, eased on some throttle. The Beech rolled toward the downwind end of the grass runway, ess-turning so Keegan could see around the nose.
After a final check, Keegan smoothly advanced the throttle. The tail came up and he tracked straight ahead, nudging right rudder to keep the Beech in the center of the strip. Lift quickly overcame gravity as thrust defeated drag and the Staggerwing galloped off the earth behind 450 horses.
The landing gear retracted into the well with a thump-thump as Keegan adjusted power for cruise climb. Headed northeast, he pointed out Warrenton broad on the port beam with Calverton at ten o’clock. He turned to the Alabaman. “Hey, you’re a military pro. There’s Manassas ahead of us and Fredericksburg down there to the right.” He grinned slyly. “Here there be rebels, Colonel.”
Sandy squirmed in her seat and adjusted the earphones. She appreciated Virginia’s verdant vista, but she had other things on her mind. “Terry, you know we’re sending a training team to Chad.”
“Yeah, I heard something about it. I’m glad I’m not going there!”
She turned her head toward him, removed her sunglasses, and looked into his eyes.
He grimaced. “Oooh no . . .”
“Now wait a minute,” she interjected. “You wouldn’t have to be there all the time. In fact, you wouldn’t have to be there much at all. We just need somebody in the area who could, you know, help out if need be.”
Keegan laughed, then lapsed into his Irish brogue. “Colonel darling, sure and you’re talkin’ about a dustoff on a hot LZ!”
She conceded, “Well, yeah, something like that. It’s not that we actually think anything will happen, Terry. But you know the admiral’s policy. We never leave any SSI people in a position where we can’t get them out, even if we have to do it ourselves.”Terry can’t refuse the admiral, she reminded herself. She knew that Mike Derringer lived by the creed: loyalty down breeds loyalty up.
Terry nodded, scanning the instruments. “Roger that. Remember me? Last Chance Keegan they call me. As in, Guatemala. As in, Pakistan.”
Sandy thought better of pressing the matter so she changed the subject. “You know, my youngest daughter thinks she wants to fly. But she can’t decide if she would rather go with the Air Force or Navy.”
Keegan recalled the naval aviation axiom. Air Force: flare to land, squat to pee. He decided against expressing his service preference. Instead, he observed, “And you an Army family? What’s the matter with that girl?”
Carmichael curled her lips. “Oh, Emily wants to fly jets. Then she wants to pilot the space shuttle.”
“Ah-ha.” Keegan let it go at that. Privately, he disdained females who only saw the military as a way into NASA. He had never known a woman aviator who wanted to bomb and strafe more than she wanted to fly the damned shuttle.
Finally he turned and looked at his passenger. “Tell me more about Chad.”
* * * *
16
SSI OFFICES
“Admiral, Colonel Main to see you.”
Derringer waved from his desk, beckoning the Army officer into the office. Derringer raised from his chair, extending a hand across the desk. “Good to see you, David. I didn’t expect you today.”
Main crumpled his beret—he wanted to strangle the poofter garment— and slid into a chair. “I’m sorry for the unexpected visit, Admiral. But something’s come up that I need to discuss with you in person.”
“Sure thing. Fire when ready.”
“Well, sir, I’ve just had a call from my back-channel contact at Bragg. Master Sergeant Alford is wired into the SF community like nobody else I know, and he thinks we should reconsider one of the guys we interviewed.”
“Why’s that?”
Main cleared his throat—an unusual sign of nervousness. “Apparently Staff Sergeant Gayler is under investigation for misappropriating funds and equipment. Alford thinks that’s why the Army cut him loose so quickly.” Main shook his head, silently berating himself. “I should’ve caught it, Admiral. I mean, the Army just doesn’t release an Arabic speaker that easily.”
Derringer braced his chin on a bridge of clasped hands. He surveyed Main’s face, sensing as much as seeing the embarrassment there. “David, it’s not your fault. In fact, I’m not certain this Sergeant . . .”
“Gayler. Fred Gayler.”
“We don’t know if he’s guilty of anything. You said he’s under investigation.”
“That’s true, sir. But. . . well, Alford says that Gayler also has a temper. He barely got away with spousal abuse because his former CO covered for him.”
“And you accept Alford’s word implicitly.”
A decisive nod. “I’ve trusted my life with him. He deals in facts, not gossip.”
“Okay, then. Gayler’s out. You’d better talk to Jack Peters so his recruiting records are updated.”
“I’ll do that, sir.” He turned to go. “Oh, I saw Steve Lee in the hall. Is he involved in the Chad mission?”
Derringer perked up. “No, at least not yet. I didn’t know he was back from vacation but he must’ve stopped in to check with my niece. He and Sallie seem to enjoy each other’s company.”
“Shall I send him in, Admiral?”
Derringer unconsciously reverted to his percussion habit. His fingers drummed the desk top: paradiddle-paradiddle-tap-tap-tap. He said, “Yes, please. I’d like to talk to him.”
Moments later Lee appeared at the office door. “Hello, Admiral.”
Derringer rose and extended a hand across the desk. “Come in, Steve, come in!” As they shook, he said, “I lost track of the time. Didn’t expect to see you for a week or so.”
“Oh, you know me, sir. I can only stand so much sun, surf, and bikinis.”
“Maui?”
Lee gave a self-conscious grin. “Actually, I was out in Marana, getting some jump practice. It’d been a while.”
“A parachuting vacation? Well, why not. I hear there’s sunshine in Arizona, too.”
“Yes, sir. Six or eight jumps a day.”
Derringer folded his hands on the desk and looked more closely at Major Steven Lee, U.S. Army, prematurely retired. The admiral saw a fit, self-composed alpha male who looked younger than forty-two. Only the military-issue spectacles hinted at his age.
“Steve, let me ask you a personal question. What do you want to do with your life?”
Lee took three heartbeats to answer the unexpected inquiry. “Just what I’m doing, Admiral. Jumping, shooting, kicking in the occasional door.” The levity in his voice was genuine enough, even if the statement was incomplete. He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll tell you, sir. Not a day passes that I don’t regret leaving the Army as an O-4. But I had a choice to make and I made it. I tried to save my marriage at the expense of my career. That’s why I like working for SSI. It still lets me do what I was meant to do.”
