Execution of Justice

by Patrick Dent

  But, none of these things happened. Drake's anger was not diminished, but amplified and turned inward. He had become that which he hated most. He was no better than the monster he had just killed. His mind reeled with confusion, blinded by an all-consuming rage. John Drake hated himself, and he didn't understand why.

  Once the convulsions had stopped, Gip prodded Drake's arm and pointed at the door.

  “Let's get out of here,” Gip said, a little nervous about what he had just seen.

  “I agree,” Drake said in a tremulous voice.

  After watching the parking lot for a full minute to make sure they hadn't attracted any attention, Drake and Gip slipped out the door and made their exit in the black Mercedes parked behind the motel. Only then did they remove the patches of scotch tape from their fingertips.

  “Man, that was some cold shit you did back there,” Gip said, “I don't remember them teaching any of that at Ranger school. Man, how do you even think up shit like that?”

  “I've been thinking a lot recently.”

  “Man, you've got some angry thoughts,” Gip said.

  “You have no idea,” Drake said in a deadpan tone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Fahr al-Azon Al Saud sat at the head of the table. As King and Prime Minister of Saudi Arabia, he presided over the Council of Arab Oil Ministers. He knew this would be a difficult meeting. Since the Fourth Arab-Israeli War had begun, tensions were high among the Arab nations. Syria, with support from the Soviet Union, had initiated the conflict during Yom Kippur in 1973, ostensibly over a territorial dispute. The sneak attack on the Jews' holy day was an insult of the highest magnitude to Israel. The flames were further fueled by the Arabs' refusal to recognize Israel as a nation. The Arab extremists saw the fight as a Jihad, a Holy War bringing religious purity to the Middle East. They referred to the conflict as the Ramadan War, named after the Muslim holy month.

  Fahr knew it would be nearly impossible to keep religion out of this discussion. Although a devout Muslim, he was not a proponent of killing in the name of religion. Fahr's interests were economic in nature.

  “This meeting will now come to order,” he proclaimed, banging his gavel. “Our purpose today is to discuss our production schedules, as well as review our position relative to the United Nations.”

  The Syrian representative, Azul, was the first to gesture.

  “The chair recognizes the Syrian representative.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Gentlemen, these are historic times. Our solid support from the Soviet Union will finally enable us to reclaim that which is rightfully ours. For over seven years now, the Jews have occupied the Sinai Peninsula, the Gaza Strip, the Golan Heights, the West Bank and East Jerusalem. At this crucial juncture, it is imperative that we remain united. The time is right for us to act. We cannot allow this disgrace to continue.

  “There will be those who want to divide the Arab nations. We cannot let this happen.” Azul, like many extremists, was a charismatic speaker. There were subtle nods of agreement around the table.

  One man was not nodding - Rao, the Egyptian representative. He leaned into his microphone and interrupted the Syrian.

  “Azul, we cannot ignore the power and influence of the United States. Although the Soviets have been generous with their weaponry and hardware, I think the US will be a more stable long-term ally. Look at the aid they have given Israel. They have superior weapons and financial stability. They even send their sons to die for their allies. Show me one Soviet soldier fighting for our cause.” Rao was leaning forward on his elbows, his black eyes amiably unwavering from Azul's.

  “Rao,” Azul said, “We are all aware that the Americans have been courting Sadat since he rose to power. Why is Egypt so willing to betray its roots for these Westerners?” Azul made a sweeping gesture to the west. Muslims, who prayed five times each day facing Mecca, were always conscious of the direction. “Throughout their brief history they have demonstrated a complete lack of honor. They exploit their own citizens and the citizens of their supposed allies. They think they are the policemen, the conscience of the planet! The Americans are political and economic expansionists, and they will not stop until they own the world.”

  “Philosophical differences aside, the Americans have behaved with complete honor in our dealings with them,” Rao said. “They offer substantial support, and in return all they ask is our acknowledgement of Israel's status as a nation.”

  “Never!” Azul slammed his fist on the table and pointed directly at Rao. “To those dogs, this is simply a political matter, one of national borders and UN status. We are fighting a Jihad. We fight for the glory of Allah!” Azul raised his fist in a gesture of triumph.

  “You sir, who speak of honor.” Rao remained calm, but his voice became firm. “Is a surprise attack on the holiest day of the Jewish year, honorable? How can we expect to live in harmony when we defile their religion?”

  “Harmony is for bureaucrats. We don't need their harmony - a harmony in which they insult us with impunity, a harmony in which they take our lands. And who was it that violated the UN cease-fire directive? The Jews!”

  “Azul, you miss the point.” Rao had the tone of a man addressing a small child. “The UN resolution also called for Israel to return the Arab properties they took during the Seven Days War, the properties you so eloquently catalogued just moments ago. It is the UN, with the United States as the dominant force, whom we wish to befriend. We can regain what we lost and let the UN deal with Israel.”

  “What makes you think the UN has any control over the Jews? They have defied the UN Security Council twice in the past year. You want to place our fate in the hands of those hypocrites?” Azul took a deep breath, ready to continue.

  “Order!” Chairman Fahr proclaimed. He instantly had the attention of the dueling diplomats. “You worry needlessly. We will never be slaves to the Americans or the UN so long as we control the world's oil supply. Let them run their armies without fuel, if they can. Egypt and Syria may have their differences, but we must never allow the Westerners to see this. We will handle our internal bickering amongst ourselves. We must present a unified front to the outside world at all times, is that agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Rao said.

  Azul's face was dark and foreboding. “Agreed,” he finally replied.

  “So, I move that we further increase the price of crude oil by twenty percent, and cut production by an additional fifteen percent. This will increase our revenues while choking the West where they are most vulnerable. Let us remind the world who controls the power supply.” Fahr grinned. “I call for a vote. All in favor?”

  Azul immediately raised his hand, giving a challenging stare at each of the other members. Slowly Abu Dhabi, Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Qatar and even Egypt joined the consensus.

  “The price increase and production cut will be announced one week from today, March 18. I will make the press release personally,” Fahr closed.

  Fahr was pleased with the outcome of the meeting. He had further increased the wealth of his country while appeasing both the religious zealots and the military. He wondered how men achieved positions of such power when they wore their hearts upon their sleeves.

  He looked at his calendar. He had a lunch meeting with Tartus on the seventeenth. He had a lot of politicking to do between now and then, but there was no way he would miss that meeting. Tartus said he had a special surprise for me, he thought, I wonder if he actually had what he promised? The greatest status symbol for a Sheik was his harem. And, with the help of Tartus, Fahr would have the ultimate trophy for his – an American girl.

  * * *

  Guanabara Bay, Brazil

  Jao was relaxed with his feet on his desk as he read the New York Times. Being a shipping clerk for the Guanabara Bay Transport Service was a peaceful job. He received, proofed and filed the shipping manifests for all outgoing and incoming vessels. This required perhaps three hours per day of actual work.
He spent the rest of his time reading or watching his black and white television. Jao liked to practice his English, and was quite good at reading the language. He did, however, have to concentrate to converse in the perplexing tongue. The teacher of his night class liked to joke that the Americans had rules to cover 55% of their language, and had to memorize the other 45% of exceptions.

  The walls of his office were peeling and bare, except for a solitary ornament – a nude poster of Jane Fonda, taken from the opening scene of “Barbarella”. He was deeply engrossed in an article about the OPEC oil embargo when he heard the bell above the door issue its distinctive ring.

  A short, stocky white man entered, followed closely by a tall black man. Both were obviously Americans. They had a quiet intensity, immediately putting Jao on guard. The white man spoke first,

  “Hello. Do you speak English?” His voice was calm as the dead.

  Jao knew he would likely avoid work by claiming ignorance, but he was bored and could use the practice. He didn't have the opportunity to talk to genuine Americans often. He typically test-drove his English with other Brazilians who blended the Portuguese and English languages into an amalgam.

  “Of course. What can I do for you?” Jao answered. His tone was cordial but officious.

  “My friend and I were supposed to meet a man named Fejo on the tenth, but we missed him. He had work for us on his ship, The Lady and the Tramp. Can you please help us out and tell us whether the ship has left? We really need the work,” Drake implored.

  “Sir, I appreciate your situation, but I'm not allowed to reveal such information,” Jao replied, concentrating on each word. He was quite proud of how well he was doing.

  The black man stepped forward. Jao missed some of what he said, but he easily recognized the one hundred dollar bill in his hand.

  “Of course, I didn't realize you gentlemen were from the Shipping Authority. I'll get the documents right away,” Jao answered, deftly pocketing the C note. When he returned with the manifest, he laid it on the counter and began thumbing through the pages. Jao caught the briefest glimpse of a shadow speeding toward the left side of his jaw. Then there was blackness. When he awoke fifteen minutes later, the men were gone.

  Trying to ignore the soreness in his jaw, he returned to his paper. Crazy Americans, he thought as he slipped back into the article, they'll try to rob anyplace. We don't even carry any money. He had a brief laugh as he imagined the look on their faces as they must have looked in vain for the cash register. He did find it a bit curious that they had left the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket, but dismissed the matter. He had forgotten about the manifest, and never noticed it missing.

  * * *

  The South Atlantic

  By Lupe's reckoning, it had been two days since she had awoken, bound and gagged. Since then, she had been treated with relatively little brutality. She had not seen either of her friends since she woke, but heard the Hispanic cries of dozens of women from her stall. Every morning a man arrived with an empty bucket, exchanging it for her previous day's toilet. He also left a water bucket indistinguishable from her toilet bucket. Finally, there was a bowl of what appeared to be dirty grits. She ate greedily, using her grimy fingers as a scoop.

  The sea had gotten progressively rougher, making her stomach buckle with each lurch of the boat. Lupe's body was covered with grime. She had never been filthier. Even as a child, she had been meticulous about personal hygiene, reading books in her room while the other children played outside with the heat and dirt and bugs.

  One of the men came below deck, the same one who brought her the daily buckets. He was speaking Portuguese in a soft tone of voice, almost pleasant. When he appeared in front of her cell, she noticed he had no buckets. One look at his face told her all she needed to know. His eyes were full of lust, moving slowly up and down her body. Lupe curled into a ball, humiliated by the feeling of powerlessness this filthy lowlife gave her. She closed her eyes so tightly that she saw purple spots floating on the insides of her eyelids. He had stopped talking. Maybe he went away.

  When Lupe mustered the courage to sneak a look, she saw he was still there. If there were any doubt as to his intentions, he removed them by inserting his left hand down the front of his pants. His right hand was behind his back. Deep down, Lupe knew what the beast wanted, but she couldn't accept that this was happening to her. She screamed and cursed at him, threatening him with her father's vengeance, but he just laughed softly. As he turned to face her through the bars, his right hand produced a cattle prod. When he grinned, his rotten front teeth emitted a stench easily detectable across the eight feet separating them. Lupe screamed again and crawled into the corner, hoping somehow to burrow through the steel hull and swim back to California.

  She heard him lock the cell door behind him. She recoiled into the corner, holding her knees in her arms. She knew there was only one chance to avoid or postpone the assault, but wondered how well a one-hour self defense course would stand up against an armed, hardened criminal. The short but brutish man grabbed her by the arms and lifted her to her feet with ease.

  “You lay one finger on me, and my father will have your balls in a jar on his night stand!” she screamed. Her voice was hoarse. “Do you know who I am, you filthy bastard?”

  “My puta, I know exactly who you are. You are my lover for the evening. If you relax, it will be less painful, I promise you that.”

  Lupe knew the time for action had not come. She assumed a submissive posture, indicating that she would withstand his assault with little to no resistance. He began to kiss her face and neck, his fetid breath almost making her vomit. She opened her knees. Jorge responded by ripping her sun dress off in one quick motion. He placed the cattle prod on the floor and used both hands to remove her bra and grope at her breasts with his coarse and filthy hands.

  Lupe knew she was going to vomit any second, but held it in, reaching between the monster's legs and clasping his erection. Jorge immediately dropped his pants, ready to penetrate her. As soon as she saw he was naked from the waist down, Lupe made her move. She grabbed his testicles with both hands, squeezing and twisting with all her might. Every human being aboard The Lady and the Tramp heard Jorge howl in pain.

  Lupe dragged him by his testicles to the door of the cell, where she took his keys and began working at the lock. Her efforts were interrupted by a blast of stinging water. Fejo stood in the hallway with a fire hose, sweeping across both occupants of the cell in quick motions, careful not to remove flesh from bone with the tremendous pressure. He screamed something in Portuguese to Jorge, who was unable to stand.

  Obviously frustrated, Fejo unlocked the cell, dragged Jorge into the corridor by his shirt and retrieved the man's cattle prod. After a lustful glance, he tossed Lupe's garments back to her. Neither Jorge nor any other member of the crew paid Lupe a visit for the remainder of the trip.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Langley, Virginia

  Special Agent Fulton was covered in a light sweat. He smelled his own scent. The DCI's waiting room was luxuriant far beyond what one would expect. Instead of the wooden benches typical of government facilities, the DCI had plush leather couches. Fulton suspected the Renoir above the fireplace was an original. Despite these extravagances, the room felt tight and claustrophobic. In moments, Fulton would face the final administrative hurtle in Project Crossfire.

  When the receptionist appeared, Fulton jerked slightly. His inability to conceal his stress made him angry. He was a CIA agent, and should have ice water in his veins. He resolved to calm himself. He imagined he had already been fired and accepted his former boss' standing offer at the FBI. Visualizing the worst-case scenario and realizing it wasn't so bad was a calming exercise for Fulton. This mental exercise firmed him up in about two seconds.

  “Agent Fulton, the DCI will see you now.” She was a pretty girl, just a little chubby. She wore a flattering skin-tight gray cotton dress-suit that accentuated the curvatures of her body.

  Ful
ton stood, bathed in his new calmness. He dabbed the sweat from his brow before entering the office of the man who ultimately controlled the destiny of half the world's population. The DCI had the posture of a man accustomed to discipline. When he looked Fulton in the eye, he conveyed a sense of quiet urgency.

  “Hello, Agent Fulton,” the DCI said.

  “Good morning, Sir.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Water would be good, Sir.”

  “Very well.” The DCI poured two glasses of iced water. He handed one to Fulton before he sat behind his mahogany desk. He came straight to the point.

  “Agent Fulton, according to the schedule you submitted, Project Crossfire goes active on March 18th. Now, I gave you complete autonomy in developing a plan to end the OPEC oil embargo by March 1st. You have spent nearly a billion dollars and are coming in three weeks behind schedule. I need a complete report before giving you the green light. Walk me through it, and be thorough.”

  “Yes Sir.” Fulton had been preparing for this moment for months. Explaining the mechanics of his project relaxed him. “The Prometheus is en route. This former commercial oil tanker has been completely retrofitted as a battleship, armed with Soviet SS-18 ICBM's, each packing a dozen conventional thousand-pound payloads. The crew is entirely military, mostly active and reserve Navy, with a few jarhead technicians. Of course, they are all posing as civilian oil workers.

  “In one week, she'll arrive just northeast of the Suez Canal and drop anchor. The canal is a notorious bottleneck, and most vessels have to anchor for at least forty-eight hours in the waters just off the northern entrance. The Prometheus will take position in a direct line between Tel-Aviv and Saudi Arabia.