by Dick Couch
Now it was she who was at a loss for words. “Why, sir, that would be delightful.”
“Excellent. Give me about twenty minutes to wrap up here. Would it be convenient for you to meet me at the executive entrance at, say, seven-thirty?”
“Certainly. I’ll see you there.”
Grummell went back to his desk and took a few minutes to organize the stack of reports and his desk. Those with which he had finished were placed in his outbox; the others he set in a queue for tomorrow morning. There was a memo that he simply had to get out, but he made short work of it. He then pressed a button on his intercom.
“I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. You can tell my driver that I’ll not be needing him this evening. I’ll drive myself.”
“Very good, sir.”
While he shrugged into his topcoat, he found himself smiling. And why not? he thought to himself. As he passed through the outer office, his secretary swore that she heard a familiar tune, skillfully whistled, but immediately dismissed the thought. Armand Grummell was not the kind of man who went about whistling, however accomplished he might be.
Special Agent Walter O’Hara walked quietly down the steep, winding lane. Close by his side was Chief Inspector Claude Dru. The lane emptied out onto a flat asphalt terrace that served a modest two-car garage. An iron gate, cradled in an ivy bower, led to a tier of flagstone steps and down to the main house. Several yards ahead of O’Hara and Dru, a file of dark figures slipped though the gate and fanned out around the door. O’Hara started to follow them, but Dru held him back.
“I am sorry, monsieur, but you know the rules. We wait here.” There was a burst of static on the transceiver; Dru brought it to his mouth. “Oui…Oui…Bon.” Then to O’Hara, “The other units are in position. No one can leave the house. Now we shall see what we shall see, eh?” Then, suspecting what O’Hara was thinking, “You must understand that we are not inexperienced at this sort of thing.”
“You mean like that takedown at the docks in Marseilles last month,” O’Hara said quietly, without taking his eyes off the door. “Or the dragnet you threw around Malaga to nab that mafioso who came in on his yacht.” He did not have to add that both were embarrassing failures.
Agent O’Hara was experiencing one of the most frustrating tours in his FBI career—liaison officer to the Gendarmerie Nationale. He couldn’t carry a gun, and he couldn’t participate in an arrest, much less a forced entry or a raid. The men making the assault, Les Unites d’ Intervention, were not an incapable SWAT team, but neither were they anything close to the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. Not a day went by that O’Hara didn’t mutter the line delivered by Gene Hackman, alias Popeye Doyle, in French Connection II: “I’d rather be a lamppost in New York than the president of France.” From their position on the landing just above the house, they heard the splintering crash when the door gave way as the assault element made their entry. Moments later there was the sound of a woman’s scream, a shrill voice that was more of a yelp than a scream, and then silence. After a short wait, Dru was again on his radio.
“Oui…Bon.” Then to O’Hara, “We can go in now.”
They quickly made their way into the home. There were men now stationed both inside and out. The assault leader motioned them to the bedroom. There, a terrified woman lay in bed, clutching the bedclothes up around her neck. Her eyes were wide with fear, and her long hair lay scattered across the silk pillow. Dru sat on the edge of the bed and began to question her in a consoling voice. After a lengthy exchange, Dru turned to O’Hara.
“She says her companion left early this evening, saying only that he would not be back until late.” O’Hara understood the exchange completely, but since he spoke with what his French counterpart considered an atrocious accent, Dru felt translation was necessary. “She says she doesn’t understand why he is not back, nor does she know where he has gone.”
She probably doesn’t, thought O’Hara. “Claude, my friend, looks as if our man is gone, and that means he’s gone for good. I doubt he will have told her anything of value, and we will find nothing here.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that. We will conduct a thorough search of the premises.” Dru was now peering into the closet. There was a row of custom-tailored suits. “He seems to have left very quickly. Perhaps something will turn up.”
On the hill well above his home, Pavel Zelinkow watched the drama unfold. Although he had always known this kind of thing could happen, he was still miffed with his informant at the Gendarmerie Nationale headquarters in Paris. She had given him only six hours’ advance warning. Of course that left him plenty of time to attend to his personal security and to give the impression that he had left in haste. Zelinkow knew it would precipitate an immediate search for clues of his whereabouts.
All was quiet about the house, save for the two minivans that had just eased down the drive, showing only their parking lights. There were no obnoxious two-tone sirens or flashing blue lights, Zelinkow noted, which meant they had managed to keep the local constabulary out of it. There was a quarter moon up to provide soft lighting on the otherwise dark night. From the overlook, his home was a stunning structure, well placed in the gentle curve of the cliff. Before he took the property, he had studied it from every angle—even from this very spot. The builder had taken a great deal of care and effort to achieve a harmony between the construction and the sweep of the hillside. He had, Zelinkow reflected, been very happy there. He sighed with resignation and took out a small radio control unit, not unlike the one Garrett Walker had taken from Youssef Amhaz in western Afghanistan less than ten days before.
They will probably make the decision for me, Zelinkow thought, but we shall see. He visually showed a measure of relief when he saw them bring Dominique out. She was in one of his terry-cloth bathrobes. She held the lapels close around her throat with one hand while she tried to corral her flowing hair with the other. He was relieved on two accounts. One, he wanted her clear of the house, and two, he wanted to avoid casualties among the search teams. Without a moment’s hesitation, he toggled the arming switch and pressed the button. A moment later, the first termite grenade in his office detonated, followed by a series of others in various parts of the house. Those inside could still escape serious injury, but only if they fled immediately. Zelinkow watched impassively as dark forms fled from every door. He rose and paused a moment for a last look at Dominique. He knew her well enough to know her state of mind; she would be confused and weeping softly. Yet she held her head high, trying to maintain her dignity. She knew nothing of his affairs, of course, but she was perceptive enough to know that their life together might end abruptly—if not perhaps this abruptly.
Zelinkow turned and walked to the waiting BMW sedan. He drove away, waiting until he was well away from the overlook before he clipped on the lights. The image of the burning home stayed with him for a time, as did the vision of Dominique, her classic features lit by the flames. He had cared for the home, and perhaps for the first time in a long time, he had grown fond of the woman.
Walter O’Hara sat in his Paris office the following morning, reviewing the events of the previous night. They were given precise and timely intelligence about a dangerous and important target. There was ample warning that the target may have connections within the French intelligence establishment, and would in all probability be very difficult to surprise. In short, they’d been given everything they needed.
“We had it all,” O’Hara said aloud to no one in particular, “and the frogs still managed to fuck it up.” For several minutes, he sat staring at the green STU-3 secure phone on his desk. He desperately tried to think of a way to put the call off, but there was no way around it; time to face the music. He was again thinking about Gene Hackman, aka Popeye Doyle, when he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Yes…Hello, this is Walter O’Hara in Paris, FBI liaison officer. I need to speak with Special Agent Judy Burks.”
In quick succession, four forms dropped from th
e sky, tucked, and rolled. Instinctively each man began to gather in the shrouds from his parachute. The aircraft, a Pilatus Porter, identical to those under contract to Aramco, was already out of earshot. Each man quickly secured his parachute, cramming it into a dun-colored nylon stuff bag. They then camouflaged the bags with rocks and brush and moved from the area in a single file. The bags undoubtedly would be found later. If it was by scavengers, nothing would be heard from them again. If they came into the possession of the authorities, the equipment would be identified as Czech, the kind used by many elite European special-operations forces. In either case, there would be no attribution to IFOR. The four men were lightly armed and carried only small field packs. They moved easily across the dark, arid landscape at an easy trot. After fifteen minutes and two miles of travel, the leader signaled a halt. He dropped to one knee as the other three went to security positions in a loose perimeter around him. The leader consulted a small GPS for a moment, then adjusted the boom mic on his headset.
“I am at point alpha and all is in order, over.” The leader’s voice was calm and his diction incredibly precise.
“Roger, we copy point alpha. How do you hear us?”
“I hear you perfectly. Request permission to proceed.”
“Wait one,” Janet Brisco said. GSI had rented time on one of the commercial low-orbital satellites, and they were due for a close overhead pass within the next few minutes. The IR scan was quick and of low resolution, but that was not their primary consideration. Had there been any kind of alert by the Saudi air defense command, by the local police or the private security at the villa, the sensors on the low orbiter would have detected a heightened level of communications traffic. There was none.
“You’re clean. Go ahead, but remember, slow and deliberate.” This, she realized, was like telling a bird dog to follow his nose.
Another fifteen minutes took them to the perimeter of the villa. They came out of the desert near the rear gate to the compound and well away from normal approaches to the compound. There was a single sentry patrolling the back wall. He was smoking a cigarette and carried an AK-47 assault rifle slung loosely over his shoulder. His head was capped by a set of earphones, and his head bobbed to the beat of some Western rap tune. The leader merely nodded to one of his men, who then moved silently in the direction of the preoccupied sentry. It was like stealing from a blind beggar. The sentry caught a flash of something as the moonlight glanced from steel. The khukuri hissed as it made a tight arc, slicing cleanly through the desert night air and the man’s neck. The sentry’s head hit the ground a fraction of a second before his torso, connected only by the single black thread of the Sony CD Walkman. Moments later, all four were over the wall.
They made their way across the compound, expertly dodging all the surveillance cameras. Periodically, the last man in the file paused to set out mini video cams, then noiselessly hurried after the others. The leader took them at a fast walk, moving silently on Nike urban trekkers. They came to an ornate, eight-sided building away from the others in the compound. The main entrance was served by a columned portico. They set up for a forced entry, SWAT-style, and put out the final mini-cam.
“Ready to move,” said the leader quietly in his boom mic. “Give me a status.”
Janet Brisco’s hands flew over the controls on her console. A lighted cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth. This time the GSI comm vans were parked inside a liquor-distribution warehouse. Although the consumption of alcohol was against holy law and a banned substance in most Arab countries, Bahrain was not one of them. A causeway connected Bahrain to the kingdom of Saudi Arabia, and a steady flow of Saudis made use of this connection to indulge in the Western pleasures forbidden them by the Koran and outlawed in their own country. Therefore, it was a very large warehouse. The two vans parked in the rear of the building largely went unnoticed, as did the small array of satellite antennas on the roof of the warehouse.
“Okay, let’s see what is going on,” Brisco replied, the cigarette bobbing as she spoke. One by one she flicked through the mini-cams. Each one sent a continuous feed to the dedicated satellite link serving the vans and Brisco’s console; she had only to shift to one to the next. “Nothing on the perimeter, and no one has come to check the sentry.” Click—“No one in the courtyard.” Click—“The approaches to the main house are clear.” Click—“And there is no one in sight along the porticos leading to the other outbuildings.” The final cam was directed at the door. Bijay and Pun were on one side; two other Gurkhas were positioned on the other. “Okay, Bijay, you’re clear to move. Good luck.”
“Understood, clear. We are moving.”
In the van, they watched as one of the Gurkhas quickly and quietly made short work of the deadbolt on the large wooden door. Then the file slipped through the entrance, closing the door behind them. No one spoke for close to thirty seconds, then Steven Fagan broke the tension.
“Well, how does it feel to be on this side of the special-operations equation?”
Garrett pulled a hand across his face. He was actually sweating in the air-conditioned van. “It’s a hell of a lot harder being here than being there, I can tell you that.”
“Maybe we’ll get you back into the game next time.”
“I can’t wait,” Garrett replied, unable to take his eyes from Brisco’s screen.
Steven had been surprised when Garrett readily agreed that Bijay should lead the operation. While he knew Garrett desperately wanted to be a part of this, both of them knew that any combination of Gurkhas under Bijay’s leadership could do the job. And Garrett represented potential attribution if they were caught. Yet it was more than that. Both Steven and Garrett knew it was necessary for the Gurkhas to go it alone with Bijay leading. Then they could begin to move Gurkhas like Pun and Duhan into leadership roles for future operations.
Inside, the four men moved unchallenged into the central chamber. Huge woven rugs littered the stone floor. Beyond a large sunken tub was an enormous circular bed. Bijay carefully pulled aside the silk sheers that hung loosely from the canopy frame. There were three forms in the bed. Bijay nodded, and the Gurkha behind him shot the two forms on either side of the large one in the middle. The capacitors discharged a massive burst of electricity into the two women; they did not awake, but the tensor units instantly turned their dreams into violent nightmares. They stirred uneasily. The man between them sat up, but was immediately pinned to the mattress with Pun’s knees on his shoulders and his hand clamped over his mouth. Bijay watched while the two other Gurkhas held ethered gauze squares to the faces of the two young women; the nightmares went back to dreams. Pun too had his work to do. Before they left, Bijay held a mini-cam to the grisly scene.
“Is this acceptable for our purposes?”
In the van, Janet, Steven, and Garrett stared at the screen. They might have sat in stunned silence for some time had not Dodds LeMaster, seated at the console next to Janet, retched violently and bolted from the van through the rear door. Steven was the first to find his voice.
“That will do fine, Bijay.” Then to Janet, “Get them out of there.”
The four men withdrew much as they had come. A mini-cam alerted them to one of the few sentries who was walking his post with some semblance of duty, and they were able to avoid him. They slipped back over the wall, dragging the decapitated sentry several hundred yards into the desert. The four raiders cached their weapons in a dry wash, except for their sidearms, and made their way to one of the secondary roads. They were now dressed in shabby trousers, sandals, and an odd assortment of long-sleeved shirts, much like any number of stateless Asians who worked at menial tasks in Saudi Arabia. A small minivan drove slowly down a secondary road just outside of Al Kharj. It stopped as one of the Gurkhas stepped out to hail it. The others materialized from the desert and quickly piled in. Two hours later they were in Riyadh.
“Okay, Dodds,” Janet Brisco called out from the back of the van, “get your butt back in here and do your job.
” A still-shaken Dodds LeMaster returned to his station and went to work.
Crown Prince Abdullah rose early at his palatial residence in Riyadh. His duties included making himself aware of domestic and international events. Like half the world, he relied on CNN to do much of the work for him. Five minutes into the news, the smiling, angelic face of Paula Zahn was abruptly replaced by something entirely different. A burst of static was followed by the scene in Amir Sahabi’s harem chamber, barely an hour old. The two women dozed on either side of the Iranian, their ample breasts spilling over their ripe young nudity. They stirred fitfully during the thirty-second clip. Sahabi’s head had been positioned on top of his crimson-streaked torso, his baleful, sightless eyes staring at the camera. Fifteen minutes later, a frantic call reached a shaken Abdul Majid from the office of the Crown Prince. He had only to turn on his own TV to view the same macabre scene.
Garrett Walker found Steven Fagan seated on a folding chair just outside the van. He pulled up a chair, and they sat in companionable silence for several minutes.
“I just got a call from Joe Simpson,” Steven said at length. “He wanted me to be sure everyone, especially you and Bijay, understands what a great service you rendered to the nation.”
“Speaking of Bijay,” Garrett replied, “he and the others are on their way out through Qatar.”
Steven simply nodded. The extraction of the team had gone as he had planned it.
“You know,” Garrett continued with a grin, “it could just be that you’ve seen too many Godfather movies.”
“Possibly,” Steven replied. He tried to smile, but he was very weary—they all were. “But, y’know, Garrett, they watch our movies too; Hollywood is a part of their culture, and sometimes they lack the perspective to separate facts from American cultural fiction.” He paused for several moments, and Garrett did not intrude. “This was not a nice thing that we just did, but it was necessary. It was a message we needed to send, and one they needed to hear. Word will get out. Now the terrorist cells and the governments that support terrorism know there is a new force out there, one that will act in the interest of the United States, but that plays by a whole different set of rules.”
