“Nope.”
“Well, you might have to, and I need to know if you can do it or not. Stick somebody for real, stick them for keeps. Right in the kidney.”
Victor took in a deep breath and exhaled. “I can do it. I can stab somebody. But I thought you didn’t want me getting too close to the house on my recon? I didn’t think I’d be sentry stalking. That’s not how we planned it. You never briefed anything like that.”
“Actually, Victor, I wasn’t thinking about you killing a sentry at Malvone’s.” Carson lowered his voice. Brad’s back was to them twenty feet away, where he was inflating the boat with a foot pump. “I was thinking about Chuck. If he gets cold feet, if he tries to take off or call the cops, anything like that…I want you to kill him and dump him in the river, and keep driving his boat.” He pulled the rope again and the motor caught, settling quickly into its loud popping two stroke rhythm.
****
Brad had quickly assembled the floorboard pieces, and pushed the resulting single rigid deck into place under the limp side tubes of the inflatable. The twelve foot gray rubber raft had three separate air chambers in the U-shaped main tube, and a sausage-like inflatable keel between the plywood floor and the rubber bottom to give its hull some V shape. There was no yacht’s name painted on the boat anywhere he could see. If they had to abandon it, it was doubtful whether law enforcement would be able to trace the craft through its many owners over the years, to Archie’s cash purchase, and then to the plotters.
Brad filled the boat’s side tubes with a foot pump, which was two textbook-sized pieces of plywood squeezing a rubber bellows with each step upon it. He attached the pump with a black rubber hose to each of the air valves in turn. The rubber boat was faded and patched, but it had evidently been properly maintained. He wondered about the veteran dinghy’s former owners. Had it been towed across the Bahamas by a sailboat? Had it crossed the Atlantic stowed away in a cockpit locker? Or had it just kick-ed around the Chesapeake Bay for its decade or so of service?
The boat seemed to be holding air; he pumped it up hard, and it stayed that way. Phil Carson and Tony No-Last-Name had managed to get the outboard running. The house was just fifty or sixty yards from the edge of the water. After dark, they would carry the rubber boat and the rest of their gear down to the Molly M. Assembled, the boat and its floorboards together weighed about a hundred pounds.
It crossed Brad’s mind that he could drag the boat by himself across the sand and down to the dock and launch it. He could clamp the outboard onto the thick wooden transom, and the five gallons of gasoline in the tank could get him a good chunk of the way down the Chesapeake to Guajira. One or two refueling stops at marinas along the way, and he could be aboard his sailboat in a couple of hours. The inflatable, with the weight of only one person on board, and with a 35-horsepower motor pushing it, could make an easy thirty miles-per-hour across flat water. This was more than double the best speed of the Molly M, so pursuit wouldn’t be possible.
The pump was lying on the plywood deck in the middle of the boat. He pulled the nozzle out of the port-side valve and stuck it into the one opposite and then continued stepping on it, evening out the pressure between the air chambers. Carson and Tony were talking over by the outboard motor; he couldn’t hear what they were saying over the running engine. He knew that even after they went inside, it would be impossible to drag the inflatable to the water unnoticed in broad daylight. Not under the gaze of any watchers in the house.
Well, anyway, it was just an idle speculation. He had signed up for this one last mission, and now he was on for the ride. Ranya was gung ho to snatch Malvone, and he had agreed to go with her everywhere, to share the good and the bad forever, so that was that. It was settled. He wasn’t going to take off now, not even if he had the opportunity.
But he still felt that even if they were successful, even if they grabbed Malvone, their mission wasn’t going to stop the steadily grinding glacier-like progress of America’s conversion into an all-out police state. The forces pushing America toward tyranny were too deep, too strong.
But God help him, he had given his word to Ranya. And for that matter to Phil Carson and the others, back at the river house after they had broken George Hammet. Incredibly, it seemed to him now, he had pressed his right hand over theirs on top of Barney Wheeler’s old Bible on the kitchen table, when they had vowed to each other that they would push on to the bitter end. And now he wasn’t going to be the weak link. He was going to carry his part of the load. He would hold up his end of the deal.
The grim truth was that there was no other way to bring Ranya back to Guajira, except straight through Malvone’s house. And there was, in the end, no other way for him to keep his own self respect. With him or without him, Ranya and the others were going all the way.
So he would go with them and, perhaps, help salvage something of the American freedom he had always known and cherished.
****
The Eurohelo sales rep seemed pleased to meet with Wally Malvone on short notice, or at least he concealed his aggravation well. He didn’t mention the hellish traffic he had undoubtedly been forced to endure to get from his Falls Church Virginia office, across Washington, and over to the Maryland side of the Potomac.
The irony of the principal United States sales representative for Europe’s largest manufacturer of executive helicopters being forced to fight across town at ground level, from one side of the beltway to the other, was not lost on Malvone, but he avoided the temptation to make a joke out of it. He hadn’t deliberately picked this meeting place in order to annoy the salesman; it was simply a matter of his own tight schedule coming first. He reckoned that if the salesman wanted to sell his helicopters, he’d make the trip, and he did.
They met in a darkened booth in the back of an upscale steak and ribs place set in a remote corner of a second-tier shopping center on Branch Avenue, outside of Andrews Air Force Base. Conveniently for Malvone, this was on the way between the new ATF Headquarters in northeast Washington, and the new Special Projects Division base near Waldorf. Malvone was already settled into the red velvet cushioned booth working on a vodka martini when the dapper Armani-suited Frenchman found him, still adjusting his eyes to the dimly lit room. Today he spoke with only a hint of his unpopular native accent, which Malvone had heard him dial up or down, depending on his audience.
“Hello, Mr. Malvone. So glad to see you again.” The Frenchman understood the nature of the meeting and didn’t reach out to shake hands; the time and place had been chosen to ensure anonymity. He laid his thin calfskin briefcase on the seat beside him as he slid into the booth. “I’ve brought the specifications and the figures you requested.”
“Are you hungry? The food’s actually not half bad here.”
“Ahh, no, I already had lunch today,” the Frenchman lied.
“That’s fine, I’m skipping it too. A drink then?”
“Yes, a beer would be nice.”
Their waitress instantly materialized to take their order. She was quite attractive in her tight black satin pants and a ruffled white blouse. The two men small-talked absently about the warm weather and the horrible traffic resulting from the beltway bridge sabotage, until she returned with a Heineken and another martini, and then left them alone again. There was no one even remotely within earshot, which was as Malvone had planned. The high seat backs and the position of their booth cut them off from the view of the few afternoon restaurant customers.
“Listen, Pierre, here’s the bottom line. My group’s ready to buy six helicopters as soon as they can be delivered. And probably more next year.”
The Frenchman’s face lit up. “Six? Well. And all six would be the model we have discussed, the VK-120?”
“That’s right. Twin engine, sliding doors, twelve passengers. The latest FLIR package, the upgraded communications and electronics; everything we discussed. What would buying six at once do to the price?”
“Ah, one moment.” The salesman quickly
opened his briefcase and produced a yellow legal pad and a calculator and began jotting down columns of figures with a fountain pen. Then, he turned it around to face Malvone across the table. “I think the figure we may obtain for a package of six would be 2.2 million U.S. dollars each. This is depending on how the payment is structured, the training and support package and so on, and of course, the exchange rate when the contract is signed. That’s a very good price, almost 500,000 dollars less than before for each helicopter.”
Malvone nodded, looking over the numbers. “That’s a good price, very fair. But you have to understand that I can only make a recommendation, although, frankly, I’ll tell you, I’ll have the most significant input in the selection process. Our funding is not being directed through normal procurement channels.”
“Yes, I understand. We are very well accustomed to this type of arrangement.”
“But I have to tell you, I’m still looking at Bell and Hughes. I know they don’t have all of the capabilities of the VK-120, but their price is a lot lower, and with the currency exchange rate going the way it is…”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true; they are much cheaper helicopters. But they simply cannot compare with our product. It is as you say apples and oranges to compare them one to another.”
“Pierre, I’m not arguing the point. I agree your product is better. But you must understand…there’s a lot of pressure to buy American. Of course, if I push hard, if I make the case forcefully, I’ll probably be able to convince our side to go with Eurohelo. And six helicopters is only the beginning of what we’re going to need.” Malvone paused, savoring the psychological poker game which was the unspoken subtext of their negotiation.
“Hmm… I see. So the key is to ensure that your side is totally convinced of the need to purchase the VK-120, because the American helicopters are simply inadequate for your mission.”
Malvone waited a beat, and then said, “Yes. That would be the case. And also because the American companies are quite…rigid in their contracting procedures.”
“Yes, I see. Well, Mr. Malvone—Wally—fortunately at Eurohelo we are not as…constrained…in our business practices as your American firms. You will discover that we are not rigid at all in our contracting process. Our brokerage fees and incentives and payment structures are not cut in stone; there is room to…negotiate these points. I am thinking that something can be arranged of a mutually beneficial nature.” The Frenchman turned over his beer coaster and jotted 5% on it. He turned the coaster to face Malvone, and then he covered it with his hand.
Malvone said nothing, but took a cocktail napkin and wrote 12% on it with his own fountain pen.
The Frenchman stared, shook his head slowly and shrugged. “Impossible. Impossible. I don’t know what you have heard, but that is not possible.”
“It’s very possible, and we both know it.”
“I don’t know it!” The Frenchman wrote down a new number: 8%. This three point move was a cave, so Malvone counter-offered with 10%, and finally the Frenchman wrote down 9%.
Malvone smiled at the last figure. “Pierre, I’m almost certain I’ll be able to convince my side that it’s absolutely imperative that we obtain the VK-120 for our group. I’ll be in touch with you about how we can structure these…arrangements…in a mutually satisfactory way. I’m sure we’re talking about a matter of days, not weeks, until a final agreement can be made and the contracts can be drawn up. Of course, I won’t be a signatory to the actual contract, you understand.”
“Of course. I understand completely.”
“Well, that’s settled then. The rest is just up to the pencil-pushers, as we say. How many of the six can be delivered right away?”
The Frenchman managed to mask his elation at clinching the deal. “Two, by the end of next month. Is that satisfactory?” Malvone knew that the Frenchman had a reason to be elated. He had just sold six helicopters in a down market, at an inflated price, and he’d only needed to kick back nine percent. This was substantially less than was customary in Africa and the Middle East, where there were so many more greedy hands to fill. Malvone was also elated. His own percentage of the thirteen million dollar deal was well over a million bucks, tax free.
His years of planning and hard work and all of the bureaucratic infighting were finally paying off, big time. And these six helicopters were only the beginning; there were so many more deals to make.
But really, he reflected (after the Frenchman had left the restaurant first, to avoid the possibility of their being seen together) this wasn’t about the money. Seven-figure kickbacks were merely a fringe benefit of his position and power as a new member of the Senior Executive Service, in a black-budget counter-terrorism division.
It was about single-handedly turning the steering wheel of history. It was about leaving a mark that couldn’t be erased. Perhaps someday he’d be able to tell his old mentor, Senator Jack Schuleman, how his greatest political victory had been won. He knew the Senator would understand.
****
A ski boat came down their creek at low speed, motoring south west from the mouth of Piankatank, heading home to its dock. Brad and Ranya were sitting close together on a comfortable porch glider, on a screened-in section of the second floor balcony outside their bedroom. They were holding hands and swinging slowly back and forth, while the setting sun turned the water a shimmering silver as the creek wound its way through the marshes.
They could only venture outside during the daylight hours as long as they stayed within the confines of the screened balcony areas, and kept a low profile. The house was still meant to be seen as unoccupied by any of the distant line-of-sight neighbors across the creek. The Molly M tied up to their dock was a typical Chesapeake Bay work boat, and was as close to invisible in these waters as any craft could be. The plotters stayed inside or under the house during the day; they were going to load the boat for their mission only after nightfall.
A family was coming in on the ski boat, parents and school age kids in colorful bathing suits and t-shirts. “Look at them,” Brad said. “Not a care in the world. I wonder what that’s like.”
“It seems like a long time ago,” she said. “So damn long ago.”
“It must be nice. Even after we get out of here, after we get down to the islands, we’ll still be looking over our shoulders.”
“Brad, I didn’t ask for any of this.”
It was a sore subject and he let it drop. It would only lead to painful memories of the murder of her father and all of the rest that followed, and far too many tears had already been shed. The boat passed out of their sight where the creek wound behind their house.
He said, “We should try to sleep after dinner, after we load up the boat. We’ll be up at three AM, and it’s going to be a long day.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. I’m so wound up; I can’t stop thinking about the mission. The commo plan, the code words, escape and evasion plans, Malvone’s house…everything’s running through my brain at once.” Ranya was wearing gray cotton athletic shorts and a matching gray t-shirt, taken from the household laundry room’s left-overs basket. Her feet were bare, as were Brad’s beneath his faded jungle camo pants, taken from the river cabin. He wore no shirt, enjoying the weather in the bug-free screened enclosure.
Brad asked, “What do you think about using the MAC-10s, without ever shooting them at a target? Firing a couple of rounds into the sand last night… I mean, it’s nice to know they’ll go bang, but if we have to shoot anybody past about twenty or thirty feet, we’ll be lucky to hit anything at all.”
“Don’t worry about it. If we shoot, it’s only going to be across the room. MACs aren’t exactly known for their accuracy anyway.”
“I’d still like to know where the bullets are going to go.”
“They’ll go where you point the suppressor.”
“I wish I had the MP-5, instead of Tony.”
“The gun that killed my father…that really creeps me out. But
Carson’s right. If there’s shooting, it’ll be great to leave 10mm brass on the ground, and their own 10mm slugs in their bodies. That’ll really give the investigators something to wonder about.”
“Ranya…I still can’t believe we’re doing this. We could be in the islands already.”
“Oh please don’t start that again…”
“I’d feel a whole lot better if we all had kevlar vests. Or at least you could wear the one we’ve got.”
“I’m not going to wear Hammet’s vest, so just drop it! If you want to wear it, you go right ahead.”
“No, no, forget it,” he replied. They had already covered this subject thoroughly. Ranya wouldn’t wear their one kevlar vest, and neither would the others, not if they all didn’t have them. The body armor they had used on the airfield rescue operation had been returned to the Suffolk PD. Now they only had Hammet’s vest, and no one would wear it.
It had been much the same when he had asked about masks at the afternoon planning session in the living room. Brad had been thinking about wearing black balaclava-type masks only from the disguise angle, to better impersonate federal agents on a raid, and he had been surprised at the uniformly unenthusiastic reaction. None of them would wear masks. Masks just had too negative of a connotation among the conspirators.
“Tony” had said that only the Gestapo, the ATF and bank robbers wore masks, and no matter what, he wouldn’t wear one. He had actually said, “I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a black mask,” and nobody laughed, because for once it was meant as a serious comment. Carson had pointed out that masks wouldn’t make any difference anyway. The flash-bang grenade provided by the Suffolk PD and the gun lights would blind and stun their targets. Their clear goggles and black helmets and uniforms would be enough of a disguise.
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