Diamondhead

by Patrick Robinson

  Harry turned to face him, expressionless, and murmured, “We do not have any other course of action. If this Henri Foche is allowed to live, this town will die. I believe it’s an old battle commander’s saying, ‘When it comes right down to it, and it’s a matter of us or them? Well, there’s only ever going to be one answer, and it’s not us.’ I’m serious. I want Henri Foche removed, because that’s our only chance of survival.”

  Mack replied, “I just wanted to check, but now I know. I don’t think I can do much, but I will try to plug you into a group of guys who might know what you should do. I did not mention it earlier, but a lot of them left the armed forces in the United States and Great Britain and became mercenaries, guys who will fight for money, for the outfit that will pay them the most. It’s a big business, and it’s conducted mostly in Africa. I probably can find a way to key into them, but it’ll take time.”

  “Quick as you can, Mack,” said Harry. “We’re right on the edge at Remsons. I have to lay off some of the steel cutters this week, because I have nothing for them to do and not much prospect of getting anything. If I can’t get rid of Foche, I’m afraid we may have built our last warship.”

  Mack Bedford nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” he said again. “I can’t do more.”

  Mack and Anne drove home quietly, both conscious of the stark contrast between the joyful camaraderie of the Remsons’ party and the tragic circumstance that awaited them as soon as they entered their front drive.

  The situation was, if anything, worse than either of them had expected. Maureen greeted them on the front porch with the news that Tommy had been very sick all afternoon and that she had spoken to Dr. Ryan at the hospital, who said Anne should bring him in first thing in the morning, nine o’clock. Maureen told them that Tommy was now asleep. And she kept repeating over and over, “It’s just so sad. It’s just so sad.”

  Anne Bedford, perhaps above all others, knew that Tommy was dying. All the symptoms she had been warned about three months earlier were slowly coming true. The tiredness, the sickness, the loss of memory, the weakening of once tough young muscles. It was all falling into place. Anne did not know how long Tommy could possibly go on getting worse by the week, and she also wondered, despairingly, how long she herself could go on, faced with this daily heartbreak. “I think I’ll just go up and sit with him for a while,” she said.

  Mack told her he would walk down to the shore and back.

  But when he reached the water’s edge, he did something he had not mentioned to Anne. He took out his mobile phone and punched in the numbers to another cell phone, deep inside SPECWARCOM’s headquarters at Virginia Beach. It answered on the second ring, and a voice said, “Hi, this is Bobby Rickard speaking.”

  Hey, Bobby, it’s Mack. Guess they haven’t killed you yet?

  Sonsabitches tried their best, I can tell you that. I only got back last week. Wounded?

  No. But one of them fucking tribesmen split my helmet with an AK bullet. Shit, I thought I was done for sure.

  Not you, kid. Only the good die young.

  Heh, heh, heh! Don’t know about that—you’re still here!

  Mack laughed, and cut quickly to the point. “Bobby,” he said, “do you remember Spike Manning? Petty officer. Left the SEALs about a year ago?”

  “Sure, I remember him. I went through BUDs with his brother, Aaron. They came from Alabama, right?”

  “Yup. That’s the guys. You ever hear what happened to Aaron? Didn’t he join some security outfit?”

  “I’m not sure, but Spike took over his dad’s road haulage business down in Birmingham. I might even have a number for him, if it’d help. He and I were in Kabul together. Crazy bastard got shot, remember? Wait a minute.”

  Mack sat down against a warm rock and stared at the water, muttering to himself, “This has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

  And then Bobby was back on the line. “It’s area code 205, then 416- 1300. That’s Spike’s home.”

  “Hey, Bobby,” said Mack, “I really appreciate that, but I’m in a bit of a rush. Let’s get together, when you’re up this way.”

  “Sure thing, buddy.”

  Mack punched in the numbers. A female voice answered.

  Mrs. Manning? Hi, this is Mack Bedford. Do you think I could speak to Spike if he’s around?

  Oh, sure. He’s watching the Braves, and they’re getting wiped out by the Mets. He’d be glad to come to the phone.

  Moments later, Spike Manning was on the line. “Hiya, Mack. Where ya been, buddy? Someone told me you’d retired.”

  “Yeah. I guess I’d worked in that madhouse for long enough, and my guys were getting wiped out three at a time, every darned week. I’ve had it with death. Done my share.”

  Spike Manning, an endlessly cheerful southerner, said, “Yup. I came to the same conclusion. You just can’t go on getting beat up by a bunch of towelheads you don’t even know. We lost six guys in Iraq on my last tour.”

  “Yeah. I hear they nearly got you as well?”

  “Got hit in the right thigh, just missed the big vein. If they’d got it, I’d be gone. We were miles from help. Anyway, what’s up, bro?”

  Mack hesitated and then said, “I met a guy up here in Maine who wanted to contact Aaron. Didn’t he join some security outfit?”

  “Security! That was some mercenary outfit. Aaron’s commanding some group of fucking maniacs in Niger, trying to overthrow the goddamned president, I think. They’re paying him a fortune.”

  “Can he take a phone call?”

  “Hell, no. He’s living in a goddamned cave.”

  “Can he receive a message somehow?”

  “Yes, he can. The organization he’s working for is in Kinshasa. That’s in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Not to be confused with the Republic of Congo, which has been fighting against itself for damn nearly as long as anyone can remember. Kinshasa’s a lot more stable. It’s on the other side of the Congo River. And the outfit you’re looking for is called Forces of Justice. You can get it through directory assistance, but they’re always changing the goddamned phone number. They can get a message to Aaron.”

  Mack punched the letters into his cell phone memory and thanked Spike for his help. He switched off the phone and began to walk slowly home, not wishing to be missed by either his wife or her sister.

  The following morning, Tommy seemed much better, but Anne decided to keep the doctor’s appointment anyway, and Maureen had to leave. Mack sat on the screened porch and somehow found the phone number of Forces of Justice on avenue du Roi Baudouin, a throwback in name to the old king of the Belgian colonizers.

  He placed the call and was unsurprised when the phone was picked up by an automatic message service—Please state your name and the nature of your business.

  Mack replied, “Spike Manning, USA, trying to contact my brother, Aaron.” Almost immediately, a British voice came on the line, saying briskly, “This is Major Douglas, commander central Africa. How can I help you?”

  “Sir, I am trying to get some work done in France. Do you have an office there?”

  “Our operation is based in Marseille. I can’t give you an address, but there is a phone where you can leave a message—hit 33 for France, then try 491 2069. If you don’t want to be called back, give them a time when you’ll call again.”

  Mack said, “Thanks a lot, Major. I can handle that.”

  “You on the East Coast of America, old chap?”

  “Yessir.”

  “They’re six hours ahead. And you want to speak to Raul.”

  Mack checked his watch. It was 9:15, Monday morning, and he dialed the number. Again it was a message, and Mack spoke carefully. “I have some expensive work to be carried out in France. I will call in one hour. That’s 1615 your time. The name is Morrison.”

  He walked slowly back up the road, aware that the next move he made, on behalf of Harry Remson, was fraught with peril because there were three clear and present dangers: (a)
the traceability of his own mobile number, which had been originally issued to the United States Navy; (b) there may come a time during the conversation when money and methods of payment would have to be discussed; and (c) this next phone call would surely require the caller to identify the target. Once that was done, an international crime would most certainly have been committed.

  These matters always have an elusive cloak-and-dagger aura, but sooner or later someone would have to come clean and state in words of one syllable what was required, plus the identity of the victim upon whom the contract was being taken out. There was no possibility Lieutenant Commander Bedford could allow himself to be identified as the caller, the mystery man who was planning to assassinate the next president of France.

  Mack walked slowly up the road, wondering what to do. He could not go out on a limb for Harry Remson, not in a potential murder contract. He could not subject Anne and his family to the appalling disgrace if he should be discovered as one of the masterminds behind the killing of Henri Foche. So who the hell was going to make the call to this goddamned cutthroat Raul, tucked away in some backstreet of Marseille while carrying out some of the dirtiest business on the planet?

  In Mack’s mind there was already quite sufficient hidden disgrace in his own curriculum vitae, because just below the surface lurked the court-martial that had ultimately finished him in the navy. Not even Anne knew the details of that. But even Anne understood the enormous political agenda that had caused the navy essentially to throw him overboard. And the question would haunt Mack forever—had it all been his fault? Had that uncontrollable rage at the bridge over the Euphrates really been the Achilles heel of an otherwise exemplary officer? Blind rage it had most certainly been. He’d shot the twelve terrorists, no doubt. He would have shot a hundred of them if they’d been there. And despite the navy’s best efforts to prevent him from being publicly identified, Mackenzie Bedford knew in his heart there would always be a suspicion about his motives. About the way he had stepped out from his troops and savagely gunned down his enemy, while they just might have been trying to surrender.

  The words of Lieutenant Mason, spoken with such conviction at the court-martial, ran through his mind—Lieutenant Commander Bedford was the best officer I ever served with. But the short sentence uttered by the president of the judging panel, Captain Dunning, was also not so far from his psyche—The court detected an element of panic.

  Yes, there was quite sufficient in the recent past to make all his future dealings a matter for great care and prudence. So how the hell could he make a phone call to an unknown murderer in France, requesting, on Harry Remson’s behalf, the death of the next French president? No, it was out of the question. He could not make that call. He must instead explain to Harry the problem and, if necessary, hand over the number of the office in Marseille that may be prepared to carry out Harry’s wishes, for a price.

  And that too seemed to Mack almost insurmountable. How on earth was the shipyard owner going to transfer a massive sum like a million dollars to some bank account in France or Switzerland without it being immediately traceable? “Beats the shit out of me,” he told a couple of low-flying seagulls. “Right here I’m badly out of my depth. International crime is a bit too tricky for me.”

  He reached home to find Anne and Tommy were not back. He felt a tug on his heartstrings, wondering if the little boy had been allowed to leave hospital. He made himself a pot of coffee and sat out on the porch, lost in thought. Maybe he should call Harry and explain this was just about as far as he could go. He had the organization, he had the office in Marseille, he had the name, he had the number, and he had never promised to do more. Just to plug Harry into the right channels, to people who might carry out his lunatic proposition.

  He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Harry’s private number. When the shipyard boss answered, Mack said, somewhat mysteriously, “I have made some headway. I think you might want to come over and see me. Anne has taken the car.”

  Ten minutes later, Harry Remson’s dark-blue Bentley swept into the drive. Mack invited him in and poured coffee for them both. Then he explained the perilous nature of the next step that must be made if Harry was indeed going to carry out his threat. Half expecting the Big White Chief of Remsons to bridle at the suggestion that he, Mack, could go no further, the former SEAL was astonished at the quiet, resolute way Harry took the news.

  “Mack,” said Harry, “I understand the enormity of what I am proposing, and I’m grateful for what you have done so far. However, your objections to helping me continue are mere pinpricks on the body of a giant scheme. When you are as rich as I am, all these minor matters can easily be taken care of. I would like you to make the call, and I will provide you with an untraceable phone you will use to contact Marseille, after which you will throw it into the sea. I would like you to inform them of our requirements, and to get a price. This is business, Mack, a nasty business, but still business. They’re selling; we’re buying. Don’t get into too much detail. Suffice to say the money will be paid into a Swiss bank account by me. If they are, in your opinion, the right guys, offer them twenty-five thousand dollars immediately for reconnaissance. You know, find the target, establish addresses, make maps, locate regular routes. Have them e-mail that data, so we can make a judgment on whether we’re buying.”

  Mack looked astonished and stared at Harry, eyebrows raised. “Could I ask you a question?” he said. “Where do you want this e-mail with a detailed blueprint of the murder to be sent? Remsons Shipbuilding? How about Anne’s computer? Given a free rein, you could probably get us all locked up for the next twenty years!”

  Harry Remson grinned. “Mack,” he said, “that e-mail will arrive in my hands by such a circuitous route you’d get dizzy trying to understand it. In the end it will reach a computer that only I will see, and then the computer will be destroyed.”

  Mack shook his head and said, “Jesus, Harry, I didn’t realize you were so sharp in the world of international gangsters!”

  Harry stood up, finished his coffee, and said, “I am aware of the risks. And I cannot start this operation without taking some. Mack, I’ve gotta go. Do nothing until I’ve organized the telephone.”

  “But, Harry, I need to make that call in fifteen minutes. I think they’ll be waiting.”

  Harry replied sharply, “Make the call, Mack. Tell ’em to stand by for another call at exactly the same time tomorrow. I’ll be organized by then.”

  “Okay, boss. I’ll do as you say.”

  He watched the Bentley drive away and hoped Anne would not return until after he had made the 10:15 call. He was lucky, because she was within three miles but stopped at the store before continuing home. Dr. Ryan had insisted Tommy remain under observation until later in the afternoon. He was sleeping now, and Anne would return to the hospital by one o’clock.

  Mack dialed the number in Marseille, and a French voice answered, “Mr. Morrison? Right on time. This is Raul speaking. I understand you have some business.”

  Mack responded, “Raul, I need twenty-four hours. I’ll call you at precisely this time tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Mr. Morrison. I’ll be here.”

  If ever there was a place built and designed to house a lethal international center for mercenaries and hit men, Marseille, the second city of France, was surely the one. Its terra-cotta-roofed buildings, its warm, sultry, litter-strewn streets, its peculiar Mediterranean atmosphere of joie de vivre all provide an undercurrent of pure lawlessness. Those sprawling docks, wind-whipped seas, clandestine coastal coves, and rocky landing places all contribute to a cheerful, devil-may-care feeling that any crime on earth could be committed here and no one would ever know. Scar-faced Frenchmen and Moroccans in wide-striped T-shirts and berets give the entire place a piratical overtone. Every ramshackle old vessel in the Vieux Port looks like a getaway opportunity for men on the run.

  Police sirens are always wailing. But their wail is somehow empty, as if no one is paying a bit of atten
tion. The unseen beat of North Africa pervades the place. It’s a melting pot, a crossroads to nowhere, where no one seems to belong and no one seems to care.

  But whatever goes on in Marseille, it’s working. The city is humming in a haphazard kind of way. The docks are pulsing with activity. Restaurants are full. The fishing fleet thrives, and the famous market has been there for more than two thousand years.

  Forces of Justice was situated on a side street off the Place des Moulins, in the oldest part of the city, Le Panier Quarter, north of the docks. It occupied offices on the second and third floors of an apartment block. No phone was ever answered. There was no street-level doorman. Which would have been superfluous anyway, since Forces of Justice employed two machine gun-carrying guards on either side of the entrance.

  There were four permanent staff members led by one former British army colonel who had managed to get caught with his fingers in the till during a stint with MI-6, Britain’s international espionage operation. These days he went by the name of Raul Declerc, which sounded somewhat more cosmopolitan than Col. Reggie Fortescue, formerly of the Scots Guards. It was also more likely to throw London’s Scotland Yard off the trail. The former Col. Reggie Fortescue had managed to transfer funds of almost two million pounds from MI-6 to his current account by what he described as an “administrative error.” They’d never caught him, but in his absence he’d been formally stripped of his commission.