by Brian Drake
Rostami ignored the question and watched at the footage without seeing it. He turned to Graypoole. “You know about Mueller?”
“Of course.”
“Then you know why I consider it a failure.”
“Casualties are a fact of war, Ben.”
“And the pair Mueller reported? Dane and Talikova?”
Graypoole made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “They’re mercenaries. The US government would have paid them for Mueller’s capture. That’s all he was interested in. He won’t waste time and his own money chasing us.”
“You are mistaken, young man. I’m not sure you’re aware of the problem he and Talikova pose.”
“Why would they?” Graypoole said. “It’ll be a point of pride for the CIA to find us themselves, not hire outsiders.”
Rostami regarded the younger man coldly. “We have to be careful or we will suffer the same fate as your father.”
“The whole point is to not let that happen,” Graypoole said, raising his voice. “We’re going to hit them so hard and so fast, we’ll be long gone before they get any steam. Hell, they’re still trying to figure out where I came from.”
Rostami sat back as the plane picked up speed, the ride a little bumpy. Shortly it slowed to a stop. Rostami glanced around the cabin.
Graypoole let out a breath and lowered his voice. “Seattle is underway. Ramos filed his first report this morning.”
Rostami nodded.
“And we won’t be moving around much longer. I have an appointment in Bahrain, and then we go to the island.”
Rostami frowned. “The island is finished?”
“It is. Nobody will look for us there.”
“And General Walker?”
“He’s covered. I bought a house across the street from his and put our team there. They’ve been watching him for months.”
“How long have you been planning these operations?”
“Quite some time, Ben. I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve done all I can to prepare for this. I can’t stay cooped up any longer. I will have my revenge.”
Rostami let out a breath. “I suppose this is where I ask for a drink.”
Graypoole reached for a panel on the table and pressed a button. The Chinese woman arrived. Rostami asked for what Graypoole was drinking and she departed. Rostami fidgeted in his seat.
“I counseled your father many times throughout the years. I am happy to provide you with the same counsel, which means I must caution you, Mason. The side trip to Bahrain is not safe. Send somebody else.”
“I don’t disagree. It’s a huge risk, but I have to kill Kader myself. If it hadn’t been for him, my father would still be alive.”
“Mason--”
“It won’t take long. We won’t even set foot on the ground.”
“What?”
“Well, we’ll be there long enough to get onto a helicopter.” Graypoole grinned. “You can wait with the plane if you’d like.”
The cell phone in Graypoole’s pocket chirped. He took out the phone and answered. It was a short call and he listened for a moment before only responding with a curt, “Okay.” He put the phone away without saying good-bye.
“Walker has cancelled Rome,” he said.
“What does that--”
“I don’t know.” He clenched his jaw and balled a fist. “You can’t have everything.”
Rostami took a drink. Graypoole’s voice had an edge to it now, a frustrated edge. The same tone his father had displayed when something went wrong, which usually resulted in Graypoole the Elder making mistakes. Mason Graypoole took out the cell phone again and dialed the team watching Walker’s house.
“Hit the house. Kill everybody inside.”
Graypoole put away the phone and called the stewardess for a refill.
Rostami stared at him.
“Do you have something to say?” Graypoole said.
Rostami shook his head. “You wouldn’t listen anyway.”
Ernest Levasseur slipped his phone into a pocket and surveyed the room.
Their surveillance gear occupied most of the living room of the home they used to watch the Walkers, a 3-bedroom, 2-bath single story. A bank of monitors showed the exterior of the Walker house. When they moved in two months earlier to begin watching the family, they had talked about penetrating Walker’s standard home security system and slipping into the home to plant cameras and bugs. Then they noticed the CID team arrived to regularly sweep the house for such things, so they nixed the idea. They instead rigged small cameras on the roof of their house, which were aimed at the General’s and had to settle for quiet visuals of the comings and goings.
Levasseur and his teammates, burly Italians named Gaetano and Cotrone, sat in shifts around the gear. They were also supposed to clean the house in shifts, because the Frenchman refused to live in a pigsty, but as he picked up a discarded Snickers wrapper from along the wall trim, he realized nothing can ever be perfect. Much like the mission.
At least they didn’t fail to keep the front lawn mowed. Have to keep up appearances.
Cotrone sat before the monitors watching Levasseur expectantly. Gaetano sat at the kitchen table with a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs.
“Was that Graypoole?” Cotrone said.
“Yes. Change in plans. He wants the whole family gone. We hit the house when the daughters arrive.”
“Before they leave?”
“They aren’t leaving.”
“But the guards. . .”
“I know. Show me where they are.”
Levasseur stepped closer to Cotrone as the Italian typed commands. One of the monitors showing the outside of the Walker home rotated until it stopped on a white van parked down the block.
“When will they stop using silly vans,” the Frenchman said.
Dishes clinked as Gaetano put his plate in the sink. He came over to join them carrying a folding chair. Their furniture consisted of folding chairs and cots, but at least they had separate rooms.
“I can take the van,” Cotrone said, “and have the car running while you two go into the house.”
“Are you sure?”
Cotrone swallowed. He was normally a surveillance man, not a shooter. He said, “Yes. I can.”
Gaetano said, “I don’t like this. We had a good plan.”
The original idea had been to shoot the Walkers’ car on the way to the airport. The exit of their neighborhood narrowed to two lanes before emptying onto an expressway, a great ambush point.
“We also,” Gaetano said, “have a problem with our weapons.”
They only had rifles and one submachine gun. The idea had been to shoot out the car’s tires with the rifles, then hose the couple inside the car with the submachine gun.
“We have handguns,” Cotrone said.
Levasseur nodded. “Gaetano, you’ll need the submachine gun for the van. Cotrone, we’ll have to use the handguns.”
Cotrone shook his head.
Levasseur held up the Snickers bar. “To whom does this belong?”
Gaetano snatched it out of Levasseur’s hand.
“Keep the place clean, please,” Levasseur said as he turned away.
19
The whine of the engine was barely discernible through the fuselage.
“Extra insulation,” Stone explained. “Jet’s a little heavier but it sure is quieter.”
The four were in Stone’s private jet, seated in soft leather chairs in the mostly beige cabin, the jet still climbing. The G-force of the climb pushed them back into the seats.
Dane rotated his seat to glance out the window. They were high enough where he couldn’t tell exactly where they were, but they were for sure still within Germany. Below he saw the steeples of village churches breaking through the forest. They looked very small so high up.
Nina sat near Dane, a small table between them. As the plane leveled she said, “We need to get one of these, Steve.”
“No way.”
&n
bsp; “It’ll be great.”
“Nope.”
“But we’ll save a ton on baggage fees.”
“Pack less.”
She scoffed.
The jet was all business. Up front of the cabin was a video screen of about 60-inches. Stone said they had satellite TV should anyone want to watch Love It or List It. A small dining table could seat four if they squeezed together and the galley was at the rear, room for one at a time. In between, the chairs lined either side.
“You haul any cargo in this?” Dane said.
“Just me or guests.”
“I bet it’s perfect for quick hops to Barcelona,” Nina said.
“We’re not buying a jet,” Dane said.
Stone visited the galley for a few moments and brought everybody drinks, which were accepted with thanks. Dane took out a cigar and clipped the end.
“Take it to the smoking area, Steve.”
Dane frowned. “And where is your smoking area?”
“The left wing.”
Dane shook his head. He put the Montecristo back into its container, the container back in his pocket. “Can we put Lukavina’s info on the screen?”
“Sure.” From an overhead compartment near the dining table, Stone took down a laptop which he plugged into the TV and told Dane to email the Kader file to a specific address. Dane swallowed some Canada Dry and Makers and complied using his smartphone. Stone typed commands and put the picture of Malek Kader on the screen. He was obviously tall, broad chest, shoulders, thick neck. Full head of dark hair, graying goatee. Defiant dark eyes.
Dane rose to talk.
“That’s our guy.” He consulted his phone. “Lukavina says he was a key man in assassinating Graypoole Senior. Kader organized Graypoole’s forces like a real military outfit, battalions to squads to teams and coordinated each group’s budget.”
“Why did he turn rat?” McConn said.
Dane scrolled through the file.
“His wife died, number one. Then Graypoole blew up a nightclub where twenty-two civilians died. Apparently, Kader got cold feet shortly after. Civilians weren’t supposed to be targets.”
“What about the daughter?” Nina said.
Stone tapped a key and put Hana Kader on the screen. She had long black hair and dark eyes like her father, but a smaller face, small mouth and nose.
And big brown eyes.
Dane shivered at the sudden flashback the young woman provided but he kept his face straight. How much did she know about her father? Would Graypoole’s gun sights find her, too?
“Is she with her father?” Stone said.
“No. London, it says here.”
“I hope Lukavina has her covered,” Stone said.
“If Graypoole knows Kader sold out his old man--” Nina said.
“Len thinks that’s possible.”
“--will Junior show up to pull the trigger himself?”
“I think he’d want to,” Stone said, the others agreeing.
“Let’s say he will,” Nina said. “If we time it right--”
“--we can end this before the next bomb goes off,” Dane finished. “We absolutely need to stop this before Graypoole raises the death toll higher than it already is.”
Dane looked out the window across the expanse of ocean with the thirty islands making up Bahrain growing in the distance.
“Ever been there before?” Stone said. He eased into the seat beside Dane’s chair.
“No. One of the few places not marked on my passport.”
“It’s not a bad place, give or take a few things,” Stone said. “I’ve run a lot of stuff through there. Mostly expats and non-Arabs so they’re a little more relaxed than other places in this region.”
“What are some of the give or take things?” Dane said.
“A lot of foreign workers are trafficked through here,” Stone said. “Get their passports taken from them, if they have passports; paid slave wages, indentured servitude, that sort of thing.”
Dane shook his head.
“One hell of a grand prix, though,” Stone added.
“I’m sure it makes the rest okay.”
As they flew over the country, Dane noticed some of the land was full of development, tall buildings and neighborhoods, but other parts had buildings separated by blocks of open lots, full of the burnt-orange sand that made up the landscape.
Nina came up behind him and kneaded his shoulders.
“At least we’re here in winter,” Nina said.
The sun blazed in the clear blue sky.
“Winter in Bahrain is like summer in California, minus the dust storms,” Stone said.
The jet continued across the length of the country, heading for Bahrain International Airport. The airport was located in Muharraq, an island about four miles northeast of Manama, the capital. They would need to cross the bin Salman Causeway to reach the capital, easily doable by taxi, if they could find an honest cabbie.
“What does that mean?”
“Sometimes the meters are rigged.”
“This place keeps getting better,” Dane said. He exchanged a frown with Nina.
The jet landed and it took forever to get through customs. Because they used a private jet, they were ushered into a private room where their bags were thoroughly searched. Another crew searched the plane itself. None of them worried about weapons being found. Stone had compartments built under the carpet where they’d stashed the hardware. The searchers would need an X-ray machine to see the compartments. It only meant a delay in getting to their weapons and gear. After the search was done, the pilot would taxi the plane into a private hanger off the main terminal and once parked, they could access the plane when they wanted.
After clearing customs and collecting weapons, they went out front and Stone started down a cab line. The first cab had a broken meter and quoted a higher rate than the trip to their hotel warranted. Stone passed. The next cab had no meter but the driver said they could negotiate. Stone passed. The next cab had a fully functioning meter, the dark-haired driver young and eager to serve. The driver was shorter than both of them, wore large-framed glasses and kept asking about America. Everybody climbed into the cab. Dane took the front seat with the others squeezing into the back.
The cab left the airport following Airport Avenue. Blue ocean stretched to infinity on the right, the growing capital city of Manama in the distance. To the left, more burnt-orange land with buildings scattered here and there. When the car went up the slight incline of the Shaikh Bin Salman Causeway, Dane gazed out at the shipping channel below filled with cargo ships. The channel continued to the south.
Traffic was light, the roads very smooth. Dane noted no bumps. Roads in America weren’t as good. The driver turned onto the King Faisal Highway, following a sweeping curve into the capital city. A bright yellow Lamborghini zoomed past them. A Gallardo. Dane would have been more impressed if it had been the current model.
Dane watched the people on the street. The Bahrainis were easy to spot. Most of them wore traditional robed garb, but others sported western clothes. He found it odd this Islamic country could be so established in its religion, but open to western influence. The economy had a much to do with it, Stone explained. A lot of Filipinos and whites were mixed in with the sidewalk traffic. Without them the country didn’t function, so, yeah, wear the Levis and Metallica T-shirt. Domes of mosques were still visible in the skyline, though. In another striking contrast, Dane counted at least two McDonalds and one KFC. Even on the other side of the world, you can get a Big Mac. Dane wasn’t sure if the Golden Arches was good for diplomacy or not, but based on the crowds inside, nobody was complaining.
The Financial Harbor loomed ahead, two tall buildings stretching as high as the sky. They were the bookends of a smaller cluster of buildings in between.
The King Abdullah ibn Al-Hassain Avenue led to the Ritz-Carlton and here was Bahrain’s western influence all in one spot, an oasis in a burnt-orange sea. The palace-like structure sto
od tall and white against the backdrop of blue sky and sand, surrounded not only by parking lots but a man-made lake, with more sand (of the beach variety) circling the perimeter of the water.
“Steve, I think we have a tail,” McConn said. “Two cars, very nice BMWs.”“They’re not going to try anything on the street,” Stone said.
“You sure?” Dane said.
“Well. . .”
“Thought so.”
The driver said, “What is going on?”
“Can you really drive this car?”
“What do you--”
“Steve!” Nina shouted.
The first of the BMWs shot past the driver’s side of the taxi, cut in front and slammed its brakes. The driver let out a yell and stomped his own, the taxi screeching to a halt mere inches from the BMWs bumper. Everybody strained against their seat belts, snapping back once the car stopped. Dane looked back. The other BMW had stopped directly behind the taxi. They were boxed in.
20
Two men climbed out of the back BMW. Other cars honked and moved around, more honking and shaking fists as the annoyed drivers passed, but the two men in suits who approached the taxi paid no mind. Each wore sunglasses, one a dark suit while the other wore tan. The man in tan took out a pistol and stood near the passenger window aiming at Stone’s face while the other man tapped on the driver’s window.
“What do I do?” the driver said.
“Roll down the window,” Dane said.
The driver complied. The window whispered down.
“You will come with us,” the man said.
“Or what?”
“Or what do you think?” the man said.
“Steve--”
“Not now, Nina. I think we should do what he says.” Dane took out his wallet and removed some bills. He handed the cabbie several of them.
With horns continuously honking around them and the back-up growing, Dane and his crew were split into each of the BMWs. When the BMWs cleared out, traffic still couldn’t resume its normal pace, because the taxi driver sat behind the wheel with his hands shaking.
