The Warrior

by Sharon Sala

  Jacob led the way. All the way to the library, he couldn’t help thinking this might be his last walk down this hall. His heart was pounding so fast he feared he might have a heart attack on the spot, then that he wouldn’t and would wind up in prison instead.

  Corbin made a point of nodding to the agents as they sat, making sure Jacob knew they were completely involved. But Jacob wasn’t as passive as Corbin hoped. As soon as they were all seated, he threw out the first question.

  “So…forgive me if I’m a bit confused,” Jacob said. “Is this an interview or an inquisition?”

  Special Agent Joshua took a notepad out of his pocket and clicked his pen.

  “Depends on how you answer Mr. Woodliff’s questions,” he said.

  Jacob swallowed, but persevered. “I’m sorry. I’m just not following this. What are you talking about?”

  Corbin began, using the voice he used when he was interviewed on-air to indicate the seriousness of the situation. “The reason I’m here and you’re not already under arrest is because the information we were given was first presented to me rather than the authorities. The FBI has graciously allowed me to follow through because of my firsthand knowledge.”

  “Knowledge of what…and from whom?” Jacob asked.

  “It’s like this,” Corbin said. “Alicia Ponte has informed us that you and her father are guilty of treason. That you have been selling weapons to the enemy with whom we are at war. She has firsthand information linking you and Richard Ponte to Osama bin Laden, to al Qaeda and to Mohammed al-Kazir, along with delivery dates.” He paused. “Stop me if any of this rings a bell.”

  Jacob didn’t know that his face had turned a faint shade of purple, but he did know he couldn’t feel his feet. He had a flash of his entire life passing before his eyes and knew, in that moment, that despite everything he might say, this run was over.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, then stood abruptly, pointing angrily to each of them in turn. “What I do know is that it seems you’ve taken the word of a woman who has recently suffered a mental breakdown. I don’t believe a single thing you’ve just said. I know for a fact that Alicia Ponte was kidnapped, so you couldn’t have spoken to her—unless you’re the kidnapper! Is this true? Gentlemen…I urge you to look into Mr. Woodliff’s wild claims and question his morals, not mine.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Carruthers,” Agent Joshua said.

  It was the tone of voice that got to him. Jacob dropped.

  Corbin scooted to the edge of his seat. “I assure you, Alicia Ponte has not been kidnapped, and the woman I spoke to only yesterday had every one of her faculties securely in place. The one thing she was disturbed about was that her father is obviously trying to have her killed. There’s already been one attempt on her life. I can also assure you that if you continue to maintain your innocence and something does happen to Miss Ponte and her father is responsible, you’ll not only be tried for treason, but there will be an added charge of murder to go with it.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Jacob said. “All I know is what I heard during Richard’s press conference. Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  Corbin ignored his questions and threw out another of his own. “So you haven’t spoken to Ponte since the press conference?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Have you tried?”

  Jacob’s heart actually skipped several beats, and when it picked back up, it was with a thud so hard it made him hiccup.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, and got up and poured himself a drink. He downed the first shot of bourbon, looked at the trio and poured and downed a second.

  “That’s enough,” Agent Morrow said.

  Corbin waved toward the chair Jacob had vacated. “Come sit back down and let’s talk about this,” he said.

  “Talk about what?” Jacob asked.

  “How we’re going to work this out. I have it on good authority that if you cooperate in helping us with bringing Ponte to justice, your death sentence will be commuted to life. It’s a pretty damn good deal, considering. Otherwise, you’ll both be tried as traitors and you’ll both fry. What’s it to be? Wanna help us put a traitor out of business and regain a measure of your dignity?”

  Jacob wanted to argue. He kept thinking that if he ignored them, they would eventually go away. He stared at the floor until his vision blurred and the bourbon he’d just downed was hanging at the back of his throat. He thought about calling his lawyer, but what difference would that make in the grand scheme of things? They’d already made him the only offer that would be on the table. He couldn’t get out of what he’d done, but he could save his own life. Still, betraying Richard Ponte was dangerous. Suddenly the bourbon made a move.

  “You’ll have to excuse me a minute,” he rasped. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Agent Joshua said, and followed Carruthers out of the room.

  Corbin eyed Morrow. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Special Agent Morrow grinned. “I think when he’s through puking, if he’s got any guts left, he’s going to spill ’em. I also think you’re one lucky bastard that this fell in your lap and you’re probably going to win yourself another Pulitzer.”

  “That may be,” Corbin said. “But I can’t help thinking of how many men and women in our armed forces are dead today because of what these two sons of bitches have been doing.”

  The smile on Morrow’s face shifted. “I’d hate to be either one of these guys when the cons get a hold of them.”

  “How so?” Corbin asked.

  “Even cons have their breaking points. Traitors to their country and child molesters don’t get any breaks behind bars. It will be a miracle if Ponte makes it to trial and Carruthers makes it to Christmas.”

  Corbin looked up, then pulled his tape recorder out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table in front of him.

  “Here they come, and from the look on Carruthers’ face, I feel a story coming on.”

  Richard Ponte was signing a handful of letters that his secretary had laid on his desk, anxious to finish up this last lot of paperwork before he left for his lunch appointment. He’d turned the television on a couple of minutes ago, planning to catch the latest figures on the stock market, when he tuned in to the fact that a news bulletin was playing. He looked up, saw a familiar Washington, D.C., landmark hotel in the background and upped the volume.

  “This just in from our news bureau. The body of a man has been found in the stairwell of the hotel behind me. He has been identified as Peter Wayne Joiner, also known as Shark Joiner. Joiner has long been suspected of being a hit man for hire. Authorities have no leads at this time, but theories run the gamut from a mob hit gone wrong to a message being sent to the people with whom Joiner was associated. We’ll have more on this developing story on the evening news. And now, we return to our regular programming.”

  Richard sat staring at the screen for what seemed like an eternity while his mind raced, trying to sort through what the implications of this were for him. Obviously his latest plan to get to Alicia had failed.

  Who the hell was this man she was with?

  He’d put Dieter down, and now Shark—two of the best in the business. His lawyers were still working on getting the attempted murder charges dropped on Dieter, but as of now, he was still behind bars. Richard aimed the remote to turn off the TV and noticed his hands were trembling. Angry with himself for showing weakness, he slammed the remote down on the desk and willed himself to be calm.

  At that moment there was a knock on the door and then his secretary came in.

  “You wanted me to post those letters,” she said, pointing to the papers he’d been signing.

  “Yes, yes…I’m almost through,” he said quickly, signed off on the last two and shoved them toward her.

  A memo floated from his desk onto the floor. “Oh, you dropped something,” she said as she picked it up and handed it back to him. “It’s that message from Mr.
Carruthers.”

  Richard’s head began to pound. “What message? I didn’t know Jacob called. Where was I?”

  “It was before you came in, sir. I told him I expected that you were en route to the office, since he said you hadn’t answered your cell. I left the message on top of your mail.”

  Richard cursed. He’d tossed the morning paper on top of his desk without looking at the mail.

  “Thank you, that will be all,” he said shortly, and was patting down his pockets for his cell phone when he realized it wasn’t on him.

  Frantic now, he began digging through his pockets again, unable to believe he’d left the house without it. All of a sudden he remembered that he’d been about to disconnect it from the charger when the maid had come in with a problem about the plumbing. By the time he’d dealt with that, he’d forgotten to get the phone.

  “I’ll have his heart on a stick if he’s screwed anything up,” Richard muttered as he grabbed the phone and quickly dialed Jacob’s number.

  The phone rang twice before the maid answered. “This is Richard. Get Jacob immediately.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ponte, but Mr. Carruthers isn’t here.”

  “Where is he?” Richard asked.

  “I’m not sure. He left about an hour ago with that reporter and two federal agents. He didn’t say when he’d be back. Do you want me to—”

  Richard hung up the phone.

  What the hell just happened? Obviously Alicia had spoken to someone, but why had they gone to Jacob instead of coming to him with Alicia’s accusations?

  Suddenly it hit him. Other than Alicia’s word, they had no proof. He cursed beneath his breath. He’d underestimated his daughter. She’d pinpointed the crack in his empire: Jacob. Jacob the worrier. Jacob the whiner. Jacob the weak.

  He glanced down at the photo on his desk, then tilted his head.

  “First round to you, daughter dear,” he said softly.

  For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of looking around his perfectly appointed office one last time, knowing that he had a very small window of opportunity to get the hell out of the States. For all he knew, it might already be too late. In the back of his mind, he’d always known this might happen, but he’d never imagined it would be his daughter who brought him down. Even as he was emptying the office safe of all the cash he had on hand, he promised himself that, if it was the last thing he did, he would make her pay for what she’d done.

  Eight

  Richard’s passport was in his pocket. All the cash he’d had in the safe was in his briefcase, as well as an untraceable phone. His heart was pounding as he took the back stairs out of his office and then the freight elevator to the ground floor. He exited in an alley, hailed a cab two streets over and told the driver to take him to the marina. As they drove, he called his bank and had two different accounts emptied and wired to his account in Geneva.

  If Jacob was in custody, he would be next. They would undoubtedly be watching the airports. They would know he had a private jet and also a yacht. He couldn’t use anything he owned without being traced. But he wasn’t whipped. Not by a long shot. All during the cab ride, he was on the cell, tying up loose ends, issuing orders at his home, calling a residence he owned in East Germany and hiring a boat to take him north up the coast from Miami. His first step out of the FBI net was simply to get to South Carolina. Paulo Gianni, an old friend as well as a famous Hollywood actor, had a vacation home in Myrtle Beach. Richard knew for a fact that Paulo was in the States, and the man owed him a big favor. He was only a phone call away from making an escape. His fingers were flying as he punched in Paulo’s number, smiling with satisfaction when he heard Paulo’s voice, rather than his voice mail.

  “Yes?”

  “Paulo…it’s Richard Ponte. How have you been?”

  “Ricardo, my friend, I am fine, as always. I am so glad you called. I have learned of your daughter’s kidnapping and am shocked. Do you know anything more?”

  Richard relaxed. Right into his hands.

  “There’s nothing I can tell you without putting her life in danger, but I need a favor. I need to get to Italy without the press knowing. Is your jet there?”

  Paulo reacted immediately, believing, as Richard intended, that Richard’s need to get to Italy must involve his daughter. “They have taken her out of the country? Ah…my friend…but of course. Where are you now?”

  “I’ll be coming to your location oceanside.”

  “You know the hangar I always use?”

  “Yes. I’ve landed there in the past myself.”

  “I’ll call my pilot. He’ll be waiting.”

  Richard sighed. One more piece falling into place. “I can’t thank you enough,” he said.

  “No, no…it is my pleasure, and know that my prayers will be with you. When you next see your beautiful daughter, give her my love.”

  “Definitely,” Richard said, and disconnected.

  Moments later the cab driver pulled up on the side of the marina with boats for hire. Richard tossed a handful of bills into the front seat and got out on the run. He stopped the first local he came to, who happened to be a man selling balloons.

  “Can you tell me where the Martini Mama is berthed?”

  “That way,” the man said, pointing up the wharf. “It’s a white boat with a naked woman holding a martini glass painted on the prow.”

  “Of course it is,” Richard muttered, and headed off, trying not to think of his own perfectly appointed yacht less than a quarter of a mile away.

  He found the boat with ease, and after locating the pilot, revised his disdain. The man was dressed to the nines in white, right down to a captain’s nautical cap and the prerequisite white soft-soled shoes.

  “Captain Roberts?” Richard asked.

  “Call me Weed, and yes…for the obvious reason. But relax, it’s a holdover from my hippie days.” He held out a hand to Richard, easing his step from the wharf to the small gangplank leading to the boat. “So, Mr. Colt, is it?”

  Richard nodded. “Yes, Paul Colt. Please call me Paul.”

  Weed smiled as he rubbed his hands together in a playful show of greed. “Shall we get the business end of this out of the way first?”

  “You said five thousand?” Richard asked, counting out the money into Weed Roberts’ hand.

  The other man nodded. “Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, is quite a distance, and fuel is sky-high.”

  “It’s fine,” Richard said. “Can we start now?”

  “Sure thing, Paul. Let me show you to your cabin.”

  “I’ll find my own way,” Richard said. “I’m just in a hurry to get started.”

  Weed pocketed the money and pointed to the stairwell. “It’s your call. First door on the left will be your cabin for the duration of the trip. The head is across the hall.”

  Richard went down below. Moments later, he heard the engine start up. Not until they were out of the bay and into open water did he relax.

  At that point, he tried contacting Jacob one more time, but this time on his cell.

  Jacob was sitting in an interrogation room in his lawyer’s office, listening to his lawyer and the Feds working out the conditions under which he would agree to testify. He’d give them names, dates and delivery points of illegal sales for the past five years. He knew where Richard was banking that money, but he didn’t know account numbers. It was everything he knew. If they wanted Richard Ponte, they had to take it.

  He knew his life was basically over. His children were grown, but their conception of their father was a lie. He also knew that, because of him, their reputations would be tarnished, if not ruined. They would hate him, but not as much as he hated himself. The only positive part of this hell was that Delia was gone. He didn’t think he would be able to bear the look in his wife’s eyes, and for the first time since her passing, he was glad she was dead.

  He was staring out the window, absently watching a pair of pigeons pecking at something on the windowsill, whe
n his cell phone began to vibrate. He slipped it out of his jacket pocket, saw Richard’s name on the caller ID and then laid the phone on the table.

  “The man of the hour is on the phone,” Jacob said. “Help yourself.”

  Corbin Woodliff leaned forward, then looked at Agent Joshua in surprise. “Why isn’t he in custody?” he asked, knowing that agents were supposed to have picked him up that morning.

  Joshua picked up the phone, then handed it to Jacob. “Answer it, but don’t tell him where you are.” Then he motioned for another agent to trace the call.

  Jacob sighed. “I never could lie to him. He’ll know something is wrong.”

  “Our men were supposed to have him in custody. Something must have happened. Ask him where he is,” Agent Joshua said.

  Jacob cleared his throat, then answered. “Richard…where on earth are you? I’ve been trying to call you all morning.”

  “Just answer my questions. Are you alone?”

  “No, of course not,” Jacob said.

  “Are you with the Feds?”

  “Yes…all morning. I left two or three messages on your cell. Why didn’t you answer?”

  Richard sighed. The first time he’d ever left home without that damned phone, and this was the result.

  “Did you give me up? Don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

  “I see, well, yes, and that’s too bad,” Jacob answered. “So…have you heard anything from the kidnappers yet? Have you talked to Alicia? Is she okay?”

  “You did, didn’t you? Damn you to hell, you sorry bastard. I thought you were my friend.”

  Jacob drew a slow, shuddering breath. “I did think the same, but I didn’t get your invitation.”

  All of a sudden Richard began to understand Jacob’s verbal shorthand. He was telling Richard in the only way he could that he thought Richard had run out on him first. That must have been what he was calling about earlier that morning. Poor Jacob. He never could run a bluff.

  “It wasn’t like that, my friend. All I did was forget my damn cell phone. It’s still at home. This one is a disposable. I wouldn’t have left you behind.”