MAC WALKER'S BENGHAZI: The Complete Collection

by D. W. Ulsterman

There’s a bench – a good place to watch anyone coming at me.

  Tilley sat down on one of the multiple park benches placed throughout Lafayette Square. This particular one allowed him to put his back against a stone wall, meaning nobody could sneak up on him from behind. In front of him was a group of Japanese tourists, a young couple jogging, and an older man walking his dog. For now, he appeared to be safe.

  Should have parked the car several blocks away and walked here. If anyone spots the car, they’ll know I’m in the park.

  A wave of momentary panic shot through Tilley’s mind. Leaving the BMW near the park entrance was a mistake. He wasn’t thinking as clearly as he needed to, and that could cost him. His hand, resting inside the right pocket of his jacket, gripped the handgun. The hard steel outline of the weapon brought some measure of reassurance to Tilley as his eyes continued to scan the landscape in front of him.

  Ray Tilley sat on that park bench for nearly an hour, his composure slowly returning with each passing minute.

  Gonna be ok. Keep my shit together like Mac said. Make my way to a hotel and hunker down there for the night.

  Tilley stood up, looking out in front of him again for any signs of trouble. The few people he saw nearby appeared normal. They included another person walking their dog, an older man sitting on another park bench, and a woman walking slowly along a walk path some forty yards from Tilley’s location.

  Then Tilley spotted Nigel, Dasha Al Marri’s personal bodyguard, walking slowly past the man seated on the park bench. Tilley could see Nigel’s head moving slowly from right to left, looking for him in the park.

  Ray Tilley moved slowly to his left, around the cement wall, making certain to not move too quickly and catch Nigel’s attention. Once on the other side, he looked down another red bricked walk path that a sign indicated led to the White House viewing area – the place where protesters were always gathering along Pennsylvania Avenue.

  That’ll have more people, security, maybe even media.

  Tilley glanced behind him and saw no sign of Nigel. Perhaps he had already moved on. The walk path toward the White House viewing area was oddly absent of people though, which caused Tilley to pause momentarily, wondering why the path suddenly felt so isolated. Mere coincidence perhaps - it was nearing the early evening hours after all.

  “Let’s not have ourselves an unnecessary spectacle Mr. Tilley.”

  The accent was English, and all too familiar. Nigel stood directly in front of Tilley, his dark eyes glaring back at Tilley with just a hint of disdain.

  “Do you understand Mr. Tilley – there is no need for any displays of false bravado now.”

  Tilley pushed back his fear and stood his ground, staring down the shorter Nigel.

  “You keep away from me. Come any closer, and I shoot you dead.”

  Nigel smiled back, holding his hands out from his sides.

  “Oh, I’m certain you would Mr. Tilley, if allowed to do so. Your mistake was talking to others about this you know. We hired you in great part because of your reputation for keeping your mouth shut. You have disappointed us terribly you know. You Americans and your penchant for talk - it’ll be the death of you all some day.”

  Tilley withdrew the handgun from his coat pocket and pointed it at Nigel.

  “I’m walking out of this park. Fuck you, and fuck that bitch Dasha.”

  Nigel’s eyes flared angrily as he took a step toward Tilley.

  “No need for such language Mr. Tilley. You know nothing of Ms. Al Marri, and are not worthy to speak of her like that. In fact, you are not worthy to speak of her at all.”

  “Hey! What’s going on? You – stay right there!”

  Tilley turned to see park security walking toward him. The man appeared young, no more than thirty, dressed in the blue short sleeved dress shirt and slacks common to security personnel of the area. Seeing the security officer offered Tilley a feeling of hope, as it seemed unlikely Nigel would attempt to harm in with such a witness so nearby.

  Placing his gun back into his coat pocket, Ray Tilley turned to look back at the park security who now stood no more than ten feet from him.

  “This man is threatening me sir. I want him detained and questioned please. I believe he may be armed.”

  Tilley was shocked to feel Nigel brush past him as he walked toward the security officer. That shock quickly turned to horror as Nigel aimed a gun at the officer and fired, the bullet ripping through the young man’s forehead. Tilley’s legs were already moving before he thought to do so, running through a batch of trees as the gloom of impending night cast a shadow over the park grounds.

  At nearly sixty years of age, Ray Tilley was not accustomed to running so fast, but run he did, even as his heart began to pound painfully in his chest with enough force he feared he may be having a heart attack. He emerged from the trees onto another red bricked walk path, moving as fast as he could, not daring to look behind him. Nigel’s gun made almost no sound when it fired, indicating it was silenced, meaning the shot was unlikely to have drawn any attention, and thus, no chance of help.

  Your gun doesn’t have a silencer though.

  Tilley removed his handgun from his pocket and turned to look behind him. There was no sign of Nigel, though the increasing darkness was making it increasingly difficult to see more than forty or so feet in any direction. Tilley raised the gun into the air and fired off two rounds, the sound echoing across the park grounds. Given the park’s proximity to the White House, surely the gunfire would alert more security – possibly even Secret Service.

  A flash of light erupted from the darkness thirty yards from behind Tilley, followed by the pain of a bullet grazing his upper left arm. He turned to once again run, gasping for breath and waiting for another bullet to rip through his back. Up ahead he saw a well lit area, one of the large statues common to the park grounds. It was of a man atop a horse rearing up onto its hind legs – the Andrew Jackson sculpture. Tilley knew that meant he was nearing the very center of Lafayette Square.

  Get to the statue, use the base of it for cover.

  The Jackson sculpture was enclosed by a simple, wrought iron fence. The fence’s height was nearly as tall as Tilley, the tops of the bars ending in large metallic arrows.

  Just need a few seconds to climb over the fence. Just a few seconds…

  Ray Tilley glanced behind him again and seeing no sign of being followed, placed his handgun back into his coat pocket and grasped the top of the fence in each hand and began pulling himself up. It took more than a few seconds, but with shaking muscles, and sweat pouring out from him, Tilley felt the grateful thud of his body dropping to the other side of the fence. He was inside the sculpture area, the large granite base of the statue no more than twenty feet away.

  Get up and run!

  Even though there was no evidence Nigel was nearby, a warning sounded in Tilley’s head. It is said all people have a sense of knowing something is there, even if one’s eyes tell them otherwise. Ray Tilley’s senses were propelling his body forward toward the statue as fast as he legs would carry him.

  The first bullet entered the back of his right shoulder, shattering a portion of his collar bone before exiting out from under his armpit. The sensation reminded Tilley of hot candle wax being poured over and then through, his skin.

  The second bullet glanced off of his right hip, nicking a bit of bone and burning a small trench across the area. Tilley cried out in pain as he tried to turn his body around to fire back at Nigel, his own handgun now held out in front of him.

  The third bullet ripped into Tilley’s lower throat, snapping his head back with enough force it propelled his entire body backward, the back of Tilley’s head smacking against the granite base of the Andrew Jackson sculpture with enough force to fracture his skull.

  One of the last images Ray Tilley could comprehend before death overtook him, were the inscribed words of a plaque imbedded on the side of the sculpture:

  OUR FEDERAL UNION

 
; IT MUST BE PRESERVED

  Tilley had just enough strength left in his final moments to move his head to the side to be able to view Jackson’s visage as it glared back across Lafayette Square and Pennsylvania Avenue, toward the regal and imposing main entrance of the White House. Though he had viewed this sculpture many times as he walked past it over the years, Ray Tilley had never noticed the look of horror that clearly appeared on the former president’s face, as if the statue were looking at some terrible monster inhabiting Washington D.C.

  Ray Tilley may have not understood that look before, but as the last remnants of his life left his body, he understood then.

  XXIV.

  Mac Walker sat alongside Ella Lerner inside the confines of the ambassador’s black SUV as it made its way swiftly toward the Benina airport. The ambassador intended to return to Tripoli, while Mac and Ella were to meet with the Frenchman Louis Danton, head of the United Nations humanitarian efforts in and around Benghazi, and, if the ambassador’s assessment was correct, something of a double agent working to thwart the efforts of the Saudi-funded globalists.

  Jack had remained behind with Ella’s security team at her office, with instructions to check in with Minnick and Benny back at the safe house on the hour.

  Ella sat next to Mac, her face its customary and unreadable portrait. Mac found himself fascinated by what her background story might be. Clearly she was a highly trained agent of the Israelis, and the two men assisting with her security openly showed great respect toward her authority. She knew Tilley somehow, but both she and him were unwilling to provide Mac any details of that knowing.

  “No need to stare Mr. Walker.”

  Mac caught himself doing exactly what Ella accused him of – staring at her face.

  “Sorry, I just find you one hell of an interesting woman Ella. Know any quiet bars in Libya where a guy like me and an Israeli woman like you can sit down for a drink and some nice conversation?”

  Ella’s lips pursed slightly as she struggled to suppress a smile.

  Mac eyes wandered to the quickly passing desert landscape outside. He found it odd that an American ambassador would be travelling with so little security to protect him. He only had his driver, a man who appeared no older than thirty and still quite wet behind the ears. Surely the man was a target in a place like Libya, so why the lack of any real security?

  The entrance to the Benina Airport, the same one Mac and his men had driven out from just a few days earlier, was less than a half mile ahead. The ambassador turned in his seat to look back at Mac and Ella.

  “Mr. Danton is expecting you of course. I’ve filled him with only the information I believed he needed to know – namely that your team needs access to a flight out of Libya Mac. He has assured me he can provide that within the next twenty four hours, but you’ll have to confirm that with him yourself when you meet him.”

  “And you are certain he can be trusted Mr. Ambassador?”

  The ambassador’s eyes held Mac’s for a moment before he nodded.

  “Yes – I give you my word. You have to leave your weapons in the vehicle of course, they’ll be there for you when you get back. You can use it to drive yourself back to Ella’s office when your finished with your meeting.”

  The SUV drove past a checkpoint without stopping, indicating airport security had already been informed of the ambassador’s arrival. The vehicle pulled into a parking space near a large two story metallic building where two men holding AK-47s stood outside a single white door. Mac’s eyes looked up and saw two more armed men looking out from the building’s roof top.

  After exiting the vehicle, Mac and Ella stood across from the ambassador and his driver. The ambassador pointed a thumb toward the white door entrance to the building.

  “Mr. Danton is inside there. I won’t be joining you for the meeting – have to catch my flight out of here. Good luck Mr. Walker, and thank you as always Ms. Lerner for you and your government’s assistance. Oh – and Mr. Walker…if you find yourself in need of help once you get back to the United States, please call this gentleman. He’s an attorney who assists people like yourself. He may be able to help.

  Mac looked down at the business card the ambassador has given him, reading the name and phone number.

  Neeson Legal Services

  303-237-7788

  The ambassador and his driver were already walking away before Mac could respond. Mac placed the business card in one of his jacket pockets and glanced down at Ella, whose face betrayed a touch of apprehension as she followed the ambassador’s departure.

  “I hope he is taking adequate precautions. He’s been much too confident of himself of late.”

  Mac, remembering his recent thoughts on the ambassador’s lack of security, nodded in agreement at Ella’s concerns before the two of them made their way toward the building’s entrance. The older of the two armed guards, a tall, thin man in his forties, opened the white door for Mac and Ella, nodding once as they walked past him.

  The door opened up to a small, low-ceilinged square room with a set of metallic stairs leading upward. Mac paused at the bottom of the stairs as he looked down at Ella.

  “You met this Danton before?”

  Ella’s eyes were staring upward, trying to determine if anyone could hear them.

  “Yes – just once. The ambassador has dealt with him a great deal.”

  Mac found himself following Ella’s gaze upward as well.

  “And what was your impression – is he someone you think we can trust?”

  Ella’s eyes narrowed slightly as she continued to look upward.

  “I trust no-one Mr. Walker.

  Ella began moving up the stairs, taking them two at a time as Mac followed close behind, failing to prevent himself from looking in appreciation at Ella’s well formed and toned backside.

  Seconds later and both of them stood outside another white door. A security camera placed in the upper right hand corner stared back at them as they waited. After nearly a minute passed, a voice called out to them from a speaker placed inside the ceiling just above their heads.

  “Ms. Lerner and Mr. Walker – please come in!”

  The voice’s accent was unmistakably French.

  The door opened inward a few inches, allowing Ella to push it completely open and her and Mac to step into the adjoining room. Several desks were lined up across the floor, each of them with a man or woman seated and working, the sound of fingers over keyboards filling the space. Narrow windows ran the length of the room, allowing light in as well as providing views of the surrounding airport. From the other side of the space and moving quickly toward them was a tall man similar in age to Mac, with longish black hair lined with more than a bit of grey that was combed back from his prominent forehead. He was dressed in a cream colored suit matched with a brilliant red tie. His feet were home to a pair of equally light grey canvas boat shoes, which he appeared to be wearing without socks.

  “Hello! Hello! Hello! I am Louis Danton, master of all you see before you!”

  Danton’s wide smile revealed brilliant and perfectly aligned white teeth, and his extended right hand was comprised of extremely long and perfectly manicured fingers. Mac caught a wave of cologne as Danton moved toward them, the scent reminding him somewhat of soapy leather.

  Louis Danton paused in front of Ella, his eyes looking her up and down as the wide smile remained on his face.

  “Oh Ms. Lerner, it has been too long since we saw each other last! You look magnificent! An oasis in this too drab and dangerous place! Please now, the both of you, follow me to my office where we can talk. Would you like food or drink? Coffee?”

  Mac noted the faint outline of a gun holster running down the back of Danton’s left shoulder. He was armed.

  “No thank you Mr. Danton – we don’t have much time.”

  Mac was glad for Ella’s refusal of food or drink. He wanted to be out of this place as quickly as possible.

  Danton walked briskly back across the room
, smiling to some of the workers sitting at their desks as he did so. A dark grey door stood at the other end of the room with a single armed guard standing outside.

  “I apologize for the militant look of the place, necessary precaution given the circumstances of course. All my security team are French though – totally trustworthy.”

  “Yeah – but they start running at the first sign of trouble, right?”

  Louis Danton stopped in mid stride, his back straightening. Mac could sense he didn’t appreciate the joke. Ella though, offered her widest smile yet, even looking like she might actually laugh.

  “I understand one’s need to share humor Mr. Walker – but would ask you not do so at your host’s expense.”

  Danton continued making his way toward the door as the armed guard glared back at Mac, indicating he too heard the Mac’s joke regarding the French’s notorious historical penchant for running away.

  Ella and Mac followed Danton into his office, a spacious room that was much more luxuriously furnished than the main second floor area. A large window was placed directly behind Danton’s desk, allowing him a full view of the arriving and departing airport traffic.

  “Now you two have a seat. Make yourselves more comfortable. If you don’t mind, I am going to enjoy a smoke.”

  The soapy leather smell was more pronounced inside the Danton’s office, though it also mingled with that of burning tobacco. Danton stood next to a small drink cart, where he proceeded to fill the glass half full with whiskey.

  “You know, most people when they think of France and alcohol, only think of wine, but we produce some of the most marvelous whiskeys. This here is a bottle of single malt from the island of Corsica. Reasonably priced, and frankly, among the best you will find. I’ve sold thousands of bottles of this very whiskey from this airport alone! By the time I leave here, these Libyans will love it!”

  “Thought Muslims didn’t drink.”

  Danton laughed loudly over Mac’s comment, followed by a long drink from his glass.

  “Muslims? They are like any other religion – you have your hardliners who follow their interpretations of the Koran, and you have everybody else who just wants to get by in this life and enjoy it as much as possible. I’m in the enjoyment business Mr. Walker, among other things.”