by Dave Edlund
Not easily intimidated, Prescott eyed Jim, taking in his uniform and shoulder insignias. He also noticed the rifle slung over Jim’s shoulder, muzzle pointed down, magazine removed from the receiver, as well as the large pistol in a tactical holster at his thigh.
Jim stood straight and tall, never blinking.
“Nurse!” Prescott called, and then moved past Jim to begin his examination of Peter. First, he conducted a superficial examination of the arm and leg wounds. Satisfied that blood loss was not a life-threatening issue at the moment, he placed his stethoscope against Peter’s chest while the nurse measured his blood pressure. Prescott looked up at Jim. “Lungs are clear. Heartbeat is strong.”
The nurse interrupted. “Blood pressure is 80 over 55.”
The ER doctor placed his hand on Peter’s forehead. The skin felt cool and dry. His coloration was slightly pale, but not sufficient to suggest excessive blood loss.
“Start a fresh bag, normal saline. I think he’s probably dehydrated. Draw a blood sample and have the lab run a complete analysis.”
Doctor Prescott returned his attention to the lacerations, manipulating the deeper cuts between his thumb and forefinger, drawing fresh drops of blood. Peter winced in response. “Sorry about that. Can you tell me where you hurt?”
“Every—” Peter’s mouth felt dry, and it took some effort to moisten his tongue so he could enunciate clearly. “Everywhere.”
“Can you tell me your name?” Prescott asked.
“Peter. Peter Savage.”
The doctor continued his examination, making small talk as he palpated various areas of Peter’s chest and abdomen. “Looks like you rolled around with a wild animal,” he said. He pushed against the lower ribs. “Does that hurt?”
Peter winced and nodded his head.
Doctor Prescott stood and approached Jim. “The good news is that I don’t think he suffered any internal injuries. His ribs are pretty tender, maybe only bruised, but I’ll want a chest x-ray to be sure. Also, I recommend a CT scan. There’s some bruising on his forehead. Looks like he took a pretty good blow to the head.”
Jim nodded. “Whatever you need to do.”
“It may help to know what happened to this man.”
“It’s classified.”
Chapter 43
Bend, Oregon
April 25
Three days had passed since Peter and Diesel were rushed out of the mountains. True to his word, Captain Sheffield declined to press charges, although he did confiscate Peter’s weapons for ballistic testing. He also cautioned Peter to stay in Bend and remain available should the need arise for further questioning.
After being held at the Animal Emergency Center overnight and well into the next day for observation, Diesel was released to Peter with an upbeat prognosis. Doctor Kumar pronounced the dog lucky to have no broken bones or internal bleeding. Plus, there was no evidence of brain damage—a concern given the extensive loss of blood he suffered—and no internal injuries other than massive bruising. Detectives Colson and Nakano wasted no time in questioning Peter, and he had spent the past day and a half answering their questions. In great detail, Peter had explained how he first encountered the woman—he now knew her name to be Jana Cooke—at the Pinnacle store. He explained the ensuing fight, how Cooke injured the security cop and murdered two bystanders. Fearing others would come for him, Peter explained his plan to flee to the mountains. On his turf, he stood a chance, and without innocent civilians at risk, he would see the fight to the end.
Peter patiently explained that he knew nothing of the murdered deputy. He’d stashed his red Hummer truck alongside the road knowing that if he was being followed, his pursuers would find it quickly. The map he left on Cooke’s body was a sufficient clue, he reasoned.
He marked the locations on a topographical map where the bodies of the assailants who had accompanied Nadya could be found. It didn’t take long for the Bend Detectives to receive confirmation from the Sheriff that the bodies were exactly where Peter had said they would be. The fact that all were armed except one corroborated Peter’s story, which seemed almost unbelievable at times. The State Police crime lab was already running ballistics on the recovered weapons. But without a bullet from the slain deputy, a ballistic match would never happen.
Near the end of the second day of questioning at the Bend Police headquarters, Peter had already recounted his version of events three times. He was tired and feeling the pain from his injuries. The fact that he refused to take the Vicodin, prescribed by Doctor Prescott, added to his misery.
“That’s quite the yarn, Mr. Savage,” Detective Colson challenged. She decided this was the time to see if his statements would hold together. “You’d have us believe,” she motioned with her hand to Detective Nakano, sitting beside her at the table, “that you single handedly took on these trained and armed assassins?”
Peter looked back at her with drooping eyelids and a blank expression. “You know what, Detective? I really don’t care anymore. I’m tired, and I feel like I was run over by a truck.”
“Seems there’s a trail of bodies following you everywhere you go.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”
Colson sighed and glanced at her partner. Detective Nakano shrugged. Colson decided to try a different approach. “What I don’t get is how you could know that these terrorists—”
“Assassins,” Peter interrupted.
“Assassins. How did you know they would follow you into the mountains?”
Colson leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. So far, everything Peter had said held together. They even had the testimony of the Deputies and State Police about the gun battle that had transpired up close to Tam McArthur Rim. Plus the weapons and bodies. And then there was the wreckage of the attack helicopter.
What really bothered Detective Colson, though, was why?
“It’s like I told you already. I didn’t know they would follow me. Look, you have three murders in Bend that I think are related. It wasn’t safe for me to stay here. And anyone near me was also in danger.”
As Colson thought about the answer, Nikki Nakano picked up the questioning. “Why didn’t you come to us with your concerns? Why didn’t you turn yourself in and report the murders at the outdoor store?”
“I told you already. You wouldn’t have believed me. You’d have locked me up.”
“You should have reported—”
Peter cut off Detective Nakano. “Don’t give me that!” The frustration and fatigue was clear in his tone. “I did what I did. End of story. Now, I’ve answered your questions. Check it out. Talk to the law enforcement officers who were there. Talk to Commander James Nicolaou. For Chrissake! A military attack helicopter was shot down there after it tried to blow me up with missiles!”
The two detectives had left the interrogation room, made some phone calls, talked to their captain, and finally returned. Detective Colson placed her hands on the table and leaned in toward Peter. “Okay, Mr. Savage. You can go—for now. Just don’t leave—”
“Yeah, I know the drill. Don’t leave town. Look, detectives, no disrespect intended—but I’ve told you everything. I didn’t murder anyone. Cooke and the people I shot, that was self-defense.”
“Just stay in town, okay?” Colson shot Peter a stern look. She was serious with either three or four murders to resolve, not certain whether she believed Peter that killing Jana Cooke was self-defense. The last thing she needed was to add to that workload with the prime suspect on the run.
“I’m going home,” Peter said. “I’m going to have a Scotch—very likely two. Then I’m going to bed.”
He did just that, and rested soundly. He woke in the morning feeling better, but still stiff and in pain. He downed a couple ibuprofen tablets with his first coffee. Had it really been only three days since his ordeal and near death?
Peter then checked on Diesel. His companion wagged his tail by way of greeting. Peter rubbed his head, careful not to disturb the ear
that had been ripped off and then surgically removed so that only about a quarter of the appendage was still there. While in recovery, Diesel was enjoying a larger than normal portion of cheese and meat as supplements to his kibble.
“Hey boy. Stay here. I’m just going out for the paper.” Peter patted Diesel on the head and then closed the door on his way out. He descended the steps to the street level. On a post beneath the mailbox was a holder for the Bend Bulletin. With his attention focused on the daily headline, Peter didn’t notice the person silently step in behind him.
“I think we should talk,” the person said.
Peter froze in his steps. He recognized the voice, but didn’t think it possible she could be here. Slowly, he turned and faced her.
“I thought you were gone.”
She shrugged. She was dressed in blue jeans and a bulky sweater. Peter couldn’t tell if she had a gun in a belt holster underneath the sweater; at least her hands were empty and in plain sight. “Let’s go inside.”
Peter forced a short, insincere chuckle. “And why should I invite you into my home?”
“Because I have the answers you seek.”
Chapter 44
Bend, Oregon
April 25
Peter laid the newspaper on the counter and then poured a cup of coffee for his unexpected visitor; he slid the mug across the granite countertop to her. She grasped the handle but did not sip. For the first time, Peter noticed her appearance. She was younger than he was, late thirties, with tanned skin, a high forehead, a long and thin face, and dark brown eyes. Her light brown hair was gathered up in a ponytail that went below her shoulders a bit. She was a few inches shorter than Peter, and her physique was lean and muscular, the appearance of someone who worked out regularly.
From the great room Diesel rumbled a guttural growl. It was impossible to mistake the intention behind that primal warning. “It’s okay, boy,” Peter said, his voice light and soothing.
“How is your dog?’ she asked.
“He was badly mauled. But you knew that.” His clipped words replacing the civil tone from a moment ago.
The woman nodded, knowing there was nothing she could say to change what had happened nor assuage Peter’s concern for his companion. She decided to move on to business.
“My American name is Nadya Wheeler. I work for the Israeli government—Mossad.”
Peter paused, absorbing what he had just heard. Another piece of the puzzle. He tried to downplay his surprise. “I thought as much.” Although she had admitted to working for Israel, he had not known in what capacity. “Why didn’t you kill me up there? Those were your orders.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Yes, they were.” She paused, deciding how much to say. “My Hebrew name is Danya. It means judgment of God. I’m not a killer—not like you think.”
“Really. And just what do I think?”
Nadya kept her eyes locked on Peter’s. “I’ve killed many people, that is true. But it was always for the greater good. The people I killed deserved to die. They were evil. Terrorists, for the most part. Sometimes those who financed terrorism or gave the orders.”
“And that’s supposed to make you a saint?”
“Mr. Savage. I do not seek your approval. I accept responsibility for who I am and what I’ve done. The day will come, no doubt, when I will answer for my deeds. But that is not why I’m here.”
“Okay then. Let’s get down to business.”
“Business,” she echoed and lifted the mug to drink. “My superiors believe you have knowledge of a secret file that contains everything related to the 1967 attack on the American ship. The USS Liberty.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “And what if I do?” He had his arms crossed, but was already thinking of the weapons within his reach. Kitchen knives, a sealed bottle of wine. Both choices primitive, but still possessing lethality.
“As long as Mossad believes you have those files, they will hunt you down. Mossad agents are very accomplished assassins.”
“I’ve done pretty well so far.”
Nadya pursed her lips. True, Peter had proven to be a capable opponent, but she knew the ways of her agency, knew they would eventually kill him. Realizing intimidation would not work, she decided to tell the truth. “You should understand those were dangerous and unstable times. The nation of Israel was young, and we were surrounded by enemies who sought our total and complete destruction.”
“I know something of the history of that era. The Six-Day War. The number of dead and wounded seamen from the Liberty.” Peter felt his blood pressure rising at the thought of the suffering—men burned from napalm, shot, limbs severed by shrapnel, others drowned as seawater flooded in through the gaping maw created when the Israeli torpedo detonated on the hull plates. “That ship was defenseless. The torpedo boats even machine-gunned the life rafts!”
Nadya looked into his steel-gray eyes. “It wasn’t us.”
“What do you mean—of course it was. The Israeli air force and navy attacked the Liberty for hours. How she remained afloat is nothing short of a miracle.”
“I mean, the order did not come from Israeli command. The United States was our ally. Why would our military attack a U.S. ship?”
Peter stared back in silence. He had pondered this very question. The answers remained elusive. Perhaps, once he read the complete file, he would finally know.
“The answer is, we wouldn’t. Israel would never attack America.”
“But you did.”
“Yes! We did. Because―” she hesitated.
“Go on.”
“Because we were told to do so… by your President.”
Peter’s jaw dropped as he stared back at Nadya.
“Think about it,” she went on. “Your Admiral ordered planes from your aircraft carriers to intercept, but they were recalled by Defense Secretary McNamara.”
Peter’s mind clicked into overdrive despite the pain and fatigue he was feeling. “And McNamara was working under orders from President Johnson.”
“Yes,” Nadya replied.
Peter was searching Nadya for a hint that she was deceiving him, but she remained calm, her eyes looking directly at him, unblinking.
“But why would President Johnson order an attack on one of his own ships?” he asked.
She was nodding her head. “Now you are beginning to think like an agent.”
Peter didn’t respond, uncertain if it was a compliment or not.
“When I learned that you had knowledge of the Liberty file,” Nadya said, “I asked myself, why? Why should my team be ordered to kill you because of something that happened in 1967? So, I did some research; made some phone calls. The tragic attack on the Liberty is public knowledge. So, I thought, the reason had to be something else. But what?”
“And?” Peter encouraged her to get to the point.
“It seems my government had a secret agreement with the United States. You see, the Six-Day War was planned in advance by our joint militaries. The war was executed with the approval of the United States. Your UN Ambassador—Arthur Goldberg—argued in favor of Resolution 242, which provided Israel international support in seizing the lands captured during the war. Your intelligence agencies provided vital intelligence in the days leading up to the initial pre-emptive air attacks that destroyed the Egyptian air force. American military aid was shipped to Israel in violation of an embargo. And American Special Forces fought on the ground beside Israeli Commandos.”
“And your contacts within Mossad told you all this?” Peter said.
“I understand you are skeptical. I would be, too. But I have been a loyal agent for fifteen years. I have contacts, friends—yes. They looked into Israeli archives and shared this with me.”
Peter shook his head. “I still don’t get it. Why would we do this?”
“It seems that President Johnson saw the coalition of Arab countries as an unequivocal threat to the survival of Israel. He believed that together Israel and the United State
s would have to defeat our neighbors. Remember, your war in Vietnam was escalating then. The American President did not want to fight two wars at the same time.
“He thought that a decisive defeat of the Arab countries was necessary in order to avoid a protracted siege, a state in which Israel was under frequent assault.”
“So Johnson colluded with the Israeli government to strike a decisive blow against your enemies, and seize strategic lands in the process.”
Nadya shrugged. “It was necessary for the security of Israel.”
“But none of this explains why the Liberty was willingly sacrificed.”
“President Johnson required an incident so brazen that the American public would demand swift and total destruction of the Arab coalition.”
“So he orchestrated the attack on the Liberty,” Peter concluded. “He wanted the ship sunk so he could blame Egypt and enter the war.”
She nodded.
Now it made sense to Peter.
“My government depended on American support. Even if our leaders wanted to, they could not defy Johnson’s directive.” Nadya sipped from her coffee mug again.
Peter was shaking his head, and he raised a hand waving off an imaginary object. “No, that still doesn’t work. So what if all that happened? So what? Why would historical events from over a half-century ago be cause for murder today? Why would you be ordered to kill me simply because I might know the truth about U.S.-Israeli relations during the Six-Day War?”
Nadya raised her eyebrows. “Have you not heard the expression? History repeats itself.”
Peter stiffened. He had been searching for an explanation in the events surrounding the Liberty—it had never crossed his mind that history had only a tangential relationship to the true motivation. “Are you saying that there is a new secret military alliance between the United States and Israel?”
“That is the only logical explanation. A military and political alliance that is modeled on the events of 1967.”
“If that’s true, then the goal is to start another war, one that will engulf all of the Middle East.”
