3 Lies (36 page)

“Eight minutes.” Merlin stepped out from behind the wheel. Binoculars dangled from his neck. “You held out longer than I expected.”

“You’re coming?”

“I’m sure as blazes not letting you go alone. Besides, he didn’t threaten to arrest me.”

Clint started to move.

“Wait.” Merlin said. “Set your phone to silent. You don’t want to get rung up with a sniper nearby.”

“Good idea.” Clint changed the setting on his phone. “Okay, let’s go.”

He crossed the street then cut into a side road that led downhill but away from the pier. They sincerely did not want to run into Chester’s team, and snipers wouldn’t have much use for real estate that far from the hot zone.

They jogged parallel to the outer tree line, and then crossed the road, veering down the block. At the corner of an old trinket store, they checked for people, snipers, dogs—anything worth avoiding before huffing to the farthest edge of the pier. The main dock stood another two hundred meters the other direction. They knew the Hatteras was on the end, but they couldn’t see it.

Clint patted Merlin’s shoulder, pointing to a fence overgrown with ivy. On a silent count of three, they dashed. The old pirate beat him to it. From here, they could at least see the ship. Clint spied it with the glasses, but he didn’t detect any activity.

He scanned the area but saw no one. Even with the glasses, the drone of the sea was their sole companion. Their breath condensed in the cool air.

Merlin turned to Clint. “Now what?”

“We keep moving. With or without Chester, I’m getting Beth off that damn ship.”

Doug’s heart pounded as if he’d just finished a 200 meter race. The barrel of the gun forced a cool spot on his neck. He tried to keep from showing his fear.

The yacht didn’t look particularly lavish. There was more money tied up in the LCD monitors than the furniture. When he noticed the hostages, his blood chilled. A few women and the young girl were visible on one screen and several older men on the other. He looked for Beth. By description she should be easy to spot, but Doug decided she must be the one under the covers. He choked back his disgust.

Two other men entered the room. Both were dark—as expected from their profiles—solid, and wearing ski-masks. He assumed the one behind him fit a similar description. The gunman pressed the muzzle into his skin, walking him deeper into the room, and closed the door.

The one in the red mask spoke. “Your code please.”

Chester cleared his throat. “Babbage invited us to the Zuni pueblo.”

Both men reacted to the code, but the man in the red mask spoke. “So it seems.” He walked toward them and extended a hand to Chester. “Babbage. Why the change in plans? What do you need?”

Chester pushed Doug toward the man in the green ski-mask. “This punk is trouble.”

“What—” A massive arm gripped Doug’s neck. When he struggled, the green-masked man only squeezed tighter.

“He’s got a gun,” Chester said, “but only blanks. Take him below deck and shoot him.”

“Now hold on, mate.” Merlin grabbed Clint by the shirttail. “This isn’t the time for blundering.”

“Stay here if you’re worried.”

“If I was worried, I’d be at my damn boat with an ice cold beer.” He tagged Clint’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Chester’s got a team out here. Remember? Snipers? You don’t want to be the reason the good guys lose sleep tonight.”

“Sorry.” Clint wiped the palms of his hands together. They trembled. “She’s on the ship Merlin. I can feel it.”

“You’ve tracked the lass for five days, you can hold on a little longer. We just need to plan our steps with a bit more care.”

“Let me have the binoculars.”

Clint steadied the glasses on the fence and slowly swept the area. Six buildings in various stages of dilapidation dotted the far side of the open stretch about fifty meters from the end of the pier. He lingered over the buildings. The storm had left them standing in no discernible order. On the side nearer to them, a lone building, a shack with pane-less windows clung close to the shore and the Hatteras. Patches of flora provided sporadic cover throughout.

He breathed deeply of the briny air. “I don’t see any sign of shooters.”

“They wouldn’t be worth much if you could see them.”

“True.” He handed the binoculars back to Merlin and pointed. “I’m going up to that old shack. From there I can see what’s happening at the ship.”

Merlin turned the lens toward it. “It looks like an old ice cream stand, or some such, maybe bait.” He squinted at Clint and dropped the binocular strap over his shoulder. “We need to stay low and close to the fence, then break for the copse to the east. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to the shack before we’re discovered or shot.”

From the first spoken sentence, Amir recognized the voice of the controller. The code name confirmation was for official business. Still, in this business, it was good to be careful.

He shoved the young man toward the aft stairs that led to the landing by the control room. The muzzle of his gun fit neatly against his back. It was as good a place as any for the shooting and would not block a route to the hostages. He expected the hostages were next.

Amir wondered about this slim, young man who had not yet pled for his life. Most did. Perhaps he was still in shock. Most struggled, or fought, or even cried—no matter—this one was no physical match for Amir.

Once out the room, the young man spoke, “My name is Doug Bryant. I’m an officer with the CIA. You work for us. Do you even know why you’re supposed to kill me?”

The man’s calmness stopped Amir. A new tactic. This one was good. “For my purposes, it does not matter.”

“Langley’s been tracking the Hatteras for the past week. The hostages you have on board are civilians. The Company has no reason to want them dead. Only Chester Spivey does, the man you call Babbage.”

He moved Doug further down the stairs.

“Your hostages are all related to justices of the United States Supreme Court. The mission is rogue. You have no authority from Langley. Chester Spivey is out in the cold. You will be too unless you stand down.”

They weren’t typical of hostages, but the collateral never mattered to Amir—just the payoff. “Give me one reason to believe you.”

“Chester has snipers surrounding the area.”

Amir smiled at the young man. “You were almost convincing.” Then he shoved Doug down the stairs. “But there are no snipers. We swept this area with night vision before we docked. If there were snipers, we would not have missed them.”

The kid seemed genuinely confused. His reactions were not typical of someone merely trying to prevent his own execution.

“The other agents from this mission are already dead.” The young man’s calm was replaced by the sweat of desperation. “He’s killed them. He won’t let you live after this. Don’t you see?”

“I tire of your babbling. If this is true—” Amir grabbed him by the arm. “then give me names. What agents?” He pressed his gun to the young man’s temple.

The young man shrunk under Amir’s grasp. His eyes wrinkled to a close. “Hafasi—I mean Hasafi. Imad Hasafi. They found his body floating by the docks in Argentina. Buenos Aires. And—and Khan. Mujibur Khan turned up dead in Nice. A twenty-two to the head. Both men.”

If the young man had only a list of names, he would not easily guess two that had departed early in the mission. Dead. Both of them? Amir loosened his grip. “Doug, is it?”

Doug’s nods were a flurry.

“Tell me what else you know.”

“Where is the fourth agent?” Chester sat down and laid his gun on one of the small tables. He knew the men on board from their files. Binard was the missing man.

“He went to attend to the women.” Salif pulled off his mask and sat too, laying his weapon at the same table. “They had become restless.”

Chester looked at the monitors. The women’s cabin showed no activity. “I guess his methods worked.” He gestured to Jaman to take a seat. “They look harmless.”

“A week in such confines drains their fight.” Salif rolled a cigarette, offering the ingredients to the others, but there were no takers. I am sorry, but we have no spirits to offer you. We are, after all, still on duty.”

“That will soon change.” He studied Salif’s weapon, a .380 Heckler & Koch P7-K3 with suppressor. “Magnificent piece. May I?”

Salif smiled at the compliment. “But of course.” He lit his cigarette with a wooden match.

“This is a very rare gun.” Chester examined the handgun. Salif was a curious man. This fine piece was a collector’s gun, yet he used it in his trade. “I promise to take good care of it.” Chester leveled the muzzle at Jaman, firing twice in the chest. Jaman’s face barely changed expression though Chester thought he detected a note of surprise.

Salif didn’t bother reaching for the other gun. Maybe he realized that it was empty. Maybe he didn’t like Jaman. Either way, Chester unloaded two bullets in Salif before Jaman hit the floor.

He rifled Salif’s body for keys. He still had two agents to eliminate before he could call this finished. Binard was supposed to be in the hostage area. Chester studied the view of the hostage cabins but only saw the captives. Then the monitors flickered and went dead.

Amir unplugged the computer to the onboard video feed, then tore the wire from the back of the machine. “Amir Yasin. Use my name kindly back at Langley.” He dropped the clip from Doug’s gun. It might be full of blanks, or maybe Chester lied. He was finished taking chances.

“You can’t leave. You’ve got to help me get these hostages off this boat.”

“Help you? Now that is amusing.” He returned Doug’s gun and took a small bundle from the storage bench. “I have spent the last several weeks in most unpleasant company—save the beautiful one with the golden hair—on what I have now learned is a dubious task. Your friends back in Virginia can sort out this calamity. You are on your own. It is time for me to find a beach.”

He looked at Doug, so unprepared for the sharp edges of life. “You have two ways out of here. One is back up those stairs. It leads to the main salon you just left. I would not recommend that route.” He put his hand on a door. “This leads to the engine room. Give me at least ten seconds before you follow. The crawl space also leads to the bunkroom. There is another gun in the nightstand. The cabins near the bunkroom hold the hostages. The stairs from the lower deck lead to the galley section of the main salon, or you can continue up to the bridge.” Amir backed away.

Doug stared at him. “That’s it?”

“No. Good luck.”

~

Two soldiers assigned to watch the Bell 407 helicopter stood at its flanks. The man with the long face spoke, “I wonder what’s happening.”

The second guard leaned against the fuselage. “I don’t know, but it does seem odd guarding a helicopter.”

“It’s CIA inventory. They’ve got something cooking.”

“They must be worried about somebody messing with it.”

“Or stealing it.” The long-faced man was not very smart.

His companion was a little smarter. “It’s not a car. You can’t just steal a helicopter.”

“You cannot.” Amir aimed his gun at the second guard’s head. He was wet from the swim to shore and carried his bundle. “But I can. Hands up, both of you. Be very quiet. I would not care to hurt you.”

He relieved the men of their weapons then sent them to the ground face first. Water dropped onto their backs from Amir’s clothing as he secured their hands and feet with tie-wraps. He duct-taped their mouths shut.

“Please tell my friends at Langley that the helicopter will be returned when I have gotten away. The mission has taken a very bad turn, and at this point, I am not sure whom to trust.”

Amir must have yanked the camera feed. That fact didn’t reassure Chester under the circumstances. But why? Amir didn’t likely hear the shots. Unless Doug Bryant turned him.

Damn it. Amir should have been back by now. Chester had too many decisions to make, too quickly.

He locked the door to the aft stairway and kept his gun trained toward the galley. With the cameras out, he couldn’t be certain where anyone was located. Until today, Salif was the only one of the crew that had ever seen him. Salif had insisted on meeting him prior to the launch of this unusual mission. He wanted insurance. It only insured his death.

But now he had three people to account for. Amir, Binard, and Doug’s body. The hostages were no longer of any consequence.

If Amir was still on board, Chester wanted to hear him coming first. Chester wasn’t worried about Bryant. And from what he knew of Binard and Amir, they weren’t likely working together.

The salon area left little room to hide but also left Chester vulnerable. He cleared the galley and picked his way up the stairs to the helm deck.

A full moon now broke the horizon. The low hills offered only a small respite from the glare of the light. He expected to be far from the ship by this time. Would've been if Masters hadn’t butted in and checked the CatSat logs. Chester had to arrange the meet, otherwise, Salif would have disappeared with the Hatteras if he got suspicious. It was a disaster. Chester needed to contain it and leave the country.

He kept low. He didn’t want to throw a silhouette if Amir was out there. Amir concerned him. He was formidable in size, and according to Salif, too smart to stay out of trouble.

That punk Westerfield. He expected Chester to be satisfied with a government pension that wouldn’t keep Mr. Flash in cuff links. Todd was eager enough to play spy when the wine flowed, the women swooned, and the foreign dignitaries stroked his bloated ego. So what if he hadn’t known the real end user? He sure as hell knew now. And he was scared. His personality improved considerably when he was scared.

Chester’s money from the North Koreans was safely off-shore, and it was another digit bigger than what he told Westerfield. It would be enough for Chester. It would have to be enough.

Westerfield. The little prick. Prison might improve his manners.