Seawolf End Game (47 page)

*

Dhann left his office and returned to the lobby, intent on leaving early. He’d chosen this day because he had no afternoon classes and could leave campus without being noticed. The security guards, as expected, were waiting at the entrance. He was still sweating, but instead of alerting the guards to his crime, his pale complexion and sweat-covered skin actually reinforced his assertion that he wasn’t feeling very well when they asked why he was leaving earlier than usual.

He stepped through the metal detector as a guard searched his bag, conveniently ignoring the bundle of gym clothing. They bid him a good afternoon and he exited the building, stepping out into the bright sunshine. He walked the short distance to the parking lot, almost numb and overcome with a strange, almost out-of-body feeling. It was as if he were simply observing everything instead of acting as a willing participant.

He reached his car and set the gym bag on the passenger seat beside him. His hands shook as he fumbled with the key. He paused, considering his crime, and the—as of yet—potential his actions would now unleash. He’d been careful. There was no electronic trail to follow. No phone calls. No e-mail messages. He’d never committed a crime in his life until this moment, but it seemed only logical that the authorities would be able to track him via his cellular phones and by e-mail. But he had considered this, too, and he would leave his cellular phone behind in his car.

The plane ticket out of the country was in the glove box; his suitcase was in the trunk. He’d considered selling his house, but that would have attracted too much attention. He’d liquidated all his retirement accounts and other investments, and his wealth was now hidden off shore where—he hoped—it was beyond the reach of the FBI, the CIA, and whoever else would soon be looking for him.

Dhann took a few steadying breaths and after three attempts managed to slip the key into the ignition.

He had a plane to catch.

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Man-portable surface-to-air missiles. Easily concealed and transported, a single terrorist armed with one of these deadly weapons can bring terror to the skies. When over one hundred missiles are stolen, every passenger airliner is suddenly in the crosshairs. The architect of this disaster is the Merchant of Death, an infamous international arms dealer whose only concern is money. With time running out and the missiles on the auction block, the world’s governments find themselves unable to act, so they turn to the Friends From Damascus, an international counter-terrorist team who will go where no one else dares to see the missiles destroyed and the Merchant of Death put out of business permanently.

Spearheading the effort to find the weapons is Wolfgang Krueger, a founding member of the crack team of commandos who believes there is no problem that can’t be solved with the right application of high explosives. A man who knows no fear and cares nothing about tomorrow, his cavalier attitude will be put to the ultimate test when he teams up with Eve Drexler, a woman living on borrowed time. With little to go on and the clock ticking, the two are thrust into a world-wide hunt from the broiling deserts of Libya to the snow-covered peaks of Pakistan, from the dark alleys of Berlin to the seedy underbelly of Istanbul. To avoid disaster, Eve and Wolfgang must overcome not only deep-seated mistrust, but opposition from both man and nature as they pursue the elusive arms dealer. The price of failure: disaster at 30,000 feet.

Benghazi, Libya

The Arab Spring meant various things to many different people. For the people of Tunisia and Egypt, it provided them their first taste of democracy after decades of autocratic rule. For the people of Libya still fighting tyranny, they had the opportunity to gain freedoms their parents had never even dreamed of. For Europeans, it was a chance to finally do something to help end decades of repression that characterized many North African regimes.

Besides military aid, the opportunity to help the oppressed and besieged people of Libya attracted human rights groups and religious organizations that did their best to bring food and medical aid to those hardest hit by the struggle. Fighting along the coast had been particularly fierce, as pro-government forces had battled anti-Gaddafi fighters. Complete chaos had ensued in many parts of the country as government forces fled entire regions or, in many cases, switched sides and helped the revolutionaries. The international community had assisted the anti-government forces by launching air strikes against the Libyan Army to help break up their heavier formations and make it a little easier for the lightly armed insurgent forces to gain the upper hand. But in addition to those hoping to bring aide to the beleaguered Libyan people, there were those who saw opportunity in the anarchy as the Libyan government surrendered control of much of the country to lawlessness.

For twenty-five years, General Amadou Masrata had served Gaddafi without question. When the leader had needed to squelch a fledgling rebellion in Tobruk, he’d sent Masrata. When other—less qualified officers—had outshined him and gained the dictator’s favor, Masrata had quietly worked to undermine them, turning his own misfortune into steady promotion as those lesser officers were executed almost at random for treason. Often Masrata had participated in the executions personally. How better to ingratiate himself to the dictator?

He’d been the man in the shadows, the man propping up the increasingly unpopular government, and the man who, when necessary, wasn’t beyond using overwhelming force to crush dissent. But this was different. This uprising had been long in coming. Even so, it had grown and spread despite Masrata’s use of artillery and tanks against his own people to try and wipe out the contagion of rebellion.

Masrata had had good reason to support Gaddafi. Masrata’s tribe had benefitted under the dictator’s rule, and Masrata had gained, too. Women, money, power, prestige, all were his as long as the dictator stayed in control.

Alas!

The days of the dictator were over. His closest aides still alive were fleeing the country as fast as they could. Many former supporters had prepared for this eventuality by quietly—over many years—siphoning off the wealth of Libya’s oil and gas industry to amass vast fortunes in overseas accounts they could now use to hide themselves and maintain their lifestyles. Masrata had been successful in taking his own cut of Libya’s wealth through graft and corruption, but his tastes were expensive and what wealth he had gained, he’d spent on fleeting pleasures.

Now, with Gaddafi dead and his remaining forces on the run, Masrata had a final hand to play, and he played it well.

He stood in the shade of a small, corrugated-tin guard shack beside the eleven-foot security fence. A hot, dry desert wind was blowing; it reminded him of the exhaust from a jet aircraft. Masrata had grown up in the desert. He’d lived his entire life within sight of it. He’d trained as a young infantry officer in it and had led men across it. But more importantly, he hated it. He detested the way the fine sand covered him, finding every nook and cranny to settle upon. He hated how the heat made him sweat and then the sweat, mixed with the sand, created mud at the crook of his arm, how the dust chaffed his groin and filled his hair and mustache with the powdery sand. Yes, he hated the desert and hoped to never see it again.

But for that he needed money, and what he had left wouldn’t get him across the border. Not safely anyway, and certainly wouldn’t guarantee him the life of luxury he was now accustomed to. No, for that he needed help. A lot of help.

The truck appeared through the dust devils and the heat mirages rising up from the hard-packed earth road. Masrata checked his wristwatch, a Rolex of course, a gift from his former—recently departed— benefactor.

The American was on time, at least.

The truck was marked with the Red Cross symbol on the sides and top in hopes of avoiding any unwanted attention from NATO aircraft still prowling the skies looking for legitimate military targets. Masrata checked his sidearm, making certain the weapon was loaded and the flap to his holster loose. He didn’t anticipate treachery, but he couldn’t discount it either.

The truck slowed and came to a halt a few meters away. As the dust cleared, Masrata saw his longtime associate appear from the driver side of the Toyota pick-up. He was dressed in khaki shorts, functional desert boots, cotton shirt, and a tan vest with multiple pockets sewn into it.

His name was Andrew. Masrata didn’t know his last name. No one knew his real name. He was small in stature, barely 5-5, and slender of build. His hair was a thick shock of graying blond tangles. His face was rather plain, with no feature standing out, and his light brown eyes were concealed by sunglasses. A perpetual, disarming smile was on his face, and Masrata was certain that smile had fooled many unwary victims. Masrata saw no weapon on Andrew’s person. Then again, he’d never known Andrew to carry a weapon. Of course, the American didn’t need to carry one as long as the Lithuanian was with him.

The Lithuanian’s name was Dmitri, and he stepped out of the passenger side of the Toyota truck. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses as well, but he scanned the desert with a fierce expression. He was big, well over six foot, and Masrata estimated he weighed in excess of two-hundred seventy pounds. Across his broad, meaty shoulders was an assault rifle, and not some cheap Russian AKM, but a FN SCAR, which seemed fitting considering the business Andrew was in. It wouldn’t do to meet a new customer and not be armed with the latest and greatest. Dmitri had an odd face, with an incredibly thick jaw that looked to have been crafted in a tank factory. He’d learned over the years that Dmitri had been in the army before Andrew had found him and hired him as his personal bodyguard, henchman... killer.

Dmitri didn’t speak; he never did. But Andrew, as usual, greeted Masrata with a warm smile and offered his hand. “Always a pleasure, General.”

Masrata shook the offered hand and then eyed the rabble in the bed of the truck. Four men dressed in filthy suriyahs—the Libyan name for the dress-like gown common among Arab men.

“Who are they?” Masrata asked, anxious to skip the pleasantries.

Andrew’s smile stayed in place, and Masrata noticed the arms merchant wasn’t even sweating. “You said I would need drivers. I wasn’t certain how many,” he replied.

Masrata nodded and asked, “My money?”

“It’s waiting for me to deliver it to your Swiss account, my friend, just as soon as you show me the merchandise.” Andrew looked perfectly at ease, which was impossible considering the fact the entire country was in anarchy. Masrata had lived here his entire life, he knew the country well, and he knew the situation was desperate. Just how Andrew could appear so calm was a mystery, but he had always been this way. Always calm, always self-assured, always in charge of the situation.

“Everything is already loaded,” Masrata assured him and gestured toward the open gate. Dmitri motioned to one of the men in the bed of the Toyota. The Libyan immediately got behind the wheel of the small truck and followed Andrew, Masrata and Dmitri through the gate.

With the NATO air campaign hammering the military forces being used against the Libyan people, the country’s army bases had become death traps, and Masrata was fairly certain American satellites were doing their best to keep track of all key facilities, such as the arsenal they were walking into.

As they passed through the fence, Masrata saw the long rows of low, broad concrete bunkers covered in several feet of sand to provide some camouflage and additional protection. Not that the sand or reinforced concrete would have withstood a modern airstrike. They’d been built long before precision guided munitions had become widespread, and Masrata wondered why NATO hadn’t targeted these bunkers already.

The vast majority of the bunkers contained small arms ammunition and artillery shells—things the arms merchant had—years earlier—been interested in. However, Masrata knew Andrew no longer coveted such mundane things as rifle bullets. These items were valuable, but only in huge quantities, and such amounts were hard to move and required greater risk. No, Andrew wasn’t interested in such things any more. He wanted only the high-value items; the merchandise that was easily transported and had a huge payoff.

“You said my merchandise is already loaded?” Andrew asked as the Toyota truck slowly followed them while they walked toward the large tractor-trailer rig parked in front of one of the bunkers.

“Yes,” Masrata assured the American. Andrew had never admitted his nationality, but his accent was pure American. “The base is all but deserted, and I was able to find a couple of soldiers hiding in one of the barracks to load the pallets. They are guarding the truck as we speak.” The forklift was parked just inside the entrance of the bunker.

Masrata looked toward Andrew who was still smiling but quiet. Masrata understood the reason. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else involved. Witnesses were always a threat.

“Not to worry,” Masrata assured his longtime associate. “They are nobodies.”