Pursuit of Honor Part 31

Thirty seconds later Butler and Cheval were on the line. "I've got Mitch here with me," Kennedy said into the speakerphone as Rapp joined her at the edge of the desk.

"h.e.l.lo, Mitch," Cheval said, "you were going to send me those DNA samples from the six terrorists."

"Sorry, Catherine, but I might have something better." Rapp filled them in on the double homicide in Iowa, the explosives, and the fake IDs. "One of these guys looks vaguely familiar to me. I could swear I've seen a photo of him recently." Rapp shared a look with Kennedy and added, "He looks Moroccan."

There was a prolonged silence and then Cheval asked, "Why don't you send me the photo?"

"On its way shortly. When you get it . . . maybe you could run it by your people in North Africa and see if they get a hit. Maybe it matches a pa.s.sport on file."

"I will do that."

Butler cleared his throat and asked, "What about the other photo?"

"He looks Saudi to me," Rapp replied.

"I see," Butler said. "What exactly are you looking for, Irene?"

"Just trying to be careful, George. You know how this works. If we put these guys on our watch list and tip off the FBI, they're going to want to know how we figured out who they were. So far, Mitch is running with the idea that they don't look Hispanic like their names would suggest."

"Yeah," Rapp said, "I'm thinking Moroccan and Saudi."

"I just received the photos," Cheval said. "The one man is definitely Moroccan. I think I can get independent confirmation for you within the hour."

"By independent, do you mean something the FBI could use in court?"

"Yes. I would be careful with this other photo, though. I'm not sure the Saudis will be much help. They might even begin to destroy evidence."

"I'm not sure we need confirmation on both photos at the moment," Kennedy said. "The Moroccan should be good enough to pa.s.s the entire thing off to the FBI nice and clean."

"Anything from my end?" Butler asked.

Rapp leaned in. "If you could show the second photo to the right people, George, that would be great."

"Will do."

"And one other thing," Rapp said. "You're not by chance heading to the Bahamas this weekend, are you?"

Butler laughed. "I wasn't planning on it."

"Well, I'm flying over to Na.s.sau in the morning."

"What on earth for?"

"I need to talk to someone about a shipment of stolen drugs. And while I'm there I might visit one of your banks."

"Oh," Butler said, showing a bit of concern.

"If you're interested, meet me at the Graycliff. Say around eleven. If not . . . send someone you trust. Someone who might help expedite things."

"Let me see what I can do."

"Fair enough. Just shoot me an email and let me know if you can make it."

Kennedy covered a few more things with them, thanked them for their time, and then disconnected the call. She looked up at Rapp with a pensive stare and said, "The Bahamas."

"Yes."

"And when were you going to tell me about this?"

"I thought I'd send you a postcard from the beach."

"Really . . . and just how do you plan on getting there?"

"Actually, I need to borrow one of your planes. The guy I'm going with is sending his plane to Cuba to pick up the man I need to talk to."

"Cuba . . ." Kennedy frowned. "Who?"

"I think it would be better for both of us if I spared you the details."

"You're unbelievable," Kennedy said with a shake of her head and a sigh.

CHAPTER 61.

NEW ORLEANS.

HIS watch woke him up with a steady beep . . . beep. Hakim turned off the alarm and looked over at the dashboard clock. It was four-thirty in the morning. He reached down with his left hand and searched for the seat controls. After he found the big vertical k.n.o.b he pulled up and the driver's seat began to raise itself out of the fully reclined position. He looked over the steering wheel, half expecting to see a cordon of police officers. There were none. He smiled at the cars opposite him. There wasn't a person in sight and beyond the edge of the concrete parking ramp he could see the sky in the east turning gray with the first hints of dawn. The relief felt good. So far his plan had worked. watch woke him up with a steady beep . . . beep. Hakim turned off the alarm and looked over at the dashboard clock. It was four-thirty in the morning. He reached down with his left hand and searched for the seat controls. After he found the big vertical k.n.o.b he pulled up and the driver's seat began to raise itself out of the fully reclined position. He looked over the steering wheel, half expecting to see a cordon of police officers. There were none. He smiled at the cars opposite him. There wasn't a person in sight and beyond the edge of the concrete parking ramp he could see the sky in the east turning gray with the first hints of dawn. The relief felt good. So far his plan had worked.

On the drive into New Orleans he'd weighed his options and decided it was time to press his luck, before his window of opportunity closed. It was time for a bold move. He had a brief conversation with his Cajun a.s.sociate, Timmy the Bayou c.o.ke King. The c.o.ke King told him he was running a boat in five days. The thought was Hakim could ride out for the transfer and then ask for pa.s.sage on the other boat. The plan might work, but Hakim had other concerns. The first involved staying at the Cajun's swamp shack for five days. The place was filthy. In his current state he was likely to catch a debilitating infection. His second concern was the vision of himself attempting to climb from one boat to the other in the inevitable swells. And that would be after pounding through who knew what kind of seas, at close to fifty knots. If it had been his only option, he still would have wavered, but he supposed in the end he would have simply dealt with the pain.

Fortunately, there was an alternative. There was a great deal of risk in the sense that he would be trapped as soon as he entered an airport, but sometimes the best course of action really was the simplest. He had an American pa.s.sport and a matching credit card with a ten-thousand-dollar limit. On the way down the night before he'd pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot outside Vicksburg and turned on his laptop. There were no direct flights, but in a way that was better. He had his choice of ten or more flights that would work, but the best combination was the 6:00 A.M. out of New Orleans with a connecting flight through Miami. He was very familiar with both airports. The security people at New Orleans International Airport weren't exactly the cream of the crop, and the people at the Miami Airport weren't much better. Miami was also one of the busiest airports in the world, and they were far more worried about who was entering the country than who was leaving it.

So Hakim said a quick prayer and booked the tickets through an online travel site. He then very carefully eased himself out of the car and slowly walked into Wal-Mart so he could use the bathroom and purchase what he would need for the next leg of his journey. Back in the parking lot he took all of his purchases out of the packaging and neatly placed them in the new carry-on bag he'd purchased. He was back on the road in less than thirty minutes and headed over to Jackson, Mississippi, where he pulled in to a truck stop. He hobbled in with his new roller suitcase and found the pay showers that the truckers used. He fed dollar bills into the slot and then entered the cramped s.p.a.ce. Slowly and carefully he peeled off his clothes and rolled them into a neat ball before stuffing them into one of the two plastic Wal-Mart bags he'd saved.

Hakim stood in front of the streaked and scratched mirror and inspected the full extent of his injuries. The left side of his body from under his armpit to nearly his waist was one marbleized slab of purple. Both eyes were bruised, his nose was broken, and his lip was split. Even when confronted with the severity of his injuries, he had a hard time believing his friend had done this to him. He plugged in the electric clipper, set it to one, placed his head over the sink, and began to buzz off his medium-length black hair. In a few minutes he was done. All of his hair was buzzed to a uniform quarter inch. He then took the electric razor and took off the two days of stubble on his cheeks and neck, leaving the thick black hair on his upper lip and chin. It was exactly the way he had worn it for the photo he used on his fake pa.s.sport.

After a quick shower, Hakim placed the electric razor in his suitcase and put the clipper in the second bag with his shoes. He then put on his baggy khaki cargo shorts, a striped light blue and white polo shirt, flip-flops and a Budweiser hat. On the way back to the car he tossed the two Wal-Mart bags into a garbage can, then drove down to New Orleans and the Louis Armstrong International Airport.

He arrived a few minutes past eleven and pulled up to the short-term parking kiosk, where he grabbed his ticket and entered the large multilevel parking structure. He found the perfect open spot on the fourth floor. It was dark and the s.p.a.ce was bracketed by a large SUV and a pickup truck. He carefully backed the vehicle into a tight s.p.a.ce. There was barely a foot to spare on each side, which was good. If any security guards were on patrol this was the last row they would pick to cut through. Hakim set the alarm on his watch, reclined his seat, turned it all over to Allah, and went to sleep.

Now he had a flight to catch. He was about to open his door when he realized he needed more room. He started the car and pulled out of the spot. Near the end of the row he found two open s.p.a.ces and pulled in. He popped the trunk and took the keys with him. He stuffed the keys in the pocket of the hoodie sweatshirt he had on over the polo shirt and then very carefully slid the carry-on over the edge and let it slide off the b.u.mper to the ground. After extending the handle he grabbed the bag of cotton b.a.l.l.s and tore it open. He took three and stuffed them in his mouth on the left side between his teeth and his cheek. He tapped his cheek with the palm of his hand and decided he could use a few more. After that he put just two on the right side and stuffed some extra ones in his jacket pocket. He then grabbed the dull metal cane he'd picked up at Wal-Mart and closed the trunk. With the left hand on the cane and his right hand on top of the wheeled carry-on he began hobbling toward the terminal.

Just before he got to the double gla.s.s doors he stopped and dumped his other forms of ID in the garbage can. It wouldn't look good if he was searched and they were discovered. He took the elevator down a couple of floors and then took the skyway over to the main terminal. So far he'd seen just one person, a flight attendant who walked briskly past him. Inside the terminal there were more people but it didn't look like much in the big s.p.a.ce. Hakim looked carefully both ways and saw only one police officer. Overweight and barely awake, he didn't look like much of a threat. If they knew he was coming they were doing a wonderful job concealing themselves.

American Airlines had the busiest counter. Hakim wrote it off to the six-o'clock flight to Miami. He got in the coach line and waited a few minutes before it was his turn. The woman behind the counter looked at him with a combination of shock and concern.

"Oh, you poor dear," she proclaimed. "What happened to you?"

"Carrr a.s.sssident," Hakim mumbled through his cotton-stuffed mouth. He handed over his pa.s.sport.

"I'm so sorry," the woman said as she took his pa.s.sport and punched his name into the computer. "I have your reservation right here, Mr. Andros. You're on the six o'clock to Miami." She tapped a series of keys and looked at the screen for a moment. "You know what I'm going to do for you. First cla.s.s is wide open. I think you'll be more comfortable up there. Now once you get to Miami you'll have to check with the gate agent. The computer isn't showing what aircraft you have for the next leg of your trip, so I can't a.s.sign those seats. Would you like to check your bag?"

Hakim smiled and said, "Pweeeze."

The woman took the bag and handed him his boarding pa.s.s. After he was done thanking her, Hakim hobbled over to the security line. Only one metal detector was open and again the security people looked about as alert as the cop by the front door. No sense in turning back now No sense in turning back now, he thought to himself. He showed the TSA agent his pa.s.sport and boarding pa.s.s. The agent, a fifty-some-year-old man with bloodshot eyes, made sure the name on the pa.s.sport and the boarding pa.s.s matched and that was about it. Hakim kicked off his flip-flops and very slowly bent down to pick them up. He placed them on the conveyor belt and tossed his money, watch, phone, and car keys in a dish. A female TSA agent standing on the other side of the metal detector asked him if he could walk without the cane and he nodded that he could. He placed the cane and his zip-up hoodie on the belt as well and slowly made his way through the detector. On the other end he picked all of his stuff up without a problem.

He felt so good after clearing security that he had to remind himself to slow down. Using the cane, he made his way over to the closest coffee shop and was about to get in line when he remembered the cotton b.a.l.l.s. He picked up two newspapers instead and then headed down to the gate. On the way he extracted a few of the cotton b.a.l.l.s and placed them in his left pocket with the others. A twenty-four-hour news channel was on an overhead TV near the gate. He stopped and watched for about five minutes. There was nothing new except that the director of the FBI had announced a press conference for 11:00 A.M. Eastern.

Hakim boarded early with the only other first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger and settled into his seat. When the flight attendant came by with a gla.s.s of champagne and orange juice, he decided things were indeed looking good and he took her up on the offer. That was when he decided to call Karim. He removed a few more cotton b.a.l.l.s, turned on the phone, and then hit send twice. Surprisingly, the phone went straight into voicemail. At the beep, Hakim turned toward the window and in a quiet voice said, "It's too bad you didn't trust me. I'm already on my way out of the country. I suppose you're stuck somewhere in the middle of America getting ready to kill another innocent woman. The Lion of al Qaeda." He laughed. "It should be the Lamb of al Qaeda. It's too bad you don't have the genitalia to fight a real man face to face."

Hakim ended the call and removed the battery as a precaution. He couldn't help but smile at the thought of what the message would do to the thin-skinned Karim. He sincerely hoped the idiot would meet his death in a hail of bullets. Hakim hoped he could read about it on a beach somewhere. He would put the madness of al Qaeda behind him and start a new life.

CHAPTER 62.

Na.s.sAU, BAHAMAS.

RAPP was wearing a black Nat Nast bowling shirt with a couple of vertical cream stripes, linen pants, and black loafers. His face was clean-shaven and his eyes were concealed behind a pair of dark aviator sungla.s.ses. He saw them sitting at the outdoor cafe as he ambled down the street, glancing in the windows of the high-end shops as he went. Sidorov's detail knew who he was and expected him, but the general had brought along two men of his own. Rapp had no idea if they were armed or not. It was highly possible that they had carried their weapons through customs in a diplomatic pouch just as he had. Gunplay was to be avoided. If the Cubans got rough, Coleman, Reavers, and Wicker were just up the street in a minivan and Butler and his men were at the other end of the block sitting at an outdoor cafe. was wearing a black Nat Nast bowling shirt with a couple of vertical cream stripes, linen pants, and black loafers. His face was clean-shaven and his eyes were concealed behind a pair of dark aviator sungla.s.ses. He saw them sitting at the outdoor cafe as he ambled down the street, glancing in the windows of the high-end shops as he went. Sidorov's detail knew who he was and expected him, but the general had brought along two men of his own. Rapp had no idea if they were armed or not. It was highly possible that they had carried their weapons through customs in a diplomatic pouch just as he had. Gunplay was to be avoided. If the Cubans got rough, Coleman, Reavers, and Wicker were just up the street in a minivan and Butler and his men were at the other end of the block sitting at an outdoor cafe.

So Rapp moved down the street with relative calm, casually taking in the surroundings. There were banks on all four corners of the block and between them a spattering of jewelry stores, cafes, art galleries, and French and Italian designer labels. There wasn't a cobblestone out of place or a speck of garbage to be seen. Rapp had walked down streets just like this in dozens of cities the world over. The ultrarich who wanted to avoid taxes flocked to cities like Na.s.sau with their strong banking-privacy laws. Along with them came a smaller percentage of men who made their money in the illicit trades of guns, drugs, and organized crime. Rapp had spent a great deal of his career tracking these modern-day pirates, and the trail often led to these tiny island nations.

Rapp stopped next to the outdoor cafe and pretended to check out the display of Panerai watches in the window of a jewelry store. Through the reflection in the large plate-gla.s.s window he could see five bodyguards, three for Sidorov and two for the general. He was close enough to smell the smoke from the general's cigar and could faintly hear him talking to Sidorov in English. Rapp nonchalantly stepped over the rope that divided the outdoor seating for the cafe from the rest of the sidewalk. He kept his right shoulder to the building and his eyes on the bodyguards. If they reached for a weapon, Rapp would raise his hands and let Coleman and the Brits come riding in. With the bodyguards out of the way, Rapp could focus on Ramirez.

Not a single bodyguard reacted until Rapp was next to the table. Sidorov and Ramirez were sitting across from each other. There were two more chairs and Rapp stepped behind the one that had its back to the building. "Peter," Rapp said in a friendly voice, "good to see you."

Sidorov stood and offered his hand. "Mitch, very nice to see you. Please join us. I'd like you to meet General Manuel Ramirez."

The general stayed seated. He looked up at Rapp from behind his reflective gla.s.ses, his upper lip pushed out while he sized up this new person. After an awkward moment, he offered his hand.

Rapp clamped down on the general's thin hand and squeezed hard. "General, I've been looking forward to this for some time."

The general just stared. "I'm afraid I don't know who you are."

Rapp shook his head while he pulled back the chair and sat. "No reason for you to know me. Peter was kind enough to set up this meeting."

"What are you talking about?" He removed his sungla.s.ses and gave Sidorov a disapproving glare. "I do not like surprises."

"Then you're going to hate this," Rapp said, not wanting to give Ramirez a chance to get rolling. "As you've probably already guessed, I'm an American, and while that might not interest you too much I think this will . . . I'm a counterterrorism operative for the CIA, which is a nice way of saying I kill terrorists and the sc.u.mbags who help them."

If Ramirez was impressed, he didn't show it.

Rapp pressed on. "I'm going to a.s.sume you're familiar with the terrorist attacks in Washington last week. A lot of Americans were killed, and my president isn't very happy about that. He has given me the green light to kill anyone who had anything to do with the attacks."

Ramirez remained stoic. "And just how would this concern me?"

"Well . . . as it turns out, the terrorist cell that hit Washington used your island as a staging area for their attacks."

"I don't believe you," the general said, glancing over his shoulder at one of his bodyguards.

Rapp ignored the denial and said, "Last week a plane landed on your island and you ordered your men to help off-load a large amount of cocaine onto two speedboats and one truck."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

Rapp's eyes stayed locked on the general. "We can handle this one of three ways. The first way is the best. You tell me everything you know about Hakim al Harbi."

"I have never heard of this man."

"That's the real name of the smuggler you were dealing with. He's a Saudi who spent a little time fighting in Afghanistan and then left as an advance scout for the al Qaeda cell that hit Washington last week." Rapp pulled an envelope from his pocket and extracted three photos that had been lifted from al Harbi's driver's license, college student ID, and pa.s.sport. Dumond had hacked into the various databases and s.n.a.t.c.hed the photos without alerting the Saudis. Rapp watched the general closely. "This is the guy you made the deal with. He pa.s.sed himself off as an intermediary who was helping the Taliban smuggle opium."

The general exhaled nervously and again looked over his shoulder to the closest bodyguard.

"He can't help you, General. You need to tell me everything you know, and I mean everything. Email accounts, hotels, airlines he traveled on, any contacts you know of . . . and most important, the banks he dealt with." Dumond had had his team scouring the international banking community for close to twenty-four hours and so far they had come up with nothing.

"I don't know this man."

"I'll make a deal with you, General. You don't insult me, and I won't insult you."

"You bring me here under false pretenses and then complain that I am insulting you." The general angrily shook his head. "The arrogance of you Americans."

"I know more about you than you can possibly imagine, General. I know, for instance, that before you will do business with anyone, you require an up-front deposit. You used to take it in cash, but with Fidel's recent decline in health, you've begun to have that money deposited in offsh.o.r.e accounts. In fact I've been told you prefer it in gold . . . one hundred thousand dollars."

"Lies."

Rapp's patience was waning. He figured he'd give it one more shot before he dropped the bomb. "General, this doesn't have to be difficult. I really don't give a s.h.i.t about these drugs. I just want the information."

General Ramirez looked at the nearest bank for a long moment, and then turned back to Rapp and said, "For one million dollars, I will give you the information you ask for. And I want it in gold," he added with wry smile. "The American dollar isn't worth s.h.i.t these days."

Rapp's entire impression of the man changed in that instant. He was either incredibly greedy or extremely stupid. "Let's get one thing straight. I'm here because Peter convinced me to at least sit down and talk to you. I have been ordered to kill every last piece of sc.u.m-sucking s.h.i.t who had anything to do with this mess. I don't know you, and going into this meeting I guess I somehow got it in my head that you would be a reasonable man. You'd recognize that you were on the wrong side of a really nasty situation and you would gladly help make amends."

"You will have to excuse me, Mr. whatever your name is, if I do not feel like kneeling at the American altar. Your country is not without sin. You cannot lure me here under false pretenses and threaten me. What are you going to do-kill me? Right here?" Ramirez held out his hands and looked around. "You think me a petty thug and you are sorely mistaken. You are a wealthy country. A million dollars is nothing to you. You can threaten all you want, but at the end of the day I know you will pay. It is much easier to do things that way. So get on your phone," he made a move-along gesture with his right hand, "and get the approval to have the money transferred. When you have it, I will consider providing you with the information you seek."

Rapp's brow furrowed in disapproval as he sized up the general. He knew Butler and his men were nearby listening to the conversation, and right about now his British friend was hoping he would give the cra.s.s general a million dollars and move on. That wasn't going to happen, though.

Rapp cleared his throat and placed both elbows on the table. "You don't know me, so I suppose I'll have to give this one more try. I came to this meeting with a few contingency plans. When you've dealt with as many sc.u.mbags as I have, you learn that you have to be prepared for the worst. My initial thought was that I'd just shoot you right here and send a clear message to all the other greedy third-world d.i.c.kheads who want to make deals with terrorists. My second thought was that I'd have one of my guys pop you in the back of the head at the airport. Pretty easy shot, really. We've done it before. Everything is set up in advance. You start climbing the stairs to get in the plane and when you hit the top step, bam! A nice heavy-grain, soft-tip bullet right in the back of the head from about three hundred yards. You fall into the plane, door closes, plane takes off, and your dead body gets tossed out the back door in the middle of the big blue ocean never to be found."