“Why?” Blasedale asked.
“Two reasons. First, we’re not going to overlap and Harry doesn’t need to know. Second, we know this is the weakest link in the case. It will be much more convincing to a jury if an independent source confirms what Harry discovers.”
“Okay, folks,” Sutherland said. “Let’s get moving on this and plug the hole. I’m going to ask for a continuance.”
“Call my boss at Central Circuit at San Antonio,” Blasedale said, “and give him a heads up before you go to the judge.” He reached for the phone as they left.
It took seven rings before the phone penetrated Sutherland’s consciousness and he woke up. It was just after four o’clock Tuesday morning and he had just fallen into a deep sleep. For a moment, he didn’t realize he was in his VOQ room. Groggily, he fumbled for the phone. “Yeah,” he mumbled.
It was Beth Page. “I’m down at the desk. Can I come up?”
He mumbled something that approximated a “Yes” and staggered to the door. He jerked it open in time to see Beth get off the elevator. She walked down the hall toward him, moving with the same fluid grace that enchanted him years ago. She brushed past him, her shoulder touching his bare chest. Without a word, she walked toward the bedroom, shedding her clothes. “What the hell are you doing here so late?” he grumbled. He felt the stirrings of an erection when she dropped her panties. He let his pajama bottoms fall to the floor and followed her to bed.
“Hank, wake up.” It was Beth, gently pushing on his shoulder. “Someone’s at the door.”
Sutherland staggered out of bed and pulled on his pajama shorts. He lurched down the hall and managed to unlock the door. It was Catherine Blasedale, dressed in a crisp uniform and looking rested. “Time to go to work,” she said. She gave him a hard look. “I take it your friendly ex-wife is back?”
“How did you know?” he muttered.
“The well-laid look.”
At least it’s not Toni
, she thought, thankful that she would not have to file a fraternization charge against Sutherland. “Get rid of the bimbo and I’ll see you at the office. We’ve got work to do.” She spun around and marched down the corridor.
Sutherland closed the door and staggered into the kitchenette to make coffee. “Who was that?” Beth asked. She was standing naked by the small breakfast table thumbing through the three legal books neatly stacked there. Blasedale had to have seen her when she was at the door. “How’s the trial coming?” she asked. It was like old times when they discussed the cases he was prosecuting. But it was different now.
“Beth, you know I can’t discuss it.”
She wasn’t listening as she thumbed through the thick books. She read the titles. “
Military Evidentiary Foundations, Military Rules of Evidence Manual, Manual for Courts-Martial
. Talk about heavy reading. Memorizing them?”
“Sure,” he answered. “Why not.” Actually, Sutherland had a near-photographic memory and was doing just that.
“You always did have a thing about words. But you couldn’t even remember our anniversary.” Which was also true. She sighed and changed the subject. “I’m surprised you can get to trial so quickly and that you or Cooper haven’t asked for a continuance.”
Suddenly, Sutherland came fully awake. He was not a believer in coincidences.
Does she know I’m asking for one?
For some reason, he couldn’t discard the thought. “Beth, what brings you here?”
“I’m doing background coverage on the trial for
Newsweek
. I’m concentrating on Kansas City and got in late last night. Since you’re here…”
“You thought you’d pump me.”
She moved against him and nuzzled his cheek. “Who’s pumping who?” She moved away. “Seriously, there’s a lot of political interest in the City to get this behind us.”
Sutherland worked to keep all expression off his face.
She knows about the continuance
. The “City” was Washington, and she was sending him a message.
Again, she moved into him. “Hank, this could be the break you need.”
“If I expedite,” he said. There was no answer as she rubbed against him.
Two hours later, Sutherland walked into the legal office. Blasedale was waiting for him. “What did she want?”
“A good question,” Sutherland answered.
“What about the continuance?”
“According to your colonel at Central Circuit, the judge will be on base a week from Wednesday, on the seventh of July. He wants all motions submitted then to have a chance to study them before the court-martial. I’ll present it then.”
Blasedale gave him a long look. She wanted to ask him why he was so late in coming to work. But she knew the answer. Instead, “Did you tell Cooper?”
“Yeah. He laughed.”
Although the court-martial was still twelve days away, the headquarters building bustled with activity as the 509th prepared for the trial. Sutherland wasted most of Wednesday morning in a wing staff meeting concerned with handling the media flocking into the area and demanding access to the court-martial. There was room only for thirty spectators in the courtroom, and it was decided to have a closed-circuit TV to the base theater, which could seat over five hundred people. The theater would be treated as an annex to the courtroom and no cameras, tape recorders, or TV links would be allowed.
Most of the meeting addressed security around the courtroom. Finally, the wing commander decided they would simply seal the base and control access at the gates. That way, the media would not see a legion of security cops and armed guards. Sutherland finally escaped back to his office in time for lunch.
Toni was waiting for him. “Good news, I hope,” he muttered.
“Brent called. Good news on the bartender. It seems he was involved with a dancer at the club three years ago.” She checked her notes. “She went by the stage name Cassandra and was described as five feet ten inches tall, a natural redhead, willowy, and a flashy dresser.” She looked at Sutherland expectantly. “She was twenty years old at the time. That would make her twenty-three now.”
“The same age as Sandi Jefferson,” Sutherland said, almost shouting. He played with her stage name. “Cassandra, Cassi, Sandra, Sandi.”
“It does sound like her,” Tom allowed. “But according to her file, Sandi lived in Minnesota then and was running her own business.”
“She might have had a cash flow problem and needed money. Don’t strippers move around a lot so they won’t be recognized?”
“According to Andrea, the really successful ones do. But she’s going to be hard to trace because of the stage name.” She thought for a moment. “Sandi would probably be a bombshell and enjoy the work.”
“Keep digging,” Sutherland said.
“There’s more,” Toni said. “I took another look at her finances. She’s a compulsive spender.” She spread the worksheet on his desk and leaned over his shoulder. “I totaled up all her expenditures since June. She’s bought new furniture, paid off her car, and remodeled her kitchen. Add that to a few other credit cards, all paid off, plus the five thousand that Habib paid for his Rolex and you get—”
“Almost forty thou,” Sutherland said, reading the bottom line.
“And according to Harry, Habib was skimming.”
“Holy shit,” Sutherland whispered. “We got the money trail.”
A worried look crossed Toni’s face. “It seems almost too good to be true.”
“We’ll take it,” Sutherland said.
“Are you still going for the continuance?”
“Yeah. I’ll ask for a couple of weeks so we can get this all locked in concrete. When does your hired gun arrive?”
“Andrea? About now. Harry’s meeting her at the airport.”
“I hope she has time to hear something and for us to get it all sorted out.”
3:00
P.M.
, Wednesday, June 30,
Warrensburg, Mo.
The two FBI agents were waiting for Mohammed Habib when he left his apartment for work. They trapped him against his car, identified themselves, and “invited” him to accompany them for a little chat. It was not an option and he crawled into the backseat of their car. His wife saw them drive away and phoned the club to tell them he would be late.
“Mo,” Brent Mather said, his voice friendly, “what happened to your friend Osmana Khalid?” As expected, Habib denied any close friendship or knowledge of Khalid’s whereabouts. “That’s too bad,” Mather said. “We need to speak to him. Now you wouldn’t be holding out on us, would you?” Vehement denials from Habib. “That’s reassuring, Mo. Otherwise, the INS is going to be taking a hard look at you.” More protestations from Habib. He was married to an American citizen born in this country and he was legal. Besides, they had a son, also born in this country. He had constitutional rights too.
Mather agreed. “Of course you do, Mo. But the laws have changed, especially about aliens engaged in subversive activities who marry innocent citizens. We’re offering a one-time good deal-to the first person who wants to talk to us about Khalid.” Habib shook his head, claiming he had nothing to talk about. “You absolutely sure about that?” Mather asked. The car stopped a half block from his apartment and Habib’s door unlocked. He was free to go. “You’re not the only one getting this offer, Mo. First taker gets out of jail for free. Everybody else loses. Think about it.”
11:00
A.M.
, Friday, July 2,
El Obeid, The Sudan
Kamigami sat alone in the Land Rover, grateful for the air conditioner. The heat and wind were taxing even his stoical nature. He drove slowly into the center of town, looking for the mosque. Like many drivers, he had the omnipresent car phone stuck to his ear. The cellular phone system was not a luxury in Africa but a necessity. The press of population and the breakdown of basic services had forced the government to allow private enterprise to develop a private communications system.
But he was not using that system. He was speaking into the microrecorder built into the phone. It was a miracle of miniaturization and the cartridge itself was little bigger than his thumbnail and about as thick. He spoke in Cantonese, that difficult tonal language from southern China. When he didn’t know a word, he simply used either the Japanese or English equivalent. Once, just to confuse the issue, he used the limited Arabic he was picking up. It was all part of the tradecraft that went with the business. If the message was intercepted by the wrong party, they would most likely concentrate on the Chinese, which was just fine with him.
“The defenses around the laboratory show signs of upgrading: four batteries of SA-11 Gadfly surface-to-air missiles. Iranian technicians. Four MiG-29 Fulcrums sitting air defense in a hardened shelter observed at nearby airstrip. An early warning radar in transport mode, type unknown. Numerous troops bivouacked in valley. American pilots in good condition and in the same cell. Their conversations are being monitored. Trial scheduled to coincide with court-martial in Missouri.”
He paused. It was enough. He deftly pried apart a counterfeit coin and placed the hollowed-out halves on the seat beside him. Then he ejected the chip from the cell phone and fitted it into one of the halves. He pressed the halves together, making sure they were correctly aligned. He didn’t need one of the sides of the coin to be upside down. He scratched one side with a key and slipped the coin into this left pocket. He found a parking spot and paid two boys to guard the Land Rover while he went to the mosque.
A beggar was sitting at the far end of the wall that separated the mosque from the main street. He walked by, hesitated, and said in Arabic, “I’m not one of you, but alms are for the faithful.” The beggar spat at him. Wrong beggar. He moved on.
“Allah rewards all who honor him,” the beggar said from behind his back. Kamigami turned around. “In this way,” the old man finally added. Without a word, Kamigami pulled some coins out of his left pocket, including the counterfeit one with the hidden cartridge, and pressed them into the old man’s hands. “Next time, asshole,” the man whispered in English, “use your right pocket and right hand.”
Kamigami winced. The left band in Arabic culture was unclean, a very basic mistake. But he had made contact.
9:05
A.M.
, Sunday, July 4,
Pensacola, Fla.
The nurse let Art Rios into the private suite. “Fifteen minutes,” she cautioned. “Doctor’s orders.” Rios nodded and sat down, the briefcase on his lap. He looked out the window. A fishing boat carved a wake across the sparkling blue waters of the Gulf.
“Hell of a way to spend the Fourth of July,” Durant murmured, his voice barely audible. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a few minutes,” Rios answered. “God, you look terrible.”
“I have to get out of this place.”
“Not for a few more days,” Rios told him.
“Watch me,” Durant answered. He rolled over to get out of bed.
Rios sighed, set the briefcase down, and walked over to the bed. “Not today,” he said, putting his hand on Durant’s shoulder. The weight was enough to hold him in bed. It was the way Rios tested him. When Durant pushed his hand aside and got out of bed, he would be ready to leave. “They want to do a bypass.”
Durant shook his head. “It doesn’t seem fair. Cancer, now this. Maybe later.”
“Bees, listen to the quacks. You had a heart attack that registered on the Richter scale. They claim the angioplasty is not enough to keep your arteries open.”
“It’ll have to do for now.”
“Just give it a few more days, okay?”
Durant gave in and settled against his pillow. He gestured at the briefcase. “I take it that’s for me.”
Rios unlocked the briefcase and handed him three folders. “These need signing.”
Durant scrawled his signature across the documents and returned the folders. “Is the money trail in place?”
“Oh, yeah,” Rios said. “All they have to do is look in the right places.” He handed Durant a much thicker folder. “The accounts are all in place. Luckily, Mrs. Jefferson was diddling the IRS. When she got married, she sold her business and made a tidy profit, over $100,000, which she hid in a Canadian bank account We’re still not sure how she did that but we think she put the make on the manager. She would have gotten away with it if she hadn’t become addicted to credit cards and used the money to pay them off.”
“Good work,” Durant said. “How did you make the connection?”
“Agnes,” Rios replied. “She dug it out. She even helped switch the money in the Canadian account to Credit Geneve. It was unbelievably simple and the Canadian bank manager was more than glad to get the monkey off his back.”
“So everyone’s happy,” Durant said.
“Well, not Heydrich.”
Durant allowed a little smile. Heydrich Mueller was the president of Credit Geneve, the Swiss bank that Durant owned. “Heydrich will do what I tell him. What about this side of the Atlantic?”
“Agnes has cracked the banks in the Caymans and Collingswood is putting all the pieces together as we speak.” Herbert Collingswood was a former MI-6 agent who looked like a respectable Bank of England director. “He needs a few more weeks but the money trail will go right where you want. After that, it’s just a matter of the right leak at the right time.”
Durant closed his eyes when the nurse came in. She glanced at her watch and then Rios, sending him the obvious message. Rios nodded, retrieved the folder from Durant, and closed the briefcase. She closed the door, giving them a few more moments of privacy. “Art, I don’t know whether to believe the doctors or not. How bad is it?” He knew Rios would tell him the truth.
“Without a bypass, you’ve got less than a year. With one, the average life expectancy is seven years. But in your case, probably five.”
The prognosis agreed with Durant’s calculations and an indescribable sense of loss chipped away at him. He didn’t even have to ask the question, for he knew he was grounded and would never fly his airplane again. He closed his eyes as he recalled the first time he had seen the old biplane. He was young then and it was love at first sight. The day was still crystal clear in his memory: cold, clear blue skies with a horizon that stretched to infinity. It was a time when the world was his. “Art, when I go, the Staggerwing is yours.”
“Thanks, but you’re a bit premature. Besides, you can still fly in the right seat and get some stick time.”
“It’s not the same, is it? But I’ll take what I can get.” Durant looked out the window. The dazzling waters of the Gulf seemed more gray and the horizon much closer. “Don’t let her see me like this, okay?”
Rios nodded in understanding.
12:50
A.M.
, Wednesday, July 7,
Warrensburg, Mo.
Mo Habib claimed he had never seen the club so busy on a Tuesday night. Harry glanced at his watch. It was actually Wednesday morning and the club was packed. The reason was onstage. Andrea bad been dancing for a week and the word had spread like wildfire that a sensational new dancer named Adrienne was in town. Even Habib, who had seen countless women prance around the stage in the buff was impressed. Andrea Hall was causing heart attacks and setting hair on fire as she came back for another encore. Normally, the girls were onstage for two songs and then back working the audience for lap dances. But the men kept throwing money onstage and shouting for more.
The loudspeakers blared with a fast song and Andrea let the beat wash over her. She slipped out of her shoes and stood for a few moments absolutely still. She was totally naked, no jewelry, nothing. “Son-of-a-bitch, Harry,” Habib groaned. “She’s got to keep her shoes on. Are you going to stop her?” Andrea picked up the beat and started to move.
“And start a riot? Get real. I’ll talk to her later.” Most of the audience now was on its feet shouting and cheering. Money rained down on the stage as a man climbed over the low railing and began crawling toward Andrea, holding a twenty dollar bill in his teeth. “Dammit!” Harry growled as he bulldozed his way to the stage. Two more men were onstage and Harry had a riot in the making. He gave Habib the high-sign to call the police. Before he could get to the stage, the two men had grabbed the crawler and were dragging him off the stage. The music stopped.
“It’s okay, Adrienne,” someone yelled from the audience. “No one’s gonna hurt you.” The two men threw the man to the audience and jumped after him, leaving Andrea alone onstage to gather up the money. Harry glanced at Habib who was on the telephone. Now he had to save the idiot who had gone after Andrea.
“He’s mine!” Harry shouted. His voice carried enough authority to slow the crowd. He pushed his way over to the man, reached down, and dragged him to his feet. “Your ass is grass!” The crowd roared in approval and Harry hustled him outside. “Unless you got a terminal case of the stupids, you’ll get and never come back.” The man staggered off, thankful for a reprieve. Harry ran back inside. Luckily, the doorman and two security guards from the parking lot had everything under control.
He grabbed the phone to call the police dispatcher and cancel Habib’s call. The woman on the other end claimed she had never received a Call to begin with. Harry hung up and looked around for Habib. He was gone. “Time to close,” Harry announced as he turned up the lights. Slowly, the club emptied and he breathed in relief. “Where’s Mo?” he asked. No one had seen him leave. Perplexed, Harry headed for the dressing room to check on Andrea. The girls were clustered around her in states of semi-undress, totally unconcerned with the pile of five, ten, and twenty dollar bills on the dressing table. All were reassuring and comforting Andrea. “Just one big happy family,” he mumbled to himself as he closed the door and went to shut down the bar.
Twenty minutes later, Harry made one last sweep of the bar, making sure everything was locked up. He went out the back door and checked the parking lot. A car was parked in a far corner in the shadows. He headed for it and stopped when he realized it was Habib’s. A sixth sense told him something was wrong. He returned to the club, found a flashlight, and walked carefully toward the car, scanning the ground for footprints or any telltale clues. Nothing. He shined the beam into the car. Mohammed Habib was crumpled over in the backseat, the back of his head a bloody mess. Without touching the car, Harry backed off, even more careful where he stepped.
He went to his car and called Toni on his cell phone. “I’ve got a body in the parking lot,” he told her. “Habib. I’m calling the police. Since I found the body, they should haul me in for questioning. Meet me at the police station in say—” He calculated how long it would take for the police to respond, examine the crime area, take his statement, and decide to transport him to the police station. “Be there about four
A.M.
Bring my I.D. and I’ll lay it out for them at the police station. With a little luck, they won’t blow my cover.” He thought for a moment. “And start carrying your weapon.”
Toni was sitting in the waiting room at the station when two patrolmen brought Harry in. She had been there for almost two hours and it was light outside. Harry shrugged and held up his handcuffed wrists when he saw her, his way of telling her the locals didn’t have a clue. The chief of police waved them to the booking desk and continued to talk on the phone. “Yeah, we got the perp. An open-and-shut case. All we got to do is find the weapon.”
Harry shook his head. “Chief, your men are destroying the crime scene. Back off until the professionals get here.”
The chief stood up and charged down on Harry like a football linebacker, which he had been and was what had gotten him elected. “We’re not stupid. You found the body, you know all about the deceased, you’re a scumbag who works at the club.”
Toni coughed for attention. “Chief, can we talk in private?”
“Who in hell are you?” the Chief boomed.
She showed him her I.D. “We really need to talk in private.” She was trying desperately to salvage the investigation and keep Harry’s cover intact. Besides, Andrea would be much safer with Harry around. The chief motioned them inside his office and slammed the door behind them. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “This is Special Agent Harry Waldon.” She handed him Harry’s I.D. card. “We are on an undercover investigation—”
“Why wasn’t I told about it?” the chief demanded. “I don’t cotton to feds operatin’ in my backyard behind my back.”
“You’ll have to speak to the local OSI detachment commander about that,” Toni said.
“Why do I still think I’ve got the perp?” the chief persisted.
“Why don’t we all relax?” Harry said, sitting down. “First, no one says ‘perp.’ You’ve been watching too much TV. Second, this was a professional hit, two or three shots to the back of the head with a twenty-two-caliber weapon, probably not even silenced. Third, when I scanned the area, it was clean. That doesn’t mean you can’t find anything, if you know how to look. Third, the body was missing a Rolex watch, which Habib had been wearing earlier in the evening.”
“So you robbed him first,” the chief muttered. He wasn’t going to give up his prime suspect easily.
“Toni,” Harry said, “call the FBI. Get them over here to explain a few facts of life to this man.”
The chief snorted. “The closest FBI office is in Kansas City.”
“The FBI,” Harry told him, “has your town wired for sound. There are a flock of agents here and you haven’t got a clue. Now to save yourself some embarrassment, you tell them how you suspect it was a mob hit just cleaning up some untidy business and that they took the watch to send a message not to screw around with their money.” He held up his hands expectantly, waiting for the chief to remove the cuffs.
The chief was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. There was no doubt that Harry was the consummate professional, an agent honed by years of experience and training. “And I suppose you know who did it?” He threw a set of keys to Toni to remove Harry’s handcuffs.
“Well,” Harry said as Toni freed him, “if your boys hadn’t fucked up the crime scene, they might have been able to find something that pointed at August Ramar.”
“Augy? Hey, he’s rough around the edges but not that rough. He brings a lot of business to the area.”
Harry shook his head. “You got problems, Chief, and you don’t know it. I’m willing to help you, but you got to help us.”
Toni smiled to herself as Harry turned the chief into an ally. “Shall I still call the FBI?” she asked.
“Do that,” the chief said, still not totally persuaded but almost there. “Use the phone in the back office.” Toni went out and made the call. As she was returning to the chief’s office, she saw Ramar and a lawyer type disappear into the waiting room near the chiefs office. She kept on walking down the hall and out the front entrance.
It took ten minutes for Toni to reach Harry on her cell phone after leaving the police station. “I left when I saw Ramar come in with his suit in tow,” she told the OSI agent. “I don’t think he saw me.”
“Good thinking,” Harry told her. “But Ramar never looks above a woman’s neck and even if he did, he’d never recognize you with short hair.” Harry put her on hold while he spoke to the chief. Then, “Ramar came in on his own accord. He claims the office was robbed.”
“A convenient way to destroy evidence,” Toni said.
“Right. The chief wants you to go with his men to Habib’s apartment. He wants you to break the news to his wife. Her name is Diana. They’re waiting for you.”
“They left it for late, didn’t they?”
Harry laughed. “Hey, this isn’t the big show here and they are strapped for people. A cop will accompany you.” He gave her Habib’s address. “It’ll give you a chance to interview her.”
Toni had no trouble finding the Habib apartment and as Harry had promised, a young patrolman was waiting for her. They walked up to the door. It was slightly ajar and the lights were on. Toni knocked loudly. “Mrs. Habib?” No answer. She called again with the same result. The cop gave the door a nudge, and it swung open. Inside, furniture had been moved and videotapes and CDs, along with a few books, piled on the floor. “We got reasonable cause to fear for her life,” Toni said as she entered the apartment. The cop keyed his radio and called for backup, explaining the situation. They quickly searched the apartment. “No signs of violence,” Toni said.