The Last Spymaster (26 page)

They climbed into his black limousine. Ghranditti liked dealing with
high-echelon Islamic terrorists; one had no illusions. They were smart and deadly and protective to the extreme. But then they lived in armed camps of the mind.

As the limo glided off and the air-conditioning cooled them, Ghranditti nodded at the toy-store bag. “I see you brought the payment.”

“Yes, Martin. And when precisely do you expect to send off the shipment?” Faisal al-Hadi’s gaze was as somber as an imam’s.

“Late tomorrow. I’ll phone with the exact time and place.”

“We find it difficult to release another payment without more assurance.”

“That’s why you’re dealing with Martin Ghranditti,” he said easily. “My terms haven’t changed since the old days. If something goes wrong on my end, you’ll receive it back in full. Guaranteed.”

A fraction of a smile played on al-Hadi’s lips. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard those words from you.”

“Times change. Countries change. And the players change, but weapons are always needed. I was bored.”

Al-Hadi laughed. For an instant, surprise flickered behind the wire-rimmed glasses, almost as if he were embarrassed by his display of good humor.

Ghranditti chuckled.

“It’s your thirst for adventure,” al-Hadi continued knowingly. “I have no illusions you’re doing this because you’ve decided to return to Allah.”

“I have a mission, too. You’re trying to export a religion. I’m trying to save humanity.”

Al-Hadi sobered. “By selling weapons and stolen government product? That makes no sense.”

“Of course it does. It’s shock therapy, a large dose of realism. Or perhaps all of you will simply kill each other off. That’s where the planet’s headed, isn’t it?”

“And meanwhile you grow richer and richer,” al-Hadi said sarcastically. “Oh, yes, I know you’re still operating in the gray areas of the law. You stay anonymous by using wire transfers, front companies, and offshore
accounts. You’ve never risked your life in a war zone. You’ve never had to look into the faces of the Muslim parents whose children your guns kill. Servants coddle you. Governments protect you. When our deal is completed, you’ll slip like a gold-plated shadow back into luxury.”

Ghranditti controlled himself. While terrorist leaders like al-Hadi ordered the faithful to live according to premodern times, they flew on jumbo jets and used Web sites to recruit and plan attacks. Their largest source of revenue was narcotics; their largest expense was weapons. Their dominant business partner in both endeavors was America.

Ghranditti despaired over the man’s hypocrisy. “Money is how the world keeps score,” he said calmly. “Terrorism is Big Business—three times the size of the U.S. money supply and growing. Both of us know money ensures you get the attention you want. Why else would you have targeted the World Trade Center? Why else would you be casing other nerve centers of global finance?”

Al-Hadi paused. He blinked slowly.

Ghranditti realized he might have gone too far. He softened his tones. “You’ve come a long way from the first time we met. Your first weapons buy. Nearly twenty years ago now. Do you remember?”

“Always.” Al-Hadi’s anthracite eyes continued to blink slowly, the only sign of his fury. “Jay Tice screwed us, then he ‘saved’ me by arranging to exchange me. I suppose I should be grateful. After all, I lived to execute many Jews. Many infidels.”

Ghranditti looked away. What he recalled most vividly was that Jay Tice and a team of covert operators had uncovered the details of al-Hadi’s enormous shipment. Ghranditti had lost a small fortune. It was the first time—and the last.

Outside the window, skyscrapers burnished by colorful floodlights told Ghranditti they were nearing Miami’s business center. “We’ll be at your hotel soon. Would you allow me to look at the payment now? Not that I don’t trust you, either.” From inside his jacket he removed the printout that listed the finalized shipment.

Al-Hadi took the printout and passed him the Toys “R” Us bag and asked casually, “Are you having problems acquiring any of the items?”
Ghranditti felt a warning stab. “Everything’s on schedule. The miniature computers, the LandFlyers, the drones. All of it.”

“You didn’t mention the software.”

“A simple memory lapse. Why?”

“When the great Ghranditti returns, I expect nothing less than perfection,” he said neutrally and handed over a key.

As al-Hadi studied the printout, Ghranditti opened the bag and removed a small metal box. He unlocked the lid and lifted it, his expression unchanged, but his heart rate sped. As the headlamps of passing cars flashed into the limo, hundreds of uncut diamonds glittered, winked, and exploded with silver and blue lights. The mass of jewels was stunning. With a sense of awe, he pushed his index finger into them and stirred. The diamonds were cool and rough and beautiful, like life.

“Satisfactory,” he said at last.

Al-Hadi looked up, irritated. “A half-million dollars’ worth of diamonds are merely ‘satisfactory’?”

“Ah, but you see, satisfaction is everything, isn’t it?”

Near the Sheraton, the limo stopped in the mouth of an alley, blocking it. Ghranditti’s two security guards immediately got out of the front seat, carrying al-Hadi’s weapons. Their hard gazes probed traffic and the scattering of pedestrians as they faded back into the black shadows of the alley. Ghranditti’s chauffeur climbed out from behind the wheel and hurried around to open al-Hadi’s door.

Al-Hadi put one foot onto the concrete then stared back at Ghranditti. “Is Tice still in prison?”

“Yes, of course,” Ghranditti lied smoothly. “Why do you ask?”

“I should’ve killed him long ago.”

Ghranditti nodded, unsurprised, and watched as the dark alley swallowed the terrorist. The chauffeur returned to his steering wheel. The two security men slid into the front seat. And the limo rolled off.

Ghranditti sank back, smiling broadly to himself. Everything he had told al-Hadi about why he had agreed to handle the job was true. But there was also another reason: The news of their unusual transaction would eventually leak out—six months from now, two years from now. It would restore
his reputation with a comeback so big that even today’s crop of gloating amateurs would have to acknowledge it. It would also establish his legacy as a pioneering weapons merchant. A legacy was timeless. He wanted—deserved—nothing less.

And now Ghranditti knew there would be no more problems—he had sent Jerry and his men to ambush Jay Tice and Elaine Cunningham based on fresh information supplied by Laurence Litchfield.

The limo crossed the MacArthur Causeway and dove into Miami Beach, one of the most expensive strips of real estate in the world. The landmark moderne hotels for which the oceanfront was known towered to the east, porcelain and gold above the sand. The street wound south. Soon high hedges and pastel-painted walls lined it. Ornate gates that were really security barricades sealed the driveways. On the far side stood mansions with the pedigrees of grand duchesses.

His Mediterranean villa was just ahead. Its armed guards and electronic security system, which rivaled a bank’s, gave him a sense of serenity, because his wife and young children must be protected at all costs. The big gates swung open, and the limo flowed through. He sighed, relaxing. At the portico, Karl jumped out and opened the rear door. Ghranditti emerged and strolled into the imposing foyer. The marble floor extended thirty feet in a half circle. Museum-quality antiques rimmed the room. Tropical plants and flowers in floor vases gave an air of natural beauty to what otherwise might be too austere.

“Is that you, Martin?” his wife called from the library. “Come have a drink with me. I thought you’d be home sooner.”

“I’ll look in on the children first, then I’ll join you.”

He climbed the marble staircase. Its gold rail shone, curving upward to the airy second floor. He had bought the villa ten years ago when he married, knowing it would be filled with children. Now they had three—first a son, then a daughter, then another son. The perfect number. He also bought homes for them in Rome, London, Sun Valley, and Saint Moritz. And this morning, he had closed the deal for the island.

He turned the knob of Aaron’s bedroom door and stepped inside. The boy was asleep, his nose buried in his pillow. With a surge of bittersweet
pride, Ghranditti smiled down. At the age of nine, Aaron had given up stuffed animals for the excitement of anything with wheels. Tonight he had a red fire truck possessively under his arm. For a moment, Ghranditti considered the tragedy of the world the boy would inherit unless something radical was done. He ran his fingertips lightly over Aaron’s rumpled hair. He felt his responsibility to this child, to all of them, strongly.

He visited Mariette next. She was small for her age, seven years old, curled up with her dolls. Her long black hair was a mass of shiny ringlets on her pink pillow. A book lay open beside her. Precocious, she had been reading three years. Tonight it was her favorite—
Dear Rat
by Julia Cunningham. The air smelled of suntan lotion and orange blossoms.

Finally he padded into the baby’s room—Kristoph, who was two. He had graduated to a bed, for which he had great enthusiasm. The frame was a mock racing car. Wrapped around his neck was his tattered baby blanket. He lay on his side, sucking his thumb as he slept. Ghranditti knelt and reverently pulled up the sheet, tucking it around his little shoulders. He kissed Kristoph’s warm forehead.

When he left, he had a feeling of peacefulness, of setting things right. He strode along the thick hall carpet and downstairs again.

Armand was leaving the library, looking happy with himself. Ghranditti frowned.

Armand saw his master’s displeasure. “Madam says I may retire, sir,” he explained. “Is there anything I can do for you first?” His head dipped in a servile nod. “Anything at all.”

With a flick of his fingers, Ghranditti dismissed him. He strode past to join his wife, his Marie.

On the road, Virginia

As the Jaguar cruised on through the rural night, air flowed in from the open moonroof, thick with the aromas of plowed earth and sprouting vegetation. Tice glanced at Cunningham. She had given him no answer. He was going to have to decide quickly what to do about her.

“Now I understand about the operation in Rome—why you blew it.”

She stiffened. “My big mistake was agreeing to work with the idiot.” It had been her last assignment. After that, Langley brought her home to the Parking Lot and numbing visits with CIA shrinks.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “The man was a fool.”

She shot him a surprised look.

“As I understand it, you were supposed to find an al-Qaeda mole who’d ditched out on his handlers. You and your partner located him at a cell meeting, but it was breaking up. You phoned in for a snatch squad. But your partner wouldn’t wait.”

“We’d had one hell of a time finding the guy. Took us weeks.”

“So when he tried to go after them, you took him down and tied him up. He filed charges.”

She bit back a smile. “Yeah, but he’s still alive.”

He nodded. “He’s lucky you had the guts to do the smart thing.” He had been watching behind. Now he straightened uneasily, adjusting the Browning in his hand. “We may have a tail. It’s closing in on us for the third time. Looks big. It has those new blue-white headlamps.”

She checked her rearview mirror. “I see it.”

“I haven’t been able to make out any other characteristics. Have you?”

She frowned as she glanced again. “Sorry. I didn’t notice it.”

He gave a brisk nod, wondering how she could have missed it. “There’s a second car, too, farther back. But it looks to me as if it’s starting to catch up.”

“Probably just some kids out joyriding.”

“Yeah, probably,” he said neutrally.

She peered over her steering wheel. “There’s a crossroads ahead. It’s pretty far away. I’ll make a left when we get there. That’ll force them into a wider turn radius if they follow. We’ll be able to see what the car or cars look like better.”

“Good idea.”

No buildings were in sight. Only endless open space surrounded them, interrupted occasionally by patches of black woods that stretched deep into the fields. He had a sense of desolation, as if he were in an uninhabited country far away.

Again he gazed behind. “The second car’s caught up. It’s riding the first one’s tail. They’re holding the same speed as us. Pump up ours. Let’s see what they do.”

She pressed the accelerator. Within two minutes their two tails had caught up, resuming the same distance as before.

“You see?” he asked.

Her eyes were wide. “We’re a caravan. This isn’t normal.”

“We’re almost at the crossroads.”

The roads intersected about a quarter mile away. Two highway lights towered above, faintly illuminating the bleak rolling landscape. There were still no houses, no other vehicles, not even any horses or cows. He alternately watched the cars behind and ahead. They were approaching the intersection fast.

“Hold on.” Her voice was tight.

She braked hard then made a quick left-hand turn onto a blacktop road. It was narrow, no center line, not even any shoulders. She checked her rearview mirror.