The Mercenary (14 page)

He slowly opened his eyes.

The porch was still silent and the house was still empty. No lights, no music. No family.

A single hot tear rolled down his cheek. It clung to his chin but the man ignored it. He ignored the spreading darkness and the rain. He ignored the cramping in his legs and the cold on his bare feet. Sometime before midnight the phone rang and he ignored that too.

All night he sat on the porch. He let his mind wander all the way back to the beginning. The good times, the warm times. He relived the day he watched Lynn walk over the tiny white blossoms and down the aisle to him. The newfound happiness of a complete life with another human being. His other days behind him. The unexpected chance to live like a normal man. The amazing gift of his daughter. The way his wife's hair smelled after a shower, the feel of his daughter's warm tiny lips on his neck. Their eyes when they looked at him. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes tightly. He lived it all again in his mind, slowly and carefully. Remembering every detail. Hours later he opened his eyes and stared blindly at the wet forest behind his house.

There were so many things he was unafraid of. Combat. Dark nights and fast jets. Even death. But always, deep, deep inside, he'd been afraid of losing them. Afraid that it all was a cruel joke played by a vengeful God. Like offering a cool drink of water to a thirsty man and pulling it away. He was afraid that his loved ones would pay for his sins.

When the night gave way to a gray, wet dawn, he slowly and stiffly rose to his feet. Leaning on the cold black iron railing he stared again at the still waters of the lake. The emptiness had become a hollow ache. Painful but bearable. Somewhere in the night, amongst his memories, the suffocating desperation had given way to anger. A slow-burning, bottomless anger that he recognized only too well. It would give way to a violence that he'd thought was behind him. But he knew now it was still there inside.

Good, he thought.

Good.

Gripping his wrists behind his head, the man arched his back and stretched. His gray eyes were clear again as they stared into the misty Virginia dawn. They were sharp and focused. He knew what to do. If he couldn't have peace, then he'd have justice

A faint smile flickered over his lips. He had a purpose again. Maybe the best purpose there was.

Vengeance.

The hollow, haunting call to prayer filled the evening air and the Sandman awoke instantly. Letting his eyes adjust, he swallowed hard and looked around, focusing on a table in the dark room. After a minute he cracked the door open and stood motionless, listening. Cars honked; there were voices, though not close, and somewhere a donkey brayed.

Slipping outside, he pulled the door shut and walked through the shadows to the next alley. The smell of rotten milk and animal dung rose up from the trash at his feet. Exiting on the next street he joined a throng of people who were either trying to make it to the mosque or avoid it. Slowing to a shuffle, the mercenary made his way to the next big intersection and the public wash basins. Mingling with dozens of men who were washing up for prayers, he rolled the sports jacket up tight and strolled to the street.

Stepping to the curb, he casually dropped the coat in an overflowing trash bin and waved for a taxi. After a half hour of traffic and the driver's chattering, the Sandman got out two blocks from his hotel and walked to the side entrance.

Several hours later, showered and changed, the mercenary was sitting in the Bourj al Hamam restaurant considering his situation. No one, he was certain, could've tracked him to Amman. Buradi, though, was different. Well known to the
Mukhabarat
, the Mossad, SDECE, and several others, it was entirely probable that the Iraqi had been tailed. However, if the fixer had been followed in order to find
him
, then who was looking, and why?

Sipping an icy Grey Goose martini, he knew these were excellent questions. The two best answers dealt with the contract he'd just executed for the Chinese and the one he'd just been offered. The latter seemed improbable though. Why offer a contract and then try to terminate him before it was accomplished?

Unless the contract itself was a trap.

But given the geopolitical situation in the area of interest he didn't think so. No, he decided, it had to be the Chinese. Knowing they'd never find the Sandman, they'd used Buradi as bait. Dependence upon a fixer was a weak link in this business and a superb reason for exceptional caution.

A waiter appeared and the mercenary ordered a splendid meal, beginning with prawns and a chilled Prosecco aperitif. He sat back and watched the evening crowd filter in. Upper-class Jordanians and European businessmen made up most of the clientele. The women were slender and the men were well dressed except a couple who had to be American or Australian. No one else would wear shorts and tennis shoes out to dinner. He looked at the woman's dimpled legs and decided they were American.

Returning to the prawns, he thought again about payback. All day, in fact, he'd been analyzing risks and discarding options before the rough outline of a plan formed in his mind. Details would have to refined and he had several large purchases to make, but tomorrow he would leave Amman. Whether or not anyone was looking for him, it would do no harm to go to ground for a while. Sipping the wine, he smiled.

In any case, no one would think of looking for him in the United States.

R
oyal Jordanian Flight 111 climbed heavily away from Amman at 12:30 the next afternoon and landed uneventfully five and half hours later at London's Heathrow Airport. Clearing international customs, the Sandman walked from Terminal 3 to the Aer Lingus Gold Circle Club in Terminal 1. There, sipping an espresso, he sent two emails from the business lounge, then caught the 4:50 Aer Lingus flight to Dublin, touching down on Irish soil ninety minutes later. With no luggage to claim, the mercenary exited the arrivals hall and stepped onto the green, double-decker Air Link bus. Taxis were quicker but drivers logged their stops and might remember passengers. Buses were anonymous.

After passing through the city center and making several stops, the Air Link groaned to a halt at Heuston Station. The Sandman crossed to the entry side, glanced at his watch, and leaned casually against the gray stone arcade out of the rain. Built in the 1840s, the station was a masterpiece of Victorian era architecture. Above him, faux colonnades and deep-set windows soared upward to a parapet finished like a widow's walk.

The streetlamps were on, so the stone surfaces shone wetly through the drizzle and Dubliners hurried about as people do in any large city. With cautious eyes he watched a Garda Síochána SUV pull up across the street and stop. Two policemen got out, looked at the station and then turned to walk down the street. The mercenary waited until their bright yellow slickers faded into the crowd before he entered the station.

The main hall was a wide, clean place with a peaked atrium to capture whatever light was available. Kiosks selling coffee, jewelry, and Irish wares were scattered about. Benches and chairs were available by the pillars, and at this time of day, most were empty. As the mercenary strode across the tile floor, he noticed the usual collection of scruffy backpackers, several families with bright luggage, and an occasional businessman. Using an Irish Rail Smart Card, he passed through to the outer platform for the Limerick train.

Stifling a yawn, the Sandman chose a spot against the plant-lined wall where he could see the platform entrance. More from habit than concern, he watched the passengers as they slowly wandered out to wait for the train. Ireland had always been safe for him. He'd never operated anywhere in the British Isles or the Republic of Ireland and possessed a perfectly valid passport.

Irish citizenship was more expensive, nearly a half million dollars, but having a duly issued Nevis passport and large bank account expedited the process. In both cases he had legal, legitimate documents—only the name had been false.

Looking up, the mercenary saw a green and white Mark 4 train with a gold nose pulling in under the overhang. According to the big wall clock it was right on time.

Minutes later, comfortably settled in First Class, he rubbed his gritty eyes and stared through the condensation on the window. Traveling was good for planning and was generally how he passed the time. Keeping it all in his head, he only made written notes at one of his residences and the papers were shredded and burned. It was part of his plan to leave from Ireland on this next trip, but it was good to be back here anyway. His home in Ireland was a favorite.

Yawning again, he closely watched the platform and fought back the tiredness. He'd arrive at Limerick Junction in less than two hours, change trains and get into Limerick's Colbert Station by 11:20
P.M.
With any luck he'd be home a bit after midnight. After a short break, he'd need a week to finish his preparations and be ready for the implementation phase. As the doors closed and the train slowly jolted forward he thought of five men and one woman on the other side of the Atlantic. Blissfully ignorant, they were working or playing with their families and living their lives.

The mercenary smiled then and closed his eyes.

But their time was running out.

Part 2

Chapter 9

A
ll countries have back doors.

Some are easier to find but they're always there. The United States, for all its computerized wizardry and military skill, was very simple to enter. With friendly neighbors along thousands of miles of unprotected borders, getting in wasn't a problem. Operating successfully, especially if one had to function in the open, was a different matter. Without legitimate identification and documentation, all it took was a random traffic stop or accident and it was over.

The Sandman needed to move about freely, so an illegal entry wouldn't work. More important, he needed to be free to leave when finished. America, despite her technical brilliance, often overlooked simple solutions.

That was precisely why he used the boat.

Through a broker in London, he'd purchased a fifty-foot Gulfstar sloop. It was big enough for blue-water cruising and only drew five feet below the keel—both factors were crucial for what he intended. It was also sitting in a marina in the British Virgin Islands, not England or the United States. For the other three days in his secluded Irish home the mercenary continued his research and refined details. Timing was critical because, courtesy of his informant, he knew exactly where his targets would be.

On his eighth day back in Ireland he boarded the evening Aer Lingus flight out of Shannon and flew to Heathrow. Switching to Air France, he arrived at Charles de Gaulle in Paris and went on to St. Maarten. The following afternoon, he floated in over the beautiful La Samanna resort as the airbus landed at Princess Juliana International Airport. It would've been nice to break up the trip a bit, the Sandman mused. He had fond memories of a French schoolteacher he'd met there.

But stopping meant a whole new collection of people who would see his face and might remember him. This way, he was just another transient passenger. In a terminal toilet stall the mercenary changed from his European travel clothes into an oversized, pale blue linen shirt and tan shorts. Sandals replaced the chic loafers and a pair of Oakley sunglasses dangled from his breast pocket to complete the ensemble.

The afternoon BVI shuttle flight departed in an hour, which was on time, Caribbean style. Dodging a few squalls, the little turboprop finally bounced down on Beef Island, Tortola, a bit past nine
P.M.
A wave of hot, sticky air hit him as he carefully stepped down the ladder and stretched. Shaped like a C with the open end facing the aircraft parking area, the terminal was big for the islands and relatively new.

Sauntering toward the covered entryway, he entered the arrival hall as the BVI tourist committee came to life. Amid the steel drums and calypso music a small, very black man stood in the entryway holding a tray of tiny paper cups filled with rum. Smiling easily and waving him aside, the mercenary declared nothing and continued on outside to the curb.

Several taxis were parked by the curb, their drivers leaning against the hood of the first in line, laughing and smoking.

“Goo' naught mon,” the oldest and skinniest one called. “Tocksi?”

“Good night. Yes, please.”

“Bogs?”

“No bags.”

“Row Ton?”

“No—past Road Town. Bomba's.” As they got in the cab, the other drivers moved to the hood of the next taxi and continued smoking.

The driver rolled his eyes and nodded. “Nace plus. Goo' bubbly . . . an' you get
bumba bumba
at Bomba's.” He laughed at his joke and the Sandman smiled back. Booze and women. Most islanders were happy with the sun, good drinks, and a little bumba when they could get it.

Crossing over Beef Island Channel by the Queen Elizabeth Bridge, the taxi bounced onto the main island of Tortola. Island roads were more like a series of potholes holding hands but the driver knew them all and managed to avoid a few. Bouncing along in the back, inhaling the smell of wet leaves and salt air, the mercenary saw the lights of Fat Hog Bob's as the taxi turned onto Ridge Road. Skirting along the top of the island, the lights of Road Town flashed, blinked and glowed against the calm waters of Road Harbor. A cruise ship, her hull and decks awash with lights, was docked for the night. Following the ridge down through Diamond, Joe's Hill, and Doty, the taxi popped out of the hills at Carrot Bay. Slowing to crawl along North Coast Road, they eventually arrived at Bomba's Surfside Shack.

Paying the man, the Sandman got out and strolled over toward the bar as the taxi pulled away. It was doubtful the driver would remember one more white face he'd dropped off at the famous north shore hot spot. Hundreds of handmade signs were stuck all over the place advertising the “Next Full Moon Party,” “Bomba Punch,” and even a sign pointing at the bay that said “Bay this Way!”

Some things never change, he thought, and stood a moment watching the people around him. Overweight, lobster-red tourists were a stark contrast to the locals. Local white islanders came in two distinct categories; the haves and the have-nots. The former were boat owners, businesspeople, or administrators of some type. The latter were burnouts, usually dressed in ragged cargo shorts, beat-up sandals, and T-shirts. They seemed to live in the bars and did little more than talk about their failures in life, opportunities missed, and why they'd ended up here. The black locals regarded everyone, rich or poor, as temporary trespassers on their island. All were eager to take the white man's money.

A few feet down the road, the mercenary walked to another cab and tapped the top. The driver looked out, flashed a toothy smile and waved toward the backseat.

“Where you want, mon?” He asked as the Sandman slid in back.

“Nanny Cay Marina.”

“Oh, fine. Be dare a moment.” He looked happy to have a sober passenger. Cutting across Zion Hill, they ended up on the south side of the island on Slaney Road, heading back toward the harbor. Nanny Cay was an unobtrusive little place with a first-class marina and off the track for tourists.

“You wanna hotel?” The driver was looking at him in the mirror.

“Naw . . . Peglegs.”

“Oh, fine.”

Throughout this roundabout approach, the mercenary had kept a quietly attentive eye on everything around him. But he'd seen no police, no out-of-place individuals, and no recurring faces. As they glided down the gentle hill toward Nanny Cay, he was certain all was as it should be.

And it had been. He'd stayed the night at the little marina hotel—the kind of place that catered to transient boaters, or cruisers, as they were known. People who needed time off the water, a level bed, long hot shower and a real toilet. No one noticed him.

In the morning he'd located his boat. He'd only transferred a 50 percent down payment, so the owner was anxious to please and close the deal. All the paperwork was in order, so the man was a bit put out when the Sandman ordered a hull inspection. This involved having the boat “hauled out” in a sling and having an inspector go over every inch of the hull. But the mercenary knew boats and wasn't going to risk a problem on the open ocean that might lead to the U.S. Coast Guard. With the exception of a minor leak around a shaft seal, which was replaced on the spot, the boat was sound. By the end of the day, he'd wired the balance due and taken possession of the
Peregrine
, a fifty-foot Gulfstar sloop.

He spent the next day stocking the boat with two months' worth of canned goods and high-carb dried meals, along with steaks and fresh fish for the next week. There were also several packages awaiting him in the marina's post office and a letter-sized envelope—the name on all the mailing labels matched the Virginia driving license and U.S. military ID card inside the envelope.

Early on the third morning, he sailed through the Anegada Passage and headed out into the Atlantic, staying well clear of the U.S. Virgin Islands. Three days later, he approached the Turks and Caicos from the east, sailed through Mouchoir Passage, and moored the boat off Balfour Town on Salt Cay. It was a beautiful, quiet, out-of-the-way type of place; the orderly rectangular salt locks were plain to see beyond the historic White House. There were enough boats for him to easily blend, and one more British flagged boat with Tortola registration attracted no attention.

It was here that he set up a powerful laptop brought from Europe and went to work. Wi-Fi connections were so prevalent these days that any inhabited island had several. Leaving Salt Cay at midmorning the next day, he continued west and sighted the Castle Island lighthouse off Crooked island in the Bahamas the following morning.

Spending the next three days leisurely sailing northwest through the Bahamas, the Sandman and his laptop bounced around among island networks. Using two existing European corporate fronts as parent companies, the mercenary created business accounts with banks in the United States via wire transfer. The Sandman always worked from business accounts, and once these were established, he could acquire whatever else was needed by computer.

Meandering up the island chain to Eleuthera, he arranged for post office boxes in several cities, rented an aircraft storage hangar, and purchased equipment. Through a third corporate front, he finalized negotiations with a small aviation company in Virginia and bought an aircraft. Every transaction, wire transfer, and email was done from the boat using wireless networks.

Like all sailors, he continuously monitored the Weather Channel, and after watching the darkening sky and increasingly unsettled waters he made a decision. He'd planned to remain at sea the entire trip but a minor tropical storm had suddenly turned into Hurricane Dana so he put into Freeport, Grand Bahama, on the morning of the fifth day. The island had several marinas but he chose the Grand Bahama Yacht Club. It was big, crowded, located on the most affluent part of the island, and there would be few questions, if any. It was also well sheltered and the concrete docks would offer protection from the approaching storm.

Taking a chance that his arrival would go unnoticed with his British registration, bad weather, and influx of boats, the mercenary did not fly the standard yellow quarantine flag that alerted the harbormaster to call customs. Motoring carefully to the center dock with his bumpers out, he eased the
Peregrine
into a vacant double slip, backed the motor briefly then went to neutral. As the boat rocked in the unsettled water, the mercenary jumped off with a spring line and tied off. He then got back on board, shut down the engine and worked his way around the boat, tossing lines off fore and aft.

“I'll help you, sir!” A voice behind him shouted over the wind.

Turning, he saw a young man in his late teens wearing a light blue yacht club polo shirt and baggy shorts.

“Thanks much. Is this a transient slip?”

“They all are during a storm.” The kid waved a hand at the other docks. “We've only got space because we cost more than everyone else!” He grinned.

“Perfect,” the mercenary smiled back. “You get the bow lines and I'll get these.”

For the next few minutes they tied off the boat. The Sandman locked down the hatches and zipped up the canvas around the cockpit.

“C'mon with me and I'll show you were the office is. You can clear customs there and then the dockmaster will grant the slip.”

So much for staying anonymous, the mercenary thought. But it didn't really matter. Customs were usually a formality at a wealthy island club. They walked down the wide concrete dock and the Sandman glanced up. Above the waving treetops the sky was a flat gunmetal gray. Along the eastern horizon a black stain was slowly spreading upward as the edge of the hurricane approached. Big, heavy drops of rain occasionally plopped onto his face and he knew making harbor had been the right choice. In a past life he'd once ridden out a hurricane at sea and vowed never to do it again.

Past the dock with its orderly line of green lampposts and capped pilings they stepped onto a walkway. Manicured lawns led up to a pool and rows of condos huddled beneath the trees. Following the man past a bathhouse and laundry they came to a pleasant little yellow stucco building with windows facing the water. A white sign, lettered in green, identified it as the dockmaster's office and they ducked inside.

A man in his early sixties stood with his back to the door, staring out the big windows, talking on the radio to a boat entering the channel.

“I'll leave you here, sir,” the dockhand said cheerily and wiped the rain from his forehead. “I've a few things to tidy up before it gets much worse.”

“Thanks again.”

The dockmaster put the radio down and turned, muttering and shaking his head.

“Day sailors . . . a danger to navigation. That one”—he jerked his head in the direction of the channel—“that one's in a snit over the rocks.” He pronounced it
rahcks
.

The mercenary smiled. “What rocks?”

The dockmaster peered at him. “Exactly. What fookin' rahcks?” He had a broad accent that was originally probably British but had absorbed a lot of lazy island slang. “Daft bastard's mistook the breakwater for shoals. Anyway”—he sighed and managed a smile—“you'll be off that fifty-footer?”

“That's right. I'll need a slip till the weather clears.”

“Easy enough. A dollar forty per foot plus water and electricity. You need a pump out?” he asked, referring to the toilets.

“No—it's fine.”

The man passed a clipboard. “Fill this out, please. We'll worry about customs when the weather clears. You'll not be gettin' them out in the rain.”

“Good enough. Can I leave the boat where she is?”

“Aye. C-dock is safe enough. As of a half hour ago they say the storm'll pass south of us and we'll likely get her backside.” The dockmaster yawned and watched him write. “Yank?”

“No—Irish.”

“Hmph. Talk like a Yank.”

“I was born in Canada but left it for Ireland years ago.”