Wyatt's Revenge: A Matt Royal Mystery (19 page)

Jock had worked his way to the creek, giving him a view of the front of the house. I was about 150 feet away with a view of the back of the place.
We each had a small radio transmitter-receiver stashed in a pocket and tiny boom mikes attached to earpieces. We could talk to each other in whispers, unheard even a few feet away. Our side arms were Glock 17 semiautomatic nine millimeters. We wore camouflage clothing, and our faces and hands were blackened with grease paint. It was a little after midnight.

We sat quietly for fifteen minutes. There was no movement in the clearing, no guards in evidence. I heard Jock whisper in my earpiece. “Let’s go.”

We moved slowly into the clearing, snaking along on our stomachs, rifles held in the crook of our arms. As we got near the house, I saw a white light flicker in a front window. I couldn’t decide what it was, but it stopped us both cold. Somebody was in the house. Jock whispered again. “It’s a TV.”

We moved closer and then stood and flattened ourselves against the side of the house, Jock near the front and I at the back corner. I crawled along the foundation until I got to a window. I eased myself up carefully, peering into the window with the flickering light. I saw a man watching a battery-powered black-and-white TV. He was engrossed in what appeared to be an infomercial, but no sound came from the set. Then I saw a small wire running from the TV to earphones clamped on the man’s head. He was keeping things quiet. Were there others sleeping somewhere in the house? No way to know until we got inside.

I motioned to Jock to take the front, indicating that I would take the back. We moved away from each other, keeping to the side of the house, ducking under windows. There was no porch on the back of the house. The door opened directly onto two wooden steps that led to the yard. Jock disappeared around the corner, and I went to the back steps. I tested both of them. They would hold. The door opened inward. I’d have to get to the top of the stairs before we moved. I wanted to make sure the door wasn’t locked. Jock’s voice came over my radio. “Ready.”

“Hold,” I said. I eased up the steps and tried the doorknob. It turned. I pushed slightly, and the door opened.

“Go,” I said, and stepped inside. I was in a kitchen. I couldn’t see much in the dim light from the flickering television, but I could tell nobody was there. I heard a surprised voice, raised, speaking in a foreign
tongue, then a thud. I moved toward the door into the interior of the house. Jock was standing over a man collapsed on the floor. His rifle was pointing at the two doors that led off the small living room where he stood. A man came bounding out of the door nearest me, a pistol in his hand. Jock shot him in the chest. Another man was right behind the first. He stopped dead, flung his hands into the air, dropped to his knees, and said in English, “Do not shoot.”

I moved toward the man, rifle at the ready. I pulled a pair of handcuffs from my jacket pocket, told him to put his hands behind him, and cuffed him. I searched him quickly. I found a cell phone, but no weapons. I nodded to Jock. “He’s clean.”

“Jock was kneeling over the man he’d shot. “This one’s dead.”

“The other one?”

Jock went to him. “I hit him with the rifle butt. Must have broken his neck. He’s gone.”

I moved toward the closed door to the other room. Jock took up position, his rifle trained on the door. If anybody came bursting through that door, he’d be dead. I slowly turned the knob, and violently pushed the door open, knocking it back against the wall, stepping backward as I did. There was no movement inside the room. I pointed my rifle into the darkness and went through the door. Jock moved to cover me, shining a large flashlight into the darkened space. The room was empty, except for Logan. He was tied to a cot, his hands bound to the steel rails that held the springs and mattress in place, his legs tied to the footboard.

Logan blinked in the glare of the flashlight. “About time you guys got here. I gotta pee.”

Relief surged through my body as my brain registered that Logan was alive. I went to him, used my knife to cut the ropes holding him to the bed. He got up on unsteady legs and moved out of the bedroom and toward the front door. He stopped in the living room and stood over the man I’d handcuffed. “This is the leader. He beat the crap out of me yesterday. Just having a little fun, I guess.”

Logan unzipped his pants and urinated on the leader, saturating him from head to foot. The man yelped, and tried to move out of the stream, but Logan had been holding it for a long time. The torrent finally ended,
and Logan zipped himself up. “Bastard,” he said, and kicked the man in the side.

“Get up,” I said.

The man rolled over and worked his knees under him. Then he stood, looking at me with a doleful expression. “I only beat your man because he told me I looked like a pig’s asshole. That is a terrible insult to a Muslim.”

I laughed. “Logan can get a little feisty at times.”

“And he pissed on me. That is not a manly thing to do.”

“Hey, pal,” said Logan, “be glad I didn’t have to take a dump.”

We were in the Suburban, driving toward Lakewood Ranch. The fog was thicker, and our headlights bounced back at us, creating an eerie illusion of being under water. The leader, whose name was Tariq, was trussed in the cargo area. Logan sat in the front passenger seat, I in the rear. We’d stopped at an all-night McDonald’s for food for Logan.

Tariq was wearing clean clothes. I’d held him at gunpoint while he washed urine off his face and hands and changed into dry clothes. He’d told us his name, but refused to answer any other questions.

Logan was in good spirits, his ordeal over. He’d been worried about Marie, but I assured him she had not been harmed. I explained that the reason for his kidnapping was to get me back to Florida, where I could be killed. I told him about Jessica and explained why she had come back with us. “I’ll give you all the details later,” I said.

“Why didn’t they just kill you in Europe?” Logan asked.

“They tried. Somebody took a shot at me in Frankfurt, and then this Arab guy tried to kill us in Fulda. After that we went to ground. They couldn’t find us. I think they wanted to get Jessica and me back home before killing us. Maybe they were afraid that if they killed us in Germany, somebody would put together the research we’d done on the Nazis and our deaths. I don’t think it occurred to them that I might bring the cops here into this thing. If Marie had called the police, you would have been just the victim of a random kidnapping. There’d be no connection between them and me.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I think they were going to kill you and bury you so that nobody would ever find the body. If they did the same to Jessica and me, it would
be almost impossible for anybody to make the connection to what we were doing in Europe. If we disappeared while in Europe, somebody might have put two and two together. But by getting us home, there’d be airline reservations to prove we had left Europe.”

“What are you going to do with Tariq?”

“Kill him, I suppose.”

Tariq had been listening. “No,” he said.

“Tariq,” Jock said, “you’re of no use to us. You won’t answer questions and you whine a lot. It’ll just be easier to kill you.”

“No. I can answer questions. Lots of questions.”

“Okay. When we get home, I’m going to need some information from you. I know a lot, but I don’t know it all. If you lie to me, I’ll probably know, and you’ll be dead. Understood?”

“Yes.”

We pulled into the garage in Lakewood Ranch. Hickey was in the kitchen making sandwiches. The wall clock showed 2:30 a.m. “I figured you guys would be hungry after an operation. Who’re your friends?”

Jessica walked into the kitchen, relief painted on her face. She came to me and hugged me, then Jock. “I’m glad you guys are okay.”

Jock pointed to Logan. “This is Logan Hamilton and he needs a bath. This other person is Tariq, the kidnapper.”

“I thought so,” said Hickey. “The handcuffs sort of gave him away. I’m done with the sandwiches. There’s beer in the fridge. I’ll be in my bedroom if you need me.”

“Jess,” I said, “you might want to go with Tom.”

“Not a chance. I’m in this too.”

“This could get a bit nasty. We might have to kill Tariq, or at least cut him up some.”

I heard two sharp intakes of breath, Jess and Tariq.

“No, you won’t have to do any of that,” said Tariq, a tremor in his voice.

“I hope not,” said Jessica, looking at Tariq, “but I’ve seen them do worse.” She understood the game.

Jock unlocked Tariq’s handcuffs and pointed to a chair. He placed a sandwich and a glass of water in front of the Arab. “You have one chance
of leaving this place alive, Tariq. You have to tell us what we want to know. If you lie to us, I’ll kill you.”

“What will you do with me if I cooperate?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll probably turn you over to the police. They’ll prosecute you for kidnapping, but that’s a lot better than the alternative.”

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Who do you work for?”

“I do not know. I am a soldier of Allah’s Revenge. I do what I am ordered to do.”

“I’m familiar with your organization. Did you blow up Mr. Royal’s car?”

“I had it done.”

“Who did it?”

“I do not know his name. He was sent by our leader. I showed him the car that belonged to Mr. Royal, and he put the bomb in it.”

“Where is the bomber now?”

“Again, I do not know. I think he works for an embassy in Washington.”

“Which one?”

“I do not know.”

“Who is your contact person?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who do you report to?”

“A man in Germany. His name is Farouk. I call him, and he gives me direction.”

“What’s the number?”

Tariq recited a number.

Jock looked at me. I looked at the stored numbers on the cell phone I’d taken from Tariq. The number was there, along with the name Farouk. I nodded.

“Do you have a specific time to call him?” Jock asked.

“Yes. I call him at eight each morning to let him know we are okay. I can call him anytime if I need something. He calls me sometimes as well.”

“What happens if you don’t make the eight o’clock call?”

“I do not know. I guess he will know we’ve been compromised, and he will do whatever he has to do.”

“What were your orders concerning Mr. Royal and the woman?”

“I was to kill them and drop their bodies into the sea.”

“What about Logan?”

“Him too.”

“Bastard,” muttered Logan.

Jock gave him a sharp look. Logan raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, and then made a zipping motion across his mouth.

Jock asked, “Why were you supposed to do these things?”

“I do not know. I do not question my orders.”

“Would you recognize the bomber if you were shown a picture of him?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever met Farouk?”

“No. I have only talked to him on the phone.”

“When did you come to this country?”

“I have been here for six years. I was a student at the University of South Florida.”

“And now?”

“Now I live in Tampa. I am to hold myself ready in case I’m needed.”

“Is this your first operation?”

“Yes.”

“Who were the men with you tonight?”

“Their names were Anwar and Gamal. That may not be their real names.”

“Have you known them long?”

“No. They were sent to help me.”

“How did they get here?”

“They were smuggled into Tampa on a ship.”

“What ship?”

“I do not know. They never said.”

Jock looked at me. “We’ve got five hours before he has to make the call.”

I shrugged. “He can tell Farouk that things are fine.”

Jock laughed. “I think they’ll be speaking Arabic. Even if one of us spoke the language, there could be a code word that would close things down.”

“Okay. I’m tired. I’m not thinking too straight.”

“I think it’s better not to make the call at all. Farouk might think there’s a problem with the phone, or something else that’s delaying Tariq’s call. It might create enough confusion to give us an extra hour or two.”

“Any suggestions?” I asked.

“Yeah. Let’s see if we can find out who owns that number in Germany.”

An hour later we had an answer. Jock hung up his cell phone. “That number is a cell phone, a disposable one. Farouk bought it at a store in Frankfurt and paid in advance for its use. There’s no way to trace it.”

“Another dead end.”

“Not necessarily. If Farouk is in Allawi’s house in Frankfurt, maybe we can figure it out. One of our German-speaking agents is going to call the number at eight o’clock our time. We know Farouk will be expecting Tariq to call then, so he’ll answer the phone. The agent will talk to him, apologize for the wrong number and hang up. We’ll have a truck on the street in front of the house that has equipment to monitor any cell phone use in the area. If the phone’s in the house, we’ll know it.”

The morning crawled along. We were all on edge, waiting for something to happen. We’d made a start, put a few pieces of the puzzle together, but we were a long way from the whole picture. We’d tied Tariq to a bed in one of the bedrooms. He was comfortable, and Jess checked on him occasionally to see if he needed anything. Jock or I would take him for bathroom breaks, but otherwise he was quiet.

Tom Hickey had arranged for an agency cleanup team from Tampa to go to the Gilley Creek house and take care of things there. We didn’t want the bodies or the Nissan to be found and an investigation started. The car would be towed to the agency’s facility in Tampa and gone over by technicians. They might find something that would lead them to more terrorists.

A little after nine, Jock got a call from Germany. He hung up, grinning. “Farouk was at Allawi’s house in Frankfurt. He waited an hour and then called a number in Riyadh. He talked to the man himself and told him he’d lost contact with Tariq. Allawi is heading to Frankfurt.”