Читать книгу Desert Falcons - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Fedor Androkovich watched as the contingent of law enforcement agents began to disperse. The news cameras were still on the scene, and they would be moving closer to the gate as soon as the police dispersed, trying for an interview and using their zoom lenses to take long-range shots of the compound. Luckily, they’d stashed the ambulance in one of the barns Autry used as a storage facility. Androkovich doubted the old fool would discover it there, and the younger Autry was too preoccupied with drinking and his other activities to have much curiosity or ambition. Nevertheless, the Russian decided that he’d post a guard just to be sure. They still had to finish the painting.

“I didn’t think they’d trace those two missing agents so quickly,” Rudolph Strogoff said in Russian. “Do you think we buried the bodies deep enough?”

His partner turned toward him and frowned. “How many times have I told you to speak only in English when we’re on a mission?”

Strogoff flushed. “Sorry.”

He was back to using his Southern-style drawl. Good. It was imperative that they stayed totally in character during an assignment, and particularly this assignment. With what the Saudi conspirators were paying him, Androkovich knew this would be his last one, too. In another week or so, he would be living it up on the Riviera with a beautiful woman on each arm.

“How did they know to come here to question Autry about those rangers?” Strogoff asked.

His partner shrugged. “They were grasping at straws. If they had any solid evidence, other than their suspicions, they would have acted.”

He was still scanning the departing law enforcement officers. Two, in particular, piqued his interest. They weren’t the ones who had been involved in the minor fracas. These two had arrived after the others, but were singled out by the female FBI agent. She’d given the bigger one something. A note or card. Both men had the look of total professionals. He noticed that they wore their sidearms strapped to their belts, with extra magazine pouches on the opposite side for quick reloading during a firefight. The larger of the two looked to be in excellent physical condition and moved with the grace of a jungle cat. He also had some sort of folding knife clipped to the lower pocket of his trousers—another indication that this man was experienced. The way he moved, his calm, yet observant demeanor, all added up to a man who had been there, done that, as the Americans were fond of saying. And even now, as they all were leaving, this man had paused to glance back at the gate.

It was almost as if he was looking directly at me, Androkovich thought. As if he was delivering a message that they were destined to meet again.

“What about their car?” Strogoff asked. “Do you think they will find it?”

“We disabled the GPS devices and destroyed the radio. They have to locate it by air search, but it will probably take them at least a day or two. Besides, it’s still far enough away that they will have no crumbs to lead them back here.”

“I hope not. You seem awful quiet. Is something wrong?”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about that group of police?”

Strogoff compressed his lips, thought for a moment, and then said, “You mean the two who came later, that you were staring at?”

This one is a quick learner, Androkovich thought. Wise beyond his years, which meant that when the time came for him to jettison his past and start over, Strogoff would become a liability. He didn’t want to take the chance of having to look over his shoulder when his new life began. Soon those two BLM rangers would not be alone in their unmarked graves.

* * *

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

MAHFUJ RAHMAN FOUND HIMSELF staring out the oval-shaped window at the fluffy layer of clouds several hundred meters below him, set against the blue sky. It was the first time he had been on a jet aircraft for a transatlantic flight. He had repelled and fast-roped from helicopters during his military training, but those crafts had hovered only thirty or forty meters above the ground. And, of course, he had flown in the prince’s private Learjet on the royal’s frequent trips to Bahrain, but those flights were short in duration. This one, which had left Riyadh about ten hours ago, was not even half completed. The projected time, with the refueling stops, was nineteen hours. With the time zone differences, when they landed, it would only be the early evening of the day they’d left.

It was strange, as if time had slowed to accommodate the prince. He slumbered in the sumptuous bedroom compartment of the plane, claiming that flying long distances disturbed his equilibrium. Never mind that the rest of them had to spend the nineteen hours plus in the discomfort of the standard airline seats. The prince would never be able to survive in the desert. He was not a warrior, not fit to be a leader, not a true Bedouin.

When they had left the airport Mahfuj remembered the expression on his father’s face as he wrapped a new bandage around Mahfuj’s injured hand. His father’s face was hard, unsympathetic, yet he knew the concern was there.

“I am sorry that you sustained this injury, my son,” his father had said.

Mahfuj had smiled and flexed his fingers. “It will soon be gone. I have lost none of my strength.”

They had been standing apart from the others in the terminal, watching as bag after bag of the prince’s luggage was loaded into the cargo bay of the jet.

“So many bags for such a short trip,” his father had whispered.

“Nor will he need all of them,” Mahfuj had added.

They’d said nothing of the intended plan. There was no need. Mustapha and his three sons had long ago committed each part to memory. There would be no discernable trace, no telltale line for the National Guard to pick up and follow. He’d watched as his father reached in his pocket and withdrew the king’s wristwatch.

“You still have not completed the repair on that?” Mahfuj had asked.

His father had shaken his head. “It is almost complete. The watch is such that it requires no battery. Only the inertia of someone wearing it to set in motion its tiny gears.” He’d smiled a knowing smile once again. “I wish to be certain everything is complete and in its place before I return it to the king.”

Mahfuj understood his father’s meaning. It was a metaphor for their intricate plan: each part dependent upon the working of the other, all simultaneously acting together in a special synergy of epic proportions.

“Give my regards to your brother Masoud, in the country of the infidels,” Mustapha had said.

The crew had signaled it was time to board. Mahfuj had leaned forward and kissed his father’s cheek. Mustapha had done the same to him.

“May God be with you, my son.”

They both knew this could be the last time they would see each other in this life. Even if their plan succeeded, much could still go wrong, and their every movement was fraught with danger until the final act was completed. But the hourglass had been turned. The sand was draining. It could not be stopped. “And with you, my father.”

The pain from his burned hand had almost subsided when Abdullah, the largest of the prince’s bodyguard contingent, ambled down the aisle and lowered his enormous frame into the seat next to Mahfuj.

“It is a long flight, my brother,” the big man said. “I have been asleep. You would do well to rest.”

“Perhaps later,” Mahfuj said. “I have a lot on my mind.”

Abdullah grunted and nodded. “Does your hand still hurt?”

Mahfuj shook his head. “There is pain, but it is a good pain. A reminder of one’s mission.”

“To protect the prince,” Abdullah said with a nod. “We would all die for him, if necessary, but it was you who saved him at the nightclub. You should wear your wound as a badge of honor.”

Mahfuj smiled slightly. If this big fool only knew what was in store, he thought.

“But hopefully,” Abdullah continued, “none of us will be hurt or injured again on this trip.”

“If it is the will of God,” Mahfuj said. He lowered his seat to the incline position and closed his eyes. “Perhaps I will try to rest. As you suggest.”

Abdullah grunted again. “I will wake you when we land.”

And I will give you a proper burial when the time comes, Mahfuj thought.

* * *

Camp Freedom, Unincorporated Clark County, Nevada

IN THE CONFINES of the small, dark room inside the far barracks of Camp Freedom, Fedor Androkovich watched as “radical cleric Ibrahim al Shabahb” typed a message to Hassan, one of the two young Muslim students the Yemeni sheikh had recruited on his website. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder and leaned close to him. He was not a radical cleric in Yemen, as the two young Muslim students believed, but an expatriate Iraqi, brought here after being a translator for the army during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Fedor’d had no trouble enticing him to drop off the Americans’ radar and resurface as “Pancho,” a Mexican member of the Russian’s little militia.

For the most part, Shabahb was kept out sight at the Autry ranch, surfacing only occasionally. For the most part he kept to himself, surfing the internet for who knew what when he wasn’t trying to recruit impressionable young Saudis to join the jihad. And the two that he had on the line now were the perfect pair. Young, impressionable, radicalized and filled with just enough fervor that they could be easily manipulated. Shabahb sent another instant message to one of them via the computer.

He grinned as the reply came back, glancing up at Androkovich for approval. “He says all is well.”

The Arab’s penchant for greasy, American food, an uncharacteristic fondness for beer, and an aversion to showering despite the substantial desert heat gave his corpulent body a rather pungent and repulsive odor. Several empty cans of beer sat atop an overflowing wastebasket along with the wrinkled papers from a fast-food joint.

He is not unlike one of the pigs these Muslims so despised, the Russian thought with some amusement. But he had endured far worse. He would make sure that the payoff, down the line, would be laced with the pleasant fragrances of women bathed in French perfume.

“They are set to arrive as planned?” he asked.

“But of course,” Shabahb said. “Have I not become a master fisherman?” He laughed. “What do you wish me to tell them?”

“Tell them to take a taxi to this hotel and to wait there until they are contacted.” He handed the Arab a card with the name of a cheap hotel on the outskirts of the Strip. “Reservations have already been made.”

Shabahb nodded and typed the message and clicked the mouse button to send it.

“Please, get me another can of that cold beer.” Shabahb gestured toward the small refrigerator. “All the work on this computer has given me a tremendous thirst. I feel like I’ve been marching in Baghdad.”

Androkovich grinned. He didn’t want the man to imbibe just yet. An inebriated cleric would be too prone to make a mistake, and that was something he couldn’t afford at this crucial juncture.

“In one minute, my friend. Let’s first make sure we have these two fish hooked and on the line.”

They sat in silence, the Arab glanced furtively at the refrigerator, and then back to the screen of the computer. “It takes some time, since the message is routed through so many servers.”

“I know. I set it up that way, remember?’

Shabahb grunted and licked his lips. “Please, I need a drink. I’ll get it myself.”

The Russian made a tsking sound and squeezed the Arab’s shoulder, increasing the pressure until the man grunted in pain. “Not till we’re sure.”

* * *

Understood. It is the will of God.

“Do you see?” Shabahb asked. “Is it not just as I predicted?”

Androkovich smiled and stepped over to the refrigerator. He pulled open the door and removed one of the frosty cans and set it on the desk next to the computer. As the Arab reached for it, the Russian placed his hand on top of the can and shook his head.

“First, give them the reassurance of the faithful.” He smiled, allowing a trace of malevolence to filter into the expression. “Tell them their service and loyalty will be rewarded in this life and the next.”

Shabahb snorted as his fingers danced over the keyboard.

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them that their faith and service would be rewarded with the customary number of virgins in paradise.” He laughed. “It will be enough to sway them. But for us, my friend, we know the value of a woman who has had plenty of practice in pleasing a man, do we not?”

Androkovich was not amused by the Arab’s attempt at camaraderie. “Make sure they’re hooked before you make jokes.”

Shabahb sent another message and received a confirmation. He pointed to the screen.

“See? They have replied. Now, may I please have my beer?”

Androkovich caught the Arab’s gaze and held it for a long five seconds, and then let a smile creep over his lips as he lifted his hand from the top of the beer can.

“Sure, my friend,” he said, deciding to ease up a little on the man. “Quench your thirst. Drink deep from the well.”

As he watched, Shabahb popped the tab on the can and guzzled the beer.

“Thanks, boss,” Shabahb said, pausing to exhale.

“Have another one, my friend.” He opened the door to the refrigerator, grabbed a can and tossed it to the Arab, then took out the burner cell phone he used for communications with Masoud. It was time to work on the newest wrinkle in the plan.

He stepped outside into the early-evening air and admired the majestic sweep of the mountains in the distance. He was going to miss this view. Perhaps, once this was over and the Saudis had paid him in full, he would settle near another mountain range, but definitely not in the desert, or the United States. Just as he was about to call Masoud’s number, Androkovich heard a clip-clopping of hooves. He turned and saw Eileen Autry atop her brown-and-white horse. She called out to him.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned as she rode up. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a tan blouse that clung tightly over the swell of her breasts. Her legs looked long and lean in blue jean pants, which were tucked into ornate, leather riding boots.

“I’ve been wanting to talk with you,” she said.

He disliked looking up to anyone, especially a woman, but he anticipated that the conversation would be shorter if she didn’t dismount.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Autry?” he asked.

“I know my brother hired you to maintain security,” she said, “but we don’t want our ranch turned into some armed camp.”

Androkovich raised an eyebrow and smiled.

This could be a problem, he thought, depending on what she had seen.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

The horse’s head twisted to the side, and the animal snorted. Eileen tugged the reins a bit. “I mean, you and your men didn’t have to have all those rifles earlier. The situation was touchy enough.”

The Russian nodded, but added, “Your brother wanted a show of force. Perhaps you’d better speak to him.”

“Believe me, I will.” She adjusted her grip on the reins, and the big animal shifted, causing Androkovich to step back. “And what were your men doing down by the rear gate? It looked like they were planting some kind of mechanical devices.”

Shit, he thought. If she’d taken a closer look, would she know what they were?

He gambled she would not, being the spoiled, pampered rich-girl type.

“Those are special devices to alert us if anyone trespasses,” he said. “But be careful if you’re riding over in that area. There’s a lot of lines and wires that could trip your horse.”

The woman’s expression took on a startled, angry look. “Then, clean up the area immediately. As I said, we don’t want our ranch turned into some kind of fortress.”

“Perhaps you’d better take the matter up with your brother,” he said. “It was all done on his orders.”

“Shane told you to do that?”

He knew her male sibling would agree to anything Androkovich said. “That’s right. And although I report directly to him, I don’t want to get in the middle of a family feud. All I’m trying to do is make sure you’re all protected.”

Eileen’s eyes flashed. “I’ll speak with him.” She jerked the reins hard, and the horse’s head turned away. In a moment she was moving back toward the house at a fast trot.

The Russian took a deep breath and scrolled down to Shane Autry’s cell phone number. He’d have to give him a heads-up that Eileen was on the warpath, and then call Masoud. He felt like one of the circus jugglers he had seen once in Moscow in his youth.

So many balls to keep in the air at the same time, he thought.

And sometimes it felt like he was juggling some damn meat cleavers.

* * *

FBI Field Office, Las Vegas, Nevada

BOLAN STUDIED THE large map on the wall of Special Agent Gila Dylan’s office. As maps went, this one was pretty detailed and covered a substantial amount of the county. Not only had she highlighted in red the location of Camp Freedom and the last known location of the two missing BLM Park Rangers, but she also had the route of the Las Vegas Marathon in yellow and the site of the desert warfare training seminar in orange.

Agent Dylan walked into the office holding a thick file and sat down behind her desk.

“Sorry to keep you two waiting,” she said, “but I had to check in with my supervisor on all the latest developments.”

“Government bureaucracy at its finest,” Grimaldi said with a wide smile. “We’re totally familiar with how the system works. And how it doesn’t.”

She flashed a lips-only semi-smile. “I also verified you two through that phone number you gave me. I was told to cooperate and extend you every courtesy.”

“Your map seems pretty comprehensive,” Bolan said, pointing at the wall area. “How many cases do you have going?”

Dylan turned her chair so she was facing the map. “The marathon and the desert warfare school are just on there in the way of general events in the area I had to be mindful of. I had Camp Freedom highlighted due to Mr. Autry’s penchant for butting heads with the Bureau of Land Management and his little, well-trained militia. Originally, we were interested in how they were getting their equipment.” She paged through the sheaf of papers in her file, extracted one and handed it across the desk to Bolan.

He accepted it and saw a computerized graphic of a stretch of highway with an intersecting road perpendicular to a line that was designated Fence Line.

“That is, until those two BLM rangers disappeared last night,” she said. “The unexplained disappearance of two federal employees is a Bureau case. That shows their last known location. The highway they were patrolling is in the area of public domain lands that Autry has been arguing about. The road there is the back access road into his little fiefdom.”

“Fiefdom?” Grimaldi said, leaning over to glance at the paper. “I’d say it looks more like Fort Knox, West.”

“Good analogy,” she said, getting up from her chair.

Grimaldi elbowed Bolan and gave a slight nod.

“As you can see,” Dylan said as she traced her fingers over the larger map on the wall, “they were in this area here at 7:23 p.m. Their mobile data terminal in their vehicle indicated that they were checking on a cluster of vehicles on the road. There were no further transmissions after that.”

“Any information on the other vehicles?” Bolan asked.

Dylan shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. Theirs isn’t like regular police procedures where they do traffic stops and call in license numbers. Instead, they have a general area to keep an eye on, in this case, the public land in the Autry dispute. Plus, there’s no dispatch service monitoring their activities other than a basic review of their transmitted reports the next day. They’re pretty much on their own.”

“Is there any way to track the agents or their vehicle?” Bolan asked.

“Ordinarily, there would be,” she said. “There were GPS monitors in both of their cell phones, and in the car’s MDT, as well. Unfortunately, after they apparently cleared from their vehicular check, they drove off in a northeasterly direction, and, very soon thereafter, all three GPS devices ceased to function.”

“Which wouldn’t be likely without some sort of help,” Bolan said. “You think they might be inside Autry’s place?”

“It’s possible.” She moved her hand over to the red highlighted section. “He does have several large structures on his land. Our surveillance records indicate that the four buildings are used for storage, but of exactly what, we don’t know. Any one of them is large enough to hold numerous vehicles.”

“Autry’s primarily a cattle rancher, right?” Bolan asked.

She nodded.

“Then why does he need so many barns? I could see it if he was into dairy farming, but he’s known for letting his cattle graze on the range, right?”

“On government-owned land, mostly.” She tapped the map again. “This region here is at the middle of the dispute. It was designated by the BLM back in 1978, to be used as a wild mustang sanctuary. Well, Autry and the other ranchers in the area began letting their cattle graze on the land. Eventually, an agreement was reached that the ranchers would pay a nominal fee for water and grazing rights. They all did, except one.” She smiled. “Care to guess who?”

“Our friend Autry,” Grimaldi stated.

Dylan nodded. “In the meantime, there’s not much we can do as far as getting a warrant to search Camp Freedom until we get something solid linking Autry with the disappearance of those rangers. We’re doing flyovers of the area with a special infrared scanning device that shows any recent interruptions in the top soil. We’re hoping to locate something.”

“We’ve got a few other things to check out, Agent Dylan,” Bolan said, rising from his chair. He handed her a card with his cell phone number on it. “If we can be of any assistance, give me a call.”

She accepted the card with thanks and walked them to the door. As they exited the building, the early evening heat embraced them.

Bolan took out the remote and clicked it twice, unlocking the Escalade as he headed for the driver’s door. “Hal said the prince’s jet was scheduled to land here at 6:45 p.m. I want to size him up.”

* * *

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

MUSTAPHA HELD THE king’s Rolex watch in his hand and watched as the second hand swept around the bejeweled face of the timepiece with perfect precision. The king had asked him how soon the watch would be ready, and Mustapha had replied with a deferential smile and shrug. “I want to be absolutely certain that all of the intricate mechanisms are functioning properly.” The old royal had seemed to accept this explanation.

In reality the Rolex was functioning perfectly. Mustapha would slip it back on the king’s wrist only when it was time to tell him that his grandson, the prince, had been killed. Mustapha wanted to watch the light dim in the old man’s eyes as he knew the reign of the House of Saud was finished in this land. No longer would the greedy royals force their oppressive ways upon the populace. It would be a new beginning for his country. A new rise to greatness, unencumbered by the yoke of royal oppression.

Mustapha had reset the watch at the precise moment when Mahfuj had informed him that the charade in Bahrain had succeeded. That was, in effect, the official commencement of their plan…the point of no return. Mustapha made a vow that he would keep the watch until the plan had run its full course. It would be a final symbolic act of defiance. It would signify to the old monarch that his time, and that of the royal family, had run out.

His first-born son was with the prince in the U.S., and Mustapha and his second-born son were here in Arabia at his side. Masoud, his youngest son, had emailed him that his negotiations with the Russian were proceeding as planned, except for a minor, unexpected development regarding the exchange of some of the funding. Apparently, the Americans had stepped up their surveillance of Camp Freedom due to some unforeseen incident, so meeting the Russian to give him the front money for the weapons purchase would be a bit more problematic.

This new development worried Mustapha slightly, but he knew Masoud was capable of handling his end of things. He’d assured his father that the Russian had successfully recruited the two Shi’ite scapegoats, who would be initially blamed for the kidnapping and murder of the decadent prince. And the magnitude of another marathon bombing within the continental United States, one in which a member of the Royal Family was involved, would ensure that the Americans would not interfere when the Saudi military moved in to take charge and restore order. In the end, all the Americans really cared about was keeping the spigots of oil open and flowing. And once he was president of the new Arabia, Mustapha would see to that, but at his own price. A price that guaranteed the sovereignty and development of his country.

Mustapha felt a new wave of fatigue sweep over him. He had been unable to sleep since he had seen Mahfuj off at the airport. He remembered the look in the eyes of his first-born. Eagerness, anticipation, but not fear. Mahfuj was ready, as if he’d been training his whole life for this moment. And in a way, he had. They all had. It was preordained, ever since he had seen the four desert falcons in his dream.

Mustapha glanced at his own watch and then to the blank screen on his smartphone. It was almost dawn…time for morning prayers. Mustapha set down the king’s Rolex and completed the washing ritual. He then unrolled his prayer rug and placed it on the floor, facing Mecca. The Learjet had been in flight for more than nineteen hours. Barring any complications, they should be landing soon at their destination, half a world away. He would ask God for strength and guidance. He needed to hear from Mahfuj before sleep would come. Then, and only then, would he allow himself some rest.

He had just knelt to begin the prayer when the screen of his smartphone chimed with an incoming message.

God forgive me, he thought as he rose from the prayer rug and quickly checked the message. It was from Mahfuj.

Father, we have landed safely. I will meet Masoud later. All is well.

“Thanks be to God,” Mustapha murmured.

All is well, he thought. As time continues to march onward toward victory.

* * *

McCarran Airport, Las Vegas, Nevada

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI stood just inside the doorway of the private hangar and watched as suitcase after suitcase was unloaded from the cargo bay of the Learjet. In all, Bolan counted twenty-seven pieces of luggage. He wondered how many were in the prince’s entourage, and how many pieces of the luggage belonged to them.

“Looks like this dude doesn’t know the definition of traveling light,” Grimaldi said.

“Looks like,” Bolan replied. He was watching a tall man in a dark suit approaching them, talking into his left wrist as he walked.