The Mercenary (22 page)

His problem was, of course, that he knew precisely who they were after. There were only two men in the world that could've pulled that off, and since he was one of them, then the man they wanted was the Sandman. He'd told the two officers the truth—to a point. Rumors about the Sandman had been quietly discussed in connection with several contracts but Morgan had never met the man. That is, until three and half years ago in Africa, when the other mercenary had saved his life for some reason.

Morgan had never known why.

His Super Tucano had been hit by an SA-18 shoulder-launched missile and he'd gone done in northern Nigeria. Morgan was minutes away from being flayed alive and beheaded by Boko Haram when an OV-1 Mohawk had appeared over the trees like a grotesque dragonfly, spitting cannon shells. Shells that had torn into the scattered jeeps, SUVs, and bodies of the most vicious Islamic insurgents in West Africa. The few survivors had fled back into the villages and Morgan watched in disbelief as the Mohawk came back around and landed along the road. Bouncing over bodies, it had slid to a stop next to his shattered Tucano.

The tail swung around as the cockpit opened and the pilot waved. Dragging a leg, Morgan hobbled toward the plane and managed to scramble up the side. Then he saw the gun. A big Sig Sauer pointed directly at his head. Opening his mouth to yell, he was too late and the pilot suddenly fired three times—over Morgan's shoulder. With his other hand, the pilot yanked him into the cockpit and fire walled the throttles. Slamming down the cockpit door as they accelerated, Morgan saw two sprawled bodies that had sprung up with machetes as he'd passed them. Twice he'd been saved. Twice in five minutes.

Well, my friend, I did what I could for you
, he thought, and slowly strolled down the beach to the next nightclub's parking lot, where he'd left his car.

Payback.

“H
e knew.”

“Of course he knew,” Axe retorted. “Wouldn't take a genius to figure out what we were after. So why would he bullshit us?”

“Grudge against the government. Or he's just a crusty old guy.”

“Or since he knows what we're after, he's keeping the guy's identity from us.”

She looked skeptical. “Why?”

“Dunno.” He leaned back. “But if—”

Karen looked up. “But what?”

He was staring over her shoulder. Turning, she saw CNN up on the bar's big screen. No words got through the music and noise but the caption beneath the talking head was plain enough.

TRIPLE MURDER ON TEXAS AIR BASE.

Chapter 16

T
he Sandman stretched, rolled over, and opened his eyes. The sheets were pressed and the fine Egyptian cotton was cool. Lying perfectly still, he savored the oversized pillows and thought about breakfast. After a moment he rolled over, called room service, and ordered. Switching the TV to CNN, he muted it and yawned.

Arriving at the Buckhead Ritz a little past two
P.M.
yesterday, he'd checked in as Matthew Tobin and paid in advance for three nights, courtesy of Latham Consulting. He'd eaten and then arranged for the delivery of a rental car the following afternoon. After that, he'd gone down to the fitness center and worked out the kinks for an hour. Soaking in the poolside hot tub, he'd tried to get a massage but the spa was booked up, so he'd gone back upstairs to his suite. Ordering from room service, he'd then fallen asleep by seven
P.M.
and slept for the next twelve hours.

There it was.

Toggling up the volume, he watched the reporter's concerned face and listened.

“ . . . likely been deceased since sometime Friday night. Local military authorities are not disclosing the identities of the dead, but our sources tell us that they were, in fact, senior Air Force officers. You can see behind me here”—the reporter turned and gestured at Randolph's main gate—“that no one is being allowed into this facility unless they possess a military ID, so we're unable to visit the scene.

“We did speak earlier with one of the, uh . . . base public affairs officials, and she indicated that several leads were being pursued in cooperation with local police. Speculation remains”—her voice lowered in an attempt at drama—“that these horrific deaths were terrorist acts. So—”

The Sandman muted it again. Leads leading nowhere. And while they locked down the base and chased their tails he was a thousand miles away. Yawning again, he got up, opened the drapes, and gazed out the window. Atlanta was moving predictably slow on a Sunday morning but he expected that. Counted on it, actually.

As he watched the tree-lined streets of Buckhead, the memories tried to surface and he pushed them back down. Cocktails in the lobby bar, dinners out at any of the eclectic restaurants for which Buckhead was justifiably famous. Across the street a couple walked, swinging a small child between them. The Sandman saw them but he didn't. His eyes lifted to the fuzzy gray Georgia horizon and he just stared. She'd told him right here, in this city, that she was pregnant with their first child. Swallowing hard, the mercenary took a deep breath and forced the ghosts back again. Soon, he told them.

Soon.

After breakfast the Sandman put on a soft terrycloth robe and, carrying his gym clothes, took the elevator down to the spa. This particular Ritz had a decent lap pool so he spent the next hour swimming two leisurely miles. A light workout took another forty minutes and he was back in his room by ten. Showering, he dressed in a clean pair of khakis with his black sports jacket and went down to the hotel business center. It was empty so he chose a cubicle at the back, facing the door, and checked into several accounts.

The first account showed no further deposits to the Royal Bank of Scotland. That was no surprise. The second account, through the BVI and a mail forwarding exchange in South Africa, contained two emails.

IMMEDIATE DELIVERY DESIRED—LOCATION YOUR CHOICE. MUST CONCLUDE BY MONTH'S END OR WILL BE FORCED TO FORECLOSE. KSH ENDS.

Interesting. There were several possibilities that would generate such a message. The Chinese could be nervous about his possession of the DTC and desperately wanted it back. However, they weren't prone to fright and could always run along a string of denials regarding its presence. It could also be a setup. Since no money had been paid he was inclined to believe in the latter choice.

The other message was from Rama Buradi.

OFFER PENDING. SET MEETING TO CONFIRM. BURADI.

Leaning back in the chair, he frowned at the screen. He'd known immediately that this was not Rama Buradi. In the first place, contracts were
never
discussed in emails, even obliquely. In the second place, Buradi used corporate fronts and mail forwarding services just as he did and would never sign his own name. Lastly, all emails contained a personal recognition phrase and there was none here.

So.

So if the fixer was setting him up, the message would've been flawless. Nothing to arouse suspicion. So either Buradi intentionally botched the message to warn him or it wasn't Buradi who sent it. Either way, it was certainly a complication worth thinking about. Sitting back up, the Sandman canceled his existing accounts and logged off. When he left the United States in a few days he'd open up new ones, but until then they weren't needed. Tracing him through cyberspace, through the myriad of forwarding services and breaking the encryption used shouldn't be feasible, but . . .

But.

There were really only two possibilities: the Americans or the Chinese, and either one had reasons for finding him. The Sandman considered that, softly tapping his fingers on the desktop. He could quietly abort and disappear again. That would mean leaving unfinished business here and he was loath to do it. There would likely not be another set of chances like this and he needed to settle it now.

Also, if his location was known already he would've been intercepted. At least by the Chinese. Sometimes the Americans waited and followed in order to scoop up everyone they were interested in. The Americans were also subtle enough not to send a bogus message—if Buradi hadn't cooperated they simply would've done nothing.

It had to be Beijing, he decided. Well, so be it. He'd expected that anyway.

Standing and stretching, the mercenary left the business center and headed down the walnut-lined corridor toward the shopping arcade. Most stores in the Deep South were closed on Sundays, but the Ritz Carlton catered to international business travelers and he knew these stores would be open. Ninety minutes later he was back in his suite with a gray Simon Spurr suit, several shirts, and pair of black Varvatos oxfords. Black jeans, deck shoes, several plain T-shirts, and a short, black windbreaker fit nicely into a new dark leather tote.

Laying all his remaining documents on the bed, he placed the Tobin military ID and driver's license to the side with both remaining credit cards. The two passports were still sewn into the leather carry-on so he neatly packed his athletic gear, a razor, running shoes, and flight suit into this bag and zipped it shut. All the other old clothes were wadded up and jammed in the backpack. As he finished up, the concierge called to tell him his car had been delivered, and would he please come down to collect the papers?

Dressing in his new suit, the mercenary took care of the car and drove down Peachtree into the Buckhead Village area. Finding a spot near Allen Park, he dropped the backpack into a municipal trash can, then walked down Grandview to the restaurant he remembered—the Anis Café and Bistro.

Spending a pleasant hour there, the Sandman enjoyed a large and expensive lunch. Well-dressed couples strolled past, some with children or pets. As it was after noon, several boutiques were open and women with oversized shopping bags crisscrossed the streets. The mercenary breathed it all in: the sights, sounds, and especially the smells. Why is it, he wondered idly, that smells evoked such strong memories? This part of Atlanta smelled green. Moist air, fresh-cut grass, and flowers mixed with the smell of damp concrete and a faint whiff of car exhaust.

Finishing his coffee, he stood and watched the people a moment. They looked cheerful enough, enjoying the day. Oblivious. How lucky most Americans were, to be totally concerned with their own issues and have so little regard for what happened in the rest of the world. Enemies took many forms, and the most lethal were usually the least obvious. He wasn't an enemy to America but he was certainly a very real threat to several Americans.

Returning to the Ritz, the mercenary self-parked rather than use the valet and returned to his suite. Latching the door, he checked over his bags one final time, set both alarm radios and lay down.

Oblivious
. It was a good word. He fell asleep thinking about the next American it applied to.

“T
hree more!” Kenneth Sturgis exploded. “Three more, in plain view on a fucking military base! Someone explain
that
to me!”

Doug Truax knew when to keep his mouth shut. Obviously, Karen Shipman did also. Not so with the security cop, Colonel Lawson.

“Not our base, sir. Besides, there's no tie between Neville's death and these three.”

General Sturgis shot him a contemptuous look. “If you believe that, then I should assign you to a radar site above the Arctic Circle before you infect anyone with stupidity.”

Lawson blanched and promptly shut up. Sturgis could and would do it.

“Well.” Sturgis loosened his tie and glared at David Abbot, the FBI agent. “What've you got?”

The agent sat calmly with his legs crossed and sipped a cup of coffee. Despite being in an office on a Sunday afternoon, he looked remarkably unaffected. Clearing his throat, he said, “It's what we don't have that's instructive in this case. We don't have a picture or a name or any DNA because we don't have a suspect. Surveillance cameras here have turned up nothing usable. Oh, there are plenty of unidentified folks but they're most likely harmless. Even if they weren't, we can't identify them so they're of no use.”

He got up and walked to the coffee bar for a refill. “Every commercial flight out of Patrick Henry, Norfolk, Richmond, and Charlotte during a twelve-hour window following Neville's death has been checked and the passengers are being verified. Same thing for AmTrak and the buses.”

“Rental cars?” Karen quietly asked.

Abbot stirred his coffee and nodded. “Those too. All agencies within a thirty-mile radius of the base. The cars are all accounted for or are still under contract. There aren't any no-shows.”

“But he could've rented it for a longer period and just not returned it.” Axe added.

“True.” Abbot nodded. “That would be the smart thing to do, but there's simply no way to know until a vehicle turns up overdue.”

“Or it could be a private vehicle—or stolen.”

“All possible. Again, there's really no way to establish that unless we get a corroborating lead with something else.”

Sturgis snorted. “In the meantime we just sit here with our faces hanging out.” He stabbed a finger at the phone bank on his desk. “I was just chewed out by the
Chief
for this. He thinks these incidents are connected and he thinks that I, by running my own show regarding Neville, let this psychopath get away!”

Axe raised an eyebrow. Well, that would likely do it for Ken Sturgis's career. An ass chewing by the Chief of Staff of the Air Force is usually permanent. Evidently, Sturgis had the same thought.

“My only hope is to end this by finding the bastard. And”—he glared at each of them—“it's your only hope too.”

Meaning he wouldn't hesitate to throw any or all of them under the bus to save his own hide.

David Abbot leaned against the coffee bar and pursed his lips. “As basic as it sounds, we need a face. With a face we get a name. With a name we have a past; we can likely find the money and paper trail that everyone leaves behind. We can then track him and catch him.”

“Brilliant.” Sturgis sat back and glared at the FBI agent. “I think we all know that. So?”

Tirades from military officers, even generals, didn't worry Abbot much, and he continued evenly. “So we take the unidentified people from Langley's surveillance shots and compare them to whatever we have at Randolph. We might get a hit.”

“I don't think you're going to catch this guy by giving us his picture.” Axe shook his head. “Even if you did, we still wouldn't know who he is.”

“There is no way in our world today to avoid showing up on a camera somewhere,” Abbot said. “The trick is to find a match between Virginia and Texas. Once we do that and have a face, the rest is detective work.”

Axe didn't think so but didn't say that. Abbot was probably half right but he was thinking like a cop and this was a counter-intelligence problem. Some people didn't leave clues. Karen Shipman thought so too, and said, “It would be a good start, but assuming these murders are related, and I'm not sure they are, we're after a very unique type of man.”

“How so?” Sturgis sat up. Either to hear better or to stare at Shipman's chest, which, incidentally, looked very good in a tight white blouse.

“A man who can get on and off a military base for one. Also, a man who would know that every law-enforcement agency in the country would be after him, and chooses to continue to another base and kill again.”

“Arrogance.”

She looked at the general and shook her head. “I don't think so. I think he's got a plan and he's certain he can beat us at our own game.”

And since we haven't caught him yet, Axe thought, he may be right.

They all thought about that and the conclusions weren't pleasant.

“Well, maybe he's finished.” Lawson, the Security Police commander, quietly suggested. Sturgis visibly brightened at that.

“Maybe not,” Axe replied. “But perhaps there's another way to pin a name to this guy.”

“And that is . . . ?” David Abbot asked.

“We find a tie between the four dead people. A joint assignment someplace . . . hell, who knows? Maybe they all come from the same town. Point is, if there is a connection to these murders, then they must have something in common.”

“Or someone,” Karen Shipman added thoughtfully. “That's a very good idea.”

Sturgis stared at them a moment, then picked up the phone. “Major Dwyer, get in here.”

Before the phone was down the door opened and Sturgis's aid stepped in. He must've been listening at the door, Axe thought. Sunday afternoon or not, the major was in his blues, impeccably tailored and squeaky clean. The perfect executive officer for a general. By comparison, Truax felt old, tired, and sloppy. He shook his head as the major strode across the room, shoes squeaking. He'd even shined the silly little space wings on his chest.