Haven, page 22
“Are you leaving? You don't have to. I'd like you to stay.”
“Pratt's phone. I'll get rid of it. After that I'll come back here and like you, Elizabeth. I'll like you to pieces, I promise.”
She threw foam at him as he backed out of range.
But she smiled.
It was good to see her smile.
TWENTY ONE
Lawrence Tarrant sat alone in the large Tudor house that his wife's grandfather, a senator, had built in the suburb of Chevy Chase, Maryland. The house was in darkness and entirely silent except for the sound of wind-driven sleet as it peppered the leaded stained glass of his windows. A clock in the front hall chimed seven in the morning. Outside there was only the promise of sunrise, a slate-gray light that was a match for his mood.
Tarrant had not slept since he arrived home at midnight after his long flight from Cairo. Nor had he eaten except for antacids. His stomach still churned with ineffectual rage as he waited for Bandari to call him again, this time on a scrambler and not his home phone, the damned fool.
A part of that rage was directed at his wife. She had fled their home in the middle of the night screaming curses at him as she ran down the driveway. He had slapped her, he had to, to clear the stupid woman's head. He needed to know, every word and exactly, how much the German had told her. After that he had to slap her to make her shut up.
God knows where she is, God knows who she's telling the things this man said to her. But she did leave on foot; she ran out in that storm. With luck she's still out there, dead of exposure. That would solve one of his problems at least. It would help to contain this until he decided what action would have to be taken.
He was being driven home from the airport when the call came. His plane, by that time, had refueled and took off again. It was bound for Grand Cayman where the pilot would wait until the seaplane arrived bearing Lester Loomis and the girl. It was done; he could relax; the sale could go forward. The inquisitive Cyril Pratt, by now, would be nourishing the fish off Florida's Gulf Coast.
At least that's how it seemed until Clarisse in her stupor answered that goddamned phone. That she had answered it at all was remarkable in itself. She had already ready taken her pills downed with vodka in order to be asleep so that she wouldn't have to greet him. But even drunk, even drugged, she should have known better than to speak on a phone that was probably tapped.
“Hello. Mrs. Tarrant? It's late, I know, but I'm afraid I must speak to your husband.”
“He's not here," she said she told him. "And you're right. It is late.”
“He's in Egypt perhaps? Do you know where I might reach him?”
Clarisse should have said, "Call his office tomorrow," and then she should have hung up. He had told that woman again and again to assume that their home phones were under surveillance by one Federal agency or another. He had certainly spread enough money around to make sure he'd be warned if they were digging too deeply. But she told this man that he'd be home any time now and that meanwhile she was trying to sleep. Her words and her tone as much as announced to him that all was not well in their marriage.
“Let me tell you what your husband has been up to," he said. "You might want to write some of this down.”
She didn't but she listened and was still on the phone when his limousine pulled into the driveway. She was sitting there blinking, the phone to her ear when he walked in and saw the shocked look on her face and he thought that there must have been a death in the family.
“He's here," she said dully. "You can tell him yourself.”
He took the phone from her and a cheerful voice said, "Ah, Mr. Tarrant. A good evening to you. Here is what I've been telling your wife.”
He listened in horror as the voice informed him that the death in question was Pratt's...who died slowly...but he outlived his two Muslim helpers. Your pilot, he said, can now save himself a trip. That goes for the pilot of the sea plane as well. Tarrant told this German that he has the wrong Tarrant, that he has no idea what he's talking about. He repeated this protest over and over for the benefit of any listening devices. But he couldn't hang up because the damage was done and he needed to know how much Pratt told him.
He felt sickened when this man said he knows about Bandari and he knows about their Libyan friends and the bankers and the bomb that turns cities into ghost towns. He knows, he said, why Bandari's brother died and why Bandari had his brother's wife's stoned. What's more, he said, he has it all on a videotape "and you might mention that to Bandari." And he has Pratt's notebook which is where he found this number. The notebook contains addresses as well.
“It comes down to this," said the voice, turning icy. "You can do what you want in the rest of the world but there's one little part you must never come near. Not you, not your friends, not your hirelings. If you ever again bother a certain young girl...or, for that matter, a certain Algerian...I will personally pay you a call, Mr. Tarrant. I suspect I'd be doing your wife a great favor.”
At that moment Clarisse, who was still in her nightgown, came to life and made a dash for the door. She paused to grab a fur from the front hall closet but it snagged on her golf clubs and slowed her. Tarrant shouted once more, "You have the wrong number," then slammed down the phone and went after her. This was when he had to slap her. And when she clawed at his face. After that the night only got worse.
He tried to tell Clarisse that it was nothing but lies, an attempt to embarrass him by God knows who, a competitor perhaps, or the Jewish lobby. Jew lawyers, he reminded her, keep trying to indict him for trying to help countries that they want to keep down. It's the Jews, not him, who ought to be in prison. It's the Jews who use PAC-money as a way to bribe Congress so they'll keep those embargoes in place. But he knew that he might as well have talked to a lamp. Her mind had been poisoned long before this by her family, that pack of society snobs who never in their lives had to try to make a dollar. Clarisse sat with her vodka, staring ahead, holding ice cubes against her swelling cheek. Her eyes grew heavy, she had seemed to be dozing, but all she was doing was awaiting her chance. It came at almost one o'clock in the morning when the telephone rang one more time.
The caller was Bandari who should have known better but Bandari sounded out of his mind. "They're all dead," he wailed, "and they're going to kill me. This woman...she called me...she knows.”
Tarrant shouted, "Who is this? What the hell's going on here?" hoping that Bandari would take the hint and shut up. He wasn't sure whether he did or not because that's when Clarisse made her break for the door. He dropped the phone and he tried to stop her again but she was already running across the front lawn yelling "You miserable bastard, you fuck," back at him.
For this he had married into Washington society. He might as well have married a truck stop waitress who at least would know how the world works.
“Now, you listen." He snatched the phone off the floor. "I don't know who you are or what you're trying to pull or who put you up to this sick stupid joke. If I find you I'll scramble your brains, do you hear me?”
“Wha...what?”
“I said I will scramble your brains.”
“Ah...Oh, yes," Bandari managed. He was catching his breath. More importantly, he seemed to catch on and with that Tarrant broke the connection.
But six hours had passed and he was still waiting by the phone with the electronic scrambling device. He felt sure that Bandari had not fallen asleep again, not in the state he was in. Bandari should have got out and gone straight to his office because that's where the nearest scrambler would be. It was Saturday, he realized, the Muslim Sabbath. Bandari might have trouble getting into the Ministry. But the Nile Corniche was lined with foreign embassies. Bandari could have asked to use one of their scramblers, that is if his brain is still functioning.
Tarrant jumped at the sound of an electronic beep. The green light of his scrambler came on. With a mixture of relief and six hours worth of anger he peered at the digital read-out that crawled with the number of the compatible device from which the incoming call was being made. He knew that number. It was not in Cairo. That machine was the one Bandari kept on his yacht. Tarrant now understood the six hour delay. He snatched the phone from its cradle.
“What the hell are you doing in Spain?" he hissed.
“I could not stay there," Bandari answered. He swallowed and dropped his voice to a whisper. "They were everywhere, watching me. She said they were going to cut off my hand.”
“She? She who?”
“I don't know. A woman. A woman who knew Arab ways.”
“One call from a woman and you ran off to Spain? Bandari, what about my container?”
“I don't know. I must think. How am I to get Aisha with so much gone wrong?”
“Bandari...now you listen. I have had it with your niece. I have had with your sheiks and your judges and your head of the family bullshit. You can pick up any girl on the street and pay her to be your niece for an hour. I want you back in Cairo tonight and in front of a judge Monday morning. By noon I want you to have a truck at that warehouse and...”
“But this woman. She knows. She knows everything I do.”
“Bandari...for Christ's sake...she had to have called you from Hilton Head Island. She must be the woman Pratt was talking about. She was bluffing, Bandari. Forget her.”
“Do you know what Pratt did?" Now Bandari was whining. "Pratt left his tape running when he said it was off. She knows it was me who accidentally hit Leyna. She thinks it was me and not you who killed Avram. Why should I take the blame for something you did?”
These words caused the knuckles on Tarrant's fist to go white. Bandari, that weasel, was trying to distance himself. He was about to tell Bandari that he'd cut off his goddamned hand himself when the voice came back suddenly strong and defiant.
“Who is this insolent woman who makes threats?”
Tarrant was startled. "I told you, Bandari. It must be the woman named Nadia Halaby, the one who Pratt said...”
“Halaby? That's the Algerian slut? The one who breaks up Muslim
families?”
“Whatever. Now, listen...”
“I know of this woman. She is long lost to God. I will send her to hell for what she has done.”
It dawned on Tarrant that Bandari must be talking for the benefit of someone who'd just entered the bridge where he kept his satellite phone. "Who's on that boat with you?" Tarrant demanded. "Are you showing off for one of your hookers?”
“I have guests. They are men. You can trust them, don't worry.”
Tarrant heard a low buzz of whispers in Arabic. Bandari was assuring whoever was listening that this man who had called was no danger to them.
“Bandari? Bandari!! I asked who they are. Are they more of those dimwits you've been pandering to?”
“Not dimwits. Brave men. These are fighters," he said firmly.
“Oh, for Christ's sake. Can they hear my voice?”
“Ah...no. Only me.”
“What fighters are they and what are they doing on your boat?”
“One is healing from torture. Also praying and planning.”
“I gather that someone asked you to hide them and being a suck-up you couldn't say no. Get rid of them, Bandari. There's no time for this.”
“Oh, yes. Very brave. Also grateful to me.”
Tarrant gritted his teeth. He also now gathered that Bandari was saying that there's no way in hell he'd give up their protection. Tarrant answered with an exasperated growl but he wondered if they might be otherwise useful.
“Let's hear it, Bandari. Who are they?”
“These, too, are Algerians but not like your slut. They fight for an Islamic Algerian state.”
“Not Algerians. Tuaregs," came a voice in the background. "Algeria is only a word on map.”
“That's their leader?”
“That's Ozal. Very famous. Very brave.”
“Are you saying these are fighters who have actually fought?”
“You can ask do they fight? All three men are Tuaregs. No tribe is more fierce than the Tuaregs.”
“What was that about healing? What condition are they in?”
“One has no fingernails and only one eye after the torturers finished with him. To my shame it's Egyptians who captured this man and did these terrible things. They did it to curry cowardly favor with the illegal and Godless Algerian regime. So you see why I feel it my Islamic duty to...”
“Bandari...Bandari...give it a rest. What kind of shape are the other two in?”
“Young men and strong. In good health.”
“Now tell me...these three...do they have even one brain between them this time?”
“My good friend Ozal, the one who they tortured, has a university degree from America.”
“Is that true? In what?”
“He learned chemical engineering from Rutgers of New Jersey. He knows how to make thunder if you know what I mean. You remember the airplane they were going to blow up in the sky as it flew over Paris?”
Tarrant heard another low urgent buzz, probably Arabic for shut the fuck up. This one had some sense after all.
“Who are the others, Bandari?”
Tarrant heard him ask, in English, "I can say?" The bomber, Ozal, seemed to have no objection.
“They were soldiers who were sent to take him back to Algeria. Instead they shot their Captain and helped him escape. They are soldiers again but this time for God.”
“I see. Now, Bandari....if you lie to me I'll kill you. Do they know what we have in that warehouse?”
“I've said nothing of that. This I swear.”
“Ask your friend, right now, how he'd like to get his hands on a couple of Stingers.”
“Stingers? What stingers? You mean like a bee?”
“They're missiles, you moron. Let me speak to Ozal.”
Bandari wished that he had refused this request that was made in such a discourteous manner. But when his guest, Ozal, overheard the word "Stinger" his eyebrows went up and they stayed there. He was near enough to hear Tarrant's voice when he repeated, "Did you hear me? Let me speak to Ozal." Ozal shrugged and reached out with his ten ruined fingers. Bandari had no choice but to hand him the phone.
Their discussion seemed to last a very long time although only a few minutes passed. The Tuareg mostly listened and grunted but a shine had come into his eyes. Bandari's heart sank when he heard his guest say in English, "For two Stingers maybe I'll go to Suez," and again when he asked, "This warehouse...how well is it guarded?”
Bandari mouthed, "He's crazy. Say no." The Tuareg told Tarrant he would think about this but right now it was almost time for prayers.
“I said I would think. Let me think," said Ozal as they walked down the ramp and onto the docks of the marina. One soldier came with them. The other, who knew boats because his father was a fisherman, would stay on the yacht and stand guard. Ozal walked very slowly because still far from healed was his anus where his torturers shoved a metal tipped stick as they do with almost every male prisoner.
They weaved through the alleys of Marbella's old quarter and up toward the mosque that was on the main road. The Saudi, King Fahd, had caused the mosque to be built for the use of all the Saudis who had built fine homes there. The Tuareg, Ozal, did not like using that mosque because he detested the Saudis. But he prayed there because a mosque was a mosque and because he detested pretty much the whole world. No use spiting himself just because Saudis built it.
On the way Ozal told him what Tarrant had proposed. Take this boat back to Egypt, make Bandari go with you, he'll show you a warehouse on the docks of Suez. There are probably guards so you'll need your two soldiers. Take care of these guards and break into the warehouse. Bandari will show you a container he's left there. Get in and get out and sail east toward Libya. Stay well out to sea, let me know your position, I will rendezvous with you somewhere west of Benghazi. Bring me that container and I'll give you two missiles with which you can knock any plane from the sky.
“A ridiculous plan," said Ozal as they walked. "Does he think the Mediterranean is a small mountain lake? Just to motor to Suez at full speed takes five days.”
“Ah, yes. Very true," said Bandari, relieved.
Ozal knows what he is talking about because his father once had a yacht of his own until the government took away all that he owned. But Tarrant would realize how far it was as well when he cooled down and took time to think. He'd be calling back soon with a better suggestion but Ozal was already ahead of him.
“We could fly there, however," said the man with one eye. "You could charter a boat and get guns for my boys here. Can you get us into Egypt with no problem, Bandari?”
“You would take such a risk of them catching you again? You want them to start on your toes?”
“Two Stingers are two Stingers," Ozal answered.
Bandari groaned inwardly. He tried again. "A man of my importance can, of course, make arrangements. Even so, the risk is still great. You know Cairo these days with its spies and informers. They don't want Egypt to be another Iran.”
“Iran is a picnic compared to what's coming.”
“If they catch you this time they won't ship you to Algeria. This time it's a bullet and that's if you're lucky.”
“I'll show them more than bullets. Just wait.”
“Also Cairo is eager to show the Americans how they crack down on radical Islam. I think even my friends might decide to betray you. After all, these are men who made peace with the Zionists.”
“I might show the Americans a few things myself. Them and the scum-sucking Jews.”
Bandari wondered if he even liked Tuaregs. This man keeps a shotgun on the bridge of this boat because he doesn't like dolphins or seagulls much either. "So it's settled. I'll take care of that warehouse in Suez by myself. Believe me, what's in it can wait.”
“What's there, Bandari? More Stingers?”
“No weapons. No rockets. Only certain machinery.”
Ozal gave a snort at this obvious lie.
“Okay, and some chemicals, some dangerous poisons. The Libyans still have a few scores to settle with those who won't let them sell oil.”
