Haven, page 28
Tarrant, again, thought it best to seem candid. He acknowledged that Pratt had heard him speak of that shipment but only in the vaguest of terms. He had mentioned the warehouse but not its location and certainly not what was in those containers. As he said this he could barely contain his relief. That the banker had focused on the state of Pratt's knowledge had to mean he knew nothing of that group at Fort Meade, and the fact that they were looking for the German as well, or that Bandari had gone into hiding.
“Is the shipment indeed in that warehouse, Lawrence?”
“The brother was given no time to move it. It's under armed guard but it's there.”
“Yet Bandari stalls you when you tell him to get it. Is it possible that he's already given the warheads to those lunatics he's been working to cultivate?”
“No it isn't. He knows that I'd kill him.”
“Well, let's see then. What's left?" The banker paused for a sigh. "I'll pass over his nonsense about the need to do this legally as the recognized head of his family. Is it possible that he's getting a case of cold feet at the thought of depopulating a city here and there?”
Cold feet, thought Tarrant, but not for that reason. He chose not to mention the Algerian woman who had threatened to lop off his hand.
“Because if that's his concern, you can put him at ease. Our own lunatics have no such intention.”
Tarrant blinked, not sure that he followed.
“Oh, they might set off one but not in a city." The banker drew a cigar from his pocket. "They have chosen a vineyard town somewhere in France. Our friends, you'll recall, have a thing about wine.”
Tarrant must have stared in a dimwitted manner. His expression brought a smirk to the banker's face as he snipped and lit his Corona.
“Very well, I'll narrow it down just a little. It's a town near Bordeaux but that's as much as I can tell you. When it happens and you see what labels are affected, you'll want to snatch up a few cases for your cellar. You won't see them again in your lifetime.”
Tarrant wanted to smack the cigar from his mouth and choke him to get him to shut up about grapes. But the fact that the banker was toying with him offered further proof that he had no idea that their project was nearly in shambles.
“You really haven't figured this out?" asked the banker as he blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "Our friends might be brutal but they're not suicidal. NATO would grind them to dust in a week. Think money, dear boy, and it will all become clear.”
Tarrant's eyes widened slowly. "They're going to try blackmail?”
“More or less," smiled the banker. He patted Tarrant's knee. "Our friends intend to inform the UN that they've infiltrated a terrorist group. The plotters are that Algerian bunch, the Islamic Salvation Front. They're the ones, you'll recall, who tried to hijack an airliner and intended to explode it in the sky over Paris. Since then they've had to settle for planting bombs in the Metro for want of the means to do something more dramatic.”
“For want of six nuclear warheads, for instance.”
“Terrorism is theater. The bigger the better. "'Wide slaughter', you know, and all that.”
Tarrant gritted his teeth to control his impatience. "Are you saying that these warheads will be used or that they won't?”
“Don't you see? That's the point. They need never be used. The devices will be planted in cities throughout France and one at NATO headquarters in Brussels. France is the terrorists' primary target because of their support for the Algerian regime. The Libyans will offer to prevent their detonation but of course they'll want something in return.”
“Such as the unfreezing of all their seized assets.”
“That and an unrestricted market for their oil. Right now they have to sell it at a discount. They'll also want commercial airline flights resumed and an end to being pestered about that Lockerbie business.”
Tarrant wasn't sure that he liked this at all. From his point of view there was more to be made from an embargo left firmly in place. He was also beginning to understand why the banker was speaking so freely. No doubt he was carrying a recording device. Its intent was not entrapment so much as enwrapment so that Tarrant could not, at some future date, try to claim to know nothing of this.
“Will the UN believe them?”
“Of course not. Would you?”
“I would...want to see proof. A confession, perhaps, and by someone still alive whom I could interview.”
“Oh, they won't provide that yet. It would spoil their fun. Our friends will say, 'Well, we did try to warn you.' and the French will lose that village plus a few surrounding vineyards that they think of as national treasures. This will happen in mid-April by the way, after Ramadan, which is why we have little time to lose. After that, should the vineyards fail to get their attention, I suspect the next target will be a nuclear power plant but my personal favorite is Cannes. The Film Festival is held there in May. Film stars and tourists all packed cheek by jowl. Once again our friends will warn them; they'll say, 'This is what we've heard. We can make some arrests and get them to talk but, remember, there's the danger that they'll then turn on us so it needs to be well worth our while.' By then the UN should be ready to deal.”
Tarrant wondered about that. More likely would be a French ultimatum. They'd give Qaddafy one hour to produce those devices or he could kiss his own capitol good-bye. The Algerians would also carve a chunk out of Libya as a pay-back for trying to frame them. Other Arab leaders would make use of the confusion to settle disputes with their neighbors. They already have designs on each other's oil but it's water that's becoming more precious by the day. They'll fight over oil if they have the will. They'll fight over water because they'll have no choice.
“It's inevitable, you know," said the banker.
“What is?”
“Total war in that region. Isn't that what you're thinking? All it takes is a spark. Just a spark.”
“And that spark...what you're saying is, why leave it to chance?”
“Exactly, Lawrence. Exactly.”
So the master plan goes beyond mere extortion. It envisions the entire Mid-East being occupied; every NATO nation carving out its own zone and Israel tripling in size. It envisions establishing a NATO protectorate to administer the Western world's oil supply. Corporations move in. It's the bankers who fund them. And the bankers end up controlling everything.
“Our friends need those six shells," said this prince among those bankers. "You must not disappoint them...or me.”
“They'll have them.”
“And your German must be silenced, as you put it, at once. It's no good if he ruins the surprise, is it, Lawrence.”
“Give me three days for Kessler. Three more for the shipment. I will have it or Bandari is a dead man as well.”
“Um...'as well' would include you, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, that's clear." Tarrant told him. "That's perfectly clear. But I intend to collect my twenty five million.”
The banker seemed satisfied, although guardedly so, because this was a man who understood greed. But in Tarrant's mind the amount now seemed modest when compared to the hundreds of billions at stake here.
The banker is right. This is how it will start. Not with invasions by the great superpowers but with terrorist acts so atrocious in scope that the West has no choice short of massive response. And it won't be the work of the terrorists we know. Not Hamas or Hezbollah, not Iran or Iraq or especially that pip-squeak, Qaddafy. It need only seem that their hand is behind it.
If providing these shells is worth twenty five million, one would think not to do so should be worth even more. In the long run he'd be doing the Libyans a favor if he sold them to the French instead.
And the banker is right to ask who would believe this. Few believed that Hitler, who specifically promised it, would actually try to exterminate a whole race. No one believed, much more recently than that, that a Japanese cult had the means and intention to kill a few million commuters. And they weren't even doing it for God in those cases.
No one will believe it. So they'll have to be shown. At least one of those devices will be used.
“This is right to do, you know," the banker said quietly. He stared at the glow of his cigar.
Tarrant was startled. He said, "Um...I'm sure.”
“The alternative is chaos. Islam rising and all that. As Christians we're bound to prevent it.”
“Absolutely.”
“Read your bible...Jeremiah. It's all there, you know.”
“Oh, I will. And it's there. I've no doubt.”
Tarrant's answer, once again, drew a pat on his knee. The banker seemed pleased that he understood. But Tarrant felt a twinge. He would not have called it conscience. People suffer and die one way or the other but the business of making money goes on. And yet he still wondered about men like these bankers. He, himself, was not troubled by the rightness or wrongness of what they intended to do. It was wrong. Accept it. Then go do it.
But to claim that it's right? That we're doing them a favor? He was not at all comfortable with that sort of thinking. He wondered whether Hitler and men like him through history ever doubted for a moment through the worst of their crimes that what they were doing was right. It seemed, to Tarrant, a convenient turn of mind. The Muslims surely have it. That's what makes them so dangerous, or will when a powerful leader emerges. The Christian Right has it but they only kill doctors now that lynching has gone out of fashion. All one has to do is quote scripture these days and people seem to turn off their brains.
Lost in reflection - what to do about this - Tarrant gazed out the window of his plane. His eye caught the glint on another small jet that was headed on a similar course. Beyond was the coastline and the gray-green Atlantic. He could not make out any yachts from the altitude but he prayed that he was right and Bandari's was down there.
“A penny for your thoughts," said the banker to his ear.
“They're worth twenty-five million. Just be ready to move it.”
“We've no doubt that you'll do the right thing.”
TWENTY EIGHT
Roy Willis had come early to Hilton Head's airport driving one of the Van Der Meer jitneys. The man he was to meet there had made the pointed suggestion that they meet in the parking lot, not in the terminal. He'd be coming alone, no escort, no staff.
“Yeah, but why are you coming?" Roy had asked when he called. "Seems I heard that you're not DEA anymore.”
“Do I need a reason to see an old friend? Maybe hit a few tennis balls? Talk over old times?”
“Okay, then. Why else are you coming? If this is about those three stiffs in the swamp, all I know is what I've seen in the papers.”
“Well, the truth is I'd like you to look at some photographs but it's mostly an excuse to come visit. Believe me, Roy. I could use the vacation.”
Willis didn't believe him. He knew more than he was saying. One other thing he had trouble believing was that Peter would be traveling alone. This was because he'd been watching the cars that had entered the lot since he got there. One car had two men in it. They parked and they sat. They did not have the look of either tourists or locals. A second car came. Two more men like the others. They did the same. It struck Willis as unlikely that all four men were simply waiting for out-of -town guests to arrive.
Peter's plane landed. A few minutes later he emerged from the terminal. He wore a yellow windbreaker and a baseball type cap, a garment bag hung from his shoulder. He spotted the jitney and waved. Willis scanned the three cars. The men had not reacted. None of them started an engine.
“Those men. Are they yours?" Roy asked as he slid back the door of the jitney.
Peter followed his eyes. "No, they're not," he said frowning. "Let's go. We'll see if they follow.”
Willis hesitated. "Do you have a camera?”
“As it happens, I do." He reached into his bag. The camera was a Nikon with a telephoto lens of a type that is used for surveillance.
“Just what every vacationer carries," scowled Willis. But he took it and shot half a roll through his window. The angles were catch as catch can. "What the hell. Why be cute about this?" he said. He started the jitney and moved it forward, stopping again at the terminal entrance. Once there he rolled his window down and shot the rest of his roll. All four men could now see what he was doing. All four tried to cover their faces, too late. Willis took his time pocketing the film when he finished. He put the jitney in gear and drove toward the exit. The men in the cars watched him go.
“And here I thought you'd learned to relax," remarked Peter when he saw that they hadn't been followed.
“Old habits," said Willis. "And speaking of pictures, where are yours?”
“Pick a place to pull over and I'll show you.”
They had stopped in the lot of a Piggly-Wiggly Market. Willis climbed out from behind the wheel as Peter spread his carry-bag across his lap and pulled a large envelope from its pocket. Willis felt fairly sure of what he was going to be shown. Three bodies, now identified, two of them Muslims. He could think of no other reason why Peter had called him. The man had assumed that there must be a connection. Or at least Willis thought so. He was wrong.
The first photograph that came out of that envelope caused the hair on his neck to rise. He struggled not to show his surprise. The face he was looking at was one that he knew. He had questioned this man in the Players Club parking lot when he saw him peering into another guest’s car. And that guest, as he had later determined, was none other than the late Cyril Pratt.
“His name is Martin Kessler. Do you know him, by chance?" asked Peter who was watching his eyes.
Roy answered with a shrug that he hoped was convincing. He yawned in an effort to improve on the effect. "Not off hand. What about him?" he asked.
Peter drew another photo, this one of Pratt. "Then I don't suppose you'd know this one.”
Willis felt his cheek twitch. Another shrug.
Peter pulled out more photos, one after another. These were morgue photographs of three men or what remained of them. "As you've said, you wouldn't know a thing about these beyond what's appeared on the news.”
“Those drug dealers, right?”
Peter sniffed. "If you say so." He brought out more photos. "And therefore you wouldn't know these fellows either.”
In fact, he did not. The next photos shown were of a man in a business suit and a second man, darker and stockier.
Peter watched him as before. "You don't know them? Truly? Well, let's see if some names might ring a bell. The fat one's name is Gamal Bandari. The one with no lips is named Tarrant.”
“I've...heard the name Bandari. Who is Tarrant?”
“Bandari's niece is in your charge, am I correct?”
“If she is, that's nobody's business.”
“It was certainly Pratt's. Isn't that why he came here?”
“Peter...who is Tarrant? And who is this Kessler?”
In reply, Peter reached for the photo of Kessler and slid it back over with Tarrant's. He explained that Kessler had called Lawrence Tarrant - the man is an arms dealer among other things - and told him that Pratt and the others were dead. Kessler warned him against sending anyone else to this island or ever again bothering a certain Algerian - who, we feel certain, is Nadia Halaby - and especially a certain young girl. The leverage with which Kessler backed up his warning was his knowledge of certain other plans Tarrant has.
He reached for the photos of Bandari and Pratt and arranged them in a square with the others.
“Bandari works with Tarrant. Pratt worked for Bandari. Pratt came to this island in quest of a bounty on the girl, or on Halaby, or both. Are you really going to make me go through all this, Roy?”
“Not if you'll cut to the chase.”
“How is it, incidentally, that a man you've never heard of has appointed himself as your champion?”
“I don't know," Roy answered. "That's the truth.”
“And your word that you had no part in it yourself?”
“Part of what? Killing Pratt?”
“And his two Muslim thugs. Kessler didn't do that without help.”
Roy thought of the woman who the girl had described but Peter did not seem to know about her. "The answer is I would have but I didn't.”
Roy's friend seemed relieved. "He was tortured, you know.”
“Tortured by Kessler? What for?”
“Well, let's see. To get answers to questions, I would think. Would one of them have asked where this girl could be found?”
Willis looked at him evenly. "I were you, I'd bet no." This Kessler knew that all along, he now realized. If anything, he used her as a lure to get Pratt.
Peter apologized. He hadn't meant to be snide. "If you're right, we can rule out that he's after a bounty. But he did learn something that Tarrant is up to and we think it involves a terrorist attack. A very major attack. It involves the poisoning of entire cities. We suspect that New York is the primary target. More specifically, northern Manhattan.”
This last was invention. It was done for effect.
Roy's expression went cold. He was rising to the bait. "You suspect," he repeated. "You don't know for sure?”
“Kessler does. I need to find him and talk to him.”
Willis narrowed his eyes. "Those men at the airport. You're sure they're not yours?”
“I've already said no. I'm alone.”
A doubtful sniff. "This thing's that big and you're doing a solo?”
“Roy, read my lips. I cannot risk a leak and I can't risk a manhunt. I can't risk that Kessler might slip through our fingers or get himself killed if we corner him.”
Roy nodded slowly. He reached for his cell phone.
“You're calling...?”
“My people. Let them know we're both coming. When we get there, we'll see what we can do.”
Nadia Halaby stood at the window of her second floor office at Van Der Meer. She was keeping an eye on the parking lot below where young Aisha was skating in circles. Or trying to skate. She had never used rollerblades. She had asked that as long as she can't leave the grounds and since Nadia can't take her back to the tournament, could she at least try to learn to skate on some blades another student had lent her.
