Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (47 page)

 
          
“That
leaves the fighters and the radar systems that control them,” Townsend said.
“We can attack the terminal radar antennas to knock out the ground-based
radars; we know their locations precisely. But the airborne radar planes and
the fighters will still be in operation. If they’re on the ground, we can hit
them. We know the radar planes’ main operating base is in Oklahoma City,
Oklahoma, and our scouts can locate any other aerodromes they may use to deploy
their radar planes. The fighters are widely deployed—we’ve seen them at the
most unlikely aerodromes, parked beside fabric-winged planes and tiny line
service plywood shacks trying to top up on jet fuel—and they fly more aerial
patrols instead of returning to ground alert after a run. That means they’ll be
harder to target. But we’ve got the manpower and the hardware to raid a dozen
locations simultaneously, Henri. Just give us a target and a time. A few days
after we get the planes, we can—”

 
          
“I’ve
got a better suggestion,” Harold Lake interjected. “Why don’t we quit while
we’re ahead here?”

 
          
The
entire room turned as quiet as a tomb. The other staff officers looked at
Lake
in astonishment, wondering how he or any
man who knew Henri Cazaux could dare to suggest such a thing as stopping an
operation that Cazaux was actively directing. Lake noticed the sudden, deathly
silence, took another deep swig of Scotch, and went on. “Look at you bums,
looking at me like I just developed four fucking heads. Henri, I’m serious
about this.” Lake turned to Cazaux. He knew the terrorist respected strength
and military protocol, and so he straightened his shoulders and said in a
clear, steady voice, “Permission to speak, Henri.”

 
          
“Of
course, Harold,” Cazaux said, nodding his approval. “You have earned the right.
I have been remiss in not acknowledging your contribution to this campaign. I
was distrustful and wary of your idea concerning using the stock and options
markets to raise money for our operations, but you have far exceeded all
expectations. I congratulate you, and I admit that my hesitation about your
plan was because of my ignorance. Speak.”

 
          
“Thank
you, Henri. I’ll preface my suggestion with the quartermaster’s report,
gentlemen: we have almost ninety million dollars in cash or liquid securities
in our hands right now. The options that will expire in the next three to five
days will net us another ten to twelve million—”

 
          
“You’re
shitting me!” Ysidro cried enthusiastically. “I don’t believe it, Drip—you
really made that stock option shit work!”

 
          
“This
is by far the largest war chest we’ve ever had,” Lake went on. “The only
payables we have right now is the refurbishment and reregistration of the
Shorts Sherpa following Henri’s Memphis mission. We’re not just repainting it,
of course, but we’ve got to create new airworthiness certificates and
registration documents, and all that takes time and money—and of course the
prepurchase of the new aircraft, weapons, and hardware for the next mission.

 
          
“But
each securities transaction I accomplish now is getting more and more
attention, and it’s only a matter of time before someone starts a Securities
and Exchange Commission investigation. I’m not worried about that—the source of
the money is very well covered, and besides, everything I’m doing is completely
legal—but it will create a little attention, and we can always do without that.
But when we purchased the Airtech transport we used on the Dallas raid, I’m
sure our paperwork was scrutinized by the FBI or the Marshals Service. Any
plane that even slightly appears as if it might be used in a Henri Cazaux-style
raid will be subject to a more intensive search. In short, Henri, the heat’s
being turned up everywhere—not just over the target, but in the brokerage
houses, banks, and the airplane dealers.”

 
          
“So
what’s the point, Drip?”

 
          
“The
point is, this might be a good time to take the cash, fold up our tents, and
get out of the country,” Lake went on. “Our operating expenses from our normal
smuggling and tactical operations were about six million dollars a year. That’s
half
of what we’ll make on
interest
on our war chest alone, without
ever touching the principal. In addi- , tion, I’ve established several
iron-clad legitimate business entities in seven countries just in the past two
weeks, all completely untraceable to any of us. I’ve got entrees into * the
defense and aviation ministries, from countries like the Czech Republic,
Indonesia, and mainland China, which - means they will sell us weapons and
aircraft with a phone call and a wire from a bank
that we own.

 
          
“Henri,
this is no shit, I swear it—I’ve got us tapped into resources, government
officials, bank accounts, letters of credit, and industry pipelines to over ten
billion
dollars’ worth of airplanes,
weapons, real estate, anything you want,” Lake went on excitedly. “We’re
players now,
'
Henri—global,
international, zero-frontier players. With all due respect, Henri, we’re almost
as big now as we were as just Henri Cazaux’s smuggling gang, and far more
legitimate-looking. We can pull the strings from anywhere on the planet that
has a phone—not even a phone, man, as long as we could see the sky to aim at a
satellite—and we could get away from the FBI and the regulators forever. And if
we turned our backs on it all, flew the Shorts down to South America, bought a
plantation outside Caracas or Rio or Cartagena, we could live like kings and
have enough dough to set our
grandchildren
up in business fifty years from now.”

 
          
Harold
Lake had mesmerized this audience—he even seemed to have Cazaux’s full
attention. Tomas Ysidro said, “Hey, Henri, the Drip is paintin’ a pretty smooth
picture right now. I see stuff on the news about the feds closing in on us—I
don’t see it happening, but, you know, it kinda gets stuck in your brain, you
know ... ?”

 
          
“Ysidro
is babbling as usual,” Townsend said, “but I share his thoughts. In any
previous operation, Henri, we have never stayed in a country as long as we have
for this one. Staying on the move, and especially outside the States, has
helped us keep out of the reach of the authorities. I feel we’ve overstayed our
welcome here, as well. Perhaps it is time to consider taking the cash and
laying low for a few weeks.”

 
          
To
everyone’s surprise, Cazaux nodded—the sense of relief was obvious. “Very
well,” he said, crossing his arms.on his chest. “My adviser has indicated to me
that the authorities are indeed closing in on us, and so we shall close our
operation, disperse, and meet again in a new location— after one more mission.”
He turned to Lake and said, “Harold, you indicated that Universal Equity still
has two major companies in America untouched—Westfall Air at Dallas-Fort Worth
Airport, and Sky Partners Airlines in New York
City.”         .

 
          
“Sure,”
Lake replied, “and they’re trying to make a comeback of sorts, using the
public’s fear as a marketing tool. Universal Express has moved most of the
package stuff to other airports, and the blowhard president, McSor- ley, is
promising to fly even if all the other carriers close up shop during the air
emergency. We missed Westfall Charter when those dopers failed to attack
Dallas-Fort Worth, Henri, but Westfall is small potatoes—Sky Partners is the real
prize. The stock is on the upswing—ripe for another fall.”

 
          
“Then
that will be our objective ... our
secondary
objective,” Cazaux said. “And now I will brief you on our primary objective—and
what I demand of all of you.”

 
          
After
completely destroying a corner of a very expensive Persian carpet in the
billiards room, Ted Fell leaned on the pool table, his eyes filled with tears,
trying to block out the grisly image of a murdered man’s heart being dangled in
front of his face. Cazaux had butchered a man and brought his heart back,
obviously as a warning to everyone else. What was really sick was that Mexican
bastard Ysidro. Cutting out a man’s heart and stuffing it into a Ziploc bag was
one thing—pulling it out and gleefully examining it as if it were a pet mouse
or a newly discovered seashell was another thing. Fell thought he had never
seen anything as disgusting in his life.

 
          
A
few guards checked Fell, but they ignored him as the attorney continued to
dry-heave in the corner, chuckling at the bean-counter’s cowardice as they
walked away. The image would simply not go away—Fell saw that gruesome piece of
flesh everywhere in his mind’s eye. He finally stood upright and tried to force
fresh air into his lungs, noticing that the front of his suit was stained with
vomit. He left the billiards room to find a bathroom and clean his suit, and
perhaps get some help in cleaning the room. It was obvious that Henri Cazaux
and most of the others were out of place in that big New Jersey mansion—Cazaux
looked as if he belonged in a southeast Asia jungle or an African swamp—but he
still feared meeting the wrath of Cazaux or Ysidro if they found the mess he
had made, so he thought he better clean it up.

 
          
Fell
heard voices coming from the kitchen, but he decided to avoid that place—the
guards, most likely on break or getting dry. He noticed what looked like a
broom closet at the top of the stairs, so he quietly stepped upstairs. No
guards were nearby to stop him. He reached the top of the stairs and found some
towels and cleaning supplies, then went down the hallway to the bathroom to wet
the towels. He was about to enter the bathroom when he passed a set of stairs
leading up to the third floor—and he heard a woman’s faint sobs coming from
upstairs.

 
          
At
first Fell told himself to forget what he just heard, forget all about whoever
was up there. He thought that Cazaux probably didn’t have a wife or
girlfriend—who in hell would want a psychopath like Cazaux? Was she a captive?
Some kind of sex slave? Was she a hostage? In any case, he didn’t think Cazaux
would take too kindly to someone sneaking around his house. Fell heard a groan
and a labored cough—she obviously sounded hurt, perhaps recovering from being
strangled or hit. Beating up on women was the mark of a coward—and so was
terrorism. Henri Cazaux fit both descriptions perfectly. And what was Ted Fell
made of? He was either very brave or very stupid, because he found himself
quietly tiptoeing up the stairs and pushing open the one door.

 
          
The
attic had been turned into a very nice little studio apartment—but what else he
found was not so pretty. Fell saw a woman lying on her back on the bed in the
center of the apartment, her clothing ripped away from her body, her breasts
exposed, her dress piled up around her waist, exposing her crotch, her legs
dangling off the side of the bed. She was facing away from him, so she could
not see him. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her hands and fingers were
stained with ...

 
          
“It
is not safe for you to be here,” she said suddenly. There was a slight pause
while she sniffed and let out a painful breath; then she added, “Mr. Fell.”

 
          
Fell
resisted the urge to run down the stairs and back to the billiards room as fast
as he could—obviously he had made a lot more noise than he thought he did, even
though he had tried to be quiet. But her shaking voice and trembling hands and
shoulders told him that she was in real trouble. “Who are you?” he asked in a
loud whisper. “How do you know my name? What happened to you? Was it Cazaux?”

 
          
“My
name is not important,” she replied weakly. “I know all who come to this place,
except you, so you must be Mr. Lake’s assistant, whom I have not met. I...”

 
          
She
had tried to rise onto her elbows, but a shot of pain had cut her off. Fell
darted into the room, closed the door, and sat on the bed beside her. Her face
had been savagely beaten, covered with red and black bruises. Her nose was
broken, and it did not look like the first time it had been done. He pushed her
skirt back down over her knees, but couldn’t help noticing the blood that
stained the bedspread under her anus. “My God ... the sonofabitch . ..”

 
          
“He
is no longer in control of himself,” the woman mumbled. “The dark master
controls him.”

 
          
“Cazaux?
Who controls Cazaux .. . ?”

 
          
“I
tried to stop him,” she said. “I tried to tell him that he still had a choice,
that he can still control his destiny. But his soul has been taken. He no longer
listens to human reason.”