Mission Compromised (74 page)

General Grisham smiled, and then he reached across and patted her arm. “Yes … I do understand. I understand perfectly. Welcome to God's family.” Rachel recalled that moment with fondness.

They reached the British base at Larnaca and now she was in the comfortable “Visiting VIP Quarters.” It was just after midnight. An entire day of her life had disappeared in an aircraft on the way here. What would the next hours bring?

A maid tapped on Rachel's door and asked if she needed anything. Rachel smiled at the olive-skinned young woman and shook her head.
The maid left, closing the door behind her. Rachel thought it was odd that a maid would be on duty so late.
Maybe that's just how they do it here
, she thought as she got ready for bed.

 

25 Piers Dock

________________________________________

Iskenderun, Turkey

Friday, 10 March 1995

0300 Hours, Local

 

William Goode had arrived at the 25 Piers dock in Iskenderun at exactly 1800 the previous evening. He had berthed the
Pescador
between piers 9 and 10, so he could periodically check for Newman's arrival without attracting too much attention. He went to meet with an old friend, a member of the Intelligence Service of the Republic of Turkey.

They met in a crowded restaurant along Attaturk Street, a venue that the Turk often chose for meetings like this. As they shared tiny cups of strong Arab coffee, Goode handed the Turk intelligence officer a manila envelope. Inside were several photographs he had downloaded and printed from the e-mails he had received before leaving Larnaca, two lists of essential biographical data that he himself had compiled, and fifty one-hundred-dollar bills. The Turk asked a number of questions, noted Goode's answers on a slip of paper, and then excused himself, telling the white-haired American that he would meet him aboard the
Pescador
before midnight.

Goode had returned to the pier, stopping on the way to purchase some fresh fish, a loaf of good bread, some feta cheese, and several bright, red tomatoes. Back aboard, he grilled the fish over a small charcoal brazier attached to the transom of the boat, and while it was cooking, he sliced the tomatoes, drizzled some olive oil and tarragon vinegar over them, and added some crumbled feta cheese.

Shortly after sunset, the breeze softened and backed around to blow offshore from east to west, making the night warmer. Goode ate on deck, from plates set on the foldaway table in the cockpit. By 11:30 he had finished his meal, cleaned up his dishes and utensils and was sitting on deck, listening to the Voice Of America news on the short-wave radio. He saw his Turkish friend walking toward his boat, along the pier.

“Request permission to come aboard, sir” said his smiling friend, standing beside the
Pescador
with the manila envelope in hand.

“Permission granted,” replied Goode, and helped his friend make the short leap from the pier to the deck of the boat that had lifted with the rising tide.

The two of them sat on cushions in the cockpit, and as the Turk put the envelope on the table, Goode asked, “Any problems?”

“No. I made them Irish, as you suggested. Are you still certain that's wise?

“I think so,” replied Goode. “My supposition is that whoever did this to him wouldn't expect him to adopt the nationality of the poster. Hopefully, that will afford them a better chance of getting away, if that's what they want to do.”

“I hope you are right,” said the Turkish intelligence officer. “He should be here shortly. I have confirmed that your man made it onto the midnight train from Elbeyli. My people didn't see anyone tailing him, but it is always possible. Even so, I would advise you to depart here as soon as he arrives. And in case he is tracked here, I have, as you requested, filed a sail plan for the
Pescador
from here, up the coast to Mersin. That is consistent with the word I let slip that you might be making an Easter pilgrimage to Saint Paul's hometown of Tarsus.”

“As always, you do very good work, my friend,” said Goode, patting his ally on the arm.

The Turk rose and headed for the narrow gangway that would take him to the pier. “I look forward to spending more time with you next time you visit and shall hold you in my prayers until I do.”

“As do I.” Goode rose to embrace his former agent, now his friend.

When he got to the rail and was about to descend to the pier, the Turk turned and said, “By the way, I am told that in Elbeyli, your Marine apparently had the help of an Assyrian Christian widow, her widowed daughter, and two grandchildren. I thought you told me that he didn't speak Arabic.”

“I don't think he does,” replied Goode.

The Turk shrugged and said, “Many, strange, and wondrous are the ways of the Lord.”

“Amen.” Goode smiled.

He spent the next three hours alternatively checking for the Marine he had come to rescue and watching the all-night activity in the busy port. Just a few hundred meters away from the
Pescador
, beneath huge banks of mercury vapor lights, husky stevedores used heavy transport equipment to load steel, grain, and ore into giant cargo ships. And at other piers, cargo from other parts of the world was being unloaded and placed aboard trucks to be shipped to cities throughout the Middle East. Goode watched as automobiles, giant Sea-Land containers and other crates, and all sorts of commodities were taken from the bowels of the huge ships. Just down the quay, fishermen were arriving with their catch, and seafood brokers, chefs, and wholesalers shouted out their bids.

Then Goode spotted his man, walking unhurriedly past the open-air seafood auction.

He was dressed in the rough linen trousers and cotton shirt of a backcountry peasant. He wore sandals and had a short, heavy beard.
Over his shoulder he had a brown mishlah. All in all, Goode concluded, he looked like a man who might have come in from the mountains looking for work.

Once he had him spotted, Goode paid less attention to the man and more to what was happening around and behind him. From his vantage point on the
Pescador's
deck, four or five feet higher than the pier, Goode looked carefully for anyone who might be following his intended passenger.

Seeing no one following the tall man headed toward pier 10, Goode grabbed a large plastic bag of trash, descended to the pier and started walking toward the large trash container at the landward end of pier 10. He timed his pace to arrive at the same time as his man.

As Goode passed within a few feet of him, he said in a quiet voice, “My name is William Goode. … Do I know you?”

“Man, am I ever glad to see you! Yes, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Peter Newman.” The Marine never looked at Goode as he spoke.

“Great. I'm going back to that sailboat with the blue hull behind me. You walk on back down the pier behind me like you're one of the dockhands. Throw off my lines and take off the gangplank as though you're helping me make ready to get underway. As soon as I engage the prop, jump aboard. Got it?” said Goode.

“Got it,” replied Newman.

Less than four minutes later, the big blue sloop was headed out to sea with the white-haired captain at the helm and his passenger below decks, watching the lights of the harbor falling behind them.

Neither man noticed the heavyset European with the binoculars amidst the crates and boxes at the seaward end of pier 12 as he made a call on his satellite phone.

 

Room 306

________________________________________

Hotel Kophinou

Larnaca, Cyprus

Friday, 10 March 1995

1525 Hours, Local

 

“Radchenko, tell me what you have learned,” said UN Deputy Secretary General Dimitri Komulakov.

“Immediately after arriving in Cyprus aboard the UN aircraft the day before,” Radchenko said, “I dispatched the four Palestinians to confirm some intel that a Marine general had arrived on the island with a mysterious woman. One of the maids who was assigned to her said that she is the wife of someone important.”

“If I can find his wife, I can get him,” Komulakov said.

Radchenko continued, “This is important. This U.S. Marine general is named Grisham. He landed last night aboard a U.S. Air Force C-17 at Akrotiri and came here to Larnaca by motorcade provided by the British security service. He has with him six aides and the American woman. I found out that she is registered as Rachel Huffman. She is right now in room 204 at the Royal Officers' VIP quarters, inside the U.K. Sovereign Base Area. The general is in a suite of rooms in the next building.”

This confirmed the information Komulakov had received from Harrod while still in Syria. “Huffman” was obviously an alias. From his next-of-kin data, he knew that Newman's wife's first name was Rachel. He asked, “What are they doing?”

“Nothing,” said Radchenko. “They appear to be waiting for something or someone. Earlier today, the Huffman woman asked her maid for a good place to buy a dress. She also said something about her husband arriving tonight.”

“Will we know if this Rachel woman leaves the base to go shopping?”

“I can make it so,” said Radchenko.

“See to it. Now, let me tell you what I have learned. While you were gone, I found the man we are seeking.”

“Duncan? The terrorist? Where is he? What does this woman at the British base have to do with him?” exclaimed Radchenko, excitedly.

“His real name is Newman,” replied Komulakov. “He is an American Marine. And I learned last night that he is right now headed here on a large blue sailboat from Iskenderun, Turkey. It took me all day to find out whose boat it is, but now I know: it belongs to a retired CIA clandestine services officer named William P. Goode.”

“Goode … where have I heard that name before?”

“My dear Radchenko, now I know why you are not a colonel. Don't you remember the operation in '86 when we had to take down those who stole our Soviet Army's munitions train from the siding in Poland?”

“Ah, yes, General Komulakov. You got promoted and I got sent to Afghanistan. I personally killed that Solidarity priest in Poland and then delivered the bomb to Lisbon. And it was my PFLP guys who liquidated the Frenchman. But what does that have to do with this person named Goode and his sailboat?”

“The theft of the Soviet munitions train was his operation,” replied Komulakov. “Think back to when Moscow Centre gave us the mission. They told us that Goode was that Marine at the White House who was helping the reactionary Nicaraguan terrorists overthrow our Scientific Socialist friends in Managua. He was running around to places like Beirut and Tehran and making all kinds of mischief for Moscow.”

“I remember—but his real name was North,” said Radchenko.

“Yes, that's correct. Yet all along there was another ‘Goode.' He was the one who really orchestrated the train robbery and the theft of those whole carloads of weapons and munitions. I knew it then, but Moscow Centre wouldn't buy it. They said that North was the key to bringing down Reagan, the American president. So they let the real Goode slip through their fingers. Now we have a chance to correct that.”

“It was a long time ago, and I'm not sure I remember clearly, but didn't this Marine, North, have false documents in the name of ‘Goode,' as well?” asked the major.

“Of course, Radchenko, of course. That was all part of their plan. And it would have worked but for others we have planted in very important places in Washington. I was the resident there, remember? We have people very high up in their CIA, their FBI. I even have one of their very sensitive communications security devices.” Komulakov showed the EncryptionLok-3 to Radchenko.

“So what do you want us to do?”

“What I want to do is to finish the job we started in 1986, and eliminate the real William P. Goode. And, I want to be rid of this Newman person forever. Here's how we're going to accomplish both. …”

 

U.K. Sovereign Base

________________________________________

Larnaca, Cyprus

Friday, 10 March 1995

1745 Hours, Local

 

General Grisham and Rachel Newman arrived at the little boat basin in the Royal Navy Yard just as the big blue sloop rounded the bar that protected the port from the Mediterranean's bitter winter storms. The general had called Rachel's room at 1730 hours and informed her, “I just got a call from the harbormaster. The
Pescador
is inbound and
should be tied up at 1800. Do you want to go down to the pier and meet them?”

“Oh, yes!” Rachel had exclaimed. “But … good grief, I look a sight. I was going to go out and get a pretty dress, and my hair is a mess.”

The general chuckled at her response. “You sound just like my wife and daughters. I think Pete will be glad to see you whatever you're wearing. But if you want, the waterfront shops are open until eight or nine—I think just on the other side of the fence where Bill keeps his boat. After you greet each other, you can run out and get something and then join us for dinner at the Officer's Mess.”