Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

As he drove back toward San Diego, he kept the radio on, listening to the news from the Cape about the Mars rocket. The reporter, lapsing into space talk, said it was “T minus nineteen and counting.”

Curtis was satisfied, for things were in motion. Tomorrow would be a very Black Sunday for the United States, with simultaneous terrorism strikes on each coast. One would be payback for Raneen, and the other would be payback for the bridge.

“I AM ON VACATION. I am wearing a mouse-ears cap and a flowery blue Hawaiian shirt, baggy cargo shorts, black socks, and sandals. Why are you bothering me?” General Brad Middleton growled into his cell phone.

“Weren’t you going to watch the rocket launch before going to Disney World?” Sybelle Summers was in Washington and had not thought twice about interrupting Middleton’s schedule.

“My bug-dumb grandchildren made it very clear on the way down that they did not care about seeing any stupid rocket, which they can watch on YouTube if they ever want to. Now they are bankrupting me in this pleasure dome. Never mind. Why are you calling?”

“Undersecretary Bill Curtis is back on our radar, General. He apparently has kidnapped Beth Ledford’s mother, presumably with the intent of drawing Beth and Kyle into his web and taking them down face-to-face.”

“Then he is a stupid fellow. Why do you need me?”

Sybelle was smiling. “I wanted to touch base on whether to bring in the FBI or the locals.”

The general grabbed his grandson with one big arm and held him motionless. “What does Kyle want to do?”

“He wants to keep it within Trident. Let him handle it.”

“Well, I trust the skill sets of Swanson and Ledford more than those of the Feebs. Notify the White House chief of staff that we’re going after the bastard, and give Kyle permission to light him up.”

“Yes, sir. Have a good time.”

“I’m going to drive over to the Cape tomorrow morning for the launch. Leave the rest of them here with the rat. It’s my vacation, too, and I’m a general.”

“Now, now, sir. Think of the children.”

Bill Curtis wrapped a colorful Mexican serape over the shoulders of Margaret Ledford, adjusted the front, and took her by the arm. “Scream or try to escape and I will shoot you dead where you stand,” he warned. “Now let’s go see Beth.”

The small woman and the tall man pulling a little suitcase left the parking garage aboard an elevator that took them up to the top level of the Hacienda Hotel. The hallway was empty except for a service cart at the far end, where two Mexican room attendants were finishing up a room. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and most of the new guests would start checking in about four. By then, the huge hotel would sparkle.

Curtis stopped at a door, knocked, and called out, “Beth! It’s us, dear. Open up.”

The white door opened quickly, and he shoved Margaret inside, into the arms of her daughter, and shut the door as they stumbled back. A pistol was now in his free hand. “Hello, Beth,” he said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. You have caused me a great deal of trouble. Before you try to do anything, look beneath the serape your mother is wearing. You will find a vest filled with dynamite, and I have the trigger.”

Beth gave Curtis a measured stare: tall, strong, with desperate eyes. Play along, Kyle had said, and find out what he really wants. “I understand, and I’m not going to cause any trouble that might get my mom hurt. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Keeping the pistol pointed at her, Curtis said, “First, go over to the window and close all the blinds and curtains so your sniper buddies cannot take an easy shot.”

“There’s no one out there.” She twisted the plastic knobs and the blinds closed, and then she pulled the heavy dark drapes together. The room went almost dark.

“Lock the door and push the straight-back chair from the desk under the knob.” Curtis turned on the bathroom light, as she did as she was told. He sat in an easy chair in the corner. “Now, open the suitcase. There’s another vest in there, just like the one your mom is wearing. Put it on. Once we get you all strapped up, I will cut the flex-ties on your mother’s wrists. The rules are simple: One of you will remain in my sight at all times, so you can even use the bathroom in private. Any attempt to escape or call for help, or any hand-to-hand combat shit, and I will be forced to do something very unpleasant, and a lot of innocent people in this fine hotel will get hurt. Understand?”

Both of the women nodded. “Then make yourselves comfortable, ladies. I will order up an early dinner from room service, and after that, I suggest you try to get some rest. I want to watch the TV special tonight about the Mars launch tomorrow. Now, Beth, I assume you have been in touch with Kyle Swanson, correct?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“We will call him at midnight and give him his instructions. I want him to be part of this package, too.”

“Gunny Swanson will eat you alive,” she said in an almost threatening tone and wrapped an arm around her mother’s waist. “You don’t know him.”

Curtis stuffed the pistol into his belt. “I know that some very important people want him dead. I know that I hold all the aces in this game. He will come to me, and he will die. All of you will.”

LINDA LOOKED SEXY AND exquisite in a lightweight white dress, the lobster at Primo’s was sublime, and astronaut Buck Gardener was a happy man. “I’m going to miss you,” he said, raising a glass of white wine. “Wish we could spend the night together.”

“It won’t be for long,” she responded with a smile. “I’ll join you in Italy in ten days.”

“You and me, rockin’ along the Italian Riviera, with money to burn.” He patted his chest pocket, which contained an envelope she had delivered containing nine thousand dollars. Ten thousand in cash leaving the country would raise eyebrows at customs. Nine did not. Millions of dollars were waiting on the other side of the pond, to be released to his numbered account when the rocket blew.

She crossed her arms, and her dark eyes sparkled. “You look good in civilian clothes. Nice new suit, comfortable shoes, expensive tie. No longer like an astronaut at all.”

“Thanks. I feel really different, like reborn. This has been a rush, Linda.” A mild look of concern crossed his face. “Be glad when it’s all done, though.”

Linda reached across the table, put her hand on his, and gave it a squeeze. “I know. Just think of the future, Buck. All that money stored in Switzerland, and a lifetime to spend it any way you want. That’s a dream come true, isn’t it? Now, let’s get out of here, grab one more drink in a nice place, then get you on that last plane to Nassau, sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” he said. The good spirits came surging back, and he looked at his watch, a sleek JeanRichard model with a black face and slim leather band that had replaced his enormous fighter-pilot watch. Seven o’clock. Fifteen hours before liftoff.

STEVE LONGSTREET OF THE CIA was sweating in the tight room that was eight feet long by eight feet wide and eight feet high, but Chief Engineer Mohammad al-Attas was wide-eyed in exhaustion and stank of fear. The CIA interrogator had pushed the young engineer hard for hours, waiting out the pauses when the Djinn personality arose, and fighting to keep al-Attas going in the right direction. The lights were bright, and the air-conditioning was off, so the two of them sat stinking in the box.