Terror in D.C. Page 11

  Isfahan straightened his pajamas, taking a deep breath. “And let me tell you something else. Because you have spared my life, I swear to you that I will say nothing about your presence here. I will tell the authorities that I do not know who broke into my house. I will swear I did not see the man—the men. Yes, the men, who broke in.”

  Hawker nodded, thinking, In a pig’s eye you won’t tell the authorities. You’ll tell them everything you can remember about me. But he said, “That’s awfully damn kind of you. Now can I tell you something, Isfahan?”

  “Certainly, my friend.”

  “First of all, sport, I am not your friend. Let’s get that straight right from the beginning. Secondly, Isfahan, you can push people like us for a long, long time, and we’ll take it. You can take our people hostage, and torture us and screw us every possible way in international business. But do you know what happens when you push just a little bit too hard and go just a little bit too far?”

  The Iranian smiled nervously. “No, I do not know.”

  “I’ll tell you what happens,” said the vigilante. “We begin to lie like … well, like Iranians.”

  Hawker drew the Colt Magnum, pointed it at the head of Ambassador Isfahan Shiraz, and pulled the trigger.…

  twenty

  Hawker was awakened the next morning by a discreet tapping on his hotel door that grew progressively louder.

  He cracked his eyes and checked his watch.

  It was 9:15 A.M.

  So much for sleeping late.

  “Who is it?”

  A familiar voice called through the door, “It’s your old friend Lester Rehfuss. Mind if I come in for a minute, Hawk?”

  Hawker pulled a pillow over his head. “I don’t know any Lester Rehfuss—go away!”

  “Now, now, I can always use the passkey if you won’t let me in.”

  Hawker grunted and threw back the sheets. He pulled on a pair of jeans, then swung the door open. Rehfuss stood beaming at him. He wore the same baggy gray suit as when they had first met. In his left hand he carried a leather briefcase. “Good morning!” he exclaimed.

  “Don’t smile so brightly. It hurts my eyes, damn it.” Hawker sat down heavily on the bed and rubbed his face with his hands. “Okay, Lester, this’d better be good. I’ve been asleep for just about three hours, and I’d really like to sleep for at least another three.” Hawker looked at him meaningfully. “If you haven’t heard yet, I earned it last night.”

  The CIA agent sat down on the bed beside him. “I heard, Hawk, I heard. The television people are talking about nothing else. They keep interrupting the regularly scheduled programs to update the nation’s citizenry. Really pissed me off this morning. I like to watch the ‘Beverly Hillbillies’ reruns as I eat my breakfast.”

  “Please,” said Hawker, “you’re breaking my heart.”

  “Don’t you want to hear what else you earned—besides our undying gratitude, I mean.” Rehfuss swung the briefcase onto the bed and popped open the latches. The briefcase was filled with neat bricks of money that were bound in brown teller’s paper.

  “A half-million dollars,” Rehfuss said just a little wistfully. “Take a closer look at it if you want. It’s in small used bills—fifties and twenties, mostly. When the agency makes a seizure of currency, the dough goes into a special slush fund for occasions just like this.” He grinned. “I hate to see it wasted on a rich playboy like you, but I have to admit, Hawk, you earned every penny of it. You did one hell of a job.”

  Hawker looked at him oddly. “I’m flattered, Lester, but I haven’t earned anything. Not yet I haven’t. I’m not done with this case. I gave the Iranians a pretty hard shot last night, but there are still at least three more members on the loose. They’re the same ones who murdered the Chester Rutledge family—in fact, had it not been for them, I wouldn’t have broken the case at all. They’re students at American University, and they’re just about as cold-blooded a trio as you’ll ever find. They blew away the whole Rutledge family just because they got mad over some fender-bender auto accident.” Hawker shook his head. “You don’t owe me one red cent until I deal with those bastards.”

  The CIA agent stared at him steadily. He motioned at the money without looking at it. “Take it, Hawk. Take the money. You’ve done a fine job.”

  Hawker looked at him warily. “Take the money and then go ahead with my plans for the three students?” he asked slowly.

  Rehfuss shook his head. “Just take the money, Hawk. Your job is done here.”

  “But what about the students—”

  “Your job is done, James,” Rehfuss said a little too sharply. Then he shook his head and turned his palms upward in apology. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, James. Your performance last night was phenomenal. I spent the sunrise hours at Isfahan Shiraz’s estate—I know. It looks like the Grim Reaper himself made a trip through there. We also found the storage area for the components for the bombs they were using, and enough other evidence to safely conclude that the Iranians were behind the bombings that terrorized Washington, D.C., and killed twenty-seven innocent people. You hit the right people, and you hit them hard enough to knock them out of business for good. We were ready to send in our own team if you failed—”

  “You mean you knew it was Isfahan’s bunch?” Hawker asked incredulously.

  “Only after you asked me to check on his name,” Rehfuss said quickly. “I said I hadn’t heard of Isfahan, but I had. I just wanted to make sure. We had, of course, been compiling data on every diplomat from the Middle East, so it didn’t take me long to get a line on him. Within two hours after talking to you, our people had data available on every Iranian in the area who had had public contact with Isfahan within the last six months—and that includes the three students you were talking about.”

  Hawker nodded slowly. “So the CIA wants them? I can understand that. I don’t like it, but I can understand it. The CIA wants its share of the credit, so by arresting the three assholes and charging them with murder—”

  “The CIA isn’t going to charge them,” Rehfuss interrupted uneasily. “Nor is the FBI or the D.C. Police Department.”

  “What?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you this, James—”

  Hawker leaned toward him, his face red. “Damn it, Lester, you’d better not stop now! What the hell do you mean they’re not going to be arrested?”

  “Don’t get mad at me, Hawk! Hell, I told you what would probably happen if the bombers were caught by the official police. I said they would probably be scolded and deported. If we did anything else, we’d jeopardize the safety of our own foreign diplomats.”

  “Then why don’t you let me go in and finish the job—”

  “Because you’ve had your one chance!” Rehfuss snapped. “We’re being blamed for it as it is, but if it happens again, it really is our ass.” He leaned toward the vigilante, trying hard to make his case. “James, drop it, for Christ’s sake! You’ve performed beautifully! You’ve stopped the bastards, and you’ve left plenty of Iranian corpses in your wake. You made them pay more dearly than any of us ever thought possible. Take my advice, damn it. Take the money, go for a long vacation, and rest assured that, if we ever need you again, we will get in touch.”

  James Hawker was silent for a long time. “And what happens if I don’t drop it?” he asked. “What happens if I go ahead, track down those three slime balls and give them exactly what they deserve?”

  Lester Rehfuss’s eyes grew serious and he spoke carefully. “James, you once asked me what happened to people who were allowed into CIA’s inner sanctum, but later returned to the outside world. It was a legitimate question, and I told you I would tell you when the time was right. Well, the time is right, James, and I’m afraid you’re not going to like my answer very much. For you to go against our wishes, for you to turn renegade now, is the same as trying to blackmail us. You may figure that you are safe from disciplinary action because you can always threaten to tell how y
ou were involved with us. But please believe me, James, the organization will not allow itself to be blackmailed. I repeat, it will not allow it.” Rehfuss looked carefully at Hawker. “Do you understand what I’m saying, James?”

  James Hawker nodded. “I understand, Lester.”

  “I hope you do, James, because if you were to eliminate those three students, you could never stop running. Our people would trail you all over the world. It would not end until … until …”

  “Until I disappeared from the face of the earth, right?” Hawker finished, smiling slightly. He paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then he winked. “That’s exactly why I’m going to take your advice and drop it, Lester. Hell, I’m not crazy! I don’t want you to sick those Blue Light boys on me!”

  The CIA agent grinned with relief. “James, you had me very damn worried for a minute. I thought you were going to get stubborn.” He patted the money. “A half-million dollars won’t erase your disappointment, but it will go a long way toward easing it. Hell, go down to the bar, get drunk. But don’t get too drunk. We have a company jet waiting to fly you back to Chicago or Florida, wherever you want to go.” Rehfuss glanced around the hotel suite. “I’ll send some of our people over to help you pack—say, about noon? They’ll do all the crating. You won’t have to lift a finger. And I’ll notify the pilot you’ll be taking off about three this afternoon.”

  Hawker shook his head. “I know you’re anxious to get me out of town, but let’s make it later.” He smiled rakishly. “There’s a certain U.S. senator I want to see. How about if I leave at nine?”

  Lester Rehfuss stood up and put out his hand. “The plane will be waiting for you. And thanks, James … thanks for everything. It’s been a real pleasure to work with you.” He clapped the vigilante on the shoulder. “Good luck, my friend.”

  James Hawker watched him disappear into the hotel elevator. “And good luck to you, too, my friend,” he said softly.

  twenty-one

  At 7 P.M., just after dark, an auburn-haired stranger confronted Mosul Aski, Zanjen Tabriz, and Karaj Khunsar as they were about to enter their dormitory on the campus of American University. He flipped a badge out at them and quickly returned it to his pocket. He said, “My name is James Hawker. I’m with the CIA.”

  “Yes?” said Mosul Aski, irritated that the sudden confrontation with the American had startled him. “What do you want from us?”

  “I want nothing from you,” said the reddish-brown-haired man easily. “I’m sure you heard how some vigilantes shot up Ambassador Shiraz’s place last night? Apparently these killers have a real grudge against Iranians. I’ve been sent to offer you our protection. We’re offering it to Iranians all over the city.” He shrugged. “But it’s strictly up to you. I can stay or I can leave—”

  “Oh, stay, stay,” pleaded the fat Iranian, Karaj Khunsar. “We are very frightened, are we not, Mosul? You have said so yourself—”

  “Silence!” interrupted the young leader. “Are you a baby that you should cry?” He looked at Hawker, saying, “Normally, we would refuse such an offer. We are not children. We can take care of ourselves, and there are few things that we fear.” His face filled slightly with contempt. “Unfortunately, in this imperialistic country, you allow madmen to roam the streets, killing innocent Iranians. Because of that, we reluctantly accept your offer of protection.”

  Hawker nodded. “In that case, I am supposed to transport you to our training station near Fort Stanton Park. You won’t need extra clothes or money, and food will be provided by the United States Government.”

  “But why must we go there?” Mosul asked suspiciously. “Why can’t we stay in our dorm and have you stand guard?”

  “Because,” said Hawker with a touch of impatience, “the people who are killing Iranians don’t have much respect for guards. I heard they killed several last night while forcing their way onto the property of Ambassador Shiraz. At the training center, though, there is a complete security system. It’s the only place large enough to handle the number of Iranians we expect to arrive—close to a hundred.”

  “A hundred?” Zanjen smiled. “So many people from the homeland, Mosul, imagine! What a party we will have—and all at the expense of the Americans!”

  Mosul Aski continued to stare at Hawker. “Beneath my jacket I am carrying a gun for my protection—a .38 revolver. Will your people allow me to continue to carry it?”

  Hawker nodded his head. “Do what you want, Mr. Aski. Actually, I prefer that you hold on to it. It takes some of the heat off me. An extra gun might help if we get caught in a jam.”

  The Iranian thought for a moment, then nodded his head abruptly. “Good. We will go then! Karaj, Zanjen, come!”

  Mosul got into the passenger’s seat of the Ford rental car, as Hawker was sure he would—the kid’s ego demanded it. The other two Iranians got into the back. As Hawker started the car and pulled out onto the street, he thought, You stupid bastard, you’ve played right into my hands. You not only told me that you’re carrying a weapon, you told me where you’re carrying it. When you die—and you will not die pleasantly—you will curse your own stupidity.

  Hawker drove southwest on Pennsylvania Avenue. He knew it would be the last time he’d see the nation’s Capitol as a free man, and he let his eyes linger on the Washington Monument and the stolid dignity of the White House. At Minnesota Avenue he turned north, then drove until he came to a secluded asphalt road fronted by woods and bleak fields. At the first dirt tractor trail beyond a curve, he turned off and stopped the car.

  The vigilante had been watching Mosul Aski carefully out of the corner of his eye, and when the Iranian, sensing that something was wrong, reached beneath his jacket, Hawker backhanded him and jerked the little .38 from its shoulder holster.

  In his other hand he held the Colt .44 Magnum, which he had hidden under the seat.

  “Get out of the car, you scum,” he ordered, waving the weapons at them. “Get out and do exactly as I say, or I’ll blow your faces off.”

  The three Iranian students got out of the car in a horrified daze. The fat student, Karaj, began to sob, then began to bawl out loud. Hawker kicked him in the side. “Keep the noise down, asshole!”

  The fat Iranian took one look at Hawker’s eyes, then began to gag on his sobs. “He’s … he’s going to kill us, Mosul!” he cried. “Do something, oh, please do something!”

  Mosul Aski’s tough facade had disappeared when Hawker first struck him. The Iranian student held his hands out, as if trying to fend off the inevitable. “You’re … you’re him, aren’t you? You are the one who killed Isfahan—”

  “Right,” said the vigilante in a deadly calm voice. “I’m the one who killed Isfahan and his men. And let’s not forget that you are the twerps who killed Chester Rutledge, his wife, and three children.” Hawker slapped Mosul again, hard. “How many others did you kill, you obnoxious little asshole? Just those four? Or maybe twenty-two other defenseless men, women, and children?”

  Hawker’s blow had knocked the Iranian to the ground. The vigilante expected him to at least try to fight back, but he didn’t. He stretched his hands out toward Hawker in an attitude of prayer, saying, “I will do anything for you. Anything! Just spare me, please! I will tell you anything you wish to know!” On his knees, pleading for his life, Mosul Aski also began to cry.

  The vigilante looked at the three of them, and he felt neither pity nor triumph. He simply felt sickened by them, sickened by their murderous deeds, and now by their behavior in the face of death. Hawker thought about young Luke Rutledge, alone in a psychiatric ward, living with the horror of his family’s death, and he knew he must carry out his careful plan. The punishment of the Iranians had to be equal to their crime, and it also had to say something to the world. It had to tell the world that there were still Americans who could fight back just as viciously as the terrorists who looked upon other Americans as ready prey.

  “Take your pants and underwear off,” Hawker ordered c
oldly, pointing the two revolvers at their heads.

  “What are you going to do to us?” Mosul demanded to know in a shrill voice.

  James Hawker almost smiled. “Nothing you bastards wouldn’t do if the circumstances were reversed.”

  It took him longer than he thought it would to get the three Iranians tied to the tree, gagged and properly wired. Hurrying now, he took the three wires that he had attached to them and bound two of the wires to a stainless-steel ring.

  The third wire, the one that was twisted around the small, shrunken scrotum of Karaj Khunsar, the vigilante attached to a bush.

  The other side of the stainless-steel ring was already attached to 150 feet of high-tensile-strength airplane cable. Hawker unrolled the cable as he went, then he pulled it across the open road tightly enough so that any car coming around the curve would hit it.

  The impact would be so slight and brief that the driver would no doubt continue on, unconcerned.

  Of the three Iranians, only Karaj Khunsar, the weakest of them, would survive. Only he would be spared the searing pain and the agony of bleeding to death. But he would live in horror for the rest of his life—just as Luke Rutledge would. More important, though, he would live to return with his story to Iran.

  When the cable was set Hawker checked his knots a final time, then got into the rental car and headed back to Washington, where two planes, on separate airfields, waited for him. In one plane Lester Rehfuss would be waiting. Rehfuss would not worry about Hawker’s being late at first—after all, hadn’t the vigilante already sent his baggage and equipment, along with the briefcase carrying the half-million dollars, to be loaded? Hawker pictured Rehfuss opening the briefcase later and taking the note he had written from among the bricks of money:

  Lester: Grant a hunted man a final wish. Take this money and set up a trust for the relatives of the people killed by the Iranians. Also, take whatever funds necessary to make sure Luke Rutledge gets the best care, and the best education, available. Your friend and adversary, Hawk.