Sabotage (15 page)

Top's smile disappeared. "I'm sorry about Peabody; I really am, Gaucho. But to survive, we've got to look past all of that. You know how this works. If we start second guessing ourselves, who knows what hell we're gonna catch."

"I know, and it's not that I blame myself, or anything we did, for what happened, but I just can't shake what Peabody said."

"Which part?" Top queried.

"The part where he said we better watch our backs, that there's other stuff going on in the wings that we don't know about yet."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that, too. What do you think he meant?”

"I guess we'll find out, won't we?" Then Gaucho forced a smile, "Come on, Top, let's see if we can't cheat death again."

The trick was to pretend that you belonged, and that's exactly what Top did. The good news was that there was no traffic on the streets. The bad news was the only traffic were military vehicles, but it was easy enough for him to mimic whatever motions the other passing Humvee drivers made. A nod here. A curt wave there. Miraculously, no one stopped them.

"See, I told you that this was going to be easy,” Top said as they cruised along.

"We're not there yet.”

“And here I thought your attitude had just turned a corner.”

And just as they did turn a corner, the United States Embassy came into view. Whatever relief they felt was quickly stripped away when they saw what they faced. A semicircle of military vehicles,
machine guns mounted in the beds, had cordoned off the street and main gate leading to their target.

At first Top thought, or rather hoped, that they were security forces on the American payroll. But his hopes were dashed as they neared the embassy.

"Okay, then," Trent said, "We knew this was a probability, so let's just take it slow and hope that none of these idiots gets a happy trigger finger."

Top eased the Humvee up to the first vehicle, and he noted the Marine sentries atop the embassy building. A serious-looking character stepped out of an armored vehicle and headed their way. He asked Top something in Arabic which, of course, he didn’t understand so he decided to improvise. 

In his best accented English, he said, "Did they not tell you? We must speak English."

"I had not heard," the surprised soldier said in English that sounded better than Top's. "I will pass the word to my men.” He looked past Top into the backseat. "Who is this?"

"Prisoner for trade with the Americans. General's orders."

Apparently whoever this general was, he demanded the utmost respect of his men because no further questions came forth. The soldier turned and yelled something to his men. Then, remembering the general's alleged orders, he yelled in English for his men to move the trucks aside to let them through.

"Keep your fingers crossed," Trent muttered to Gaucho.

"If you pull this off, drinks are on me for a month," Gaucho promised.

"I'll take two months, thank you very much."

Once the barrier was finally moved, the soldier motioned for them to pass.

"Madre de Dios," Gaucho whispered, "I can't believe you did it."

Top tried to keep a straight face as they rolled past curious eyes following them the entire way. "Here's the tricky part," he said.

They pulled up to the second barricade manned by the United States Marines. One soldier stepped around the barricade and the guy, despite his full combat attire, was all spit and polish. The kid looked like he had jumped off a recruiting poster and spent time as a rifle twirler at 8
^th
and I.

Trent was surprised to see the rank insignia of a Gunnery Sergeant on the Marine’s uniform.

"May I help you gentlemen?" the Marine politely asked. There was no question in MSgt Trent's mind that the young gunny would have no problem signaling to his comrades up on the roof to shoot the blazes out of the Humvee if required.

"Well, gunny, my friend and I were wondering if we might seek asylum in your fine establishment." 

A slightly raised eyebrow was the initial response that Top received.

"Am I correct in assuming, sir, that you've commandeered this vehicle and have impersonated yourself as a soldier of the Republic of Djibouti?"

Top could almost hear Gaucho flinch. "That's about the long and short of it, Gunny."

"East coast or west coast?" the Marine questioned.

"Sorry?"

"Hollywood or sand fleas?"

Top finally got the Marine’s inference. He was asking where Trent had gone to boot camp. Hollywood for MCRD San Diego and sand fleas for Parris Island.

"Sand fleas, Gunny."

"And your friend back there?"

"Aw, he's harmless. He's just a dirty dogface who is proud to call a United States Marine his best friend."

Top thanked his lucky stars that the Marine Corps chose their best and brightest to become Marines on embassy duty. The gunny standing next to him was no exception. The only thing he wished was that the Marine would move things along.

Top had seen some motion in the ranks behind them and could only assume that the soldier he first talked to had called back to headquarters and was now being told there was no prisoner exchange and, no, he did not have to speak English.

"I assume you gentlemen have identification?"

Trent went to reach in his pocket, but the Marine stopped him. "Just wait until we get inside. Your friends over there look to be suddenly paying more attention to our little powwow. Let's wait until you're inside, and I can have my Marines give you a full cavity search."

Top didn't doubt it by the gunny's tone, but was more than a little relieved when the Marine called out to the corporal behind the barricade, "Please move it aside."

Top didn't allow himself to breathe sweet relief until he parked the Humvee in a spot labelled GUEST. The barricades closed behind them. He tossed the handcuff keys back to Gaucho who undid them with a little forced effort and disembarked from the vehicle.

"How much trouble am I going to get in for this?" the Gunny asked after he checked their identification.

"None, as far as I'm concerned," Top said. "If anybody gives you a hard time, you just tell them to come talk to me."

The Marine shook his head and actually smiled.

"Top, do you ever find yourself mystified by the fact that there is no place too strange or situation so bizarre that you cannot and will not meet a United States Marine?"

MSgt Trent grinned. "Tell me about it, Gunny."

The good gunny, Gunnery Sergeant Whitaker, found Top a just-too-snug set of workout gym shorts and shirt.  He then escorted Gaucho and Top to the CIA head of station located within the embassy.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather see the ambassador first?" Gunny Whitaker asked.

"We'll visit him next," Gaucho said. "We've got to tell this guy he's a man down."

"I hadn't heard."

"We're the only ones who know," Trent explained.

"If I can ask, Top, who was it?" the Marine implored.

"Elliot Peabody. Did you know him?"

The Marine nodded. "He didn't spend much time around here, but when he did, he always made the effort to stop by our after-shift poker games. He always won too, although he always gave the money back to the Marines, and I'm sure he gave them a little bit extra, at least that's what I’ve been told. He sure was a good man. I'm sorry."

"Me too," Gaucho said.

"Well, here we are." The Marine pointed at a door with no visible markings other than a few scratches from use. Gunny Whitaker introduced him to the station chief whose name was Lane Wiley. Wiley didn't get up from his desk nor did he even offer them chairs until Gaucho gruffly announced that they had news concerning Elliot Peabody.

"That will be all. Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant."

The Marine took one last look at Top and Gaucho as if to ask, "
Do you really want me to go?
" But Trent nodded, and the Marine left.

Wiley had the bland look of a man you could meet and forget thirty seconds later. Even his voice sounded like drone monotone. It sounded like a teacher who had been teaching the same lesson for fifty years and along the way lost the gift of inflection.

"Where is Elliot?" Wiley asked. "For three days, he hasn’t checked in.”

Three days
, Gaucho thought, that couldn't be right. "Sorry, did you say
three
days?"

"Not that it's any of your concern, but yes. The longest I let my coworkers go without checking in is two, so you can imagine my concern when two days slipped by, and now it's a third. So let's have it. Where is Elliot?"

The way the man had said coworker instead of subordinate or man struck a wrong chord with Gaucho.
Something was wrong
, Gaucho thought. "Elliot Peabody is dead, Mr. Wiley," Gaucho said readying himself to judge Wiley's reaction.

"I find that very hard to believe. There have been no reports of fatalities in the city, and Elliot is quite an expert at his craft."

Gaucho had to hold himself back from slapping the smug station chief’s mouth.

"I'm telling you, he's dead."

It was obvious that the man still didn't believe him.

"So you come in here hoping to catch my ear, concocting this story, for what purpose? For money? Is that what you want? Well good try, gentlemen, but I'm not buying."

Before Gaucho could stop himself, he blurted aloud, "He was my friend, goddammit. And you want to know how I know he died? Because we were right beside him when he was shot. My friend here," he pointed to Top, "carried him two miles after he died."

Now Wiley sat back in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap. "He was your friend, you say. Then how was it that you encountered your
friend
on the streets of Djibouti in the midst of a coup?"

Gaucho had had enough. "We'd like to speak to the ambassador," he said through clenched teeth.

Wiley nodded and reached for the phone.

"Yes, would you come to my office, please? I have two men who require an escort. Thank you." He hung up the phone and he met Gaucho’s reproachful stare. "I'm sure we'll continue this conversation later."

"Of course. Thank you for your help, Mr. Wiley," Top said, obviously wanting to act as an intermediary before Gaucho launched himself over the station chief’s desk.

A moment later there was a knock on the door. Wiley said, "Come in."

Gaucho turned to see who was at the door. Instead of the Gunnery Sergeant, he found himself facing three men clothed in business suits and holding MP5s.

"I'd like these two escorted down to the holding area,” Wiley said. Before either man could protest, Wiley added, “Have them shackled, gagged, blindfolded, and prepped for the move to the interrogation facility."

"What the hell is this about?" Trent growled.

"Oh, don't play coy now. You know why I’m doing this. You're both wanted for the murder of Elliot Peabody."

Chapter 21

They had time for a couple hours’ catnap, not that anyone really slept soundly, except for Christian’s grandfather. While Daniel slipped into a peaceful reverie, the grandfather fell into a contented slumber.

In fact, when Daniel awoke, the old man was still asleep. For a few minutes Daniel listened to the gunfire in the distance. It beckoned to him. Old memories percolated up through his subconscious, not in an undesirable attack, but as a reassuring reminder. He’d learned to disregard the draining power of evil, instead allowing it to serve as a warning that there always lurked impending danger. It reminded him to tread with caution, lest fate carry him and those he cared about down the wrong path.

Daniel sat quiet, in the empty apartment they had been taken to, pondering how best to escape their current predicament. He watched as Christian attempted to get comfortable lying on the concrete floor. Cal sat in a corner, napping with Liberty’s head resting comfortably in his lap. He wondered what Cal might be dreaming about and wondered how much longer his friend would continue to serve in this capacity. Daniel knew, with 100% certainty, these missions would forever be his life's pursuit because out here he felt whole. He enjoyed the perks Cal provided his operators, and he truly appreciated the fancy housing in Charlottesville. It was just that Daniel was cut out for the simple life. He was most content with focusing on people, and had no real need for gathering things. He felt most comfortable, and authentic, while he was out on the road. Especially when he was the only one awake, protecting his friends.

Every operation was a new adventure to Daniel. They provided him with opportunities to learn about new cultures and expand his already broad knowledge of the world and its people. He felt himself inexplicably drawn to both Christian and his grandfather, not necessarily because of anything they had either said or done. He admired the grandfather’s way in which he took measured steps, as if he were taking an extra half second to ponder things, whereas the majority of people just plodded ahead, always in a hurry. Then there was the way he looked at Daniel. There was no judgment there, just a silent acceptance as if he was saying, “
You're one of us, aren't you
?” He had taken to calling the old man “grandfather,” just like the grandson, and the man had seemed both pleased and honored.