Under Siege (20 page)

“Probably thinks this is too small a town to have one,” Rafii said. “They are centered in larger metropolitan centers where they are easier to hide.”

“So where would he call from?” Murdock asked.

Rafii looked around and pointed to a medium-sized hotel across the street. The SEALs were still in their cammies, but had left their long guns and combat vests in the plane. Murdock and Rafii caused a stir when they went into the hotel. It was smaller than it looked, with one desk clerk and no bellhops.

“Yes sir, a room for the night?” the clerk asked.

“No, but we do need some help. Did an Arab man make some phone calls from your phones over there less than an hour ago?”

“Yes, actually he did. He came to me twice for more change. I asked if I could help him locate someone but he ignored me and went back to call.”

Murdock and Rafii went outside, where the commander
tried his Motorola. He couldn’t raise the airport. They took the cab back to the transient aircraft hangar. Stroh had been busy talking with the Port Elizabeth police by phone. They said they would cooperate any way they could.

“Call them and see how fast they can get the record of calls made from the second phone from the end on the phone bank at the Lawton Hotel. The quicker the better.”

The phone company cooperated fully and less than an hour later the police faxed the list of numbers and length of calls along with the names and addresses to Stroh at the airport manager’s office. Twelve calls. Six of them were less than a minute long.

“Those could be calls where he used an al Qaeda code word that the person on the other end did not recognize and hung up,” Rafii said. “Many Arabs are curt and impolite on the phone.”

“What about these two that are for almost five minutes each?” Stroh asked.

Rafii checked the times and names. “Both are Arab Friendship Leagues. Usually these are men-only clubs where Arabs get together in non-Arabic cities and talk in Arabic and shoot the breeze.”

“Let’s hit them both, right now,” Murdock said. Four men each in two taxis. Take side arms and hidden MP-5s. DeWitt, pick three men and take the first address. I’ll get the second one with Bradford, Ching, and Van Dyke. Let’s move.”

DeWitt’s team found the Arab Friendship League on its second run down the street. The sign over the door was small—in English and below it in Arabic. They went inside with their weapons covered by the floppy cammie shirts worn outside. A bearded man hurried up to them just inside the door. He asked in Arabic if he could help them.

Rafii answered in the same tongue.

“Yes, we’re looking for our friends. Three Arab men and a white woman came here less than an hour ago. Are they still here?”

“Members or newcomers?”

“Newcomers.”

“No, no such men came. And as you can see, we are men only. You must have the wrong club. There is another one on Water Street.”

Rafii told DeWitt what the man said. They looked around. It was a small club, with tables for games and a small snack bar, but no rooms for guests, and no other facilities. Gardner nodded at the spokesman and they left. He used the Motorola, got Murdock, and told him they struck out.

“Our cab driver must be on his first day on the job,” Murdock replied. “We went by our place three times before he found it. We’re just about ready to go in. Wish we had Rafii. My Arabic is rusty, but will have to do.”

The sign over the door said “Arab Friendship Circle.” Murdock took Ching with him and left the other two in the taxi to hold it. Inside was a small lobby with a man sitting behind a desk. He stood when the SEALs came in, frowning at their uniforms.

“What may I do for you?” he asked in accented English.

“We’re looking for friends of ours, three men and a woman who came in here this morning.”

The Arab frowned and shook his head. “Nobody came in I didn’t know. Were these new to town?”

“New, yes.”

Murdock moved swiftly, grabbing the man’s shirt front with his hand and twisting it until the collar dug into the shorter man’s throat and he struggled to breathe.

“No more lies. We know they came here, three Arab men and an American woman. Where did you put them?”

The man waved his arms and Murdock relaxed his grip.

“Yes, they came, but no woman had ever come in the door before and we were horrified. We turned them out at once. I don’t know where they went.”

“You lie again. You have facilities here. To the left there
are steps that go up to hotel rooms. What rooms are they in? Tell me or I’ll cut off your air and you’ll die like a fish on the shore.” Murdock began to tighten his grip on the man’s shirt.

“Okay, okay, stop.” He took several deep breaths after Murdock released his shirt.

“Show us,” Murdock commanded. Murdock let the tail of his cammie shirt flip back so the guy could see the .45 automatic pushed into his waistband. The clerk got more nervous, stumbled getting the key.

“He’s stalling,” Ching said.

Murdock stepped toward him and the man jerked a key off the desk and almost ran to the stairs. Murdock and Ching were right behind him. On the third floor he paused in front of a room.

“This it?” Ching asked.

The Arab nodded and knocked. Murdock grabbed the key, opened the lock, and slammed the door inward. A minute later they saw there was no one in the double room. One blue man’s sock strayed halfway out from under the bed as if it were trying to get into a suitcase.

“I thought they were still here,” the clerk yelped.

Ching snorted. “He stalled just long enough. Must be another stairway down, in back probably. Now I remember. Somebody walked up those stairs just after we came in the front door and before we said a word. Somebody tipped off Badri.”

The First Lady tried to settle down in the strange room that Badri had brought them to. She knew it was sometime Monday, afternoon maybe.

An hour later, Badri swore when the messenger said there were two men in army cammies downstairs. He rousted his two men and the First Lady and went down the back stairs into the alley and out the far way to the street. They walked to the next cross street, which carried a lot of
traffic. Badri hailed four cabs before one stopped. He leaned in the front open window.

“Four of us, can I sit in front?”

“How far?” the cabby asked.

“About forty miles up the coast highway. I’ll give you a hundred rand note now to show I will pay you.”

“Sounds good. I need a long run. I’ll tell my dispatcher I’m off the air for about two hours.”

The driver didn’t say another word for a half hour. Then he pointed to a sign.

“We’re about twenty miles from Brahamstown. You sure this is the way you want to go?”

“Right, this is the way,” Badri said. He suddenly held his stomach. “Uh-oh. I’m getting car sick. You better pull over up here at that wide spot, quick!”

The driver pulled off the road. There was little traffic. Once the cab stopped. Badri took out his pistol and motioned to the driver.

“Out of the cab,” he said. The driver stared at him in surprise.

“You said forty miles.”

“Out or your widow collects your insurance.”

The driver got out and Badri moved over to the driver’s seat and slid out. He marched the driver into the woods near the road. A short time later they heard a shot.

Mrs. Hardesty blanched. She touched a handkerchief to her forehead and her eyes hooded. Badri ran back to the car, got in, and drove back to the road.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” the First Lady said. “You could have tied him up.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re really afraid of me, aren’t you, Mr. Badri? You’re frightened of intelligent women who speak their minds, stand up for what is right, and hate the men who constantly batter us down.”

“I said shut up, woman.”

“Oh, is that like talking to a dog? You tell the dog to be quiet, and if it doesn’t stop barking you shoot him. right? Well I’m not going to shut up. I’ll talk your ear off. Do you remember that England had a woman as Prime Minister? Also Israel had a woman who was the head of the government. A few years back we had a woman run for vice president. She didn’t get the job, but at least she ran. One of these days he United States will have a woman president.”

“Then you will be simple to defeat in war and have terrorism blanketing your whole nation.”

“Terrorism! How, with your beloved al Qaeda network virtually non-existent? With no Osama bin Laden to funnel money to the cells, they are dropping by the wayside one by one. Soon, the network of al Qaeda will be nothing but a memory. You saw it yourself at that last place. They were practically starving. With Osama dead and the money tree in Saudi Arabia dried up, your network is finished.”

Badri slanted the car off the road to a gravel spot and skidded to a stop. He waved his pistol at the First Lady, his face deep red and his eyes bulging. His screaming tapered off and he pushed the weapon within inches of Mrs. Hardesty’s face.

“Bitchy fucking woman! Shut up! Shut up this instant or I’ll shoot you right between the eyes and dump your body on the road. You hear me, shut up!”

The First Lady eased back in the seat and folded her arms. She nodded. Badri stared at her a moment more, let the hammer down on the .45 slowly, and turned back to face front. He sat there breathing heavily for two or three minutes. Then he coughed, took a deep breath, and started the car, driving on north along the coast highway that often was six or eight miles inland from the ocean.

The two Arab soldiers in the back seat leaned against the doors and went to sleep. When they got in the car they had put handcuffs around the First Lady’s ankles. She sat there, knowing there was nothing more she could do. She had to
trade this treatment for the chance to stay alive. Right now that was what mattered most. She could give up chiding Badri about the Arab treatment of women. Stay alive, dummy, she told herself, concentrate now on staying alive.

They finished the one hundred and fifty mile drive to East London. Badri checked the accommodations and picked a motel near the highway that was not the best of the lot. They took two rooms and Badri took the ankle cuffs off her before they walked into the room, then he put them back on. There was one single bed. He looked at it and grinned.

“So, famous First Lady, you want to get naked and sleep with me on the bed? Or would you rather keep your clothes on and sleep on the floor?”

She ignored him. It was Monday night and she was exhausted. She’d sleep in her clothes again, but she would take off her shoes. It would be a long night. Badri would sleep on the floor.

Port Elizabeth

Monday afternoon, Murdock and his men rode back to the airport in the taxi where he met with Gardner, DeWitt, and the rest of the SEALs. Don Stroh had been working with the local police. He set up a reward with them to be publicized to all law enforcement agencies in the nation. The United States government offered five million dollars for the safe return of the wife of the president of the United States. The announcement went out at once.

“At least we’re covered with a reward,” Stroh said. “That much cash could make a lot of people change their minds about how loyal they are to whoever is running this operation.”

“They just may fly out again,” Murdock said. “Can we get the local LEAs to notify all airports and small airstrips about the dangers of this group, and how we want them to hold anyone of this description who tries to rent a plane?”

“Did that just after you left,” Stroh said. “We’ve got that angle covered as well. Let’s hope we get some response.”

“So what else can we do?” Gardner asked.

“Not a damn thing,” Ching said.

“They could be driving back toward Cape Town, or going the other way,” Jaybird said. “No good airfields that way. They could steal a car and be gone and we’d never know it.”

“Roads go north, south, and inland,” DeWitt said. “If they go by car, we’re fucked.”

“So we sit on our combat packs and wait,” Murdock said. “Stroh, you have any of that catered food coming? We could use some chow about now.”

“It will be here at five o’clock sharp,” Stroh said. “I’ve got no limit on my expense account on this one. Not with the First Lady involved. So I figured we should be ready for some medium-rare prime rib. I ordered twenty sixteen-ounce dinners. Hope to hell you guys are hungry.”

The food came. They ate. They waited. They were frustrated. J.G. Gardner pulled out a four-inch square traveling chessboard with stick figures. He set it up and looked for some competition. Robert Doyle moved over and watched. Gardner looked up.

“You play?”

“Some.”

“That means you’re an expert. Let’s give it a go.”

Before it grew dark. They hit their bunks. Like in combat they slept whenever they could. Stroh kept his SATCOM set on RECEIVE whenever they settled down to one location. He had heard nothing from his boss or the White House.

“So we wait,” Murdock said. “Get some sleep, you never know when we’ll get time to snooze again if this guy is still running.”

East London, South Africa

Tuesday -morning the First Lady woke up where she had slept on the floor in all of her clothes. She had taken off her shoes. She had found two blankets and two extra pillows in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Still her bones ached from the hardness. She grinned. Who would believe that she had slept in the same clothes three nights in a row and hadn’t had a shower for four days?

Badri lay on the bed, covered up and still snoring. He had taken command of the bed and pushed her off last night. Right now, she thought of bashing him over the head
with a convenient lamp, but she saw that the lamp was fastened tightly to the table. Nothing else looked solid enough to make a dent in his Arab brow.

She sat up, combed back her hair with her fingers, and stood to go to the bathroom. Badri woke up, the .45 in his hand pointing at her.

“The bathroom, all right?”

“Uh, yeah.” He lowered the weapon.

She shook her head. “You are weird, Arab man. You treat your own women like dirt, but you haven’t touched me.”