Edge of Apocalypse Page 21

  "Madam, do you hear me? I'm a United States marshal. This is a legal document. I have to deliver it to Mr. Joshua Jordan. Immediately."

  She glanced down at it. She caught the caption at the top of the document:

  BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE SENATE OF THE CONGRESS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO: MR. JOSHUA JORDAN

  YOU ARE HEREBY COMMANDED TO APPEAR...

  The secretary raised her eyes to the marshal and said, "He's not here, sir."

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know."

  "When is he coming back?"

  "I don't know."

  "Young lady, you are coming very close to obstructing a federal marshal in the course of his official duties. Do you realize that?"

  She swallowed hard before she answered.

  "Look, like I said, Mr. Jordan had an emergency, had me cancel his appointments, and left. I don't know what else to tell you."

  The U.S. marshal dropped his card on the desk.

  "Here's my number. Call me the moment he gets in."

  The minute the marshal left the office, she called Joshua. He was in his limo heading down the Boulevard of the Americas in Manhattan.

  Joshua was on the line with Harry Smythe when the call came in.

  He put Harry on hold.

  "Mr. Jordan," the secretary said breathlessly, "a U.S. marshal just came in with those papers."

  "And?"

  "I said exactly what you told me to say. Every bit."

  "Very good."

  "I was a little nervous though."

  "Don't worry. I'm sure you did just fine."

  Joshua said good-bye and then clicked back to Harry.

  "Well, just like you predicted, Harry, they were over at my office trying to serve me with the subpoena."

  "I think we need to just face up to this, Josh. Admit service. I'll accept service of the subpoena on your behalf at my office. Then I'll see what can be done legally."

  "Harry, I want Abby's input on this."

  "Is she there with you?"

  "No. She's up in Pennsylvania. She's helping out a family friend of ours. They had a personal tragedy."

  "Same old Abby."

  Joshua asked Harry to standby while he conferenced her in.

  When Abigail's Allfone rang, she was doing the dishes in the French house, while newly widowed Peg French was resting in her bedroom. Rocky Bridger was quietly playing with her and Roger's daughter.

  "Abby, honey, it's me," Joshua said. "How are things going?"

  "Peg's finally resting. Josh, this is so terrible."

  "Have they got any more details?"

  "Not much. They just said they have several theories. The police are being very secretive for some reason. But they did say one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "That he wasn't just murdered. He was tortured before he was killed."

  "Tortured?"

  "Yes."

  "Who would have wanted to do that to Roger French? I can't think he would have been mixed up in anything sordid--he was a solid guy."

  "No one can figure that out."

  "And Rocky?

  "He's putting up a brave front. You know him. He's focusing on Violet, Peg's daughter."

  "Look, I'm sorry to throw this at you. But I've got Harry Smythe on the other line. I want to conference you in. Just as he thought, Senator Straworth is going to the mat on the RTS issue. They've issued a subpoena. A U.S. marshal was trying to serve it at my office. But I was out."

  "Fine. Patch me in," Abigail said. She wiped her hands off with a dishtowel and then found a corner of the dining room where she couldn't be heard.

  After Joshua looped all three of them in, he spelled out the issue. "Abby, Harry says we should let them serve the subpoena, then try to fight it out in court."

  Abigail jumped in immediately. "Harry, I assume you're going into D.C. federal court with a motion to quash the subpoena?"

  "That's the strategy. I just don't want my position weakened by any delay in Josh accepting service of the subpoena from the marshals."

  Abigail was silent on the other end. Joshua knew she was digesting it. Then she spoke her mind. "Harry, once Josh is served with the subpoena, the clock starts ticking. You then have to rush into court. What if you get the wrong judge and your motion is thrown out?"

  "Well," Harry said, "then the game's almost over. Josh either turns over all his RTS documents or he goes to jail. Those have pretty much been the two options all along."

  "You know Josh," Abigail chimed in. "He won't turn over those documents to Congress. He believes that our national security is too compromised on Capitol Hill right now. And if he goes to jail, his reputation, all that he's accomplished will be tarnished and destroyed."

  "The whole thing stinks," Harry said. "I know that. But I don't make the rules."

  "Then maybe it's time," Abigail said, "to change the game."

  "What are you thinking, baby?" Joshua asked.

  Abigail shot back, "Stall this thing. Stretch it out. We only need a few days."

  "Days for what?" Harry said. "Josh, when it comes to political battles like this with Senator Straworth, you're in my world now. I know something about that. Most of my practice has been representing senators, congressman, even a stint in the White House Counsel's Office, as you know. Look, I respect you, Abby. You did some great legal work on the Hill when you were practicing law. Cases before the Federal Communications Commission. Other federal agencies. But Josh, you've got to listen to me on this. There are some people up there in Congress who want to destroy you. And they will, believe me, if you start playing games like avoiding a subpoena."

  "Harry, you're talking about enemies who want to destroy me. That sounds like war, and when it comes to military logistics, you're in my world. I don't intend to let a bunch of politicians destroy me."

  "Which is why," Abigail said, "we strike first. We hit back first."

  "With what?" Harry said, his voice now rising with a tinge of professional arrogance. "The only hope is my motion to quash this subpoena--"

  "That's just one strategy," Abigail said. "And frankly, Harry, I think you'll lose that motion. The backup strategy, Josh, is that we buy time. Just long enough to make sure that Phil Rankowitz has got the AmeriNews launched."

  "What are you talking about?" Harry said.

  "A media project I'm working on," Joshua said. "Something you can't have any involvement in. But Abby's right. That's our offensive."

  Abby said, "If we keep the marshals from serving that subpoena on you, then we keep you out of jail just long enough for the American people to read the first issue of AmeriNews. Once they find out the truth, I'm betting they'll vent some outrage to their senators. When that happens, I'm betting that Senator Straworth and his buddies will start thinking about withdrawing that subpoena."

  "Josh, really," Harry blurted out. "I mean talk about a long shot--"

  But Joshua cut him off.

  "Harry, I've made my decision. Here's the drill. I'm going to avoid being served with that subpoena. Go into hiding if I have to. Harry, can you still try to get a judge to throw it out?"

  "By not accepting service you're putting me in a very uncomfortable position with the court."

  "I'm not asking about your comfort. I'm asking if you can still try that legal maneuver if I'm not served the subpoena."

  After a moment's pause, Harry Smythe replied, "Yes, I suppose I can."

  "Good. Meanwhile, Abby, you and I need to make sure that AmeriNews gets launched ASAP. We need to get to the American public. That's our best hope."

  Harry Smythe wasn't going down without a fight.

  "So you're simply rejecting my approach? My recommendation then?" Harry said coolly.

  "What I am doing," Joshua said, "is going with Abby's plan instead."

  And then he added something else.

  "When it comes to her advice, I'm willing to bank my life on it."

  "You may have to," Harry punted back in his lawy
erly pessimism. "You've got the federal government coming after your scalp."

  FORTY-TWO

  Somewhere in Hamad Katchi's brain, all was not well. Even though all around him the azure blue seas of the Mediterranean were calm and sparkling and a gentle four-knot wind was blowing.

  Katchi had been on the huge yacht of his partner, Caesar Demas, many times before. This was the first time, though, that Demas had used such a small crew. Only a captain, a first and second mate, neither of whom Katchi recognized, and two other fellows. The last two appeared to be pretty useless. They were thick necked and muscular, looking more like bodybuilders or bouncers than sailors.

  The Pakistani-born arms dealer was afraid of boats. He made no pretense of that. It was the general unpredictability of the sea that gave him that unease. The undulating expanse constantly changing. He found the absence of the sight of land disconcerting. As well as the fact that it contained living, teaming creatures under the surface. Things you cannot see. But creatures that can eat you.

  Seated in a soft chair on the rear deck next to Caesar Demas, Katchi was trying to look relaxed.

  They'd been making small talk.

  Then Demas changed the subject. He wanted to discuss their plan to sell the RTS laser weapons technology as soon as Atta Zimler had obtained it.

  "We've talked many times about our arrangements to sell off RTS."

  "Yes. Any news from our messenger?"

  "He's very close. At this point, he's virtually unstoppable."

  "That's good to hear."

  "So," Demas continued, "we are still of one mind, you and I, that when we are in possession of the RTS design, we should sell it to a group of willing nations. No exclusive rights to just one nation. Right? Didn't we agree on that?"

  "Of course. Best way to maximize profit."

  "Profit, yes, of course."

  Caesar Demas glanced around for one of the crew. Then he spotted one of the muscle guys sunbathing on the upper deck. He was wearing dress slacks but had his shirt off.

  "Georgio," Demas called out, "get me a gin and tonic."

  Demas looked over at Katchi, but he said no, he didn't want anything except a glass of water.

  By that time Katchi was feeling slightly nauseous. Maybe a bit seasick.

  After a few minutes Georgio came with the two drinks.

  There wasn't any ice in Katchi's water. A small thing. Katchi was going to ask this guy to fetch him some but decided against it.

  "So," Demas said, making a sudden right turn in the conversation, "how was your trip to Moscow?"

  Katchi was stunned. He hadn't told Caesar anything about the trip.

  "Good," was all he said in response.

  The rolling sense of imbalance on the ship was now getting to Katchi. He hoped he didn't vomit on the varnished wood deck of Caesar Demas' ninety-million-dollar yacht.

  Katchi took a big gulp of water. But it didn't help.

  Caesar Demas was casually inspecting the gently rolling blue sea all around, but he wasn't talking.

  Now Katchi was getting nervous. He felt as if he needed to give some explanation about the Moscow trip. If I don't explain, Caesar might think I just didn't consider it a big deal. Which would be good. On the other hand, my silence might make him think I'm hiding something. Which I am. Does Caesar know why I was there? Maybe he does and he's just playing with me. That'd be just like Caesar. Why did I go on his yacht today? I could have come up with an easy excuse. Told him I was sick. That I don't like boats.

  Demas took a slow sip from his glass and wiped his lips.

  "About the Moscow trip," Katchi finally said. "I've always had an understanding with you..."

  "Oh?"

  "About doing small side deals myself. Small arms. Nothing big. But you gave me the impression that was not a problem."

  "Small-weapons deals? Not a problem. Is that what Moscow was all about? Small arms?"

  "Yes. Yes, it was."

  "Selling to some small-time Russian thugs I suppose."

  "Right. A little pocket change. To pay the electric bills."

  Katchi tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat.

  "Small arms...," Demas muttered.

  "You know. AK-47s. Rocket launchers."

  Caesar Demas said, "Hmmm."

  "I trust you're okay with that?"

  "Oh, yes. I would be okay with that."

  More silence.

  Then Demas glanced over toward Georgio, who, Katchi suddenly noticed, had worked himself, his shirt still off, closer to them and was standing up.

  Then he was joined by the second muscle guy who had a silly smile on his face.

  Both of the men had their hands in their pockets. They were looking at Hamad Katchi.

  "The Moscow trip was successful for you?" Demas asked.

  "Oh, sure. Not a lot of money. But worth the trip I suppose."

  Demas made a quick, flitting gesture to the two men, quick, almost indecipherable.

  The two men came up to stand on either side of Katchi.

  "Please stand up," Demas said calmly to Katchi.

  Something wasn't clicking in Katchi's brain. In his business of trading in weapons of destruction and death, he should have recognized what was happening. The survival instinct should have kicked in. Fight or flight.

  Except in this case, neither was an option. And the brain was jamming.

  "Get up on your feet, Hamad," Demas said again. "And step on the mat."

  Looking down, Katchi noticed a thick fabric mat in front of his chair.

  He also noticed a life vest lying on the deck. But the life vest was not orange like all the others he had ever seen. It was blue. Like the ocean. Which was strange, because someone wearing it would not be noticed from the air.

  Katchi followed Caesar Demas's command and slowly rose, trying to come up with something clever to say. Something to stop the clock from ticking. To stop the bad thing he vaguely felt in his inner gut was about to happen.

  He tried to smile. "On-deck calisthenics--"

  But he couldn't finish his lame attempt at a joke.

  Before he could, the muscle guy with his shirt off had whipped a small handgun from his pocket and fired once into Katchi's thigh.

  The explosion of searing pain went through his midthigh. He screamed and collapsed on the mat.

  Caesar Demas was still sipping from his glass. Then he bent forward toward Katchi who was gripping his leg and moaning in pain.

  "Who did you meet with in Moscow?"

  "I told you, just some local gang. Small time operators--"

  This time the other muscle guy pulled out his handgun, took aim, and shot Katchi in the other leg.

  Katchi was pleading and screaming.

  "Did you meet with anyone else?"

  Katchi was unable to talk through the pain, but he was shaking his head.

  Demas gave a nod to the two fellows.

  The two guys strapped the screaming Katchi into the life vest.

  Then they tossed him over the side.

  Bobbing in the cold Mediterranean as the blood flowed out from the wounds in his legs, Katchi was still conscious. He could see Caesar Demas and the two muscle guys bending over the rails of the yacht.

  Demas yelled out to him. "Just tell me yes or no. Did you agree to sell the RTS to Vlad Levko in Moscow? Agree to give Russia exclusive rights to the RTS? Just nod your head up and down if you can't talk. If you tell the truth, we'll pull you in. Fix up your legs."

  Katchi nodded his head up and down.

  Then a thought flashed through Katchi's mind. I'm in the sea. Sharks? I'm spilling blood...

  It was as if Caesar Demas could read his mind. "No need to worry about sharks. I read an article by a marine biologist that they are very rare in the Mediterranean."

  Half a minute went by, but Demas made no effort to pull the man into the yacht. Katchi tried to yell out but didn't have the strength. He tried to lift an arm to get their attention, but it felt as if it were filled with
cement.

  Then he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Something moving in the water to his left.

  But Demas and his two guys saw it first, and they had a better view.

  It was a blue shark, its fin cutting the water toward Katchi. It was maybe four or five feet long.

  Caesar Demas's last words to Hamad Katchi were, "I guess I need to tell that marine biologist he was wrong..."

  Katchi felt a collision with his leg, like he had just been hit by a car. Then another hit.

  Now Hamad Katchi was being pulled down under the water. He was fully in the jaws of the blue shark and it was wagging him back and forth.

  The currents of blue water above him and the frothing bubbles from his own silent, underwater screams were the last thing Hamad Katchi saw before everything went dark.

  FORTY-THREE

  Harry Smythe knew the stakes in this case were as high as any he'd ever handled.

  In Washington, D.C., in courtroom number twelve of the U.S. District Court of the District of Columbia, Harry was sitting at the counsel's table. At the other table were his opponents, two assistant U.S. attorneys. They would be arguing the case on behalf of Congress.

  If Harry lost his motion for an emergency order striking down the subpoena issued by Senator Straworth's committee, he would have only one tactic left. He could try to get the U.S. Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit to take it up and issue an emergency stay against enforcement of the subpoena. But that was a stretch. So his only real chance was right here, in the courtroom of Federal Judge Olivia Jenkins.

  Yet there was a sadly inevitable feeling of doom in the pit of his stomach. His arguments would be novel. Too novel. Judge Jenkins didn't like exotic contentions. She liked to decide cases when the issues were clear. When ordinary applications of settled law were involved.

  This case was anything but ordinary. The suit that Smythe had filed argued that the court should quash a subpoena issued by a congressional committee--a subpoena that was clearly within that committee's jurisdiction.

  Smythe heard the door open from the inner chambers behind the bench.

  The bailiff strode in, followed by the court clerk, who slapped a court file on the judge's bench, and then the court reporter followed last.