Terror Stash Read online

  “He did?” Steve absorbed this fact for later consideration. “So he wasn’t angry?”

  Duncan gave a gruff belly laugh. “Hell, he didn’t even break a sweat. Cool as a cucumber despite moving so damned fast I had trouble following what he did. He tossed that woman out of the way like she was as light as a football.”

  “What woman? The one with the eyes?”

  “Yeah. She was in the ring with him. Did I forget to mention that?” Duncan shrugged sheepishly. “The five guys with the knives must have stepped up around them while they was talking.”

  “The big guy and the woman with the eyes?”

  “No, the woman and Connie.”

  “I thought you said Connie had disappeared when you looked up again?”

  “Well, no, he wasn’t at first.” Duncan rubbed the skin under his chin. “I’m remembering it better now. He was there at first. So was the woman until the big guy tossed her out of the way.”

  “Tossed,” Steve echoed, with a flat tone. He had been about to let Duncan go. It would be easy enough to sit down with him tomorrow during daylight hours and go through it again. But the two reversals Duncan had already doled out made him uneasy. He took Duncan’s arm. “Come and sit down. We need to go through this carefully.”

  Duncan sighed. “Lemme just fill this up again and I’ll come right along.”

  For the next forty-five minutes, Steve walked Duncan through the fight as he remembered it, backing up and filling in holes over and over until the true picture of the fight began to emerge. Steve already suspected the big guy was the one they called Rawn. Rawn was, indeed, wanted by the police for questioning concerning the severe beating of Stewart Connie three years before. But the picture that Duncan painted dot by dot just didn’t fit the information they had on Rawn.

  First, the man carefully and ingenuously gets Montana out of the way, as she was an innocent third party caught up in the event. Then, unarmed and alone, he takes on five men with knives and not only beats them and walks away with a light sweat and a superficial cut, but manages to do so without seriously harming his opponents.

  Steve tried to quash his growing sense of admiration for the man. He’d never faced that kind of opposition before, or even come close to it, but he knew that if he had been in Rawn’s place, he’d either be dead, or the five seriously wounded. Or both. The control Rawn must have exercised to keep from slaughtering the bastards!

  Finally, he patted Duncan’s arm. “Thanks, mate. You can head home if you like. We’ll take care of locking up when we’re done here. I’ll get someone to drop the keys off at your place.”

  “You’re sure? That’d be a relief. The missus will be worried. She’ll have heard by now.”

  Duncan scurried away, but stopped long enough to refill his glass before hurrying out the door. Steve didn’t try warning him about drinking and driving. Duncan wasn’t above walking home if he thought he was under the influence. Most nights, he didn’t even bother bringing his car to the pub.

  Instead, Steve walked over to where Chris sat on the picnic table opposite the four silent men. They hadn’t moved from their bowed-head positions. Chris showed no signs of impatience, either.

  “They got anything to say for themselves?” Steve asked.

  “Not a word.”

  “The paddy wagon arrived yet?” The paddy wagon was a secure panel van that the five police stations in the area shared between them for transporting people.

  Chris shook his head. “It’s still in use.”

  Steve studied the four men. “I’m not even going to bother trying to deal with them tonight. It’d be a waste of juice. Let’s round up the cars. One to each car, an armed escort for each of them. Over to the hospital for better treatment. With the escort, they’ll be as secure there as they would be at the station.”

  “That’ll take a couple of trips. We don’t have the Sergeant’s car here,” Chris reminded him.

  Steve nodded. “Ah, well, two trips it is. I’ll stay here with the last two while you and the others get those two to the hospital. Take extra with you and leave them there. We’re going to have to double up on shifts and staffing until we figure out what’s going on.”

  Chris slid off the table.

  “Did anyone bring one of the rifles from the station?” Steve asked.

  “Alan was on duty when the call came in. I think he did.”

  “I’ll have it here with me while you’re taking the first two.”

  Chris paused, but Steve didn’t see his reaction because he was watching the four men sitting on the table before him. They didn’t give any visible sign they had heard him, or, if they had heard, that they cared a wit for what he was implying.

  That pushed Steve’s caution up higher still. “I’d feel happier with it next to me,” he told Chris truthfully. He settled onto the table Chris had abandoned and stared at their heads. While he watched, he thought about the fight as Duncan had described it, playing it over in his mind, trying to figure out the motives behind it.

  When Chris came back with the rifle, Steve said, “Let everyone else know to watch out for Stewart Connie. When you’re done, I want to do a quick round of the usual spots, see if we can run him down. We have to have a serious discussion with him about three years ago, as well as tonight.”

  Chris wasn’t stupid. “This was a hit? Payback?”

  Steve lifted his shoulders. “Nothing’s certain till we talk to Connie, but I didn’t like the sound of five with knives against one unarmed man, and after talking to Duncan I like it even less.”

  “Yeah, but the one guy was that big Caden Rawn bastard.” Chris glanced at the four men on the table and lowered his voice. “I’d go after him with five to one, too!”

  “Why go after him at all? That’s the real question. Hurry back, Chris. I don’t think this one will wait for morning.”

  * * * * *

  “Montana!”

  Montana blinked and realized that her hands were splayed out across her knees, holding them down, disguising the twitch. The dream. The goddamn dream. Caden Rawn had touched off some key inside her and now she was back to dreaming the dream. Again. She looked up.

  Crystal Wong stood at her office door, fingertips on the handle, head tilted to study her.

  “Sorry—vivid dream last night. Can’t seem to shake it.” Montana swallowed and her throat clicked with dryness.

  “Must have been a good one, then.” Crystal jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Boss man will see you now.”

  Finally. “Thanks, Crystal.” Montana picked up the file of printouts she’d made and hurried to Boyd Nelson’s office. Nelson was her direct superior and although she had never tried to confirm it, she was sure he worked for one of the intelligence mobs. Every consulate and embassy usually had at least one, disguised as a diplomat or consular employee. It was an unspoken but accepted part of the fabric of their world.

  But if Nelson was an intelligence officer, then being posted to Western Australia made his job a complete cakewalk. There were no spies, no critical secrets to be traded here. Perth was the most remote city in the world.

  She knocked and entered without waiting for acknowledgement. Nelson was staring out the window at the lunchtime crowd scurrying along St. George’s Terrace, thirteen floors below, but turned when she entered and fitted himself back into his seat.

  He was a middle-aged, balding man and grossly overweight. Montana figured him to be somewhere between four hundred and four-fifty pounds, but once upon a time he must have been even heavier, for his skin had stretched to accommodate the greater size and now hung in loose folds and swags, even with the extremely large pockets of fat inside them. The cheeks of his face seemed to want to slide off the structure beneath. They hung in dripping loops.

  But she knew there was a sharp mind behind the layers and tried to deal with the mind, instead.

  “What can I do for you, Montana?”

  “I need access to some restricted areas in the population datab
ase.”

  “And why is that?” He rested his hands over his belly, threading his fingers but he couldn’t bring them all the way together. They jammed halfway along, the fingers too thick to spread any further apart.

  “I saw a man in Margaret River on the weekend that...well, I have reason to believe he might be a member of Black September, possibly Al-Qa’ida. I’ve found his file on the database, but can’t access it. It’s the right man, though. The picture confirms it.” She bit her lip, knowing how utterly preposterous it was to pronounce that she’d found a wanted Palestinian hiding away in a little town in the south of Western Australia. She hurried on before Nelson could start laughing. “He had friends with him and I’d like access to the restricted areas of his file so I can tap into known associates and see if I saw any of them last night.”

  “You were in Margaret River on the weekend?” Nelson asked.

  She frowned. “I’m often in Margaret River for the weekend. That’s hardly a state secret.”

  “I know, but I wasn’t aware that you were heading down there this weekend. So close to Christmas, I figured you’d be out shopping.”

  Shopping for whom? But she bit back the response and waited patiently. She’d already confirmed she had been there. What was going on? Even though she couldn’t see where he was leading the conversation, her heart started to thud along unhappily anyway.

  He shook his head, clearing it. The movement made his chins wobble and his earlobes flap. “There was a murder down there. I understand that it’s a very small town. I thought you might know something about it.”

  “A murder? Who? Do you have a name?”

  He picked up a sheet that had the W.A. Police logo on the top. Montana had seen thousands of them. They were broadcast fax bulletins. Updates on criminal activity in the state. The consulate was on the distribution list so they could keep an eye out for Americans in the area and step in if there was trouble involving one of their own.

  “Says here Stewart Dawson Connie. Also known as Rabbit. They found his body in the river. Knife wounds to the chest and back. He bled to death. They figure he died between seven and nine p.m.”

  Montana clawed to hold her face together, to not give anything away, while her heart and mind...her whole body dropped into a deep chasm. Free-floating nausea wrenched at her. Fighting to sound normal, she said, “I left around six-thirty or so and I actually spent the day at Yallingup. The waves were up.” She made herself smile. “So, didn’t hear a thing. Was he a surfer?”

  Nelson’s eyes flicked down to the page, back up to her. “Says he’s a known drug-dealer. Crystal meth, heroin, crack, even good old cannabis.”

  She heard Rawn’s voice drawling again; “You need a fix so bad you’d stoop to dealing with this turd?”

  Caden Rawn had known who he was, then. Had he gone looking for him after the fight and killed him? No, not Caden Rawn. He’s not like that. The voice in her mind was absolutely flat, absolutely sure. Dangerous, he might be—and she suppressed the shudder that tried to rattle her as she remembered the pure menace he’d radiated when he’d confronted Rabbit. Yes, he was dangerous, but what made him most dangerous was the strategic control he’d demonstrated.

  Her mind zeroed in on the moment his hand had rested on her shoulder, the fingers absently sliding up against the flesh of her neck. Even now she could recall the warmth and the weight of his hand. The memory kept popping into her mind in odd moments, stealing her concentration, just as memories of Vinnie did. She recalled the way Rawn had snatched his hand away, abruptly aware of what he was doing. Conscious control, awareness of ramifications, of consequences....

  Sneaking away and killing Rabbit on the sly just didn’t fit with everything else Rawn had done last night. He’d have known how stupid such a move would be and that the authorities would immediately look at him as the most interesting suspect.

  She shook her head for Nelson’s benefit. “Sorry, can’t tell you a thing about it. Besides, don’t you think I would have phoned you if I’d been involved in something like that? I know procedure as well as you.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” He threw the sheet down and smiled at her. “Guess you wouldn’t know anything about the big bar fight down there, either.”

  Adrenaline was already surging through her or she may have given herself away this second time. As it was, she merely lifted her brows. “What exactly is it you think I do down there, Nelson? Turn into a surfer chick and slut my way through every bar in town?”

  He had the grace to blush. “Like I said, it’s a very small town. A murder, a knife fight. They’re probably related.”

  “Which is probably why I don’t know about either of them,” she said crisply. “I would have called you.” Then she let her eyes open wide. “Is that it? Someone in the fight was American? Or the murder victim? What’s his name...Connie?”

  “Actually, they don’t know the names of any of the victims of the knife fight. They didn’t have any identification and so far the two survivors haven’t said a word.”

  “Two survivors?” Mentally, she winced and sought for a way to cover her slip. “How many people were in this fight?” she demanded, pouring outrage into her voice. The outrage was easy. This time, the nausea that swept through her was bereft of any positive tension. She felt sick. Had she let herself be lulled by Caden Rawn’s confident assurance that he had avoiding killing any of them. Had he lied to her?

  She had believed him without proof, then encouraged him to flee from the police.

  She clung to the one fact she knew about Rawn. He had shown nothing but cool control and reasoning. Why lie to her? He’d offered to stay and face the authorities if she asked for it. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d known he’d killed two of the assailants. There was no reason to lie.

  “What’s the matter, Montana? Do knife fights offend you?”

  She scrambled to find a normal response. “When they might involve my friends, they do.”

  “Ah.” Nelson relaxed. “I’ll get Crystal to copy you on any news bulletins about it.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate it. And the access to the files?”

  “Ah, that.” He wove his fingers together again. “Who is it you think you have found?”

  “It looks like he’s got lots of names, but the regular one is Ghenghis Bob.”

  “Ghenghis Bob?” Finally, Nelson did start to chuckle. His whole body wobbled as he let the almost soundless belly laugh out.

  “I’m not making up the name. I know it sounds totally bizarre for a terrorist—they love aliases that align them with religious icons or warrior heroes, but that’s his name. I checked.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Nelson said, catching his breath. “Oh dear....” He wiped his eyes. “You really are naïve when it comes to this stuff, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No, clearly not. Let me tell you a bit about Ghenghis Bob, my dear. You’re quite right, he was with Black September, but that was years ago, now. He was so radically fundamentalist that even Black September had problems with his extremist ideals and behavior. Do you remember the Primo situation in Turkey, about nine years ago?”

  She recalled the salient details. They were engraved on most State department officers’ minds. While touring Turkey, the wife of an east coast Senator, Brian Primo, had been kidnapped and taken across the border into Syria. Black September had instantly claimed responsibility and set up negotiations. In their ruthless view of the world, this had merely been a quick, convenient way to raise a bit more cash for their main operations. But while the negotiations were still underway, a video had been delivered to the Senator. On it was the last three hours of his wife’s life. They had gutted her, laid out her entrails on the table before her and watched her die, all while quoting the Koran to her.

  She had been eight weeks pregnant.

  The negotiators had quickly decamped, their mission to stall the authorities a success.

  “I remember t
he case,” Montana told Nelson.

  “Some weeks after the Senator’s wife died, rumors started spreading around the intelligence world, then out to diplomatic circles, that Black September had not intended to murder her. They blamed a former member of their organization, who had acted on his own authority. They cited the man as being a religious fanatic who fell well beyond even their own borders of tolerance.”

  “Ghenghis Bob?” Montana guessed, feeling sick.

  Nelson smiled benevolently at her. “Ghenghis Bob. It was made very clear that Black September and Ghenghis Bob had come to a parting of ways.”

  “So he might still be out there somewhere, then.”

  “You don’t resign from Black September, Montana. You don’t ever get to leave.”

  “They executed him?”

  “Exactly.” He flicked his fingernails at the sheets she had given him. “Clearly, you were off chasing imaginary Palestinians this weekend, while the real trouble was brewing elsewhere.”

  “Can I look in the database, anyway? Indulge me, Nelson. It’s not like it’ll hurt anyone if I see it.”

  “What would be the point? Think about it. Why would any self-respecting terrorist come here to Western Australia? Terrorists prefer thick, teeming targets, like cities where the population runs into the thousands per square mile. You’d be hard pressed to find a square mile even in Sydney that holds thousands of people and as for the W.A. bush....” Nelson shook his head again and this time his earlobes barely wobbled. “I appreciate your fervor and dedication, Montana, but it’s quite ridiculous and I’d be compounding the problem if I indulged you in this.”

  “But—”

  “No, Montana.” He sighed. “Do you think, perhaps, this is just a bit of cabin fever? You’ve been posted to Perth for six years now. That’s long enough to grow itchy feet when you’re as young and ambitious as you are. You must surely want to move on to someplace more exciting than here.”