Desert Falcons. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
familiar with how the system works. And how it doesn’t.”
She flashed a lips-only semi-smile. “I also verified you two through that phone number you gave me. I was told to cooperate and extend you every courtesy.”
“Your map seems pretty comprehensive,” Bolan said, pointing at the wall area. “How many cases do you have going?”
Dylan turned her chair so she was facing the map. “The marathon and the desert warfare school are just on there in the way of general events in the area I had to be mindful of. I had Camp Freedom highlighted due to Mr. Autry’s penchant for butting heads with the Bureau of Land Management and his little, well-trained militia. Originally, we were interested in how they were getting their equipment.” She paged through the sheaf of papers in her file, extracted one and handed it across the desk to Bolan.
He accepted it and saw a computerized graphic of a stretch of highway with an intersecting road perpendicular to a line that was designated Fence Line.
“That is, until those two BLM rangers disappeared last night,” she said. “The unexplained disappearance of two federal employees is a Bureau case. That shows their last known location. The highway they were patrolling is in the area of public domain lands that Autry has been arguing about. The road there is the back access road into his little fiefdom.”
“Fiefdom?” Grimaldi said, leaning over to glance at the paper. “I’d say it looks more like Fort Knox, West.”
“Good analogy,” she said, getting up from her chair.
Grimaldi elbowed Bolan and gave a slight nod.
“As you can see,” Dylan said as she traced her fingers over the larger map on the wall, “they were in this area here at 7:23 p.m. Their mobile data terminal in their vehicle indicated that they were checking on a cluster of vehicles on the road. There were no further transmissions after that.”
“Any information on the other vehicles?” Bolan asked.
Dylan shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. Theirs isn’t like regular police procedures where they do traffic stops and call in license numbers. Instead, they have a general area to keep an eye on, in this case, the public land in the Autry dispute. Plus, there’s no dispatch service monitoring their activities other than a basic review of their transmitted reports the next day. They’re pretty much on their own.”
“Is there any way to track the agents or their vehicle?” Bolan asked.
“Ordinarily, there would be,” she said. “There were GPS monitors in both of their cell phones, and in the car’s MDT, as well. Unfortunately, after they apparently cleared from their vehicular check, they drove off in a northeasterly direction, and, very soon thereafter, all three GPS devices ceased to function.”
“Which wouldn’t be likely without some sort of help,” Bolan said. “You think they might be inside Autry’s place?”
“It’s possible.” She moved her hand over to the red highlighted section. “He does have several large structures on his land. Our surveillance records indicate that the four buildings are used for storage, but of exactly what, we don’t know. Any one of them is large enough to hold numerous vehicles.”
“Autry’s primarily a cattle rancher, right?” Bolan asked.
She nodded.
“Then why does he need so many barns? I could see it if he was into dairy farming, but he’s known for letting his cattle graze on the range, right?”
“On government-owned land, mostly.” She tapped the map again. “This region here is at the middle of the dispute. It was designated by the BLM back in 1978, to be used as a wild mustang sanctuary. Well, Autry and the other ranchers in the area began letting their cattle graze on the land. Eventually, an agreement was reached that the ranchers would pay a nominal fee for water and grazing rights. They all did, except one.” She smiled. “Care to guess who?”
“Our friend Autry,” Grimaldi stated.
Dylan nodded. “In the meantime, there’s not much we can do as far as getting a warrant to search Camp Freedom until we get something solid linking Autry with the disappearance of those rangers. We’re doing flyovers of the area with a special infrared scanning device that shows any recent interruptions in the top soil. We’re hoping to locate something.”
“We’ve got a few other things to check out, Agent Dylan,” Bolan said, rising from his chair. He handed her a card with his cell phone number on it. “If we can be of any assistance, give me a call.”
She accepted the card with thanks and walked them to the door. As they exited the building, the early evening heat embraced them.
Bolan took out the remote and clicked it twice, unlocking the Escalade as he headed for the driver’s door. “Hal said the prince’s jet was scheduled to land here at 6:45 p.m. I want to size him up.”
* * *
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
MUSTAPHA HELD THE king’s Rolex watch in his hand and watched as the second hand swept around the bejeweled face of the timepiece with perfect precision. The king had asked him how soon the watch would be ready, and Mustapha had replied with a deferential smile and shrug. “I want to be absolutely certain that all of the intricate mechanisms are functioning properly.” The old royal had seemed to accept this explanation.
In reality the Rolex was functioning perfectly. Mustapha would slip it back on the king’s wrist only when it was time to tell him that his grandson, the prince, had been killed. Mustapha wanted to watch the light dim in the old man’s eyes as he knew the reign of the House of Saud was finished in this land. No longer would the greedy royals force their oppressive ways upon the populace. It would be a new beginning for his country. A new rise to greatness, unencumbered by the yoke of royal oppression.
Mustapha had reset the watch at the precise moment when Mahfuj had informed him that the charade in Bahrain had succeeded. That was, in effect, the official commencement of their plan…the point of no return. Mustapha made a vow that he would keep the watch until the plan had run its full course. It would be a final symbolic act of defiance. It would signify to the old monarch that his time, and that of the royal family, had run out.
His first-born son was with the prince in the U.S., and Mustapha and his second-born son were here in Arabia at his side. Masoud, his youngest son, had emailed him that his negotiations with the Russian were proceeding as planned, except for a minor, unexpected development regarding the exchange of some of the funding. Apparently, the Americans had stepped up their surveillance of Camp Freedom due to some unforeseen incident, so meeting the Russian to give him the front money for the weapons purchase would be a bit more problematic.
This new development worried Mustapha slightly, but he knew Masoud was capable of handling his end of things. He’d assured his father that the Russian had successfully recruited the two Shi’ite scapegoats, who would be initially blamed for the kidnapping and murder of the decadent prince. And the magnitude of another marathon bombing within the continental United States, one in which a member of the Royal Family was involved, would ensure that the Americans would not interfere when the Saudi military moved in to take charge and restore order. In the end, all the Americans really cared about was keeping the spigots of oil open and flowing. And once he was president of the new Arabia, Mustapha would see to that, but at his own price. A price that guaranteed the sovereignty and development of his country.
Mustapha felt a new wave of fatigue sweep over him. He had been unable to sleep since he had seen Mahfuj off at the airport. He remembered the look in the eyes of his first-born. Eagerness, anticipation, but not fear. Mahfuj was ready, as if he’d been training his whole life for this moment. And in a way, he had. They all had. It was preordained, ever since he had seen the four desert falcons in his dream.
Mustapha glanced at his own watch and then to the blank screen on his smartphone. It was almost dawn…time for morning prayers. Mustapha set down the king’s Rolex and completed the washing ritual.