PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER SEVEN

Character Build

Peter Elkins III - American Mercenary
Paul Connolly - Irish Mercenary
Mary Murphy -Irish Widow Woman
Sergeant Thompson - Mercenary Recruiter
Major Alistair Leigh - Tough Guys
Archie Andrews - African Mercenary

Rashid Al-Mannai - Jordanian Ambassador
Officer Windrush - MPD Patrolman
Jerri Neighbour - Freelance Journalist
Kolé Cutter - American President
J A Metcalfe (JAM) - CIA/UK Liaison
Horace Lime - SO11/CIA Liaison
Philip Dalton - British Assassin
Morris (MO) Schlick - Film Director
Nicola Schlick - Mo's Wife
Tse Lin Yan - Chinese Miliary Attaché
Victor Miles - Secure Armed Services
Abdul Miandad - Syrian Lawyer

Rosie Hoare - Limes' Secretary
Lobb - Policeman

Alan Borg - MPD Homicide Detective
John D Elkins - Bank President & City Mayor

Maurice Le Clerc - Monaco Security Chief
René Dupont - Interpol

Mendy Wade - Chief of White House Staff
George Bartlett - Head of White House Security
Sam McDonald - Head of FBI
Charles Howe - Sam's No.1

Herbert Brown - Embassy Butler
Colonel Najeen - Head of Embassy Security

7

Washington DC - August 07, 2013 - 12.45

Lt. Colonel Abdul Miandad locked up the apartment in a classy area of Hyattsville that Victor Miles had provided for his stay in Washington. He figured his boys would be on their way. After Miles’s visit to Monaco, he had taken charge of the operation and had enjoyed the French briefing trips. In spite of what, by all accounts, they had encountered, Connolly and Elkins were still green - one might say innocents abroad - compared to other soldiers of fortune he’d known in his lifetime. At least both were bright and prepared to learn. As usual, Miles had chosen the right men to do his work.

Miandad glanced up at the threatening clouds, aware of a distinct chill through the thin overalls designed to cover his Italian Mohair suit, crisp white shirt and crushed silk tie. Alligator shoes that peeped out from the bottom of his trousers were incongruous, to say the least. Hidden in a paper grocery bag was a small leather briefcase, a manila envelope addressed to Rashid Al-Mannai, the Jordanian Ambassador, and papers which identified him as Iqbal A Shamshall, a diplomatic courier. He had also acquired a soft black leather overcoat, purchased for a King's ransom in Damascus before he came to America.
‘A King's ransom...’ Miandad paused on the pavement and smiled at the thought. Preoccupied, he failed to notice the man in dark glasses whose white cane bumped along the pavement coming towards him. He focused only when they collided and the man fell. Embarrassed, Miandad helped him up, apologized profusely, brushed him down and sent him on his way.

Almost as if by appointment, a cab started to approach. About to raise his hand, another cab pulled up, almost where the lawyer stood; most unusual for a quiet suburban street. A woman emerged and ran into the apartment block. He climbed in, gave instructions and the vehicle started off towards the northwest.

The lawyer had failed to observe the ‘blind man’ who waved his white stick at the sec-ond cab, now stationary in the centre of the road. He did, however, notice his heart start to quicken and a sudden flush of perspiration that began to break out all over his body. By the time they reached their destination, his head had started to pound. Something was wrong. Only years of discipline in critical situations ensured he was not sick in the cab.

* * *

Victor Miles checked his watch. Miandad had gained too much information for his own good and this had proved the perfect opportunity to take care of him. By now, his toy soldiers were on their way. Arrival at the Jordanian Embassy would also signal their termination point. With Miandad, their master of ceremonies, stopped in his tracks, there would be no option for them but to abandon the operation. A new type of man would take over; a man who took no prisoners. He grimaced. This madness might work after all.

* * *

As the rain lashed down relentlessly on him, Miandad headed for the sanctuary of an empty phone booth, tried to wipe the sweat from his eyes, and looked across the avenue. The embassy could not be missed; a dramatic structure, even among the prime realty in Washington’s Metropolitan Area. Detached from other major embassies around Dupont Circle, the building still continued to boast trappings of 19th century Colonial architecture, a standard feature for the capital’s foreign missions.

A white transit, with an embassy permit affixed to its front screen, cruised down the avenue. The van slowed to a stop as it arrived at the car park’s main reservation area. Miandad glanced towards the police guard outside the embassy, occupied with some more tourists. Although now very ill, the lawyer still knew what needed to be done. He crossed the avenue, removed the ‘no parking’ cone and allowed the vehicle to reverse in. After this, he opened the rear doors and stowed the cone away.

At this precise moment, a hotel stretch limo drew up and dropped off a rather distinguished and somehow familiar looking man right where the police guard stood. Morris Schlick immediately found himself surveyed by the cameras swiveling either side of huge double doors, not to mention a policeman giving him the discreet once over. Ignoring the potential distractions, he pressed a rather ornate marble ball at the center of a highly polished brass ring and, within moments, he was ushered in by an appropriately dressed, if rather doddery old butler.

From their vantage point on the central reservation, the new arrivals also noted the surprise visitor and hoped matters would not get too complicated. For now, the distraction was useful. At this point, Miandad climbed into the rear of the van and the young men came round to join him.

Elkins pulled interior blackout curtains across the win¬dows and turned on the light. Connolly ignored the Arab, who was sweating profusely and, to all intents and purposes, terrified. Having met him at several briefing sessions, the Irishman assumed, like lots of people who talk a good fight, this grease ball had folded at the first puff of wind.

Having removed a large false section of floor, Connolly noted he had parked exactly as intended, directly centered above a manhole. He reached down and inserted a special purpose made rod into the cover, sliding the mechanism aside with ease. Even from here, they could determine a distant roar and the stench coming up to meet them was discernable. The men fitted small breathing masks to their faces before climbing into the exposed drain. Their Arab companion, also wearing a mask and fighting to control the spasms gripping his body, passed down the heavy bags. Elkins looked up at the man doubtfully and then at his watch. It was just before one o’clock. ‘Remember, you don’t go for another hour and fifteen minutes - at two fifteen.’ He pointed at his watch. ‘OK, two fifteen!’ Miandad could barely focus as the young American disappeared down the rusted iron rungs. Then, gasping for air, he reached down to claw the cover back, breaking and bloodying several manicured fingernails in the process.

Miandad's brain had clouded over; sweat poured from his body; his heart pumped like a jack hammer. He ripped the mask from his face and, somehow, dragged the briefcase from the paper bag, ignoring his valuable leather coat which fell in an untidy heap to the floor. The next thing he knew, he was out of the vehicle and just about managing to close the locking mechanism. He should have waited. He should have discarded his overalls, but his mind was no longer responding. Impervious to the rain splashing over his face, heralding the fast approaching storm, he stumbled blindly across the avenue towards the embassy entrance.

Miandad was unaware of the truck’s steady progress down the wide, leafy thoroughfare. He ignored the fierce squeal of brakes and the police officer’s shouted warning as he turned to witness the inevitable impact. Death, on arrival, was a welcome visitor.

* * *

Schlick was impressed with the austere grandeur of the lobby, with its white marble floor and Doric columns supporting a double floor span. The butler led him towards a wide staircase, winding up on either side of a massive glass chandelier which reminded him of those that hung in the ballroom of the Grosvenor Hotel in London.

Proceeding up one sweep of sumptuous purple carpeted stairs to an upper landing and large entrance overlooking the lobby, the man rapped on a heavy oak panel with his white gloved fist. He opened the door wide and moved aside, allowing the film director entrance.

‘Mr. Morris Schlick, your Excellency.’

The room appeared to have the capacity for a tennis court with room for up to 20 spectators on either side. Over on the left, the wall comprised ceiling-to-floor books with volumes enough to satisfy a small public library, while inset into this was the massive frame for a separate oak door.

In the right-hand corner - positioned on a sumptuously thick cream carpet - three over- stuffed cream sofas, embroidered in silken Arabic motifs, formed an open square with the wall. A large block of glass, cut and honed to form a coffee table in the middle of the square, contained an ornate coffee service including translucent cups and saucers.

Natural daylight filtered through a glass-domed ceiling, which, in turn, lit up a circular carpet of the finest Jordanian silk. More light entered through the Beaux-Arts French windows leading to balconies above the avenue beyond.

Al Mannai, who had been seated at his black ebony desk, stood to greet his visitor. His attire was nothing like the film director had expected. There was no haik, no golden band and flowing gown. Instead, he wore western garb, including a smart blue blazer and old Harrovian tie. He faced Schlick between two huge windows at the back of the room under a portrait of King Abdullah II: Rashid Al-Mannai, Jordanian Ambassador to the United States of America.

The ambassador was tall and scholarly; his once black curly hair now turning a dramatic grey at the sideburns. With thin lips and a hooked Arabic nose complementing brown limpid eyes, Schlick was reminded of the great film actor, Omar Sharif. As the director started towards him, the ambassador also crossed the room. It was a thrill akin to the time his father, on a visit to London, had taken him to a cinema to see his first film; the first ever made by Morris Schlick. Even then he was being hailed as an extraordinary new talent by the cognoscenti in Hollywood.

Several months previously, CBS had invited Al-Mannai, together with Schlick - a vocal political voice in Hollywood - to appear in a brand new TV documentary series entitled ‘Family of Man.’ Designed as an Arab versus Jewish debate, it would be no holds barred and head to head. Two prominent public figures in their own world, they would be matched in the first program of the series; one designed to discuss problems in the Middle East. Both men had jumped at the chance. It came as no surprise when the ambassador’s immediate suggestion was that they approach the program with a total objectivity and consider all sides of a single subject, that of hostages and hostage taking.

Schlick was prepared to listen to the arguments and make up his own mind. Al-Mannai, excited at the prospect of impartial discussion before making it official with CBS, suggested they compare differences between Israel, struggling to establish independence, and Palestine, struggling to retain its homeland. Doubtless, also in the frame would be Iraq, Lebanon and America – with its infamous political prison in Cuba.

As a final quest, they would investigate the situation as in Iran, Syria and Jordan, where there continued to be an increased need for more democracy, even if not a mirror image of American requirements. Although each would be from polarized perspectives, their respective arguments would indicate how each warring faction compared with the other.

Al-Mannai embraced the American, then he stepped back and laughed with embarrassment. ‘I apologise; you expected a more formal welcome.’ His smile was warm. ‘It is strange, almost as if I've known you for years and you are a dear friend.’

Schlick grinned and grasped the man's hand. ‘It is my pleasure, your Excellency?’

Now the ambassador smiled. ‘Rashid will do very well.’ He paused a moment, his face straightened. ‘May I call you Mr. Schlick?’ Both men laughed before Al-Mannai led his guest to a settee and offered refreshment. ‘You prefer Kenyan, I believe?’

The man had done his homework. ‘You’re on the money again.’ Schlick smiled. ‘Have we met before?’

Al-Mannai poured the coffee. ‘Before we start, I should admit that we have had that pleasure.’ The American looked puzzled as the Ambassador continued. ‘You may not remember - a Vietnam peace demonstration in London, years ago. You were…’

Schlick suddenly looked accusing. ‘I was an angry young man and you were the damn Arab trying to convince me that greater understanding between America and the Middle East would save us all a lot of trouble in the future.’ Al-Mannai pressed his forehead in supplication.

‘I have to admit the truth. I was the Arab in question!’

Schlick shook his head. ‘I’ve often thought of you, in particular over the last few years; if
there were a few more Arabs around like that...'

Al-Mannai nodded gravely. ‘I have to tell you, Morris, there are many Arabs like that.’

The director shrugged. ‘Yeah, I guess it took me a while to get the message.’

The ambassador smiled. ‘Believe me, you got the message a whole lot quicker than most.’ He changed the subject. ‘Your new film was brilliant, a tour de force. Many people must have told you already.’

Schlick looked serious. ‘I took a whole lot of crap as well.’ His host raised an eye-brow as the director continued. ‘Jews are not supposed to wash their underwear in public.’

Al-Mannai nodded. ‘If we did it more often, we'd discover how very similar we are.’

The director scoffed. ‘Go tell that to the Hollywood Chapter of Ortho¬dox Jewry.’

The ambassador smiled. ‘Similar in every way, except the way in which we think.’ Returning his saucer to the table, he crossed his legs and turned towards his guest. 'Maybe it's our starting point.’ The man paused as if trying to find the right words.

‘Our minds sift through the filters of our own experience. I have beliefs that color my basic conclusions. My whole background, including the way I was brought up, my religion, education, ambitions, perspectives and assumptions will all be different from your own.’

Schlick shrugged. ‘I figure, maybe, it’s the reason we’re here to talk to one another.’

The Arab stared into the glass coffee table before he looked up. ‘What did you think when Hizbollah took hostages to further their fundamentalist beliefs?’

‘What I would have thought about any hostage situa¬tion,’ Schlick replied with a hint of irritation. ‘It's against the laws of humanity and can never be justified.’

‘In other words,’ said the ambassador, ‘one hostage is as any other. What about when Israel locked up thousands of Palestinians, or when America jailed hundreds of Muslims without trial, or when Saddam Hussein restrained the very people who came to help him prevent the bombings in Baghdad? Were they all hostages to the same fortune?’

‘I suspect you have a mix of metaphors. Saddam brought those air raids on himself. As you say those people came to help him. They may have been misguided, but...’ Schlick shook his head. ‘Israel figured to constrain a shitload of Arabs who had threatened to annihilate them. Some of the people they locked up might have been innocent but, jeez, the Israelis had to try and protect themselves.’ He smiled, accepting the parallel before he continued. ‘In Iraq, second time round, we had a President set on revenge.’ He shrugged. ‘OK, let’s accept that it all started with an Iraqi dictator acting like Caligula.’

Police sirens and the slamming of doors outside interrupted them. Al-Mannai stood, walked to the window and looked out. The sky had turned black and threatening again. An ambulance wailed its plaintive song through the wind before falling silent.

Al- Mannai opened the French windows and the men walked out on to the balcony to watch as a crumpled body draped with a rubber sheet was stretchered up a ramp and into an ambulance. Seconds later, the vehicle pulled away, followed by an MPD patrol car. Another police car remained and an officer chased away onlookers as a plain clothed detective squatted, presumably to question a man sitting in shock on the sidewalk.

A woman was standing by a large delivery truck attempting to open a small umbrella over them, but another squall turned her scant protection inside out. She struggled off, head down and shoulders hunched as the rain began bouncing off the tarmac and a huge flash of lightning lit up the dark sky. The men, now beginning to get wet, hastened back into the room. Al-Mannai shook his head. Closing the door, he turned to Schlick.
‘I have never seen one that close.’

* * *

Philip Dalton worked alone, except when acting as minder for Victor Miles. Or, as in more recent times, when requested by his client to protect the Chinese Arms Attaché, which had proved a little more difficult. Now, at very short notice, he was being employed in the capacity he liked best. According to Miles, who had phoned him just a couple of hours previously, Dalton’s particular skills were urgently needed.

Unusual for Miles, he had been forced to change his plans at the very last moment. Even so, he had still managed to come up with a brief of stunning simplicity; just as Dalton liked it. The instructions could not have been plainer. Just after one o’clock that same day, a white transit would attempt to park in the central island reservation held for diplomats in DC’s Jordanian embassy. Dalton would remove a parking cone guarding the entrance and allow the van access. He would then hand the driver a note from Miles explaining that the arrangements had changed and then give him a sealed envelope containing residue dough owed on the job. The men would then be happy to depart, keys left in the van, and Dalton would be able to finish the job with an exactitude given to his consciousless talent.

Standing in a phone booth opposite the embassy, the Englishman wore an incongruously oversize slicker with something stored underneath that made him resemble a hunchback. He was pretending to make a call when a cab drew up and a man clambered out, almost falling over as he did so. Dalton was astonished. His mind flashed back to the hotel suite in Beirut; the smug little lawyer. What was his name? Yes, of course, Lt. Col. Abdul Miandad; the man who got the finger job. Now, here he was in the flesh, walking like a drunk towards the booth right next door to him.

Once inside, the Arab leaned against the wall, exactly as Dalton himself, eyes fixed on the embassy opposite. Shortly thereafter, a white transit arrived and, before the English-man could make his move, his unexpected companion had wobbled off, over to the central reservation. He removed a parking cone from the restricted parking bay and allowed the transit to drive straight in, precisely as Dalton had been instructed to do. He caught sight of the two young men as they joined the Arab in the back of the van.

Dalton’s eyes filled with hate. It was painful to remember that a couple of weeks earlier they had met in Kashmir; the awful damage they did to him. That, however, was another story, maybe one for another day.

Minutes later, the Arab exited from the van and locked the doors before stumbling over the avenue, like a man in a trance, straight into the path of an oncoming truck. Life was full of surprises but, unexpected as it was, Dalton needed keys to the van. Now, scurrying over towards the accident, it had become necessary to earn his money the hard way.

* * *

Abdul Miandad had died almost at the instant Connolly and Elkins had reached a ledge halfway down the drain outlet. The Irishman rested his bags, extracted a flashlight and identified a large mesh cover bolted to the side of the wall. Elkins used heavy steel cutters to release the mesh and started to ease it aside. Suddenly, he leaped back, almost knocking Connolly off his feet. He swiveled to the Irishman, who was about to say something, then changed his mind and turned back, peering beyond mesh, his voice shaking slightly; barely audible. ‘Someone’s in there.’

Connolly felt himself pale. He eased Elkins aside, leaning forward, towards the mesh, straining to see whatever was beyond. Finally, he turned to face his partner and grinned. “You’ve never seen a giant rat me boy!’ He shook the mesh and the large rodent scuttled away, only to stop in the exposed corridor and turn again to stare. Connolly laughed. ‘You leave them alone and they’ll leave you.’ He replaced the cover and sealed it with a pliant rubber aerosol. The air was heavy and humid. Had the men not had breathing masks, the intense stinking aroma might have been overpowering. A wet, moss-like substance covered the walls, while a roaring torrent of frothy yellow water, intermixed with human excretion and other unwanted bodies, roared down and alongside the narrow pathway ahead. Small packs of rats huddled together along the slime covered walls, or scampered off to other locations.

The men checked an array of high technology weapons concealed in their kit bags. These included machine pistols, smoke and chemical grenades, ammunition, small oxygen cylinders and breathing masks as well as other items designed to cover any unexpected turn of events. They had been very thorough. In spite of Miles’s assurances, the men had considered every conceivable scenario. They had a job to do; one that had already paid sufficiently for them to retire on for a good few years. The trapdoor leading up to their destination lay just ahead.

* * *

On duty outside the embassy, the MPD officer, Matt Windrush, figured he’d seen it all; certainly enough to convince him that it was a drunken death or a heart attack. He had witnessed the truck slowing, seeming to stop even before flesh and metal collided. Nevertheless, the victim fell like a stone, his head enjoining with the tarmac.

Windrush spoke into his mobile for a few seconds, identified himself and requested assistance before approaching the supine figure, reaching into the man's jacket and removing a wallet. He noticed a little man in a large slicker, part of a crowd which had started to gather. The man was staring over his shoulder towards the embassy. Windrush turned instinctively, in time to see one of the large doors close. Turning back, he realised the crowd had encroached too far; the small man was almost on top of the body.

The officer curtly ordered everyone to get back. Moments before, Dalton had spotted the car keys, spilling from the dead man's overalls and, having seen a man looking out from the embassy door, had done just enough to divert the policeman. It was a simple matter to allow part of his voluminous coat to flop across the dead man's body and calmly palm the keys before Windrush turned to eye him with suspicion.

Dalton shrugged. ‘A couple of cleaners.’ He appeared embarrassed to have caused the diversion. The policeman scowled and told him to back off. More people gathered and Dalton withdrew, crossed the avenue again and rung his boss for fresh instructions.

* * *

Prior to the body being taken away, Windrush had made his own assessments. What he had found made no sense; in fact, it was sufficient to bewilder him completely: a leather briefcase in a paper bag; a smart suit under the man's overalls; bloodied fingernails and the contents of a billfold that included an identity card with a Jordan address, a photograph and a name - Iqbal A Shamshall, Diplomatic Courier.

The briefcase was empty, other than a manila envelope addressed to His Excellency, Rashid Al-Mannai. It contained some twenty sheets of foolscap paper, all blank!

Windrush was obliged to report his findings to the embassy. Colonel Najeen, Head of Security, rejected the identity card, pointing out that couriers would have had covers vetted and issued only through him. Nothing made sense. Windrush could do no more than share the riddle to Lieutenant Alan Borg, Head of Detectives for the Metropolitan Homicide Division.

* * *

Dalton stopped alongside the van, waiting a few minutes for the ambulance to arrive. Then he opened the rear door, relocked it from the inside, removed the clumsy slicker and heavy cumbersome kitbag from his back and studied the heavy manhole cover set in the road below. To remove it in such a cramped situation might have seemed impossible for a small man with a potbelly, but looks can deceive and Dalton was a past master in that particular art. He removed the cover with consumate ease. No one had warned him about the stinking smell of rotting shit.

Maneuvering himself and the haversack down into the drain, Dalton eased the large iron cover back into place before descending down as far as the side mesh screen, its steel bolts severed and a fresh adhesive seal holding it in place. He could hear a distant roar of water. Pushing the cover away to allow access, he made his way cautiously towards a bend ahead. Incessant rain had caused the levels to rise, almost to its high storm point. An undisciplined torrent of yellow frothy water rushed down the tunnel.

Dalton peered around the corner. Steps led to another exit point from a shelf just above the water line. This was the place. The stench was indescribable. He also studied the rats, scampering out of danger along the tunnel and shook his head dismissively. They would be no problem to him. Then, without further hesitation, he laid a thick blanket on the dank floor, opened his pack, removed several pieces of metal and fitted them expertly together. His final act was to insert a curved clip of ammunition into the side of what was now an automatic killing machine. Now he could sit down and wait. He figured it would not be for too long.