He was shaking his head slowly. “No, it’s not. When Gerritt finds out…” He let it hang, not wanting to finish.
Valerie went cold, remembering the look on Jonathan Taggart’s face as he described what had happened to his wife and daughter. Marc was watching her closely, and when she looked up, he nodded.
“That’s right. If you want to talk about my ultimate leverage point, it is you and the boys.” He pulled her to him, holding her with a fierceness that frightened her. “Valerie, if I just let everything ride, there would be no threat to you.”
She looked up at him for several seconds, feeling the fear tightening her stomach. But she shook her head. “You can’t deal with Gerritt.” She buried her head against his chest. “You just can’t.”
“Okay,” he said with sudden determination. “Call your mother. Tell her to pack some things for both you and her.”
Valerie’s head came up swiftly.
“I don’t think they will bother Mary, but we can’t be sure. So all of you have to go.”
“But where?”
“I’m taking you to Utah.”
“Right now?”
“As soon as we can get some things packed for the boys. If you’ll do that, I’ll go get Brett from his sleepover.”
It was two-thirteen A.M. when Marc carried two suitcases out and put them into the trunk. Mary locked the front door of her home, then walked hurriedly with Valerie to the Chrysler Le-Baron, where she got in the back seat next to two very sleepy little boys. As Marc came around and got in the front seat with Valerie, Yitzhak ben Tsur, in a car half a block away, lowered the binoculars and picked up the microphone.
“This is Claremont One. We have definite confirmation. The fiancée’s mother has been picked up with her luggage. The bird is in flight.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
They left Claremont, California, Sunday morning at two-fifteen A.M. and drove straight through, stopping only for gas, food, and one time when Marc made a half-hour call to Washington, D.C. They arrived in Willard, Utah, shortly after five that evening. By five forty-five they were back on the road south again, this time not in Marc’s car, which had been left locked in his father’s garage, but in his father’s minivan. There was a quick, tearful farewell at the Salt Lake International Airport, with urgent warnings from all that Marc be extremely careful. Even Brett sensed the somber mood of the adults and was subdued. Matt, exuberant at the thoughts of two weeks at a small mountain resort with his grandma and grandpa, was the only one whose spirits weren’t dampened.
Marc disembarked from the Salt Lake to Los Angeles flight at ten thirty-two that night, California time, made one quick phone call, then rented a car and drove directly to a fashionable neighborhood in Cypress, about twenty-five or thirty miles southeast of Los Angeles.
Jonathan Taggart always watched the news at eleven, then late night reruns before going to bed. When the doorbell rang at ten minutes to twelve, he looked up in surprise, fighting down the instant fear that had become a part of his life since he had pushed open the door to find a headless cat lying on his porch. Hurrying, before the bell rang again and woke his wife, he padded into the living room, leaving the lights out, and peeked quickly out a window. His eyes widened when he saw the two men. He stepped back quickly, turned off the porch light, and opened the door.
“Mr. Taggart,” Marc said, “we apologize for the hour, but it is very important that we talk to you.”
Taggart’s eyes were frightened. “Why did you come here?” he demanded. He peered up and down the street, then opened the door wider. “Please come in. Quickly!”
It was one-nineteen A.M., Monday, March 16, when the phone rang in Yaacov Shoshani’s apartment. He was awake instantly and picked it up.
“Yaacov, this is Marc Jeppson. I have Lynn Braithwaite with me. How soon could you get your people together? We would like to talk with them.”
Marc could feel the burning behind his eyelids and knew that if he looked in a mirror, he would find them terribly bloodshot. The physical weariness was also starting to seep into his mind and dull his thought processes. He had slept for three or four hours while Valerie and Mary took turns driving, and caught another half an hour on the plane back to L. A. Other than that, he had been up for about forty-two hours. He stood up, shaking it off, willing himself back into alertness.
The others were also a little bleary-eyed from being yanked out of bed in the middle of the night, but in addition to having slept more recently, Yaacov had also served coffee to all the others, and it was starting to have it’s effect. Except on Lynn Braithwaite. He was in the large overstuffed chair, his coffee on its arm, untouched. His head had tipped down onto his chest, and he was dozing. Nathan Shoshani sat near his father on the couch, talking quietly. Moshe Gondor was at the table, staring into his cup, lost in his own thoughts.
The doorbell rang, and they all started. Yaacov hurried to answer it and came into the room a moment later with Eli Weissman, the Deputy Director of Operations for the Mossad. The others all came to the table. Gondor introduced Weissman quickly to Marc, they shook hands, then they all sat down.
“Sorry to be so long in getting here,” Weissman apologized, without explanation. Then he turned to Marc. “Mr. Jeppson, you called us together. Let’s hear what you have to say.”
Marc nodded. He had rehearsed this often enough in the last twenty-four hours, but now that the moment had arrived, he found a sudden tightness in his throat. He took a deep breath and plunged in.
“Mr. Braithwaite and I have come to ask for your help.” Gondor stirred, but Marc went on quickly. “Before telling you exactly what it is we need, let me say a couple of things as prelude to our request.”
He paused, but every eye was on him and no one spoke, so he continued. “As you know, Yaacov’s coming to my house put me into a moral dilemma, as I’m sure you meant it to. I have now resolved that dilemma, at least partially.”
Again he paused, choosing his words carefully. “I have made two decisions. Number one, as acting president of Barclay Enterprises we are breaking off all relationships with Gerritt Industries.” All four of the Israelis stirred, but he went on smoothly. “That decision goes into effect immediately, though we will not tell Gerritt until Mr. Braithwaite and his people decide when the timing is most advantageous for their purposes.”
“Decision number two. I have agreed to work with the FBI in helping them obtain sufficient evidence to convict Mr. Quinn Gerritt and those who work with him.”
“Bravo!” Yaacov said softly. “I knew you could not do otherwise.”
“Excellent!” Gondor beamed. “Excellent.”
Yaacov suddenly sobered. “And what of Mr. Barclay?”
“That is something else I want to lay out clearly before I say more.” He was more hesitant now, knowing this next part was crucial. “My decision to see Gerritt brought to justice in no way lessens my determination to act in Mr. Barclay’s best interest, speaking both of his physical health and as his official representative.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nathan said warily.
Marc straightened, looked around at the others. “Alex Barclay will be in intensive care until Wednesday or Thursday. I will use that time to make every effort to put together another deal that the Saudis will find acceptable, in spite of the fact that Gerritt Industries is out.”
Gondor came half out of his chair. “What!”
Yaacov was stunned. “But—” He caught himself and clamped his mouth shut.
“I fully expect that you and your people will continue to make every effort to prevent that from happening. Fine. But know that I plan to explore every possibility to hold the deal together. If, on Thursday, I can tell Alex that the deal is still alive, even with Gerritt out, that will significantly lower the stress on him, and I will have solved my dilemma.”
Weissman was thoughtful. “In three days? No way, Mr. Jeppson.”
Marc smiled now for the first time. “The oddsmakers wou
ld certainly bet with you, Mr. Weissman.”
Yaacov’s mind was racing. They needed time. That was the purpose of his visit to Marc in the beginning, and they had gotten that. Weissman was correct. Marc was bright, and it would be dangerous to underestimate him. But not in three days. And yet…There was a confidence in Marc that was unnerving.
“And that brings us to the basic question,” Marc said to Weissman. “We need your help.”
Gondor had just taken a sip of his coffee and nearly choked. “You tell us you plan to go ahead and sell planes to our enemies, and you want us to help you?”
“We need your help in bringing Quinn Gerritt to justice. I expect nothing more.”
“You’re a fool!” Gondor snapped, his face incredulous. “Break off the sale, then you’ll have our help.”
Marc ignored Gondor, just watched Weissman steadily. The round face was impassive, unmoved. There was no way to fathom what was going on behind those mild, brown eyes.
“You people used my sense of honor and integrity, Mr. Weissman. You used it in a calculated and cunningly devised manner to achieve your ends. Now all I ask of you is the same. You too claim to be men of honor, men of principle. You know what Gerritt is as well or better than I. We want you to help us bring an end to his freedom. Or is all this talk of principle and integrity mere rhetoric, an expediency used only when it suits your convenience?”
“No!” Yaacov cried hoarsely.
Marc whirled around. “I’m not asking you, Yaacov!” Then his voice softened. “I know how you feel.” He turned back, his words coming out sharp and clipped. “What I do not know is how Eli Weissman and Moshe Gondor and Nathan Shoshani feel.”
The silence in the room was heavy as Marc leaned forward, breathing hard. Gondor glared back at him, but finally looked away under the glittering challenge of Marc’s gaze. Nathan was staring into his cup, his dark eyes unreadable.
“He asked the question of all of us,” Weissman finally said mildly. “Moshe, how do you answer?”
“Of course we do not condone what Gerritt is or what he has done. But we are official representatives of the state of Israel. We cannot interfere in the domestic affairs of the U.S., unless that interference would be of direct benefit to our government.”
“Courageously spoken!” Marc said with mocking praise.
Weissman grabbed Gondor’s arm as he shot out of his chair. He pulled him back down, not looking at him but turning instead to the younger Shoshani. “Nathan?”
Nathan finally looked up. He glanced quickly at his father, then turned back to Weissman. “I say we help.” Yaacov sat back, the tenseness that had stiffened his body, suddenly gone. He smiled at his son.
Weissman nodded slowly. “I agree.” He turned back to Marc. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Jeppson?”
Marc felt a lurch of relief but kept his face expressionless. “You know what happened to Jonathan Taggart. You also know he has a deep and abiding hatred for Quinn Gerritt but is too terrified to come forward and testify against him.”
They nodded. Marc went on swiftly. “He has agreed to come forth if we can absolutely guarantee his safety and that of his family.”
Weissman turned to Braithwaite. “Protective custody is not an unusual request. Why come to us?”
Braithwaite spoke for the first time since entering the apartment. “Hadlow and Perotti have both openly bragged that they have sources of information in every police department.” He dropped his eyes momentarily. “Even the FBI. We think that is bluff, but if we’re wrong, it would mean death for Taggart.”
“We want Taggart and his family taken to Israel,” Marc said quietly.
For the first time, Marc broke through Weissman’s aplomb. His eyes widened, and he swallowed in surprise.
“They must disappear without a trace and remain totally incognito until the time is right.”
As quickly as he had lost it, Weissman recovered and was back in control. “What else?”
“I was followed to Utah yesterday. I assume that was your people.”
Now it was Nathan and Gondor who rocked back. Marc grinned. “A blue Ford sedan. Then a red-and-white pick-up. Those two vehicles I’m sure of. Others I could guess.”
When neither man answered, the grin faded. “Come on,” Marc said, “if they were not your people, then I have cause to worry.”
“They were ours,” Weissman said.
Marc breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. So you know where my fiancée and my boys are?”
“Yes.”
“You know that when Gerritt finds out I’m going after him, he’ll try to get to them, use them against me.”
“I think the probability is high.”
“I would appreciate it if you could see that nothing happens to them. Again, we can’t rely on the FBI or other law enforcement agencies for the same reason as before.”
Weissman shook his head.
“Why not?”
The deputy director chose his words carefully. “While we can appreciate your concern, providing protection for your family frees you up to pursue the deal with the Saudis. That works directly counter to our interests and is not in the same moral realm as the help with Taggart.”
Marc had anticipated that and was ready. “It will not directly aid in the arms sales. I will pursue that with or without your help. But I do have a quid pro quo to offer.”
Weissman’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I was in contact with the State Department yesterday,” Marc said blandly. “As yet, Gerritt Industries has refused to let your technical advisors get a close look at this new radar system.”
Weissman gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Sooner or later, I suppose you’ll get those plans.” Marc shrugged. “I am proposing it be sooner.”
“Go on.”
“All things considered—the sale of the F-22 to Saudi Arabia, the pressure being brought to bear by your government, the help you are providing in the Gerritt situation—considering all of that, the State Department, with direct permission of the president, has authorized me to make you an offer.”
The room was almost totally silent as the Israelis waited for his next sentence. Marc smiled faintly. “They have agreed that they would look the other way if Jonathan Taggart were to take a set of plans for the VSM-430 radar system with him to Israel.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The alarm went off at eight-thirty Monday morning, and Marc groaned and rolled over, groping for it blindly until he found the button and hammered it down. Up on one elbow was as far as he made it. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was that had been so urgent that he had set his alarm for just three hours after he had arrived home. With a long sigh of surrender, he collapsed back onto the pillow, vowing to reset the alarm for sometime around Thursday morning.
The insistent ringing of the phone brought him up again with a start. He peered at the clock radio as he grabbed the phone. It was ten-sixteen A.M.
“Hullo.” His voice was a clear confession of what he had been doing.
“Marc?”
“Yeah.” He shook his head, trying to bounce a brain cell or two off the walls of his mind to get them functioning again.
“This is Jackie.”
He swung his feet off the bed and let them drop to the floor with a thud. “Oh, hi, Jackie,” he said, barely stifling another moan.
“Marc, were you asleep?”
“Well, not really. It’s just an act to throw you off.”
She laughed. “At ten-fifteen in the morning, Marc Jeppson is still in bed? I can’t believe it.” She paused but when he didn’t respond, went on. “Where in the world have you been? I tried to get you all day yesterday.”
Finally, the Jell-o in which his synapses were immersed began to melt, and he felt some modicum of alertness returning. “Oh, yeah. I took the boys on a little trip. I got back kind of late.”
“I tried Valerie’s house too.”
“No answer?”
“No. Not even late last night.”
“Hmmmm.” He managed to sound really puzzled. “Generally one or the other of them is home. How’s Alex this morning?”
“Still in intensive care, but he’s improving all the time.”
“I called the hospital yesterday and got to talk to Ardith. She seemed much more optimistic than she did on Saturday.”
“Yes, he’s doing very well, which is such a relief.”
“Are they still projecting he’ll be out of intensive care on Wednesday or Thursday?”
“The doctor told Ardith this morning that it will be Thursday, just to be safe.”
“Good.” For more reasons than one. This was going to be a busy three days. “Still no visitors till then?”
“Only Ardith.”
“Well, I’ve got to go down to the LaRoche this afternoon anyway, see the Saudis one more time before they take off for home. I’ll stop by the hospital while I’m down there, see how Ardith’s doing.”
“She’d like that.” There was a moment’s pause. “Well,” she said, getting down to business. “The phone has been ringing like crazy here. Are you coming in this morning?”
“Uh…Well, probably not. A couple of critical things have come up that I need to follow through on. Who’s called?”
“Gerritt. He’s the most insistent. Even called me yesterday at home. Said he’s been trying to reach you. Says he wants to talk about the offer he made you Saturday.”
Marc frowned. Knowing Gerritt, he had hit on some new angle for intimidating the acting president of Barclay Enterprises. “Can you stall him? Tell him you finally reached me, but I was flying out the door to get to the LaRoche. Which is nearly true. I’m starting to taxi out onto the jetway now.”
She laughed. “I can tell.”
“Have him call me there after three.” By which time he would be gone again. “Who else?”
“The sales rep from Northrup. The executive vice-president of Hughes. Seems like word is out that we’re representing Gerritt Industries on the radar system. There’s been a lot of courtesy calls about Alex. Also, Jakarta called, but I think Derek can handle that one all right.”