The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set) Read online

  Dean grabbed his only luggage, two attaché cases, the one he had brought Aziz and the one Aziz had given him. What would Customs think of all the money stashed in the first?

  He never got that far. Two men in windbreakers that read “ICE” were waiting at the end of the jet way.

  So Immigration and Customs Enforcement was going to book him.

  He had no choice but to walk up to them prepared to identify himself.

  He wasn’t sure what legal grounds they had to detain him, but that would come out when he was told the charges.

  One officer spun him around with a gentle prod. Dean set the attaché cases down and put his hands behind his back.

  Strangely, there was no clink of metal. The two officers picked up his belongings and escorted him away.

  There were no journalists at the gate. It was better that way. Even members of the gate crew didn’t react as he was separated from the rest of the passengers.

  “Are you going to read me my rights?” he asked, unworried if he offended the officers.

  One looked nervously at the other, but they didn’t appear authorized to talk to him. Their only response was silence…deep, menacing silence.

  Instead of taking him on the underground train that would transport him back to the main terminal, they directed him through an inconspicuous door marked “Staff Only.”

  When he stepped inside, Dean saw a full display of authority.

  Military police guarded the exits. That seemed excessive. Wouldn’t regular police do? And two men in dark suits stood over a single folding chair placed in the center of the room. They had the clean-cut aspect of FBI agents.

  “Don’t let me leave you standing,” Dean said, and offered the chair to them.

  “Sit down,” the younger agent said in a tone that Dean knew was an order. It came out more like “Don’t make me look silly before all of these macho men.”

  Dean sat down.

  The young agent studied a piece of paper and compared it with Dean’s face. He grunted and handed it to the more experienced-looking agent for confirmation. The guy took off his sunglasses, twisted his lips and squinted at the sheet.

  Dean got the feeling he wasn’t living up to his billing.

  “State your name,” the young agent said.

  “What do you think it is?” Maybe this was a case of mistaken identity.

  “State your name,” the older agent repeated more forcefully.

  “You aren’t even sure if you have the right guy?”

  “Hey. Any lie you say can be used against you in a court of law,” the young agent said.

  Dean shook his head balefully. “Boy, did you mangle that Miranda.”

  The agent looked back at his colleague, his eyes wide in self-defense. “I didn’t read him his rights. Honest. That wasn’t the rights.”

  The older one considered. “Maybe we should read him his rights.”

  The first was adamant “I don’t think so. Only if he’s an American citizen. Otherwise we can beat the crap out of him.”

  Dean sought to clarify the situation. “Clearly you’re torn over this issue. You don’t want to be accused of reading me my rights as a citizen and thus destroying any chance of throwing me into military detention and denying me a civilian trial. So I’ll just be nice to you and say I didn’t hear any Miranda Rights read.”

  “Thank you,” the young agent said.

  “I’m an American citizen,” Dean said. “I know my rights.”

  “Good.”

  That cleared up, the two questioners seemed more at ease.

  “So is it true you tried to kill Rachel Levy with a car bomb?” the young one said.

  “Rachel Levy?”

  He recalled Ari telling him when he reached Israel that Rachel Levy’s car had been blown up, nearly killing her. The thought had pained him ever since. Now the Feds were holding him responsible for the attempt on her life.

  “How in the world did you reach that crazy conclusion?”

  The older agent picked up the sheet of paper and showed it to him. A pencil drawing depicted a darkly evil face. The glowering man was wholly unrecognizable.

  “That’s you, man.”

  “It is?” He studied it closer. Maybe there was a superficial resemblance, but the eyes, nose and mouth could be anybody’s, and the expression seemed to be that of a hardened criminal. “What is this sketch based on?”

  The younger agent leaned in close. “Rachel Levy gave us the description. Know her?”

  “Maybe. Did she say I did it?”

  The agent leaned back with a confident smile. “She didn’t need to.”

  “So you figured it out on your own?”

  The agent shook his head, his smile broadening. “You’re wanted by Interpol. It didn’t take much effort to put two and two together.”

  Dean could picture the entire scenario. The Syrians and Israelis had posted his mug shot on Interpol and the FBI had made the connection. Dean Wells was being held on both international and domestic charges.

  “Is that why the military is here?”

  Both interrogators nodded soberly.

  Dean was just about to clarify his Miranda Rights when the ring of a cell phone interrupted him.

  One of the ICE men answered the phone. A moment later, he announced, “We’ve got the wrong man! He’s in the main terminal.”

  The MPs leapt into action and cleared out of the room, along with the interrogators and ICE officers. Dean stared at the open door.

  It appeared the interrogation was over.

  So he grabbed his cases and left.

  Chapter 30

  Carla took a sudden turn behind a hedge of pink azaleas, and came to a halt.

  The car that was following them did not make the turn and continued onward.

  “I think we’re safe,” Carla said.

  “What do you mean?” Rachel said.

  “Oh, nothing.” Carla looked across the seat at her companion. Rachel had a haunted look in her eyes. “Listen, if you’re going to blend in here, the first thing you need is some new threads.”

  “I still have my credit card.” Rachel volunteered.

  That settled it. They’d lose themselves in a mall.

  Carla didn’t know much about evading surveillance, but she did watch her fair share of police procedurals on television. She made a mental note of other yellow Smart Cars on the road. There were others, but none had a racing stripe like hers. Maybe she should exchange license plates with another car.

  Rachel seemed to be calmed by the thought of shopping. It would temporarily distract her from memories of that horrible night and the thugs that still might be after her. It might also help Carla avoid thinking about Dean’s fate in the West Bank and the fact that the FBI had his picture on file for the car bombing.

  She knew of a discount warehouse with a great selection of clothes and steered in that direction. Seven Corners was one of those all-too-frequent places in Virginia where too many roads converged. Traffic was already a nightmare.

  Over an hour later, they rolled a shopping cart out of the store and stuffed clothes into the back of the car. Boy, Rachel knew how to shop.

  All that work was making Carla hungry. She glanced at the Chinese restaurant in the middle of the parking lot. It was a sprawling, single-story building with no windows. “I’ve always heard that place is genuine,” she said. “But I don’t speak the language.”

  “Follow me.” Rachel took her by the arm. “I can hold my own in Chinese.”

  It helped to have a linguist on hand.

  True to its reputation, the restaurant was authentic, right down to the oily soup and rude waitresses. Carla soaked it all up. “It’s like being in China.”

  Rachel looked at her with surprise. “You’ve been?”

  Carla gave a self-deprecating laugh. “No. Not me. I own a passport, but never used it. How about you?”

  “I’ve been plenty of places, but nothing as exotic as Seven Corners.”


  “Stick with me, baby. I can take you places your daddy would never let you go.”

  Rachel lifted an eyebrow. “Intriguing.”

  A waitress walked by pushing a cart of desserts. “Yum. What are those?” Carla asked.

  Rachel examined them. “Custard pies. Do you want one?” She reached out and took a small plate. Her bandaged hand was a rare reminder of the tragedy that had nearly taken her life two days before.

  “It’s great that you’re able to get around so soon after…” Carla started, but didn’t finish.

  “That’s okay. I can talk about it.”

  Carla leaned over the table and stared into Rachel’s intense brown eyes. “Do you really believe Dean did this to you?”

  “The man I think I saw looked like Dean,” Rachel said slowly. “But logic tells me otherwise. There was no reason for him to do it.”

  That summed it up for Carla, too. Then she heard her cell phone ringing in her bag. She answered it.

  “Is this Carla Martino?” came a clipped male voice.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Colonel Boxer at the command post at Fort Myer in Arlington. I got your name and number from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need you to come down and identify someone we have in custody.”

  She was confused. Dean was still in the Middle East.

  “Who are we talking about?” she asked.

  “His name is Dean Wells, ma’am.”

  “How can that be? He’s not even in the country.”

  “Didn’t you catch it on the news?” the colonel said. “The Israelis extradited him.”

  Her glance shot over to her dinner companion. “We have a problem, Rachel.”

  Rachel looked puzzled.

  “The military has Dean in custody.”

  “Where?”

  “Fort Myer.”

  The young woman’s shoulders drooped and a resigned look settled on her face.

  “Is that Rachel Levy with you?” the colonel asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “We need her, too. I can send a vehicle to retrieve you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Carla said. “I’ll get us there.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Come straight to the brig.”

  Carla put the phone away. That ended the dinner. “C’mon Rachel. We’re going to a lineup.”

  They were already on Arlington Boulevard, and Fort Myer was a direct shot east. The stoplights every mile or so gave Carla a chance to reflect on Dean’s predicament.

  She could no longer try to spare him from an internal investigation at the CIA. He was already in military custody. Would she see him as a different, even guilty, person? The thought made her mad. She shouldn’t blame the victim.

  Then she looked across the car at Rachel, who put on a brave face.

  “Are you sure you can go through with this?” she asked.

  Rachel nodded. “I’ll have to confront him eventually.”

  Minutes later, they were circling Arlington Cemetery and exited toward the military base.

  A young guard at the gate asked for identification. Carla and Rachel reached for their security badges.

  “CIA?”

  They didn’t bother to answer.

  The large fingers slipped the badges back through the window.

  As she pulled in, Carla glanced up at the rugged young man. For the first time in her life, she truly hated crew cuts.

  The compound had a familiar feel. She had grown up with tanks in the commissary parking lot and she had enjoyed the company of young men in fatigues licking ice cream cones at the base Baskin Robbins. Fort Myer assisted troops stationed in the United States Army military district of Washington and supported their families. It was similar to military bases of her early years.

  The brig was one of the smallest buildings. And security seemed no tighter there. Brightly lit and manned by a single MP behind a counter, it felt more like checking into a YMCA.

  The cells were just out of view, but she noticed the unpleasant smell of damp concrete.

  The MP placed a phone call and soon a square-shouldered colonel entered the building.

  He took off his hat. “Colonel Boxer,” he introduced himself. “You are Carla Martino and Rachel Levy?”

  “I’m Carla. This is Rachel,” Carla said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Follow me.”

  He took them around a corner. There Dean sat. He was behind bars, a captive on display for all to see.

  She couldn’t look him in the eye.

  How could one human do this to another? How could people be so cruel and so wrong about another man?

  “I need you to identify this individual,” the colonel said, then commanded, “On your feet!”

  Dean swung his feet off the mattress where he was sitting.

  At last Carla faced him directly.

  His eyes weren’t hollow. It did not appear that he had been tortured or harshly interrogated. He looked healthy, his skin red and robust, his hair neatly combed. It was the blue business suit that got her.

  He approached the bars. Long shadows ran up and down his face. His blue eyes glittered in the overhead light.

  But he didn’t look at Carla. His gaze was directed at Rachel.

  Carla looked at her slim charge in her newly purchased dress. Rachel’s shoulders shook as she fought back emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

  The colonel returned with them to the front desk. They stood before him, two women with a world of emotions. “Can you identify the culprit?”

  Culprit. Military justice had already convicted Dean. Carla could imagine a firing squad assembling before dawn.

  Rachel was fighting another battle. “That’s him,” Rachel said. “That’s Dean.”

  The name came out flat and lifeless. There was no love or hatred behind it. Only fear.

  The colonel turned to Carla. “And you, ma’am?”

  “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me.” Dean wasn’t the same person that Rachel knew. He was no killer who stalked his victims even from his cell. Rachel was wrong. It wasn’t Dean.

  Dean could find something interesting in National Geographic and warm her heart with a simple touch of his hand. But she had defended the man long enough.

  “Was that Dean Wells?” the colonel repeated.

  “Sure,” Carla said. “That’s the man you want.”

  Each signed a statement to that effect and left the brig for the parking lot.

  Carla didn’t want to speak with Rachel. Ever again.

  She slammed the door shut behind her and sank into the driver’s seat. Rachel slipped into the seat beside her.

  Carla felt the edges of her face begin to give way. Her chin wobbled. They had him in his business suit crammed into a cell that wasn’t fit for an animal. On a military base, in America!

  She burst into tears and couldn’t stop. She hadn’t cried like that in years. She was sorry, but she couldn’t apologize to her companion until she had let it all out.

  When she finally tried to apologize to Rachel, she saw that the young woman was weeping, too.

  Chapter 31

  Dean stood in his bathroom and wondered what kind of reception to expect at the CIA that morning.

  He patted aftershave on his cheeks. Did that look like a guilty face?

  His arrival at Dulles the previous afternoon had been bumpy. It was disconcerting to learn that the CIA would treat him so cavalierly, disturbing that federal authorities were so willing to dispense with due process, and frightening to find out that he was facing criminal charges for Rachel’s car bomb, a capital offense. And then the interrogators had let him go.

  But what was all that about him planting the bomb that nearly killed Rachel? That was totally trumped up. After all, he could produce a boarding pass that proved he had left for Israel that evening.

  He turned away from the bathroom mirror and headed through his study, where something caught his eye. There was a glaring gap in his c
ollection of knives on the wall. One of the knives was missing. He searched his memory. It was the silver stiletto he had bought in Malta.

  His thoughts shot back to the knife handle sticking out of Aziz’s back. If he didn’t know any better, it could have been the same knife.

  What had happened to his stiletto? He checked the floor. It hadn’t fallen down.

  He stared at Missy. If only she could talk.

  Half an hour later, he steered into the front gate of Langley and reached for his identification badge. Would they accept it, or had he been axed from the agency?

  The guard didn’t seem too interested in his car or his badge. He gave the underside, door handles and engine compartment a thorough explosives check and waved him through.

  Carla’s bright yellow Smart Car was parked in the same place it had been before. So he pulled up and parked beside it. She was a funny person that kind of tickled his fancy. And her large eyes following him everywhere were charmingly innocent.

  But he wasn’t going to get involved. Especially not with all the accusations swirling around him.

  Surprisingly, his ID got him through the turnstiles. Yesterday he was apprehended and interrogated by federal agents and today he was free to roam the halls of one of the world’s most secretive agencies.

  He decided to follow his normal routine. If they wanted him, they would know where to find him. He glanced around on the way to the Near East desk. No security guards approached him.

  He almost felt like a leper. People ignored him. Was it intentional?

  José Gomez was on the phone, so Dean continued to his cubicle, overcome with trepidation. Would a pink slip await him?

  No. There was no hint that he had been fired. He slid out of his suit coat and hung it on a hanger. Then he settled behind his desk and turned on his computer.

  The system accepted his login and passcode.

  Half expecting a termination notice to appear in his inbox, he paused before scanning his email. At last he peeked at the screen.

  Office party. Bring chips.

  Remember to file quarterly for non-governmental work.

  Photos from WH Easter Egg Roll.

  There was nothing about terminating his employment. Not even a slap on the wrist from security.