Dead Water

EPILOGUE

It seemed like forever since the group had relaxed around the dining room table at the Ranch, yet it had only been four days.

"Ryyaki Ali had two brothers. One was killed six years ago in a military air strike perpetuated by us. Zabakkar Ali is the surviving brother. He is the one that Nazir al-Hadid referenced. I'm running a search on him, but so far no luck," Phillips reported.

Styles looked at her and asked, "Just what is in that concoction of yours? I've seen quite a few chemicals used in my time, but nothing that works with that kind of speed."

She answered, "The basic formula is actually Russian. I've just added a few, shall we say, spices to the mixture. The one drawback is it does often lead to cardiac arrest. I didn't think any of us would be overly concerned about that particular side effect under the circumstances. With the amount I gave him, he would be good for five, maybe six answers before either we stopped or, well, you saw what happened. It is not something I'd use on someone we were concerned about keeping alive. Speaking of chemicals, I've started researching the Chemist that I picked up in chatter couple of days ago. I think I have it narrowed down to three possibilities, but it will take more time."

"You were right on both counts. Anyone had second thoughts about going totally dark?" Styles asked.

Christman and Starr both shook their heads.

Phillips spoke up. "I've been thinking about whether it is absolutely necessary for us to involve family."

Styles answered, "That's crossed my mind half a dozen times, and it always comes back to that if we guess wrong, we guess real wrong. Darlene, I have no doubt whatsoever that no one can make us disappear as well as you, but if we don't go dark, somehow, somewhere, if someone digs deep enough, somebody is going to find something on one of us. Then it would only be a matter of time before they could trace it back to either your mother or my father. We can't put them in harm's way. My dad is okay with it. He's going to talk to his friend, and I believe invite her to join him, which, if that is what he wants, that's what we'll do. J. C. and Starr both state they don't really have anyone, which leaves just us. It's completely your call as to whether you involve your mother or not."

"I know her. She won't join us. I'll just have to make arrangements to pursue another route to maintain contact with her. We're not that close, anyway. Like I said before, we don't share the same last name. I've never said this out loud before, but she and my father were never married. She has never married. Of my brothers, only two of us share the same father, so no one is going to be able to track anything from me back to him. I've gone by Phillips since the day I left home at seventeen. No one else in my family uses that surname."

"We need to get started, then."

"I've already sent my retirement papers to all the channels," said Christman. "I'll be processed out within ten days. I've given them a PO box in Delaware as a mailing address. It's where I was born. The box is a fake. All mail sent there will simply sit. I do have a question, though. Since we are all giving up our retirement pensions, I figure that somehow we should get paid something?"

Everyone started to laugh. "I forgot all about that," admitted Styles.

"Starr, you're the bookkeeper. How about that?"

"I thought I'd start everyone at eighteen thousand per year," he said and ducked as Christman threw a magazine at him.

"Seriously, I'll have Phillips set us all up with accounts under our new names. We will all earn the same amount. I'm not exactly sure what the amount will be, but it will be sufficient for what we do."

Christman asked, "Is it permitted to ask how much money we actually have at our disposal?"

"The president set us up with a total of about three billion dollars. It's widely diversified, and I want Phillips to take a look at it and see what she can do with it," answered Starr.

Phillips added, "Plus, I have access to certain CIA accounts that I can close without anyone knowing. That would probably be worth another thirty to fifty million," Phillips added.

"Well, it's nice to know at least we'll be able to eat," joked Christman.

"As long as Styles doesn't do the cooking," emphasized Phillips. "If it's okay, I'd like to rehash something."

"Sure," said Starr.

"This going-dark thing. I might have a way to do that, not involve families, and keep everyone safe."

Styles looked up, interested. "How is that?"

"I'm using the KISS approach. The less the better."

"Can't argue with that. What's the less?"

"Family. The more I have to cover up, the greater the chance somehow something might be uncovered. I've got another idea."

"Which is?"

"The four of us fake our deaths. Plus, we officially sever all ties to our families. I'm talking about birth records, the works. They will know, but no one else."

"I'm not sure about that, Darlene. I don't want my dad in any danger because of us."

"Nor do I. Look, I'm just presenting an alternative plan. Final decision about your father is entirely your call. I'm just saying that I can make it appear as though your father never had any children. We fake our own deaths and that takes relatives off the table. I've thought this through very carefully, and it's how I'm going to protect my mother. If I wasn't sure that it would work, I wouldn't bring it up."

Styles was quiet. He got up and walked over to the window looking out over the fields. He smiled as he caught sight of a doe and two fawns grazing in the clover. Turning around, he addressed Phillips. "If you're sure about this, that's good enough for me. I'll need to talk with Dad, let him in on the new plan. This approach does seem easier."

"It is, and easy is often the best," she replied, nodding at him. "Bear in mind he does have the choice."

"Anyone got anything else to say?"

"I can fake a plane crash pretty easy. We'll have to purchase another jet, substitute it for ours, and put it into the sea where they can't find it."

"How do we get you?" asked Starr.

"Get me? Hell, I'll be relaxing here with a cold beer."

Phillips said, "We've got two more subjects to decide about."

"Ryyaki Ali's brother," replied Starr.

"And the bastard that came up with that synthetic toxin," added Styles. "The Chemist, as Phillips calls him."

"Exactly," agreed Phillips. "So what do you guys think?"

"My vote is we go after the Chemist first. Put him out of business, permanently," suggested Starr.

"Then go after what's-his-name, the brother," stated Christman.

"My idea exactly," confirmed Phillips. "I'm getting the intel together on Zabakkar Ali; that should be finished by the end of the day. I'm running both facial and vocal recognition programs on the man that Ryyaki Ali referred to as Smith. Those will probably take longer to put together. I'm tapped into worldwide programs, but he's kept a very low profile. We got lucky that Ali had video set up in his office. That's where I found him. No one else has that info either."

"Are you going to be able to find him?" asked Starr.

"If he's on record anywhere, I'll find him. It's just a matter of when."

"So, for the moment, I take it we're on standby?" questioned Styles.

"Sounds like that to me."

"Okay. I'm going to phone my father and tell him of the game plan change. I think it would be a good idea for him to move, although he probably won't like that. The security guards there can put us together. I thought that our group could purchase his place, maybe use it as a safe house. Any objections?"

Starr nodded his approval. "That sounds like a reasonable plan. We could set it up as a rental at other times to explain different people going in and out."

"When I'm done with my dad, I'm going for a long run. If you need me, fire the shots."

"Got it. J. C., what are you up to?" inquired Starr.

"Going to work out in the gym for a while."

"Mind if I join you?" asked Phillips.

"Not at all. Be fun to have company that doesn't beat the hell outta me."

"Says who?" Phillips retorted with a grin.

Zabakkar Ali was sitting on the fantail of his ship, thinking of the three nude women in the hot tub one deck above him, three blonde Scandinavian women. He was cruising in the Mediterranean toward Greece aboard his opulent 246-foot custom-built yacht. It took more than four years to manufacture at a cost of just shy of half a billion dollars. It featured state-of-the-art everything, from navigation to the latest in the four turbo diesel engines that powered it. So powerful the vessel was capable of a thirty-knot cruise speed, unheard of for a craft its size. A statement of pure overkill, it featured everything from a two-lane bowling alley to a batting cage located on one of the decks of the bow. The interior was primarily comprised of rosewood, which was overly lavish throughout. The fixtures in all fourteen bathrooms aboard were solid gold. It had a galley that would be the envy of a five-star restaurant, featuring three chefs capable of serving any meal that anyone could possibly desire. The wine cellar was worth approximately $3 million, contents only.

When Zabakkar Ali commissioned the build, he demanded only one thing. "I do not want to be overshadowed by anyone, anywhere. I want to be the sheer envy of every man that looks at this craft. I want every woman to want to be aboard her, aboard me."

Five years later, his dream had been realized. He was seven months into the maiden cruise, and every whim had been more than satisfied. No matter what port he pulled into, eyes were cast in his direction. He still had no clear-cut figure for the final amount of money he'd spent, and he didn't care, as it was no object. Only his ego mattered.

His personal fortune was north of $5 billion courtesy of Saddam Hussein. Of course, Hussein never knew.

All the women around him had to be blonde. That was a prerequisite. Looking back at the sapphire-blue water, he finished his third mimosa of the afternoon. Thinking of his brother, he said aloud, "Ryyaki, if you only knew what you were missing!" He then arose and motioned for his chief steward.

"Bring two bottles of Dom to the hot tub; be sure to avert your eyes."

He received only a curt nod in return. Zabakkar Ali did not allow eye contact with himself by any of his crew, unless directed otherwise with a certain gesture of his hand. Failure to observe this protocol was certain death, which he'd proved on more than one occasion, enjoying it a little too much.

Before retreating upstairs to join his women, he allowed himself a silent toast to his brother, who had martyred himself in the greatest attack on America yet. There will be more to follow, my brother. Allahu Akbar…