Last Op

Chapter 8

Two miles off the Cornish coast, due west of Newquay, a forty foot catamaran with twin, two hundred twenty-five hp engines, drifted on three foot swells in the Celtic Sea.

Standing at the port side stern, Callum Quinn rested his forearms on the stainless steel rail. Worn black work boots stuck out from beneath his tan trousers. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up. His blond hair was neatly trimmed, but was still just below his ears. Not accustomed to being without a beard or mustache, he’d occasionally run his fingers across his jaw. It had been five months since he last changed his appearance.

Two years prior, Reese Larkin and five fellow members of the Provisional IRA attempted to plant bombs in the crowded tourist area of Piccadilly Square. Two tourists were killed in the shootout. British commandos killed four of the members and captured Larkin. After precise planning, and catching the British police completely off guard, Quinn and his small band freed Larkin.

Today, Quinn’s blue eyes roamed the horizon. He finally saw a small motorboat off the port side. He lifted the binoculars hanging around his neck, then he focused on the approaching craft.

Turning toward the cabin, he called to Shaun Delaney as he pointed, “There’s the boat, port side. Ready the ladder.”

Delaney attached the stainless steel, three-step boarding ladder to the deck at midships, then stood back, waiting and watching as the smaller craft pulled alongside.

The engine sputtered as the boat’s driver backed down, maneuvering it closer to the larger boat. Standing at the bow, the passenger balanced himself as the boat rocked in the swells. He tossed a rope to Delaney, who tugged on it until the boat was alongside, then he tied the end to the railing near the ladder.

Moving cautiously, the passenger grabbed hold of the ladder and stepped onto the bottom rung. Quinn extended a hand to assist the new arrival onto the deck.

Delaney untied the rope and tossed it onto the deck of the smaller craft. Brady Farrell steered the boat away, circling around to the fantail, where he would remain until the meeting ended.

Callum Quinn wouldn’t expect any small talk with Victor Labeaux. It was all strictly business. “Come into the cabin,” Quinn directed, noticing a thin leather briefcase Labeaux was carrying, also noticing the bulge of a pistol inside it.

Labeaux followed Quinn into the cabin. The space wasn’t elaborate: Two bench seats, one port, one starboard, a two-burner stove, a small round sink and fridge. A “captain’s” chair on the starboard side was positioned in front of the wheel.

Labeaux tried to maintain his balance while he looked at Shaun Delaney sitting in the captain’s chair.

Delaney gave Labeaux a sideways glance before swiveling the chair around, again facing the bow, continuing to keep watch. So far, he hadn’t seen any other boats in the area.

Quinn motioned with his hand for Labeaux to sit on the bench on the starboard side.

Labeaux put the briefcase on his lap, waiting for Quinn to sit. Instead, Quinn went to the small fridge under the sink, taking out two bottles of Kilkenney beer, offering one to Labeaux, who declined.

Quinn put the extra bottle on a folding table, then he opened his bottle. Taking a long swig, he sat on the bench seat behind the table.

Labeaux looked at the younger man. “Are you finished? Can we get started, Callum?”

Quinn nodded. “Were you successful?”

“I have the information I was waiting for,” Labeaux responded, unlocking the briefcase. He removed some papers then held them at arm’s length.

Quinn reached across the table. “Is the information accurate?”

Labeaux nodded. Removing a handkerchief from his inside pocket, he patted sweat on his brow and dabbed at his mouth. Being on any boat always made him nauseous. He replied, “They’re copies of the originals, confirmed by my source.”

Quinn perused the top paper. A very precise diagram showed building locations: airport tower, EOD compound, barracks, U.S. Marines’ compound, RAF compound and barracks, two large hangars. Although it wasn’t labeled, he knew by looking at it — the underground storage facility for the nuclear weapons.

He turned the paper, laying it upside down. The second page showed the schedule of all flights for the next five days.

And finally, he was looking at page three. The critical schedule showed delivery of specific weapons, arriving from the U.S. and the Netherlands.

Quinn slowly sucked on his beer. That brief moment gave him a chance to look at Labeaux, the leader of the whole operation. If he passed this man on the street, he’d most likely ignore him. He looked like an average, working-class man, not the cunning terrorist he was. A terrorist who was for hire, taking on any job, working for any country, and always for a very high price.

Anyone who worked with him, assisted him, hired him, understood their responsibilities, understood his demands, understood they could not deviate from his plans. If they did, whether the operation was successful or not, someone would pay dearly, if only to set an example.

The only thing that might make someone take notice, if one could get close enough, would be Labeaux’s eyes, which Quinn could only describe as completely emotionless, empty. But behind those blue eyes was a mind that kept him alive through all the most dangerous circumstances… the terrorist attacks that he himself had planned. Labeaux didn’t just devise the attacks. His ego demanded his complete, intense, personal involvement.

On this present operation Labeaux was hired by top members of the Irish National Liberation Army. Formed in 1974, the INLA became an Irish republican socialist paramilitary group, whose intent was to remove Northern Ireland from the United Kingdom, by any means necessary.

Quinn finally asked, “And have you taken care of…?”

“Only Carter. I felt it best to wait to eliminate the others. There is already an investigation into Carter’s death. The local constabulary have had his flat under guard. One death is enough for now.”

“Will you need help? I can send a couple of men… ”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Quinn sipped on the beer as he looked again at the papers, this time seeing a blank page. “You haven’t been able to find the schedule for when the Americans change their guards?”

Labeaux shook his head. “From what I’ve been told, there is no set pattern. It’s different every day, as part of their security.”

Quinn was concerned. “But won’t that interfere with…?”

Looking down, considering the question, Labeaux answered, “I doubt it.”

He folded his hands on top of the briefcase, and said, “I expect you to design the explosives for diversion purposes. I’ve already marked on the base diagram paper where I want them placed.”

Quinn picked up the first page, noticing small red dots at different locations around the perimeter. He looked up when Labeaux said, “I assume more than one of your men has the necessary expertise.”

“Sure. Callahan and Logan have many years between them with such experience.”

“In addition,” Labeaux continued, “I want them to devise at least two IEDs (improvised explosive devices) that are more complicated to defuse. The American EOD men will probably have that task.”

“It’ll be taken care of. What about guards posted at the two gates?”

“I think it best you use the back gate, the one closer to the beach, since it’s more remote. You should be able to take that guard out easily enough.”

Quinn glanced again at the third page, noticing a handwritten note at the bottom. “What’s this note, this date and time?”

“That’s when I want the devices placed at the locations I’ve designated. You’ll have plenty of time but you must be finished by four in the morning. The RAF guards patrol regularly, but they rely heavily on the fence and barbed wire. You see on the diagram there are two guard towers. Each has one guard, rotating every three hours.

“I expect you to be completely ready, and I don’t just mean the devices. You and your men must be mentally ready. Do you understand?”

“Don’t worry.” Quinn, usually arrogant and intimidating in his own right, remembered he’d been taken down a notch the first time he met Labeaux.

“Now, the plane we’re waiting for arrives at two in the afternoon.”

Quinn was caught completely off guard. “A daytime attack?”

“Yes. A daytime attack.”

“But I don’t have enough men to pull that off!”

Labeaux remained calm. “Timing will be everything, Callum, and it must be perfect.” He let that sink in before adding, “I haven’t told you, but I’ll be participating in this event.”

For the second time during this meeting, Quinn was surprised, or maybe shocked. “You? Where will you be? What do you plan on doing?”

“I have others involved who’ve been vital in this planning. They’ll be arriving soon, one of whom knows how to fly.

“That’s all I’ll say for now.” He stood, locked his briefcase then tucked it under his arm, giving his last order to Quinn. “Now, I want your man to take us in the Zodiac to another location along the coast. I’ve arranged to be met there. When the Zodiac returns, destroy the rental boat.” Pausing, he thought briefly about the two men he spotted on the breakwater this morning. It worried him but his initial decision when designing the plan was correct. Perhaps this minor change might help throw the English off their investigation, if only for a short amount of time.

He gave his instructions to Quinn then left the cabin, immediately walking to the stern. He called to Farrell in the rental boat, waving for him to come closer. “Come around!”

Without question, Farrell maneuvered around to the port side.

Labeaux leaned near the rail, with one hand holding it in a death grip. “We’ll be leaving that boat here and going to shore in the Zodiac. Come on board.”

Farrell tossed the rope to Delaney, then he climbed the ladder, ready to assist in lowering the Zodiac.

A few minutes later Quinn stood by the railing, watching Delaney maneuver the Zodiac away from the catamaran with Labeaux sitting close to the side, holding onto the rope. Quinn had to smile, thinking everyone had a demon or two in the closet. Labeaux’s demon seemed to be water.

Glancing back towards the stern, Quinn saw that Farrell was unconscious, with his arms stretched overhead, his wrists tied to the railing. The unsuspecting Farrell had been distracted by attending to his task with the Zodiac, when Delany came up behind him, and knocked him unconscious with a hand chop to his neck.

Once the Zodiac was out of sight, Quinn went back inside the cabin to begin preparations for making the rental boat disappear as he’d been instructed. Kneeling in front of the bunk on the port side, he removed a cushion and tossed it on the opposite bunk. Lifting up the wooden seat, he held it open with one hand as he looked through boxes of grenades, timers, flares, fuses, chemical pencils. Opened larger boxes lined the starboard side. He and his men had already starting assembling IEDs.

His choices were to either make it look like an accident, or perhaps it would be cleaner, neater to just sink the boat. The depth of the water was close to three hundred feet at this spot. If it sank, it would take a long time to discover. Then again, there might be an oil slick visible along the surface. He decided to go with the accident version, hoping a search would end when charred debris was found, along with the remains of Brady Farrell.

He went to the window, pulling a curtain aside, seeing Farrell starting to come around. The man had been part of the group for three years, having been recruited by Quinn. As he looked at Farrell, Quinn began to wonder if he’d be able to do it, to carry out Labeaux’s request.

He turned away and sat on one of the benches, reaching for the remaining bottle of beer. Gulping down half the liquid, he realized there was only one thing to do. He could not defy Labeaux’s wishes, or his orders, without risking his own life. The plan was much bigger, much more important than either he or Farrell.

He swallowed the last mouthful of Kilkenney. He and Delaney would prepare the rental boat for its destruction, then they’d return to the Isle of Lundy, meeting up with his other men.

Located twelve miles off the coast of Devon, where the North Atlantic meets the Bristol Channel, the Isle of Lundy was a mere three miles long and only three quarters of a mile across. Months before, Quinn and his men sailed along the coastline finding a small hidden cove on the northeast side of the island.

There they’d wait, having time to memorize locations of each building at St. Mawgan, review the present plan, assemble the IEDs, and recheck all weapons.

Another cove, that was closer to the base and had a campground, was a perfect location for bringing in the Zodiac. Following Labeaux’s orders, Quinn had rented a camper specifically for storing the devices. When the final word came from Labeaux, they’d be ready for their most dangerous, and possibly their last chance to free Northern Ireland from England. Their group was small, but with exact planning, and with help from the inside, success was within their grasp.

None of them had ever worked with nor even seen a nuclear weapon. They’d have to be insane not to know the hazards involved. They were willing to take the gamble, because to have these weapons so close at hand, and on English soil, could not have been more perfect for what they were about to do for their cause.

A continuous drizzle started two hours earlier. Weather along the English coast can change rapidly. Today it brought with it larger swells and a lower temperature.

Labeaux struggled to hang onto the rope as the Zodiac sped toward shore. With it still being daylight, and even though it was raining, trying to race across the beach in a raincoat would make his trek that more difficult. He had to make himself look less conspicuous once they reached Tolcarne Beach.

Less than one mile north of Newquay Harbor, Tolcarne Beach had the best location for the access Labeaux needed to return to Newquay. With the weather change, that meant fewer locals and tourists would be on the beach.

His decision the night before to not return to the harbor proved to be correct. But he couldn’t get a picture out of his mind of two men watching them when they left the harbor this morning. Were they there by coincidence? His snap decisions had saved him in past operations. He counted on it being correct again.

At the rate the tide was retreating, Delaney would only be able to bring the rubber boat within two hundred feet of the cliff located on the north side of Tolcarne. Labeaux would have to find his own way around the cliff base then get to the walkway behind the bath houses lining the backside of the beach. The bath houses were individual changing facilities, three rows high. Doors on each row were painted different colors, making them good landmarks.

Delaney slowed the engine, aiming the Zodiac toward the beach at the base of the cliff. He put the engine into neutral, then immediately picked up a paddle from the bottom of the boat and leaned over the side, testing the depth of the water. It was still too deep for Labeaux to try making it to shore, but it was time to raise the prop out of the water.

Delaney struggled, paddling against the tide. Finally, the bottom of the boat rubbed against sand.

“Get out now!” he shouted to Labeaux as he jumped over the side, getting ready to turn the boat around.

Without replying, Labeaux sat on the gunnel then swung his legs over the side. As soon as his shoes hit sand, he reached for his briefcase, then started running for cover beneath the cliff.

Delaney didn’t wait to see if Labeaux made it. Grabbing hold of the rope encircling the Zodiac, he pulled hard, trying to get the boat off sand and into the surf. Once he had, he jumped back in as the boat started floating on the tide. Lowering the engine, he restarted it then kicked it into gear.

Labeaux had another seventy yards to go before reaching the base of the cliff. He was breathing hard. Muscles in his legs started cramping as he struggled to keep going. His lungs burned. He had to stop, if only for a moment. Bending over, he tried to catch his breath. This operation was to be one of the most physical he ever designed, but in the end, he hoped it to be the most rewarding.

Putting his briefcase next to his leg, he removed his raincoat then draped it across his shoulders. Brushing sand from the briefcase, he took a deep breath and began his trek toward the cliff.

Once he reached it, he leaned against the cold, damp rock formation. Ignoring the feel of moss and slimy mollusks rubbing against his clothes, he concentrated on his next move. He still had to make his way to the main beach, then hike up the path to the road where his ride should be waiting.

Staying close to the cliff wall, he walked at a normal pace until he started rounding the corner, when he suddenly stopped. Voices! Close to him. He backed up, trying to wedge himself in between the rocks jutting out from the cliff. Wrapping his arms around his briefcase, holding it against he chest, he could feel his pistol pressing against the leather.

He closed his eyes, putting his head back against the rock, feeling drizzle on his face, when he realized there was silence again.

Taking a short step forward, he looked around, seeing three people hustling toward the bath houses. Only tourists. Moving out from his hiding place, he stood watching and waiting to see if he was in the clear. Scanning the far side of the beach, he saw a few other people, but they weren’t close enough to be able to identify him.

Pulling his sleeve back, he glanced at his watch. No more time to waste. Holding his briefcase close, he kept the flap open, allowing easy access to the Luger. The pistol was a semi-automatic, gas blow-back design, once owned by his father.

He made a dash for the walkway, then stopped and looked up the hundred fifty yards he still had to traverse. Around the hairpin turn at the top, there was still another hundred fifty yards or so before he reached the main road, and all of it was uphill.

Parked on the wrong side of Ulalia Road, close to the corner of Narrowcliff, a black Range Rover’s windshield wipers intermittently swished back and forth.

Colin Webb took a check of the time on the dashboard clock, then looked out the windshield across Narrowcliff. Still no sign of Labeaux. He took a final drag on his cigarette while he rolled down the window a few inches. He flicked the butt through the narrow opening and blew out a lungful of smoke.

Grabbing hold of the leather-covered steering wheel, he readjusted himself in the seat, stretching his back muscles. Sitting back again, he glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Victoria’s tired blue eyes staring at him from the back seat.

Those eyes diverted their gaze to the side window. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head, held haphazardly by a gold hair clip. She rubbed her fingers across a small section of the vehicle’s window, wiping away built-up moisture.

“There he is,” Webb said. He unlocked the passenger door before starting the engine.

Victoria looked out the windshield, spotting Labeaux hurrying across the road, clutching his briefcase. She moved closer to the armrest, while she wondered what would happen next.

The past few months had been so unlike anything she could have imagined. Her once simple, quiet life had become turmoil. It was difficult for her to believe how she had managed to hide the truth, attempting to carry on a normal life with her husband. She was bewildered, but more than anything else, utterly terrified.

Her life began to change soon after both her parents died. Colin revealed to her the truth about his natural parents… and being taken in by the Webbs. That news itself was shocking.

His parents were among the innocent victims killed during a raid on their apartment building. Other children had survived that attack. Two of his good friends, who lived in the adjoining flats, also lost their parents, but unlike Colin who had no other family, the other two boys were found by relatives.

It was never known how or why Sergeant Webb took Colin from Ireland. Perhaps it was the guilt he felt for the slaughter. In any event, the child’s survival was a miracle.

The attack left the little boy in shock, with little memory of what happened. It was years before he began having flashbacks to the day when his parents died in a barrage of gunfire. He started remembering the sound of weapons, the screams, the blood. The last picture that came to his mind were the uniforms of the men who committed the atrocity — British military uniforms.

A year after Sergeant Webb died, Colin disappeared. He’d been gone for almost three weeks before he finally returned. When he did, he had little to say, offering no explanation to Victoria. Grateful he was home, she never pressed the issue. But it was during the days and weeks that followed when he began to reveal his political beliefs and his loyalty to the IRA.

Colin Webb had found his way back to Ireland, to his birthplace, looking for his two friends. He found only one. Callum Quinn. From that day forward, his path in life was set.

Labeaux got in, slamming the door. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. Glancing at Victoria over his shoulder, he asked Webb, “Have you noticed anyone paying attention to you since you’ve been waiting here or this morning when you let me and Farrell off at the harbor?”

Webb shook his head. “No. No one.” He looked across Narrowcliff and asked, “Where’s Farrell?”

“I left him with Quinn.”

“What about the rental boat? Will…?”

“That’s being taken care of.” Labeaux put the briefcase on the floorboard between his legs. “Now, drive to the country house.”

“What about her?” Webb asked, motioning with his head. “Do you want me to take her home?”

“Not yet. She can come with us.”

Victoria, her voice shaking, pleaded, “I want to go home. I’ve done everything you asked, given you what you wanted. I want to go home!”

Labeaux looked at Webb, and waved forward. Webb put the car in drive, then turned onto Narrowcliff.

They’d driven nearly five miles, passing through the civil parish and village of St. Newlyn East located southeast of Newquay. Hedgerows lined both sides of the road. There was finally a break in the wall on the south side, wide enough for vehicles. Webb slowed the Rover and made a right turn on a narrow, hard-packed dirt road.

Grazing sheep and horses dotted a landscape of rolling green hills and crisscrossed by more hedgerows. Visibility of the countryside soon diminished as trees and brush along both sides of the roadway got thicker and taller, causing an umbrella effect over the road. Finally, the road widened and in the distance was an old farm house, made of stone blocks with a slate roof.

The main part of the house was one level, comprised of kitchen and dining room, and at one time, was the servants’ quarters. The upper level housed the family’s bedrooms. The original windows were mullioned glass (small individual panes), some covered by vines of wild ivy. Above the blue door was a wooden sign naming the house: “Tafton Manor, 1639.”

“Drive around back,” Labeaux said, looking at the house, his eyes moving from window to window.

Small pebbles crunched beneath the tires as Webb drove toward the backyard. An old greenhouse jutted out from the stone house. Its windows were covered in dirt and grime making it impossible to see clearly inside.

About thirty yards from the house was an old stone barn. At one time Tafton Manor was a dairy farm, where Friesian cows were raised. Known for their sweet milk, Friesians were originally imported from the Netherlands.

Pulling up near the back door, Webb shut off the engine. Labeaux was the first one out of the Rover. He closed the door. He looked around the backyard. Nothing was out of place, no other sign of movement, no guns protruding from dark places. Webb’s car, a white four-seater Gilbern GT, was parked on the far side of the barn.

Victoria pushed the driver’s seat forward, then climbed out. She stood next to the open door, wrapping a white raincoat tighter around herself. As Labeaux started to pass her, she grabbed his arm. “Why did you bring me here? I should be… ”

Labeaux twisted his arm away. “Come inside.” He said no more, but just turned and went to the house. Victoria had no choice but to follow him, with Webb staying close behind her. By the time the two of them reached the entry hall, Labeaux was already out of sight.

A damp and musty smell pervaded the entry. Its walls and barrel-shaped ceiling were made of the same stone as the exterior of the house. A light shown from a room at the end of the hallway, accessed by a single door.

Webb grabbed Victoria’s arm and walked toward the door, then he stopped, preventing her from entering.

She leaned against the wall, placing a hand against her chest, feeling her heart pounding. She put her head back, and closed her eyes. She wondered how and why she let herself become so deeply involved. But the answer was there. She knew why. It was because of her husband.

How stupid she’d been to think she could protect him from harm by giving her brother the papers. The day she handed those papers to Webb she realized no one would be able to protect her… or Jack.

Webb opened the door and poked his head around the edge, confirming Labeaux was out of sight. Then he pulled her into the kitchen. “Here,” he said, as he pulled out a wooden chair. “Sit.”

Victoria sat at the rough-hewn wooden table that was at least fifteen feet long and very old. The room itself was rectangular with a fireplace nearly big enough to stand in. The hearth was blackened from years of use. An iron tripod was still standing. Once a cauldron hung by a chain near the hottest part of the fire.

She paid no attention to the room or its history. She focused on another doorway, seeing Labeaux sitting at a dining room table, thumbing through papers. He opened a map and laid it in front of him.

“Why am I here?” Victoria asked him with a raised, nervous voice.

Labeaux turned briefly to look at her, then returned to the map.

Webb walked from behind her, then posted himself at the opposite end of the table, blocking her view of Labeaux. She slowly moved her eyes to Webb, who stared at her with little expression.

Her eyes were wet with tears. She turned away. Keeping her hands in her lap, she twisted the belt of her raincoat.

As Webb watched her, he thought about the years they lived together as a family, even after her parents died. When he told her of his past, of having been born in Ireland, she still treated him as a brother.

It wasn’t until he revealed his loyalty to Ireland, and his involvement with the IRA that her attitude toward him changed. Although she never attempted to dissuade him, and never considered for one moment to report him to the authorities, she began to distance herself.

Then she married the American. Commander Jack Henley. Webb couldn’t believe his luck. He contacted his friend, Callum Quinn. It was then the IRA began to set a plan in motion, but they needed more details about the air base at St. Mawgan. They knew weapons were being stored by NATO countries, but secrecy surrounding the base left them without details. Colin Webb had become an invaluable asset.

Hearing Labeaux call to him, he snapped his head around, giving Victoria a brief look. Then he went into the dining room.

Labeaux continued looking at the map, as he said, “Put her in one of the bedrooms upstairs, and lock the door.” He glanced at his watch, and without looking at Webb, asked, “What time does her husband get home?”

“Between five and six. Why?”

“I want to be sure he’s at home when you take her back. Just leave her where you found her. She can make her own way home. Come back here after you’re done upstairs. I have something else for you to do.”

As she was led up the staircase, Victoria feared the worst. Whatever the outcome, she had done this to herself. She prayed nothing would happen to her husband.

Holding onto her hand, Webb opened the door, then led her into the bedroom.

She looked at him pleadingly. “Colin, please!”

He shook his head, then left, locking the door as he’d been instructed.

Labeaux listened to the footsteps going upstairs. He stood up, went into the kitchen, and walked across the brick floor to the old sink and spun the cold water knob. Pipes rattled briefly before discolored water sputtered from the faucet. He stood looking at the water until it ran clear, then he splashed two quick handfuls onto his face. He patted his face with a handkerchief and looked out the large multi-paned window.

His plan was dangerously bold — in more ways than one. On Monday members of the IRA were about to carry out the operation. Their full payment had already been deposited into a Swiss bank. But one of his past ‘employers’ had been willing to pay twice the amount that had been paid by the IRA, and had already deposited their money in an offshore account.

With the huge amount of money involved, it was worth the risk. The only hitch — both parties expected to have a nuclear weapon in their possession within a short matter of time.

But for Victor Labeaux this had become his opportunity to cause emotional and physical harm to Britain, to its government, to its people. He was prepared to use the weapon on Monday. The money wasn’t really an issue.

Labeaux was born and raised on the French Island of Corsica located in the Mediterranean off the coast of Italy. His father was a seaman aboard the French battleship Bretagne during World War II.

Diplomatic tension between Britain and the French Vichy government caused France to send its fleet to a port in Algeria. Britain was alarmed that Germany would use these ships against them.

Several attempts failed to convince the French to either destroy their vessels, take them to a neutral port, or side with the Allies. Churchill ordered the fleet be destroyed.

The Bretagne was fired upon by HMS Hood, HMS Valiant, and HMS Resolution. One of the shells from the Hood penetrated the deck and hit the magazine. At least one thousand French sailors died in a battle lasting under thirty minutes. Labeaux’s father was one of them.

The three men, Labeaux, Quinn and Webb had more in common than they knew, each with parents dying at the hands of the British.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Webb’s footsteps on the stairs. He folded his handkerchief and stuffed it back in his pocket.

There no longer was a road or runway in the true sense of the word. Green grass grew through the cracks of the broken slabs of concrete which was all that remained of a remote World War II airfield. At the north end was a concrete structure that once housed a watch office, signal room, and a metrological office. Extending out from the second floor was a balcony overlooking the runway. Walls and roof were reinforced concrete, windows were minimal, and the only exterior door was made of steel. The structure had also been used as a bomb shelter.

Webb drove the Rover across a field of green grass, then he followed the runway to the concrete structure. The vehicle jolted as tires constantly hit the separations between slabs.

Parking alongside the building, he killed the engine, then got out, walked to the front of the Rover, and lit up a cigarette. All Labeaux told him was to expect a two engine prop Beech aircraft. The plane would be carrying a pilot and one passenger on the final leg of their journey to England.

Looking into the distance he spotted what appeared to be an aircraft, coming in low. Taking one last drag on the cigarette, he flicked the butt toward the structure. Opening the door, he reached in and signaled the plane by turning the headlights on and off twice.

The twin turbo prop Beech touched down then taxied toward the structure. Once the props shut down, the two men inside got up and went toward the rear. A few minutes later, the port side door swung up and steps were lowered.

Webb remained by the Rover, glancing at a flag painted on the tail. It was unfamiliar to him. He diverted his attention back to the exit door, seeing the men step out. Both were wearing Western style clothes, black slacks, black shirts, black jackets. A large, heavy set man carried a suitcase, while the other held a briefcase.

Webb surmised the heavy set man was possibly a bodyguard. But who they were, he didn’t have a clue and he knew not to ask questions.

He opened the left passenger side door, then pulled the seat forward. Without so much as a word or a glance at him, the strangers both climbed in the back seat.

Driving away from the airfield, and as often as he dared, Webb would take a quick look in the rear view mirror. The larger man occasionally locked his intimidating dark eyes onto his.

The passengers kept a distance apart from each other, staring straight ahead. Webb heard locks of the briefcase pop open. A very brief conversation took place. But it was all Webb needed to identify his passengers — Arabs.