by Roddy Wix
The Khamsin continued its leisurely cruise along the southern coast of France cutting a graceful track eastward while its owner zeroed in on a buyer for his human cargo. He had been on the phone non-stop and was glad to end an exhausting conversation with a notoriously radical politician. Reputed to be a member of Hamas, the organization never laid public claim to the obnoxious and inflammatory man for obvious reasons. Unburdened by principles, the Sheik smiled and began to count the money that would flow into his coffers. If some oppressed and downtrodden people benefited fine, if not: so be it.
“Yes, my friend, I will look forward to seeing you in the morning.”
The man on the other end of the line reiterated his travel plan and verified the yacht’s location.
“We will be holding a position a few miles off the coast of Monaco. Your pilot can radio our ship for specific coordinates once the helicopter is airborne.”
“Very well.”
“May you travel safely, my friend.”
The Sheik hung up the phone and flashed a broad and larcenous grin. This time he might win the trifecta. He would get cash up front, a percentage of the money made with the use of this young fool’s program, and, possibly, curry favor with god. Though not a true believer, a little of Allah's goodwill couldn’t hurt, could it?
Meanwhile, Ilya and Clara were lying contentedly on the sun deck having consummated their new and blossoming relationship, more than once. Ali had watched some of their coupling on his monitor. What a joke on the stupid boy, the Sheik thought to himself. He'd paid Clara well for her services, but the look he saw on her face made him wonder if she now expected a large bonus. If she had any idea how much he stood to make on this young man her expectations would be outrageous. It wouldn't bother him to kill her and feed her to the sharks. Debt cancelled! He’d have to think about that.
He lifted the phone on his desk and pushed a single button. On the bridge a chime signaled his call and the Khamsin’s master, Captain Randy Kruger, picked up at the first tone. The Sheik filled his captain in on his plans to receive an incoming helicopter in the morning. He smiled as he hung up knowing his instructions would be carried out with precision. Randy Kruger tolerated nothing less from himself or his crew.
Things came together far better than he expected especially since, a few days earlier, he had never met Ilya Rusikov and had no idea what his capabilities were. The technical details remained a little fuzzy to him, but no matter, he had created an aggressive market for this white haired genie. In less than forty-eight hours he would have the Palestinian and Serge, the obnoxious Russian, bidding against one another. He preferred life on his yacht, but perhaps he needed to remind himself to spend more time in Paris as this trip proved to be quite lucrative indeed.
An hour earlier Serge had had a disconcerting conversation with the Prime Minister. The wily former spymaster was in a jovial mood and that in itself was worrisome to Malroff.
Serge, anxious, rang his agent in Nice.
“Where is Ivan?”
“Still staying at the Hotel Imperator. He and a girl went out earlier. They took a rental car and drove down to the harbor. After lunch they went back to their room.”
“Has he had contact with his brother?”
“Not in person. The other one remains on board Khamsin. My colleague went out in a powerboat early this morning and located the ship. They are about four kilometers off the coast and twenty kilometers east of Monaco.”
“Where is the yacht going?”
“Nowhere quickly. It's cruising at around eight knots and doesn't seem bound for any specific destination.”
“Do you remain confident about taking him while at sea?”
“Yes. I’ll need another man to handle our boat. I already have a bloke waiting for my call.”
Serge had many questions, but held them. In this rare instance he preferred to know only as much as necessary to close the deal.
"Alright. Tomorrow night, plan on tomorrow night. I only want to hear from you when you have him with you and you are on your way to our rendezvous.”
“Understood.”
If everything went according to plan Serge would soon have Ilya in his custody and with him the key to unleash "Thor's Hammer" again. He had reason to be optimistic, but something about his short conversation with the Prime Minister nagged at him. The man sounded too calm and too cool under the circumstances. It was the way his former boss treated people who had become expendable. The thought frightened him, but perhaps he was over-reacting. After all, he still had much value. As the head of Grosserkopf & Haslich he managed enormous amounts of cash and generated even greater profits. A lot of the money benefited the Prime Minister personally and more went to causes important to him.
He must be jumping to the wrong conclusions. He poured himself a drink and called for Friedrich to get the car. Suddenly, he wanted to go back to Laglio.
Serge’s henchmen were sitting at an outdoor café drinking beer and eating fresh oysters as they talked about their plans. Boyd and Jeremy, no last names, were decently dressed, but they had the hard look of brawlers and what sounded like Australian accents.
“Our biggest risk is weather.”
“And the speed of Khamsin.” Boyd added.
“The reports call for calm seas and it will be a quarter moon.”
“Let’s hope. If the weather turns bad they’ll run from it. The Khamsin is a new yacht and fast for its size. They could be gone in a hurry.”
“That’s the risk we take. Is our friend ready?” Jeremy held his empty glass up and nodded to the waiter. Refills appeared immediately.
“Yes. He’ll meet us at the boat. We will leave by noon so we can pick up the Khamsin during daylight. Then we’ll move off and hold a position well astern until sunset. We’ll track the ship on our radar”
“If all goes well we will be able to retire on our earnings.”
“Here’s to that.” The smaller of the two men hoisted his glass of beer.
“Right.” They knocked their glasses together and started on a second dozen oysters.
The Sheik, meanwhile, poured another scotch and drew on a Monte Cristo cigar. His guests had stopped copulating long enough to join him for dinner and they all gathered in the main salon for cocktails. A crewmember loaned Ilya a blue sports jacket and he managed to make himself respectable. Clara proved to be much sexier in a low cut short black dress than she had been parading around the sun deck in the nude. The Sheik raised his glass in a salute.
“Tonight, my friends, we shall have a marvelous dinner. Our chef always impresses me with his imagination. I hope you enjoy the meal.”
Ilya gave his host a silent grin and took a big swallow of the wine. At the moment all he could focus on was the stirring in his crotch every time he looked at Clara.
While Ilya was up to his ears in debauchery Ivan was on the phone. One call, one man, and the deal was done.
“I will deliver what you are seeking only after the initial deposit has been made at my bank.”
“Understood.”
“I will contact you when that happens and arrange delivery.”
“Understood.” The buyer didn’t waste his breath talking. Ivan liked that.
“The money will be deposited in my account not later than day after tomorrow?”
“Yes.” There was no further conversation. Perhaps the world could be made less complicated after all.
Ivan was proud of himself. Provided the money hit his account by the agreed upon time, of course. There was only one loose end for Herr Geisler to deal with and a phone call to Tel Aviv would take care of that.
Francesca came out of the bath wrapped in a towel.
“Put on something pretty. We are celebrating.” Ivan gave her one of his most sincere smiles.
33.
