by L. J. Martin
“We?” Chung questions.
“We. You, me, and Miss…oops, Missus Drummond here.”
They exchange cell phone numbers. Then Chung suggests, “You know we can run pretty fast and loose with surveillance. No FISA court to worry about at sea. How about I have a bug put into this Amir’s cabin and in the passenger Mumin's?”
“How about video?” Harry suggests.
“That may be a step too far, but audio?”
“Do it.”
Chung rises and extends a hand. “Enjoy your cruise,” he says, with a shake of the head.
“Nice ship. We’ll do our best. I’ll phone, or you do so the instant you have anything.”
“You bet, you too. Let’s not let this get out of hand.”
Harry leaves happy with his meeting and thinking that Chung is a competent and cooperative security guy. That has not always been his experience with security types.
Mohamid knows this is a critical moment in the mission. The receipt, unloading, and hiding of munitions.
Mohamid has a cook’s helper who’s one of the jihadists, Gama, assist him on-loading cases of oranges, lemons, lettuce, spinach, crates of grapes, and more from a local supplier. A supplier who's unknowingly employed two of the faithful for more than six months. Later in the day they’ll unpack cases of frozen fish, beef, lamb, and pork and dry goods from the company shipping container that meets them in various ports. It’s their job to stow all.
As they are working, another young cook’s helper, Luma Al-Faraj, a Sudanese like Gama, appears.
“Chef sent me to help,” he says. Unknown to Mohamid, had Gama and Luma been anywhere else they would be mortal enemies, as Luma is of Sudan’s Gimar tribe and Gama of the Beni Halba.
This use of someone not a member of their group is not in Mohamid’s plan, as one slip, one spilled case, could reveal an AK47, a KRISS automatic pistol or it’s detachable stock, one of the dozen Russian F1 hand grenades, or one of the half-dozen American Claymore mines stolen from the Egyptian military.
Luckily, they are working far from others on Deck Two in the bowel of the ship. Mohamid notices that Gama and Luma work without speaking. He thinks nothing of it.
They are down to the last four cases of citrus, three of lemons and one of grapefruit, when Luma stumbles and the case of grapefruit falls, and grapefruit roll across the deck.
“Oh, I am so sorry, so…” Luma begins, then stares at six Russian hand grenades spread across the deck among assorted grapefruit.
18
“Oh…oh…oh,” he mumbles, staring wide-eyed at the little fist-size purveyors-of-death, then turns to Mohamid. “Do you see? Do you see? The fruit merchant must…” But he doesn’t get it out. An eighteen-inch wrench, removable from a valve on a refrigerant line traversing the wall, is in Gama’s hand. Swinging it like he's driving a spike with a sledge, it crashes on Luma’s head, splitting it with the force of the blow.
Gama stands over the boy, smiling, white teeth flashing. He glances up at Mohamid. “Filthy Gimar,” he says, reveling in what he’s done.
“I don’t care what he is. Hurry.” Mohamid only wants to remain undiscovered.
Luma’s flat on the deck in front of the door to Cold Room 3, blood pooling beneath his crushed skull.
“Hurry,” Mohamid says, grabbing the boy’s arm. Gama grabs the other and they drag Luma into the cold room. They quickly hide him behind cases of citrus and vegetables, after stripping him of his shirt and wrapping his head to try and quell the bleeding, unnecessary as the dead don’t pump blood.
“Get a mop,” Mohamid instructs Gama. “I’ll continue to sort. Hurry.” And Gama runs, disappearing into a passageway.
A garbage cart, wheeled, three-feet-wide and three-deep-by-five-long, is the vehicle they’re using to hide the armaments, under vegetable and fruit trimmings and peelings. Mohamid is busily stowing automatic pistols, a half-dozen AK47’s and fifty thirty-round clips when he hears someone coming. He palms the wrench but drops it when he sees Gama with a mop and bucket.
They’ve just finished when the sous chef, a Frenchman who goes by the name Pepe and is disliked by most, appears.
“Where the hell is Luma?” he asks. He's egg-shaped and stands with one fist on his side. Had it not been for his chef's hat, his chapeau de chef, in his white chef's outfit, he looks a little like a squat porcelain tea pot with a handle.
Mohamid, thinking quickly, “He was ill. He threw up and we have just cleaned up. He said he was going to his cabin.”
“Damn, damn, damn. Gama. When you have cleaned this floor with a twenty percent bleach mixture, you report to me. I will make a saucier of you. Clean it well. We don’t want sickness to run rampant. What is that pink crap you are using?”
Mohamid stutters when he realizes some of the liquid he's using is mixed with blood. He shrugs. "Pink soap from stores."
"Use bleach and water."
“Yes, sir,” Gama says, and the fat Frenchman, Pepe, disappears heading back to the kitchen.
“Close,” Mohamid says.
“How do we get rid of the scum Gimar?”
“I’m compacting cartons when we finish here. I’ll dismember him and will squash him up with the cardboard.”
“Do you need help?” Gama asks.
“No, I’ll be alone near the compactor.”
“Good,” Gama says, and truly means it as he cannot imagine the horrid job, even as much as he hates the Gimar.
Mumin has stayed on board while other passengers visit Bordeaux. He has much work to do. He carefully cuts the bottom lining out of his large suitcase and recovers the one-half-inch-thick by two-foot-by-three-foot layer of C4 explosive, four detonators, and four cell phones. The normal C4 charge is thirty-four cubic inches; he has only twenty-seven cubic inches per charge to work with, but it will be more than enough. The Iranian version of C4 is equally explosive as the American version. After an excellent breakfast, he spends the balance of the morning constructing four bombs that will be detonated by a call to one of the four cell numbers assigned to the throwaways.
For the first time since boarding he is able to speak to one of his fellow jihadists. Sa'id is the steward taking care of his cabin. Mumin purposefully leaves the do-not-disturb switch off so Sa'id will enter when it’s his cabin’s turn.
It is nearly noon, their second day in Bordeaux, when Sa'id enters.
“As-salam alaykum,” Sa’id greets him.
“Speak English, always, when on board.”
“You have packages for me?”
"I do. And you have a safe place to store them?"
Sa'id smiles. "Crew cabins are not searched, and we clean our own. As I told you, they would not be safe in your cabin, as I will rotate to another post after Lisbon."
"Then they must be entrusted to you. Should you leave them here for a while?"
"No, my supervisor may check my work anytime. They do white glove inspections and are liable to look anywhere. You only have room for a couple in your safe. In fact, I think they look to see if employees are hiding anything. We have a small safe, but a Glock will barely fit there."
"Then you must hide them."
"Inshallah," Sa'id says.
"English only," Mumin corrects, and they roll each bomb in a towel and stow them in Sa'id's supply cart.
Mumin is enjoying his position as guest, and as he gets ready to leave Sa'id to his work cleaning the cabin, hands him his loafers, "Shine, please."
Sa'id looks a little irritated but takes them.
It's a beautiful day and lunchtime, so he goes up to the swimming pool, orders from the small cafe adjoining and takes a spot on a chaise lounge near the pool. Most passengers are ashore enjoying their second day in Bordeaux, but a few have stayed behind. A European or American in a nylon track suit, wearing a Doncaster Rovers red and white football jersey, takes a chair at a small table nearby and is soon joined by a beautiful woman, maybe Arab.
Mumin eats slowly, enjoying the view of three young wome
n in bikinis and the beautiful dark-skinned woman seated nearby.
He's wondering if the woman is Muslim, married to an infidel, and even if so, she should be wearing a hijab with her face, and particularly that tanned body, covered. If so, she'll be one of the first to receive Allah's wrath.
As he rises to leave, he pauses near the man in the tracksuit.
"You are a Rover's fan? English, I presume."
The man glances up from the novel he's reading. "American, but yes, I'm a Rover's fan. I live in England."
Mumin extends his hand and the man shakes. "I am Mumin Amir. My English friends call me Moony."
"Harry Drummond," the man says. "Nice to make your acquaintance."
19
Mumin nods, then eyes the long-legged woman on a nearby chaise lounge—a woman dressed in no more than a pair of hankies and inviting the hands of a man. "Your wife?"
"Yes," and he speaks a little louder. "Angelina, say hello to Moony."
She glances up from the magazine she's reading and gives Mumin a little unconcerned wave.
"Spanish?" Mumin asks.
"Mexican," Harry says, with a smile. "You're not going ashore today?"
"I have seen Bordeaux and, like you, I am enjoying the wonderful weather. Enjoy your book," he says, and walks away.
When he disappears into an elevator, Angelina folds up her book and moves to a chair across from Harry. "That was unplanned," she says.
"She's a small ship, and with others ashore, I'm not surprised. Might be easier to keep track of him if we're buddied up."
"Guess it couldn't be helped."
"Young lady, with that bikini I'm surprised half the males on board are not circling you like hungry sharks. He looked at you like he was about ready to exercise his so-called rights as a Muslim man with any infidel."
"Thank you, for almost a compliment, I think. Are you saying I shouldn't have…?”
"No, no, besides it won't do any harm. Like I said, watching him might be easier. It's good you got his attention. Just don’t wander down a dark corridor in that outfit with any Muslim man within one hundred yards."
Mumin returns to his room. It is time for his Dhuhr prayer. As he works the lock, he thinks back on the Mexican woman. She is as beautiful as the most beautiful Somalians although her skin, of course, is not nearly so dark. He has only been with whores in Somalia and Libya. What would it be like to be with this Mexican westerner?
Maybe she will favor him with her body or be somewhere he can favor himself, no matter her wants. She’ll likely offer it freely when she is wondering if she is one selected to be beheaded.
He laughs. If he offers her life, he is sure she will think black is beautiful.
Harry's phone rings almost as soon as Mumin leaves.
"We've got something," John Chung says.
"Your office?" Harry asks.
"As quickly as you can," Chung says.
Harry folds up his book. "Angelina, I'm headed to Chung's office. Suggest you get dressed and join us."
"I have a robe."
"Then let's go."
Chung is at his desk, his fingers steeple under his chin. He’s deep in thought when they enter. He stands immediately and can’t help but eye Angelina up and down. She has on a wrap, but it’s slightly translucent.
“Sit, please,” Chung says, and they do.
“I want you to listen.” He pushes a small recorder forward and hits the play button. “This is the passenger Mumin and his area steward, a fellow named Sa’id, whose file says from Yemen. Not concrete, but good enough for me to bust them.”
The recorder reports,
“You have packages for me?”
"I do. And you have a safe place to store them?"
"Crew cabins are not searched, and we clean our own. As I told you, they would not be safe in your cabin, as I will rotate to another post after Lisbon."
"Then they must be entrusted to you. Should you leave them here for a while?"
"No, my supervisor may check my work anytime. They do white glove inspections and are liable to look anywhere. You only have room for a couple in your safe. In fact, I think they look to see if employees are hiding anything. We have a small safe, but a Glock will barely fit there."
"Then you must hide them."
Chung stops the recorder. “Obviously, something they want hidden, and the only reason they do is it’s against our rules. And it must be something dangerous. I’ve got to search this Sa’id’s cabin and arrest him or at least sack the wanker.”
Harry sits forward. “Hold on, John. This might be something dangerous, or it may be porno tapes or marijuana. If it’s something dangerous then, like I said before, it may be the tip of the iceberg. You want my suggestion?”
“Your suggestions and my responsibilities may be at odds…but go ahead.”
“Search his cabin when he’s at work. I’d like to help in that effort. Both I and Angelina are well trained in surreptitious searches. Let’s not upset the proverbial apple cart. Then if we locate something, we can decide our next step.”
Chung is quiet for a moment then nods. “Done. Let’s give him tonight to hide whatever the ‘packages’ are. You meet me here in the morning, eight-thirty, and we’ll do our shake down.”
“We have two ways in and out and Angelina can stand guard on one end and your man the other, if that works for you?”
“Perfectly.”
“Then we’ll get back to observing Mumin Amir.”
Our second day at Bordeaux turns out to be a breeze.
I’m a little curious to see one of the crew, a tall thin brown man, take a seat at a far end of the bar, and be brought a beer in a can by the pretty bartender. She glances around as if she doesn’t want to be caught doing so. I judge them both to be Middle Eastern. I’m a little surprised to see a crew member at a passenger bar, but presume he’s off work. The pretty bartender looks nervous to have him there. He leaves quickly, but not without paying her a compliment of some kind, I presume, as she bats her pretty eyes at him, and I overhear her say, “Thank you, Sa’id.”
I’m not unhappy that the kids have decided to stay aboard rather than take in more of Bordeaux. It’s a perfect day and they’ve decided to work on their tans. Lying by the pool, with a much better than average café only yards away, a beautiful blonde by my side, is what I pictured this job to be. I only have to glance up once as a couple of teenagers beg Simone for autographs.
We have supper in the Blue Pearl’s gourmet restaurant, El Greco, hit the show, which is a great retrospective on Abba, the casino for an hour, then the sack.
Harry and Angelina split up to wander the public areas and look for Mumin, when Harry steps into the Deck Five bar, his cell rings the theme from Paladin’s Have Gun Will Travel. He knows it’s his immediate superior, Frazier Mendleson.
“Yes, sir,” he answers.
“Getting any sun?”
“Not much today, yesterday was beautiful.”
“Well, I’ve got another beautiful boy for you to look for. I’ve texted you a photo of a guy who signed on the Blue Pearl as Mohamid Ahmed. We made him from the picture you got, facial recognition. However, he was formerly Sean McCord.”
“Irish? Or Brit?”
“Nor Australian or Kiwi. He’s a bloody American, to borrow some English slang.”
“And?”
“And a bad son-of-a-bitch. He’s on the Company's hit list. And you know how bad he’s got to be to make the enemy of America’s hit list. Maybe he’s calmed down now as MI5 has reported he has two brats by a wife in London.”
“When did kids slow the pricks down? What job?”
“He’s on as a roustabout. He’s liable to be anywhere. But Chung can put you on him.”
“Chung keeps wavering. He wants to bust these guys at the drop of a hat. I’ve held him in check so far. We’re onto another who may be a player. Sa’id Al-Gharsi is the name he signed on under.”
“I’ll get back to you on him.”
“We’re onto some packages that Mumin must have carried aboard. He’s passed them to Al-Gharsi. We’ve got Sa’id’s cabin bugged and Chung and I are going to toss it in the morning, and he’ll bug Al-Gharsi’s as well.”
“Stay alert.”
“You bet your ass. I’m retiring next year.”
Frazier chuckles. “And miss all this fun?”
20
While we watch the kids lose a few hundred at the tables in the ship's small casino, Connie orders her second dirty martini, which portends good things for me when I get the kids locked into their cabins and Connie into the suit God gave her at birth.
There’s nothing like a little horizontal exercise to make one sleep well, and I do.
Morning is another day at sea. As Simone and I have come to an understanding that if she is going to leave her cabin she’ll call and wait until I knock on the door; one knock, pause then two knocks, pause, then another. Knowing she won’t be up and about until at least ten, and having my alarm receiver strapped to my wrist, I decide to take advantage of the gym. I’m there at dawn, an overcast day with a rip of bright orange on the eastern horizon. It’s damp out, and the rails are peppered with dew. I get a drop on my nose from above as I enter the door to the bow-facing gym. There is a dozen or more Life Fitness machines, free weights, and a dozen walkers facing forward with floor to ceiling windows looking out on a gentle gray sea reflecting the dappled pewter sky. The floor under the machines is well polished wood, except for the free-weight area that is thick carpet. Dropping free weights on a wood floor is not good.
To my surprise there are a dozen passengers already there. I do some stretches then find the carpeted area and a bench. I load two-hundred-fifty on the bar and get ready to do a few sets of presses, when someone speaks up, “You want me to spot you?”
I glance over and see the backlit full head of gray hair of General Tolliver.
“Good morning, sir,” I say, and place the bar back on its hook. “Actually, this is just warm up weight. If I get serious, I’ll impose on you.”
