Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  Natalie steeled herself. The pharmacist leaned over the counter toward her. She stepped closer to hear what he had to say. The man shot a dismissive look at Hashmimi.

  “I’ll just step outside,” Hashmimi said.

  The pharmacist’s red lips curled angrily inside his black beard. “You’ll go to the far western tip of the Algarve,” he whispered. “Descend to a sandy beach named Foz de Banaçoitão, and wait.”

  Natalie nodded.

  “And take this.”

  He handed her a white tube.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s sunscreen. You’ll need it.”

  One group of three couples was propped up in the sand, the women’s breasts shapely and bare.

  Two nubile young ladies tossed a Frisbee back and forth near the surf, their blonde hair tangling in their sunglasses.

  Natalie looked back up the long set of steps she had just descended. On the road high above her, Hashmimi offered a casual salute and left.

  She was alone on Foz de Banaçoitão, a beach full of unclad bodies. Her fingertips traced the bottom of her skirt. It reached her kneecaps. It felt like a uniform at a girls’ school.

  Nobody at the beach approached her, so she looked for a place to sit.

  The two young women had laid themselves out on beach towels, their nipples pointing upward. A radio drummed out a beat that matched the splash of incoming waves.

  She squinted at the sun. It was just past noon, the hottest part of the day. She reached in her travel bag and pulled out the tube of sunscreen. Then she looked about for a spot to spread out in the sand.

  “Voici,” one of the women said, offering her a spare towel.

  She gladly accepted it, spread it out some distance from them and sat down. Several rowboats rocked in the glassy water just off shore. Beyond that, a natural cove was formed by sharp-edged, cathedral-like rock formations that jutted up from the sea. Two such rocks leaned toward each other forming a near perfect hole large enough for small boats to enter. Beyond the opening lay the barren, sun-sparkled Atlantic Ocean.

  Mick would have loved the beach. He would have enjoyed seeing the beautiful creatures worshiping the sun.

  She lay back, heat prickling her forehead, her shoulder blades grinding into the fine white sand.

  She reached down to her skirt and tugged it off. Her fingers unbuttoned her blouse. Her skin-tone bra absorbed the sun’s hot rays. She felt her tense muscles begin to relax. Her body molded to the contours of the sand like dough baking in an oven.

  Then she held the tube over her and squeezed. A stream of cool white cream landed on her soft belly. With both hands she massaged the scented lotion into every exposed surface of her body. She explored a small stretch mark below her bikini line. She wouldn’t trade it for any patch of skin on the beach.

  Inhaling the natural heartiness of the sea along with the delicate fragrance of her sunscreen, she felt a smile spreading over her lips. She could have a baby again.

  Her eyes closed, she heard two sets of feet padding by, their heels skidding and thudding methodically in the clean sand. She heard low British voices. Perhaps they were college men on an early Christmas break. She let a pleasurable sigh escape her lips. Their voices and footsteps stopped momentarily as they sucked in their breath. She held her breath, her breasts full and extended, her thigh muscles flexing with fear and desire.

  One man gave a tremulous, contented sigh.

  “Dream on,” the other said. “C’mon, chum.”

  They plodded on to the two young women.

  She may have fallen asleep for some time, because she awoke with a start. A motorboat had knifed through the opening in the cove and brought in a wash of waves against the beach as it swung to a standstill.

  She propped up on both elbows and squinted at the boat. Two dark-skinned men glanced up and down the beach, an anxious look on their faces.

  Vacation’s over.

  She found her clothes, dressed and scrambled to her feet.

  A man approached from the boat, his bare chest strong and taut. He lifted his sunglasses and stared at her.

  “Moghul Project?” she asked.

  He nodded and took her down to the beached boat.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  He lifted her with two strong arms and dropped her into the open bow.

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  Mick paused the ritual unpacking of his backpack at the Taj Fort Aguada Hotel in Goa and grabbed his beeping cell phone.

  “I don’t want to alarm you,” Dr. Simon Yates said over the phone. “But Mariah’s condition is becoming more precarious.”

  “More precarious?” he said, suddenly alert. “Does she have a fever?”

  “Worse than that. Yesterday, her heart stopped beating for a brief interval.”

  Mick was stunned. From his hotel cottage, he watched distant waves roll smoothly onto an endless sandy beach. He couldn’t imagine the little trooper’s heart even missing a beat. “What happened?” he asked softly.

  “I was just leaving your hut after reading her ‘Horton Hatches an Egg’ when I heard the nurse calling after me.”

  Oh, great. He was reading her stories about parents abandoning their children.

  “I ran back inside,” Simon continued, “and saw Mariah’s heart monitor waver, then go flat as a pancake. I gave her some manual resuscitation and brought it back to a fairly regular beat.”

  “How long was she out?”

  “Only a minute. No longer.”

  “How could this happen?”

  “Well, these drugs I’m giving her have proven fairly effective in her case. However, dormant parasites are still in there at various stages of their life cycle. You know, malaria parasites have far more genetic material than a virus or a bacterium. In the past, malaria has shown the ability to develop a resistance to drugs.”

  “So you’re saying that she’s suffering a relapse?”

  “Possibly. I know it’s hard news to swallow.”

  “What does it mean, Simon?”

  “All it means is that I’ll monitor her temperature a lot closer, and you’d better find that missing vial sooner rather than later.”

  Mick clicked off his phone. He didn’t have the right to ask Simon to stop reading Mariah stories about parental abandonment.

  Chapter 36

  Congressman Fred Butler sat in a six-seater Air Force passenger jet as they approached Diego Garcia from the north.

  From his seat, Fred studied the small islands that dotted the otherwise unblemished sea. They formed a long archipelago heading south. At the southern tip lay a particularly large island in the form of a giant V, drawn by someone who had just polished off a mug of rum.

  “That’s The Footprint of Freedom,” a sergeant said, pointing it out to him. “Half way between Africa and Indonesia, halfway around the world, the last link in the logistical supply chain that stretches around the world from our East Coast to our West Coast, sir. That’s Diego,” he said with pride.

  As the jet banked over the island and aimed for its airstrip, Fred saw a large turquoise lagoon with a submarine and a fleet of vessels to the north of the thirteen-mile-long body of protected water.

  “Those are our boys,” the sergeant said. “They could also be French or British. The British lease us the island, but we let them use some of our facilities.”

  “Nice of us,” Fred remarked. “What makes these islands British anyway?”

  “Actually, all two thousand three hundred of them form what we call BIOT, the British Indian Ocean Territory. Used to belong to Mauritius and the Seychelles. Mauritius still claims Diego. Good luck, is what I say.”

  As the jet neared the northwest arm of the island atoll, he saw what an elaborate naval facility the island had become. He saw roads, barracks, offices, permanent meteorological equipment, a communication site, transmitter site, dock facilities, storage area for military equipment, outdoor movie theater, swimming pool and even a m
ini-golf course.

  “Seabees been hard at work, eh?” Fred commented.

  “Damn nice facilities. It’s a dream post. Crystal clear water for swimming, perfect temperature all year round. Only the occasional typhoon.”

  “And bad cases of island fever, I’ll bet.”

  “Not after you’ve been at sea on a sub for several months. It’s Gilligan’s Island for most of us.”

  They touched down lightly, and Fred scrambled for the exit door.

  An admiral saluted him as he stepped onto the coral island.

  “I’m Admiral Busby. The U.S. Navy is here to assist you.”

  It felt good to be treated like a congressman again with the military always at his service.

  Fred liked the admiral instantly. The short white sleeves and sunglasses brought to mind images of McHale’s’ Navy. He rubbed his hands together.

  He was going to love this.

  As they turned toward a waiting Jeep, Fred whispered confidentially, “I’m here to pick up the SEALs.”

  “I know that, sir,” the admiral said with a grimace. “No time to undertake the diplomatic nicety of Indian government approval?” he inquired.

  “To hell with diplomatic niceties. No pussyfooting on this one. We need total retaliation. We need to put on our white hats and get the job done right. This is, after all, the job God would do if He only knew what we knew.”

  The admiral chuckled as they drove off, a small herd of wild donkeys scattering into the tall grass from the crushed coral roadway.

  “There’s a couple of people already waiting for you,” the admiral said. “I’m taking you directly to see them.”

  “Fine with me. I’ve already shaved.”

  The admiral continued in his matter-of-fact voice. “They requested a secluded location. I hope you don’t mind. It’s an abandoned plantation.”

  Alec and Camille sat on two frayed rattan chairs on the veranda of what appeared to be the main building of an abandoned copra plantation. Vines had grown over the railings to form lush bushes. Dented beer cans lay scattered in the musty, empty rooms, indicating that the site was a liberty area, a get-away from the ships and bases.

  He watched with interest as a crab nimbly descended the straight trunk of a coconut palm. The species seemed to have adapted to trees, land and sea. How long before the new form of malaria, without any natural predators, adapted to different terrain, different climates and different continents?

  “I see a Jeep,” Camille said.

  The vehicle kicked up a snow-white cloud of dust.

  Camille yawned, removed her straw hat and stretched her full form under her sundress.

  Alec wondered if her calm was a mask. He had noticed her tensing up on their chartered plane as soon as they had come within view of Diego Garcia. For her, the naval base was the heart of her sworn enemy for so many years. In truth, she may have been more feared by them.

  Alec trotted down the steps to meet the Jeep. Inside sat the driver, Admiral Busby who had met them at the airstrip, and a large form, presumably the congressman.

  The admiral jumped out before the vehicle came to a halt. He strode up to Alec and whispered, “He’s a goddamned nutcase.”

  “Great,” Alec said, watching the bulky form climb out of the Jeep.

  Camille looked away with a laugh.

  “Howdy, gentlemen,” the congressman said, striding up to them.

  Camille turned to face him with a composed expression.

  “…and gentlewomen. I can see we have a lovely woman among us.”

  “So, let’s get on with it, shall we?” the admiral said. “We have Frederick Butler from the U.S. Congress, Alec Pierce with the CIA and Camille Dinad from, er, Mauritius.”

  “May I inquire what she’s doing here?” the congressman asked, approaching her with clear admiration.

  Alec stepped in. “She’s an informant who helped us identify Abu Khan. Now she will help us infiltrate his organization.”

  “An informant?” The congressman didn’t offer to shake her hand, as his political instincts kicked in.

  They stepped onto the veranda.

  “Now, there was one more figure I’d like you to meet,” the admiral said. “But he’s not here yet.”

  Suddenly, a gun fired, just twenty feet away. A beam above them sustained a hit. Something landed on the old floorboards at Alec’s feet. It was the two halves of a scorpion.

  He turned toward the source of the shot.

  A lone soldier in green battle fatigues emerged from a bush at the end of the veranda. With one swift motion, he vaulted over the vines and landed with both boots on the porch. He shoved his electronically aimed pistol back in his thigh holster.

  “Meet Captain Savage. He’s head of a special Navy unit called DEVGRU.”

  “You were in that bush the whole time?” Alec asked.

  The captain ignored his question and approached the group, expressionless. As his eyes met Camille’s, he yanked off his visored cap with a big mitt and produced a grim smile. “Red Army Faction, American Sector of Berlin, Spring 1980,” he said. “I was the one driving the Vice Chancellor’s limousine.”

  “You’re good,” she said. “I missed.”

  “We were just avoiding a UNO,” he said with a shrug.

  “What’s a UNO?” she asked.

  “An Unintentional Neutralizing Obstacle,” he said. “Otherwise known as a pothole.” He fingered a yellow and blue ribbon, one of many such decorations, on his chest. “Got this for it, though.”

  Alec was having trouble seeing through the testosterone fog. “Now that you’ve established your credentials, can we return to the problem at hand?”

  “We’ve been fully briefed, Mr. Pierce. Our troops were already here following events in India on an hourly basis.”

  “From where are you getting your information?”

  “American Consulate in Bombay, satellite imagery, intercepted radio transmissions, intelligence from the Office of Counterterrorism in Washington. We’re piecing the story together.”

  “Good,” Alec said. “That’ll save us some time. We can trade notes en route. For now, let’s establish what resources we have, and then draw up a plan.”

  The admiral pulled a metal table up to the group and dropped a pen and pad of official Navy stationery on the dusty surface.

  The five of them found chairs and formed a circle.

  Alec had used the previous day to organize his thoughts.

  “Okay,” he began. “We’ve got two missions to complete. One, we need to rescue Congressman Butler’s daughter. Two, we need to apprehend Abu Khan and safely recover the vaccine. I don’t want one mission to interfere with the other. In fact, I’m hoping we can use the ransom transaction to lead us to Abu Khan’s operational center, where we can confiscate the vaccine.”

  “Where in India is he?” Savage inquired, glancing uncomfortably at Camille, a known terrorist seated at the table.

  “Since the ransom will change hands in Goa, we’ve got to assume that he’ll also be there. I want all of our resources to concentrate on Goa.”

  “Congressman, do you have the money?” Savage asked.

  “I’ll have the money here at the base later today. It’s being flown in from Oakland.”

  “I see the operation going like this,” Alec continued. “We’ll let the transaction happen, then trace Khan to his hideout or office or whatever he has there. At that point, we can insert Camille to smuggle out the vaccine.”

  “Exactly what will you use the troops for?” Savage asked.

  “They will be there for the ransom transaction and later at Khan’s hideout. If things go wrong, or if his troops offer resistance, your men will be there to help.”

  “‘There to help’ doesn’t wash with me, sir,” Savage said. “Our men work with a defined objective. Give us an objective and we can do it.”

  Alec sat back and looked at Camille. He didn’t want to lose her in a gun battle. He looked at Congressman Butle
r. He would panic trying to recover his daughter under the crosshairs of Special Forces rifles.

  “I don’t see it any other way,” he said. “We’ll call on your troops as we need them. If we can’t obtain the vaccine, then our second choice is to eliminate Abu Khan and his gang. We may want to do that anyway.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to prepare my men,” Savage said.

  “Why don’t you fill us in on who you have available,” Alec suggested.

  Captain Savage looked at the admiral, who glanced at Camille and the congressman. When it came to managing classified information, both were an equally high risk.

  At last the admiral nodded to Camille and Fred. “You’ll have to take a short walk at this point in the conversation.”

  “Like hell I will,” Fred said, rising. “I’m a United States Congressman.”

  “And you’re not authorized to hear this information,” Savage said.

  “Nobody tells me what I can and cannot do. I can salute your butt if I damn well please. I’m not in the goddamned Army.”

  The admiral intervened. “Okay, Congressman, you’re in. But I’m sorry, Miss Dinad, you must absent yourself.”

  Camille smiled and stood to leave. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  The group watched her short skirt sway as she walked down the steps and out onto the overgrown yard.

  The admiral frowned. “After this operation, the cat will be out of the bag. The president has ordained this preemptive strike.” He nodded to the captain. “Go ahead.”

  Savage rose to his feet and stood at ease, his hands behind his back. Then he began to describe an ultra secret military unit, never revealed to the public.

  A seaplane droned over Alec’s head. He heard soldiers performing physical training exercises at a compound near the beach. Closer to the plantation, only the rustle of palm fronds in the trade winds broke a palpable silence as the captain prepared to speak.

  Captain Savage looked from face to face on the dilapidated veranda. “Each of you is fairly well versed in Special Operations. The president has ordered this covert action in India and code-named it ‘Operation Fatal Sting.’ Our mission is to locate and recover the malaria vaccine and bring justice to the perpetrators of this biological attack.”