Curtis had applied gentle pressure to ensure that the youngster embraced the fundamentalist pull of the religion, for it was an opportunity. As if he were the owner of a sports franchise, Curtis traded the rising-star engineer to his good friends at the largest construction company in Saudi Arabia, and when the boy proved to be more comfortable in the Middle Eastern environment, his extraordinary skills continued to improve.
When the international consortium of giant building companies needed a special man to head the secret new project in Pakistan, Curtis had suggested al-Attas for the job, for it dovetailed with his other interests.
Now it appeared that the unique usefulness and skills of Mohammad al-Attas might be coming to an end. The report from General Gul had been a courtesy alert of possible danger.
The undersecretary did not object, for the engineer knew too much and was a direct link back to Curtis, and that could not be exposed. Although his company was being run by a blind trust during his tenure in public service, Big Bill Curtis still kept a close eye on his empire. His friends trusted him to do that, and not to make mistakes.
Disappointed, Curtis prepared a reply for General Gul. The overall task and protecting Commander Kahn were of far more importance than the life of young al-Attas, or anyone else, and keeping the Curtis name out of the affair was mandatory. The ISI had his approval to do as it thought best.
13
THE SUMMER SQUALL CAME on the starboard quarter, from out of the northeast, just before sunset. Swirling, steady winds increased in strength, and the Vagabond altered course slightly to nose into the rising sea. With plenty of depth, and no land nearby, the ship had room to maneuver, and there was no schedule to keep. Solid-state inertial sensors fed digital processors that automatically positioned stabilizing fins to keep the yacht running smoothly at twelve knots with only a minimal roll. Grim clouds moved in and loosed cascades of raindrops that broke hard against the windows before sliding harmlessly away into the scuppers. Beth Ledford was comfortable. “It feels good to be back on the water again,” she said.
“How does Vagabond stack up against your big Coast Guard cutters in this sort of little blow?” Sir Jeff was beside her, one hand on his cane and the other holding a glass of whisky.
“We would be feeling the change worse than this, humping along and busting wave after wave. But look at this.” The surface of the sweet white chenin blanc in her stemless Reidel crystal glass hardly rippled with the motion of the yacht. “Your ship sails like a dream, Sir Jeff. Our cutters aren’t designed for personal comfort, but they can handle anything any sea can throw at them.”
“As good as a Navy ship?”
She laughed. “Better. We have much more control of our vessel, with highly trained crews in every compartment, and we are more mission oriented. Innocent lives can be at stake every time we’re out. Entirely different animals.”
Jeff sipped the amber liquid. “Kyle says you can shoot.”
“Yes, sir. I’m a qualified sniper.”
“He says you’re even better, that you have a special gift for it.”
“He never said that to me.”
Jeff grinned. “No. He wouldn’t, would he? Well, my dear, this weather will clear soon. Tomorrow morning, I’ll give you a tour of our armory and you can test some of the experimental weaponry we have aboard, if you wish.”
She was charmed by the old man but had to bite back her normal reaction when she felt somebody wanted to test her. He was not patronizing, however, but speaking as one professional to another, and as a host to a guest. “You know, I think that might be fun,” she said.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now if you’ll please help an old man over to the table, I see that Kyle is done with all of the homecoming greetings and wants to make us work before dinner.”
Swanson had spread out computer photographs, overhead satellite imagery, maps, and relevant paper and was standing there staring at them, with his hands on his hips. “I don’t know how it happened, Jeff, but someone has been either one step behind us or one step in front ever since we got involved in this thing. That’s why we came out here. Whatever we decide must be off the reservation.”
“Just what is it that you’re planning?” Jeff settled into a soft chair and rested his arms on the table. Adjusting his glasses, he riffled through the papers. “This is forbidding country, Kyle, and that big bridge looks as strong as the mountains around it. Your options are limited. No sane commander would go in there with less than a regiment and a month of planning. Terrain sand tables and such.”
“That’s why it has to be just me and Coastie. I think that if we go in quick, then we can see whatever there is and get out before anyone knows we’re there.”
“That’s your plan? You’re dreaming, lad.”
“Which is why I am picking your brain, old man. You must have learned something during all of those years with the SAS.”
Sir Jeff placed his fingertip on the bridge location on the map and studied the contours. “At least we should assemble a team of professionals to back you up on the ground, with adequate air cover. It’s quite a distance from a safe base.”
Kyle shook his head. “I don’t like the situation either, but right now, nobody on the ground is expecting us. Whoever is chasing Beth and me does not know where we are. We can use this window of secrecy to our advantage, if we can put something together fast.”
“Does General Middleton know what you’re up to?”
“Hell, Jeff, I don’t even know what I’m up to. All we have is a target zone and a lot of questions. Shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours to scout the valley and find the tunnels. The Lizard told us that security in the area is almost nonexistent. The floods cleared everybody out, and although the water has gone down, not many people have returned. They’re still in the refugee camps.”
Lady Patricia had been listening. “Why not go into the area disguised as part of a medical team, just as Beth’s brother did? One of these briefing papers said the Pakistanis were opening the area for an inspection and were ready to establish a new refugee camp there. Since you both have undergone some medical training in the military, you could be part of it.”
Kyle looked up at her. “Possibility. Beth, you have enough training as a medic to get by for a couple of days in a camp? We could be like volunteers, then drop off for a day and go into the valley.”
Beth glared at him. “Remember how you insulted my brother for doing humanitarian work? You could wear sheep’s clothing, Kyle, and carry the supplies, but you would never fit into a staff of doctors and nurses. Never. As soon as you opened your mouth, your hostile attitude would spill out.”
“Hey—”
Sir Jeff interrupted. “She’s right. You have too much of an edge about you to blend into their work, Kyle. Some covers work, some don’t. What else have we got?”
“Zip. Nada,” Kyle said, letting their remarks slide. “No personal identification paper, lack of assets, unfamiliarity with the target area, and no backup.”
“Very well, then. As Sherlock Holmes famously advised, one should never overlook the obvious.”
Beth asked, “What is obvious about this?”
“Are you jump qualified?” Jeff asked her.
“Yes. I got my silver wings at the Army’s Airborne School at Fort Benning.”
“Somehow, that is exactly what I expected from you,” Cornwell said with a chuckle. “Anything beyond that? HALO?”
“No, sir. I wanted to, but my Coast Guard superiors saw no need for me to qualify for high-altitude, low-opening. Heck, they didn’t even want me to go airborne with the basic five jumps, but I took up skydiving as a hobby and learned on my own until I could get my captain’s permission. Don’t worry. I can handle myself in the air.”
“There’s no need for a HALO on this one anyway,” Kyle said. “It’s a well-used air traffic corridor out there, everything from F-16s to cargo birds, even passenger jets. I doubt that anyone even looks up at the sound of a passing
plane.”
Jeff tossed his glasses on the papers. “So the two of you jump at night. If you don’t break your legs or backs, or get captured, you should be able to secure a hide before daybreak, then lay up until you can finish the reconnaissance.”
“We jump in at night?” Beth was having difficulty keeping a glow of excitement from her eyes.
“Twenty-four hours maximum,” Kyle agreed. “With minimum gear, not a combat load.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
Jeff rose stiffly to his feet. “By damn, I wish I could go with you. Just to jump out of a sturdy aircraft again would be a perfect tonic for these old bones.”
“Well, you cannot.” Lady Pat hooked her arm around him and kissed his cheek. “You would splatter yourself in some treetop in the middle of Nowhereistan, and I would have to go to all the trouble of getting your body back and burying you. It would ruin almost an entire week.”
“She Who Must Be Obeyed has spoken,” Jeff said in a grumpy Rumpole of the Bailey stage voice. “Enough of this for now. Dinner beckons.”
* * *
WITH AUTHORITY IN HAND from General Gul of the ISI, Sergeant Hafiz was free to act to impose order on the chief engineer’s chaos.
Everyone was in agreement that Mohammad al-Attas should be allowed to continue his work, but under much stricter control. An experienced ISI psychiatrist arrived at the bridge to assess al-Attas and prescribed a regimen of antipsychotic medication. Al-Attas, recovering from his wounds, participated in the interviews willingly and took the new pills without hesitation. Although his body healed rapidly from the ugly but superficial wounds, his mind was being put on a loose pharmaceutical leash. The psychiatrist promised that the chief engineer would be able to work all day long, without the wild avalanche of ideas that usually accompanied his thoughts. At the evening meal with the doctor and Sergeant Hafiz, he was given what he was told was extra vitamins and a mild narcotic to help him sleep, thanks to this carefully balanced chemical stew. An hour later, the chief engineer would be so tired and woozy that he would be happy to climb into his bed and sleep there like a dead man for the next nine hours. The Djinn had been tamed, but at what cost to the valuable brain of the chief engineer? They would just have to wait and see.
* * *
HAFIZ WAS TOPSIDE WHEN the first truckload of his new temporary security team rolled in. Although a regular army platoon was being readied for extended duty at the bridge and would soon be on the way, for now Hafiz had to make do with Taliban irregulars. General Gul had granted only a half a loaf, but it was better than nothing.
A sweat-stained man with a grizzled beard climbed from the passenger’s seat in the cab, wearing the normal soiled and patchwork clothing of a Taliban fighter. He paused to sling an AK-47 over his shoulder, then called out for the men in the back of the truck to get out and line up. Workers shied away from the vehicle, leaving them in the middle of an empty circle. They were a wild-looking crew, all beards and arrogance, wearing long baggy trousers, a hodgepodge of robes and shirts, sloppy turbans, and cartridge belts across their shoulders or around their waists. The men slouched against the truck or sat cross-legged on the ground and started to talk and smoke, ignoring everyone else. Within a few moments, they had established themselves as a nest of snakes, best to be avoided.
The leader approached Hafiz but did not salute or offer to shake hands. “Allahu Akbar,” he said. God is great.
Hafiz gave a curt nod. If the fellow wanted to be rude, that was fine. Keep it all business. It would not matter in a minute anyway. “How many did you bring?”
The man looked back. “We are nineteen in all. Seven in this truck, plus weapons, and the others will be here before nightfall. All have been in successful actions against the infidels.” He removed the automatic rifle from his shoulder and cradled it comfortably in his arms, almost pointing it at Hafiz.
“Are you their leader?”
The man stiffened. How could there be any question of his authority? This sergeant was a stupid man. “Yes. I am Sayyid, and my leaders have ordered me to secure this place. I will now take control. Are you Hafiz… Sergeant Hafiz?”
Hafiz looked down at his boots for a moment, studying the ground, the bowed head indicating subservience. Why couldn’t this have been easy? Why did these people refuse to cooperate? “Insh’Allah,” the sergeant said. God’s will. He reached behind him and pulled the modified Makarov 9 mm pistol from the belt holster, swung it up, and fired directly at the nose of Sayyid. The back of the man’s head blew off in a crimson curtain of bone, brains, and blood, and Hafiz fired again before the body hit the ground.
He looked over at the Taliban fighters. Suddenly, they were paying attention. Hafiz held up his left hand, palm outward, to signal them to remain still, then planted a boot on each side of their fallen commander’s body and methodically emptied the remaining ten shots of the magazine into the corpse. Streaks of crimson glistened on the ground as Sayyid’s body bled out. Turning away from the bullet-riddled corpse, Hafiz walked over to the waiting group, clapping a new clip of ammo into his pistol as he moved, his eyes killer cold.
“Allahu Akbar, you motherless pieces of dung,” he snarled. “You work for me now. Get in line.”
* * *
THE RAIN HAD PASSED over during dinner, and Lady Pat and Beth went for a slow turn around the deck so Pat could smoke one of her little cigars. The doctors insisted that Sir Jeff be in smoke-free environments, and the portable oxygen tank that was always near him made it necessary for her to smoke outside. The women had put on sweaters against the chill. The clouds were breaking up, and moonglow found openings to color the moving water as the Vagabond cruised along northeasterly.
“Your brother, Joey, sounds like a dedicated man,” Lady Pat said. “I’m sorry things ended so badly. Your mother must be devastated.”
Beth looked up but could not see any stars. “It was almost his destiny, his karma, as the Buddhists would say. He preferred to help the helpless in some of the world’s worst cesspools instead of making a lot of money and living well anywhere in America. He measured himself against the evil of the world, and that led him into trouble more than once.”
“Still, it is a sad thing.” Pat exhaled a puff of smoke that was surprisingly fragrant, like flowers. “Now you have been pulled into his world. Are you certain that you want to go on this adventure? I would advise you to leave it to the professionals.”
“Pat, I have no choice. Joey saw something in that valley that only I would recognize, and I’m not even sure what it is. Kyle says the job is doable, with minimal risks, and I am a professional, too.”
Lady Pat threw back her head and laughed. “Kyle and Jeff would consider fighting a saber-toothed tiger with their bare hands to be a piece of cake. They live for the rush of it all. You’re not really like them, Beth. Very few people are, even within the special operations forces. Still, if I have to see you go off on this errand, I prefer that you have Kyle as your partner. He’s the best, and he even admits that you’re pretty good. That is a very high compliment.”
“I work hard at it, Pat. Always trying to break through the glass ceiling, you know? Because I’m petite and pretty, men won’t treat me as an equal.”
“The eternal story, my dear.” They paced on in silence until they reached the stern, then looked back over the churning wake behind them, glowing with green phosphorescence. “You haven’t asked the question.”
“What question?”
“About Kyle and Jeff and me.” Pat smiled. “You must be curious why someone as sophisticated as I, a lady of the realm, would have anything to do with a foul little mongrel like him.”
“He gave me a synopsis on the way in, Pat, but it’s really none of my business.”
Patricia threw the remains of the cigar overboard. “Do you know how hard it is to find a true friend in life? What started as a simple business deal, when Kyle was sent over to advise Jeff on a new weapon, unexpectedly grew into a deeply personal friendsh
ip among the three of us. As you said about your brother, maybe it was our karma. No one was trying to make it happen, which is probably the only reason it worked. We did not really need him, and Kyle didn’t need anybody. Yet he slowly filled a gaping hole in our lives, and we acted as surrogate parents to him. As the company grew over the years—Jeff turned out to be an even better businessman and financier than he was a soldier—so did our relationship, until we became quite the odd family. Kyle is invaluable to us now, and we love him to death. We always try to lure him away from the Marines, but he refuses. The Pentagon stays happy because it gives the U.S. special access to the Excalibur products, and as you see, we provide the occasional spot of help for some operations.”
“Are you telling me that Kyle can choose between being a jarhead gunnery sergeant and living in this sort of luxury, and he stays in uniform?”
“Yes. Someday, he will retire and come into the business as a full partner. In the meantime, he is a member of the board of directors and a vice president. When Jeff and I die, Kyle inherits the company.” Lady Patricia looked sideways at Beth. “Did I mention, darling, that he is extremely rich?”
Beth thought in silence for a moment. “I don’t care about his money, or his private life,” she said. “From the moment we met, he has been an insufferable enigma. We’re barely friends, Pat. He can be cold and abrasive and rude one minute, and the next encouraging and understanding. All I want from Kyle Swanson is to get me into that valley in Pakistan and then get me out again.”
Running the Maze s-5 Page 11
