“I need a favor.”
Northeastern U.S. Air Space, 1130 (GMT)
After speaking briefly with the harried-looking flight attendant, the swarthy, black-haired man took a seat next to a woman in her fifties who could barely wedge herself into the passenger jet’s narrow seat. He hated coach class. With packing his few belongings, cleaning out his apartment, and filling out inane administrative forms, he hadn’t slept in nearly two days. He sank into the seat and closed his eyes, but couldn’t block out the piercing brightness of the sun rising over the Capitol dome. He waved his finger at his seatmate in a motion that suggested she slide the window curtain down. She ignored him.
Ten minutes into the flight, he was still trying to settle in and get comfortable, but in his rush to be seated he had neglected to remove his jacket. It was an annoying blunder for someone so fastidious in his dress. He hated wrinkles. Fidgeting, he pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose, moving his head from side to side in continued disbelief at his bad fortune.
“Ouagadougou,” he sighed, more loudly than he had intended. “Ouagadougou.”
In his peripheral vision he saw his seatmate’s thick neck snap her oversized head toward him and realized that she had heard the words meant only for himself. The concern in her face made it evident that she wasn’t curious. No, she was afraid. He had seen it all too often before. His mere appearance was enough to strike fear into Westerners. Before the divorce, his first wife had taken to sneering at his dark skin and well-groomed goatee. That he was of Persian and not Arab heritage didn’t matter to his seatmate—or to his wife, for that matter. He suspected the gray-haired woman next to him would have just as easily confused a turbaned Indian Sikh for a Saudi Islamic fundamentalist. Damien Golzari sighed and stood to remove his jacket, forgetting for one crucial moment the shoulder holster he was wearing beneath it.
At the sight of his holstered gun, the woman screamed and began trying to get away from him, an impossible endeavor as she was in the window seat and had nowhere to go. “He has a gun! He was saying something in Arabic!” she shrieked. “Someone stop him!”
His jacket was halfway off and his arms were still in the sleeves when he was tackled from behind by one man and then another. Damn it, not again, he thought. The right side of his face met the carpet of the airplane’s aisle, grating a layer of skin off his right temple. The first assailant jerked Golzari’s forearm behind his back as the second tackled his torso. The first man quickly handcuffed him and confiscated Golzari’s nickel-plated gun, in the process tearing the armpit of his British-tailored suit. Golzari made no effort to resist. He had been through this before, as both recipient and contributor.
The speed and expertise with which Golzari’s assailants took him down indicated law enforcement training, confirmed when the second assailant gruffly said, “TSA.” Golzari sighed and accepted his fate at the hands of the Transportation Security Administration air marshals, hoping the unpleasantness would end soon.
His nose was firmly planted in the cheap, foul-smelling carpet, unable to escape the reeking filth left by thousands of shoes. But that carpet now constituted his entire field of vision. He could only mumble, “Ooo-waa-doo-waa. Ooo-waa-doo-waa!”
The younger of the two air marshals grabbed a handful of Golzari’s thick jet-black hair, lifting his jaw off the carpet so they could understand him. “What are you saying?”
“Ouagadougou. It’s a city in Africa. In Burkina Faso to be exact. Bloody hellhole. Probably the poorest country in the world. Nothing in it. Nothing near it. I’m condemned to go there on my next assignment. And it’s not an Arabic word,” he added, punctuating his dry sarcasm with a polite nod toward his seatmate. She sniffed and patted her hair back into place.
“I’m Special Agent Damien Golzari, U.S. Diplomatic Security. I have my badge. You can take it from my pocket if you like, or you can uncuff me and we can have a more civilized exchange.” The older air marshal took out the badge and checked the credentials, then released Golzari and advised the flight crew standing around them that there was no emergency.
“Apparently the other flight attendant didn’t give you and the crew notice that I am aboard.” Golzari looked down the aisle past the still-frightened passengers at the flight attendant with whom he had spoken when he got on the plane.
“Sir, I am so sorry,” she said quickly. “We were running late, and I just . . .” she raised her palms helplessly. She was in her thirties and wore a wedding band.
Probably has a couple of kids at home, Golzari thought, and is just trying to do her job. Air travel had become an increasingly crowded and rude environment. “It’s not a problem, madam,” he said politely. “It happens to me all the time. But perhaps you’d be kind enough to find me another seat? I don’t think I’m welcome here anymore.”
Relieved by his understanding, the flight attendant motioned him forward to First Class.
Golzari looked back at his now former seatmate, widened his eyes, and quietly whispered: “Boo.”
DAY 2
Ullapool, Scotland, 1820 (GMT)
Connor Stark wiped the cold rain from his face and leaned over the wheel of his Boston Whaler—a 345 Conquest—straining to see if there was any traffic astern of the large Caledonian MacBrayne ferry off his port bow. One of the ferry’s crew recognized Stark and gave him a friendly wave. Stark waved in return, then cut the engine’s revolutions to slow his boat until he had a better sense of what lay ahead in the harbor. After a year of working these waters, shuttling back and forth between Ullapool and the training facility, he knew every local craft and most of their owners. He knew their schedules and how they operated their boats. It was the occasional visitor unfamiliar with the local traffic scheme that he had to watch out for.
The rain slowed as he approached the boat slips. To the northeast he could see An Teallach, the mountain’s Torridonian sandstone dimmed to brownish gray in the late-afternoon light. A break in the clouds covering the mountaintop exposed the sun, still a couple of hours from setting, and rays of light streamed onto the white stone buildings along the quay. To the west were tall pines, vestiges of the once-extensive Caledonian forest. To the east, the machair plains, filled with yellow rattle and orchids, glowed in the evening sun which momentarily broke through the clouds. The harbor itself was a small inlet on Loch Broom. At dusk on calmer days the whole loch reflected the surrounding hills. Even on rainy days like this, Stark knew of few places as idyllic.
Ullapool, a simple town of fifteen hundred residents, was off the beaten track except for a few tourists passing through on their way somewhere else and the passengers and supplies going out to the Hebrides Islands and Stornoway. The town’s few shops didn’t exactly flourish, but they managed to get by on steady business; none were open late except the pubs.
Stark pulled into his slip near the fishing boats, tied up, and exchanged pleasantries with the other owners, who were talking about the only news of the day—the arrival of a Ministry of Defence helicopter from the small base at Kyle of Lochalsh. The rain finally stopped as he made his way to the Friar John Cor pub to greet Maggie and enjoy his usual drink.
Stark followed a fellow townsman through the front door. Some of the regulars playing darts or watching the Glasgow Warriors on the overhead television paused long enough to nod his way while he removed his pea coat and placed it on an empty stool. He heard the sound of the fryer sputtering hot oil as the kitchen door swung open.
“Alright, Connor?” said a sweet voice with a Scottish lilt.
He smiled. “Same, Maggie,” he said to the red-haired bartender and owner of the pub.
“Sure you don’t want a pint of something else, instead?” she said as she slid the dram of single malt across the bar. Before letting go, she hesitated, raised one eyebrow, and looked past Connor. “You have visitors,” she said softly.
Stark sipped his scotch and looked at the mirror behind the bar, immediately spotting the two uniformed men seated at a table near the wall. Bot
h rose from their seats and approached. One was a U.S. Navy lieutenant commander in khakis and a black Eisenhower jacket. The other . . . the other took longer to figure out, as Stark hadn’t seen the uniform before. Possibly enlisted. Instead of crackerjacks or working blues, he wore a khaki shirt and black pants reminiscent of the early-twentieth-century Black Shirts or Brown Shirts of Mussolini or Hitler. Apparently, the Navy bureaucracy had yet again managed to modify naval uniforms without looking at the history books. He stroked his heavy beard, then took the time to retie his long ponytail.
“Are you Commander John Connor Stark?”
Connor winked at Maggie, picked up his whiskey, and turned to face the two visitors.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Billings from RAF Mildenhall,” said the officer in the black jacket before Stark could reply. Billings handed him a photograph, a full-length portrait of a young lieutenant commander in khakis. The man in the photo had close-cropped, rust-colored hair and a smooth, youthful face. Stark’s hair had long since turned darker and was now flecked with gray, and his face was weather-beaten from years at sea. The officer in the picture stood rigidly for a promotion-board photo—a promotion that never came. But that officer was long gone.
“It’s Connor, not ‘commander.’ And I was a lieutenant commander, like you. But that was a hell of a long—” He wasn’t allowed to finish.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it is ‘commander.’ We’re here to take you back with us,” Billings said quietly.
“Back? Back where?”
“Sir, you’ve been recalled to active duty effective immediately with the rank of full commander. Can we discuss this elsewhere?”
Stark was baffled by this unexpected turn of events. A promotion would have required a Navy board and confirmation by the U.S. Senate, neither of which had happened so far as he was aware. He laughed. “You’re kidding me, right? Maggie, another one, would you?” Stark set his now-empty glass firmly on the bar. “We have nothing to discuss, gentlemen.”
Stark’s rising voice stilled the noise of the bar’s other patrons. The two dart players interrupted their game. The only voice that remained was the television announcer’s play-by-play of the rugby match.
“Connor, you should want the boys to get rid of these gentlemen?” Maggie asked softly, though loudly enough for the visitors to hear.
“No, Maggie. I’ll handle this,” he said without facing her. Then he looked around the bar. “I’ll pick up anyone’s tab who wants to call it a night,” he said to the locals, nearly all of whom had become his friends since he arrived in Ullapool and discovered this pub.
One by one, the patrons rose and left. A couple put a reassuring hand on Stark’s shoulder as they passed. A few tourists unsure of what was happening quickly downed their drinks and decided to go to another pub.
“Sir, you need to come with us,” Billings said when only the four of them remained.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay here, Lieutenant Commander Billings. Have you seen this town? Pretty, isn’t it? Good drinks and good people too,” he said as he looked around the bar. “It’s quiet, and it’s my home now.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not an option. You will come with us.”
“Look, I’ve done my duty—although some of the Navy JAG folks might disagree with that—and my departure from the Navy wasn’t exactly on the best of terms. Someone in BUPERS must have royally screwed up their database to cut orders for me. I suggest you go back and tell them that.”
“There’s been no mistake, sir. I can’t tell you who or why, because I just don’t know, sir. All I know is that I’ve never seen orders issued this fast. They were requested, issued, and delivered within the past six hours. The direction came from the secretary of defense himself.”
Stark frowned in surprise. Had a new secretary decided to rescind the decision of his court-martial and return him to account for his previous actions? “What if I don’t return with you?”
“We begin extradition proceedings and you will face incarceration upon returning to the United States.”
Stark paused, rethinking Maggie’s suggestion and regretting his decision to clear out the pub. “Lieutenant Commander Billings,” Stark said, downing his second scotch, “I’m not leaving here unless there’s one hell of a good reason.”
“Commander Stark, I was told that you are needed for an assignment for which you are uniquely qualified.”
Stark laughed. “The hell I am. Give me those orders.” He took them and squinted in the pub’s fading light, struggling to read the small type. “Yemen?” He turned to face the bar. “Maggie, I may need another.”
With a wry look, she set the bottle of Talisker by his glass. For now, at least, he was on his own.
The lieutenant commander looked at his companion and then back at Stark. “We don’t have much time,” he said to Stark, “but we’ll be here until first light. We’ll expect to see you at the helicopter then.”
Stark nodded. “I’ll be there with an answer. That’s all I can promise. If it’s not what you want to hear, get the handcuffs ready.”
“Do I have your word that you won’t try to leave this town until then, sir?”
“When Connor Stark gives his word, he keeps it,” Maggie said sharply. “Either take a seat and eat something or leave. We don’t make money here just talking.”
Outside the bar, darkness was setting in early with the rain. The lights from the few streetlights reflected eerily off the misty fog that had settled over the harbor and the town.
“You’re not taking those two men seriously, are you, Connor?” Maggie asked long after the two Navy men had eaten and departed for their hotel.
“They have official orders. I could go to prison if I don’t.”
“But you left that life. It almost killed you. Why go back?” Maggie said plaintively as she turned the key to the final lock on the pub door. The Friar John Cor was always the last pub to close in Ullapool. She turned to face him, her red hair already beginning to sparkle with droplets of the mist.
“I did my job there. I don’t want to go back. But . . .”
“No ‘but,’ Connor,” she interrupted. “I’m not letting you go.” She walked a few paces and then turned when he didn’t follow. “Are you coming?”
“I need to get something from the boat. It shouldn’t take long. Wait here for a few minutes, OK?”
“I’ll meet you at home,” she answered.
“I’d feel better if you at least carried mace.”
“In Ullapool?” she laughed in disbelief.
“You’re right. I should be more worried about the other guy.” He’d seen her drop drunken sailors at the pub who were twice her size—usually foreign sailors because all the Ullapool men knew better than to mess with Maggie.
“Go on and get what you need from the boat. We’ll talk later.” Maggie turned and walked away in her determined Maggie walk. Her boots hit the ground hard with every confident stride, her bottom swayed in tight jeans, and her long red ponytail swung from side to side. She turned back only once to give him a quick smile. She always seemed to know when he had lingered to look at her. The sound of her self-assured footsteps faded around the corner; they were the only sounds in the still of early-morning Ullapool.
He pivoted and headed toward the piers.
His boat was near the end of the wooden B Dock. Stark paused to peer out over the darkness that was Loch Broom before carefully climbing on board. Nearly twenty years had passed since a terrorist attack in Italy had given him his first brush with death, but he still hesitated to put his full weight on his bad knee.
He unlocked the fore cabin and stepped down, electing not to turn on the light because he already knew where to find what he wanted. He pushed aside a stack of books and removed the thick envelope from the small storage compartment; he passed his hand over the sealed envelope and then placed it in his jacket.
The unmistakable pattern of a car’s headlights dimly appeared in the starboa
rd window, passing from fore to aft. Stark frowned. It was still too early for the fisherman to arrive on the pier and ready their boats. From the direction of the concrete pier, he heard three car doors open; none shut as an engine idled. Deciding it was no concern of his, Stark left the fore cabin and was about to lock it when three men stepped from the pier twenty yards away onto the wooden dock. The idling car’s headlights were still on behind them, and he could see only their silhouettes—tall and thin. Another few yards closer and he could tell that they were not Caucasian or Asian. And all held something at their sides—arm-length rods that appeared to be of metal. His heart beat faster as they continued to approach. Only two could walk abreast on the four-foot-wide dock. The third man was behind them.
“Can I help you?” he asked, testing them as well as to buy time. They were fifteen yards away now, and he could distinguish their features. They appeared to be East African. They did not answer him and continued to advance. They had almost reached the boat now, and he had nowhere to run.
Stark grabbed an orange life vest and passed his left arm through its straps, holding it like a shield. He took a long knife from the tackle box with his right hand. The first two men raised their rods like clubs. Standing near the wheel, Stark used his left elbow to press the button for the boat’s horn. A loud squeal broke the silence of the night, temporarily distracting his attackers. He leapt up on the boat’s starboard built-in external locker and steadied himself. The boat’s freeboard was a foot above the dock at high tide; he would have the height advantage that Sun-tzu had advised twenty-five hundred years before.
The first two charged him. One clumsily swung what was now clearly a tire iron. Stark blocked it with the thick life vest and brought the knife up into the East African’s chest. The man gasped and slipped backward off the dock, which was still wet from the earlier rain, as Stark extracted the knife and pivoted to face his next attacker. The man was clearly caught off guard by his partner’s failure and the splash his body made as it fell into the water.
The Aden Effect Page 2
