[SSI 02] Prometheus's Child

by Harold

* * * *

  54

  MISRATAH, LIBYA

  Deladier had shaved and showered, changing into slacks and a polo shirt with blazer. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said with a grin.

  Hurtubise waved nonchalantly from the bed. He had a notepad and two pencils, obviously absorbed in another planning session. “I’ll leave the light on, in case you’re back before dawn.”

  The younger man ran a hand through his thick, dark brown hair and made a point of checking his wallet. He had turned one quarter of his paycheck into cash: more than enough for an extended stay in the city. “Oh, I’ll be back. After all, how long does it take to lay two sisters?”

  Marcel conjured up a male-bonding smile. “Kiss them for me.”

  “Of course! Twice each.” Deladier turned to go.

  “Paul.”

  “Yes?”

  “What are their names?”

  Deladier felt an ephemeral spike of fright. He recovered quickly: “Ah, Francesca and . . . Elena. Why?”

  Hurtubise picked up his pad again. “I just like to know who’s getting my stand-in kisses, that’s all.” He grinned again. “Have fun.”

  “Always, my friend. Always.”

  Forty-five seconds after the door closed, Hurtubise picked up the phone and dialed another room number. The occupant answered on the second ring. “Alfonso? Yes, he just left. Have our friends tail him from the lobby until he returns.”

  * * * *

  55

  SSI OFFICES

  “What do we want to call this mission?” Wilmont asked the SSI brain trust.

  Derringer drummed his fingers in the rudimental patterns of his youth. Lieutenant General Thomas Varlowe, sitting in as an ex-officio, scrawled “USMA ‘66” on his notepad.

  Omar Mohammed said, “Why not Prometheus?”

  Derringer considered himself well read, but ancient mythology was not high on his list. “Well, I suppose so . . .”

  “Consider this,” Mohammed said. “Prometheus was no fool, but he attempted the impossible. He tried to deceive Zeus, who knows all and sees all, by staging a false sacrifice. Then Prometheus stole fire from Zeus and gave it to mortals on earth. Therefore, Zeus did not merely punish Prometheus: he punished the entire world for the offense that Prometheus committed.”

  “Well, the comparisons are pretty obvious, considering the Iranian situation. All right, it’s the Prometheus Project.”

  George Ferraro had been awaiting the chance to discuss finances. It’s always like this, he mused. The company’s involved in serious business, but most of the directors feel queasy about talking money. He cleared his throat. “Ah, gentlemen, if I may . . .”

  Derringer nodded. “Yes, of course, George.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” He turned his head, looking at each person in the room. “You know, as chief financial officer it’s my responsibility to look after SSI’s cash flow. I realize that we’re all concerned with the national security implications of this . . . Prometheus . . . project, but since things happened in Chad we’re looking at serious cost escalation. I mean, something approaching an order of magnitude.”

  Wilmont, as chief operating officer, appreciated Ferraro’s background as a leading bean counter with Naval Systems Command. “George, I don’t think anybody here disagrees with you. Certainly I do not. But you must realize that there’s just no time for the usual contractual process.” He grinned at the standing joke: “The U.S. Government buys slow-drying ink that doesn’t blot for 180 days.”

  “Yeah, I understand that, Marsh. All I’m saying is that we’ve been focused on getting the job done, and really all we have from State and DoD is barely a handshake commitment to reimburse us for our upfront costs. That doesn’t even begin to address the standard fees for personnel, equipment, and routine things like consultation.”

  Derringer leaned forward, fixing the younger man with his gaze. “George, please don’t take this the wrong way. I realize that you’re doing your job, and you’ve always been conscientious about it. But when I started this firm, it was not with the sole intention of making money. I saw things that needed doing because various agencies of our government were not doing them. That’s what SSI is all about. If we have to dip into our reserves to meet expenses for a while, I’m prepared to do that.”

  Ferraro bit down the frustration he felt rising inside him. I’ve got the heart of a sailor and the soul of a banker, he told himself. “Admiral, as you say, I’m just doing my job on behalf of the firm. Our reserves are adequate at present—not ample, but adequate. I can juggle some accounts for a while, but unless we get a major transfusion in the next couple of months, we’re going to be looking at red ink in seven digits. I mean, ships cost a hell of a lot of money, even when you lease them!”

  Wilmont sought to placate the senior VP. “Mike and I had a face-to-face with O’Connor at State. He anticipated our concern and said flat out that we’ll have everything we need, some of it gratis. His operating group is starting a set of books to show any auditors that whatever goodies we get from the Navy or elsewhere were already written off as surplus.” He tapped the tabletop. “Believe me, George, we’re covered.”

  Ferraro grinned sardonically. “Trust me: I’m from the government and I’m here to help.”

  “Well, there you go,” Derringer interjected. “The government is by far our largest client. It’s always come through before, but also consider this: Uncle Sugar keeps coming back to SSI because we deliver. If we declined an important contract because some of our accounts receivable were slow, we’d be out of business before long.”

  The CFO ceded the argument by raising his hands, palms up. “All right, gentlemen. I understand, that’s the nature of the PMC business. I’d just like somebody to explain why I always seem to read about all these contractors being extravagantly overpaid, but it’s never Strategic Solutions.”

  * * * *

  56

  MISRATAH, LIBYA

  Marcel Hurtubise strode along the Qasr Ahmad waterfront, seeking a particular vessel. He glanced seaward, noting the Yugoslavian-built breakwater, and took in the maritime air. It might have been restful had he been interested in resting. But he was on business. Sometimes he wondered if he knew how to rest anymore.

  He found what he was looking for. With no indication to the contrary, he strode up the gangway and asked for the captain. The seaman— a Turk by the look of him—nodded brusquely and disappeared through a hatch. Moments later it opened again.

  “Welcome aboard,” the captain said in accented French. “I have been waiting for you.” He shook Hurtubise by the hand with more vigor than custom allowed, grinning widely at the passenger. He damn well should smile, Hurtubise thought.With what he’s being paid.

  “Merci, mon capitaine,” the mercenary replied. He studied the skipper of M/V Tarabulus Pride, reserving judgment for the moment. Hurtubise saw a short, swarthy Libyan of indeterminate age with a face featuring a prominent nose, weathered skin, and yellowed teeth.

  In turn, Captain Abu Zikri saw a reserved, fortyish Frenchman who spoke passable Arabic but whose eyes seldom stopped moving. The grip was firm, brisk, and devoid of warmth. In a word, businesslike.

  “Would you like to settle in right away?” Zikri asked.

  “No, I’ll just look around. My men and I will stay ashore for another day or so. But we will be here every day to make . . . arrangements.”

  “Très bien,” the skipper replied. “Meanwhile, permit me to show you my pride and joy.”

  Zikri motioned expansively as he walked, literally taking Hurtubise from stem to stern. “She’s not as pretty as she once was,” the Arab began, “but she’s fully serviceable. Oh, I admit, she could use some paint, but most women do, too, don’t you think?”

  Hurtubise made a noncommittal response, preferring to evaluate the ship’s layout. He began visualizing how he would board the vessel in order to capture her, then worked backward to arrive at a defense.

  Zikri seemed not to notice.
Striding the deck, he became expansive. “Eighty-eight meters long, thirteen meters beam. She draws six and a half meters at thirty-one hundred tons. The engines are recently overhauled, and we can make twelve knots if we have to . . .”

  “How many in the crew?”

  “Ah, eighteen good seamen, tried and true. Mostly Arabic, a couple of Greeks. Their papers are all in order, I assure you. But depending on the length of our voyage, I may need as many as twenty-five. You know, rough weather, long watches. That sort of thing.”

  “Of course,” Hurtubise replied. And the more money for you, my Arab friend, as if the crew will see much of it.

  Marcel Hurtubise never had much interest in things nautical, but he knew what to look for. Though much of the vessel was unkempt, he was pleased to see that the engineering spaces were clean. It spoke well of Captain Zikri’s priorities. The Frenchman nodded to himself, a gesture that his host noticed. “You approve,Monsieur Hurtubise?”

  “Oui, mon capitaine. J’approuve.”

  The seaman beamed. Thus encouraged, he said, “Perhaps you would like to take some refreshment in my cabin. Some tea or . . . something else.” He winked broadly.

  So, my Arab friend, you are not among the devout. Hurtubise filed that information for future reference. “Thank you, no. I must meet some associates. But I will return tomorrow. I hope the loading can proceed on schedule.”

  “Naturellement, monsieur. Naturellement.”

  * * * *

  57

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  Frank Leopole entered the Rock Fish Bistro on Wilson Boulevard, scanned the crowd. He was late, which was unusual.

  Martha Whitney had been early which also was unusual.

  Sandy Carmichael and Colonel David Main were into their first round of margaritas while Whitney worked on her second green tea. “No more alcohol for me, sugar,” she declared. “I had enough in Chad to last me for years.” She did not bother to elaborate upon her conspicuous consumption with Gabrielle Tixier. Carmichael and Main looked at each other across their salt-rimmed glasses—the West Point classmates knew Whitney as a conventional Baptist who tolerated demon rum but seldom indulged in it.

  “There’s Frank,” Carmichael exclaimed. She waved, caught his attention, and made room for him at the table.

  “Anybody else coming?” Leopole asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Whitney replied. “We done been here for ever so long.” She winked at him.

  “Yeah, sorry I’m late. I had to wait for the latest from Dave Dare.”

  Main, who provided DoD liaison for the firm, showed his interest. “You know, I keep hearing about this Dare guy. But apparently nobody ever sees him.”

  “He da Phantom. Ain’t nobody never see’d him ‘less it be da admiral.”

  Carmichael almost spilled her margarita. “Honestly, Martha, sometimes I wonder what your normal speaking voice is like.”

  Another broad wink. “Keeps ‘em guessing, honey.”

  Main pressed the subject. “Well, is it true? Only Admiral Derringer knows Dare?”

  This time Carmichael locked eyes with Leopole. Dare’s face and true identity were a corporate secret. “Oh, I’m sure somebody besides the admiral has seen him face-to-face. He has some researchers who follow his leads, but really there’s no need for the rest of us to deal with him directly.” She wrinkled her nose at Leopole, who ignored the hint. They had both spoken with David Dare in person, twice each. Carmichael even knew his actual given name.

  “Well then, how do you know how much credibility to give his information?”

  “Results,” Leopole said. “I’ve never known him to be wrong on a major point. If he’s uncertain about something important, usually he’ll just tell you he doesn’t know.”

  Carmichael leaned across the table toward Leopole. “Did he come up with anything yet?”

  The former Marine shook his head. “Nothing definite. He’s working on the shipping angle but said it’ll be a little while. Actually, I think he probably has a lead or two but doesn’t want to tell us anything until he’s sure.”

  Sandy leaned back, brushing her shoulder against Main’s. Since he was not in uniform, he could drop the military decorum. Though touching Main’s hand, she regarded Leopole for a moment. She felt no special attraction to him, nor would she permit an office romance, but she wished he would let her introduce him to one or two of her girlfriends. Not a bad-looking guy, even with the scar on his neck. As far as she knew, he had never married.

  Whitney broke the silence. “So, Frank. How’re things doing in . . . Africa?” She raised an eyebrow.

  Leopole looked around. The dining area was crowded and suitably noisy. He felt free to speak in a conversational tone. “Since you left Chad, Steve’s team is wrapping up the training contract. Terry Keegan traveled to Germany with Eddie Marsh. The admiral got Marsh admitted to Ramstein, by the way. Since he’s ex-Army, there wasn’t much problem. Terry said he’s still bedridden but he should recover his health. Whether he ever flies again . . .”

  “Is Terry coming home, then?”

  Leopold shook his head. “No, he went back to Cairo. He’s putting together a jet freighter and crew in case we have to fly one of our teams someplace on short notice.”

  “That makes sense,” Whitney replied. “So what about the yellow cake operation?”

  “It’s now under government and U.N. supervision, for whatever that’s worth. The French PMC was ordered out of the country, but I don’t know if there’s going to be any prosecution. Steve says three or four embassies are involved, and basically everybody wants it to go away so it probably will.”

  Whitney was building a head of steam. She set down her tea harder than intended, spilling some on the tablecloth. “But damn it, Frank! They shot down a helo.” Her voice hiked two octaves. “They killed a couple of Chadian soldiers and nearly killed that Marsh boy.”

  Leopole made a quick motion of his fingers to his lips. “Martha, it’s pretty clear that only one or two of the French security people were directly involved, and the one who fired the missile was killed. The main thing is, the leader and a couple of his aides got away. That’s our priority. That and the cake.”

  Martha Whitney brushed the liquid off the cloth. “Well, honey, all I can say is, if it was up to me, that Marcel bastard would be my priority.”

  * * * *

  58

  MISRATAH, LIBYA

  Hurtubise walked up to Deladier, who was unloading a box of documents that the end users would require. “Paul?”

  Deladier turned at the sound of his name. As he swiveled his head, he heard a loud crack. A searing pain stabbed the back of his left knee. He sagged to the floor, reaching inside his jacket.

  Before Deladier could pull his own Makarov, Hurtubise fired again. Once, twice. One round went slightly wide, grazing the right forearm. The other broke the radius. Deladier registered the fact that Marcel wielded the pistol with easy familiarity, shooting one-handed.

  Deladier looked into the muzzle. He visualized the chamber containing 95 grains of copper-plated extinction.

  “Pourquoi?” Hurtubise asked.

  “You know why. Just end it.”

  The muzzle lowered several centimeters and the next round punched through Deladier’s left sleeve. The pain forced a short, sharp bark from him.

  Hurtubise regarded his colleague through dull, heavy-lidded eyes. “I have eight rounds left. How many shall I use, Paul?”

  Deladier’s mind raced, treading the precipice between outrage and resignation. He was aware that his breathing had quickened; his throat was raspy dry. He thought of the afternoon in the desert where the rival PMC men were dispatched. Gabrielle had related the incident in clinical detail. Marcel had said, “Some men choose to die on their feet, but most will lick your boots for five more minutes of life.”

  The next round went into the floor, a hand’s width from Deladier’s crotch. “Well?” Hurtubise used both hands now, obviously concerned with
accuracy. “It wasn’t just money, was it?”

  Deladier shook his head. “Gabby.”

  “I thought so.” Hurtubise was eerily calm. Had he not resigned himself to dying this hour, Deladier realized that he would feel bone-deep fear. But Marcel Hurtubise had time to give Paul Deladier. Man as god.

  “When did you first screw her?”

  “I never did. Never.”

  “I don’t believe you, Paul.”

  “Screw you, Marcel:”

  “Then why did you betray me?” Hurtubise’s voice raised an octave, atypically agitated.