Pirate ah-3

by Ted Bell

  Omanis clearly didn’t believe in renovation or gentrification. When a town got old, they simply packed up and left. En masse. The townspeople moved further into the mountains or the desert and built a new town.

  They passed through the portal into the withered garden. There was an old well just outside the restaurant and someone had left a noisy goat tied to it. Harry patted the dehydrated creature on the head as they walked past it up the path of crushed stone.

  “Four stars in the Zagat,” Brock said to Hawke, swatting at the buzzing flies and sidestepping dogshit. “Amazing wine cellar. They’ve apparently got a specialty dish the chef prepares, sautéed lightly in a sort of pine nut sauce, that is out of this world. Fresh goat, so they say. Isn’t that right, little fella?”

  “Is it always this bloody hot?” Hawke said, mounting the mercifully covered steps and ignoring both Brock and the goat. He was tired and thirsty. He hated dry heat and he felt as if he were being roasted alive in the sun. The white linen shirt he was wearing was plastered to his skin. He was tempted to have his meeting with Brock in the Toyota with the AC blasting. Would have, in fact, but he was hungry, too.

  “Oman is actually the hottest place on earth,” Brock said. “No lie. Pretty mild right now, though. At eight this morning it was 120 in the shade.”

  “But there is no shade.”

  “Bingo.”

  Harry followed Hawke through the open door. It was dark and cool inside, comparatively speaking. It was also empty, which was good. He was sure Brock had scoped the place out pretty well before suggesting it as a rendezvous. The two men mounted the narrow stairway and took an empty table by one of the open windows on the second floor. Brock ordered two cold beers. It was a local brew called Gulf and it was nonalcoholic. According to Harry it was liquid and it was cold and that was good enough.

  A timid, giggling girl in a black chador delivered the beer. There were only two employees, the girl waiting tables and an old man behind the bar. The man was more sensibly dressed in the manner of most of the male population. Loose white garments and a turban. Like most Omanis Hawke had seen since touching down at Seeb International, he was on his cell phone.

  The fact that Brock seemed unconcerned about this meant the proprietor was probably already on Harry’s payroll. Boots on the ground, the CIA called it.

  Brock rocked his chair back on two legs and smiled at Hawke. “You look like shit,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  “Thanks,” Hawke replied, studying the flimsy mimeographed menu. He opened his bottle and took a swig of beer. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

  “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “Believed what?”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “What the bloody hell are you talking about, Brock?”

  Hawke didn’t bother to hide his irritation. He knew Brock would bring up the incident as soon as they met. He supposed he’d have to tell him about it sometime, but not now. His aching and bruised body had been jammed into a cramped cockpit all day and every bone in his body ached. If the sadist who designed the F-16 seat were ever allowed to design prison furniture for Camp X-Ray at Guantanamo, the hue and cry from the world media would be deafening.

  What Hawke did not need at the moment was an American with a sense of humor. But Brock wouldn’t let go.

  “Your little mishap on the Lincoln?”

  “You mean the incident,” Hawke said, and cut his angry eyes to the window.

  “Yeah.”

  “It could have been worse.”

  “How’s that?”

  Hawke said, “Old pilots say it’s better to die than to look bad, but it is possible to do both.”

  Brock thought about that a second, saw the hard cast of Hawke’s eyes, and decided to shut up.

  Neither man said anything else for a few minutes. They sat and sipped their pseudobeer in silence, both of them looking out the window. Hawke imagined Brock was probably having the same misgivings about this mission that he was. These things were all about team. This team had been thrown together without their knowledge or consent. They’d been asked, told, to conduct a critically important operation. Like most hostage rescue ops, it promised to be very dangerous. And they were going in blind. Neither man knew what to make of the other. Hawke knew why he’d been chosen. He was pretty good at this stuff.

  What he still didn’t know was why the hell Kelly had chosen Harry Brock.

  Hawke sipped his beer and stared morosely out the window, trying to adjust to his new environment. A bloody wasteland. A school bus went by, jouncing along the rocky road, a cloud of dust trailing behind it. There were curtains in all the windows and they were tightly drawn. So the little boys outside couldn’t see the little girls inside. Or vice-versa. He was sure someone could offer a good explanation for this bizarre custom, but to Hawke it just seemed unnatural and cruel.

  I am definitely the stranger in the strange land, he thought, suspiciously eyeing the goat tied to the well. He’d never eaten goat. He wasn’t about to start now. Goats were bad luck. There was a reason why when things in the military went to hell they called it a goat-fuck. The shy girl in the black chador returned for their order. Brock ordered lamb kebobs. He ordered the fish and rice. The nondescript CIA briefing book lay on the table unopened. Hawke didn’t have the energy to break the seal.

  “Somebody’s meeting us here in about twenty minutes,” Brock finally said. He opened the brief and started flipping through the pages.

  “Yeah? Who might that be?”

  “A friend of the family. Name’s Ahmed. Great guy. You’ll like him.”

  “A friend of whose family? Yours?”

  “The sultan’s.”

  “Two more boots on the ground.”

  “Bingo.”

  “That’s convenient,” Hawke said, trying to be pleasant, “Where’d you bump into him?”

  “Let’s just say we’ve done business before. He’s the one who found me the Enfield. Name’s Ahmed Badur. He is wired in this country, I gotta tell you.”

  “Is he the one who’s going to help us find the sultan and his family?”

  “Bingo,” Brock said.

  “If you say that word again, I’m going to kill you,” Hawke told him.

  At that moment, hot, exhausted, and miserable as he was, he almost meant it. Yeah, he’d cracked up a very expensive airplane. Until he was completely cleared of pilot error, there was going to be a little black cloud following him around. But it wasn’t his fault, goddamnit. And he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life taking heat for it. From anybody.

  Hawke added, “And guess what, Brock. Because you’re a NOC? I’m going to get away with it.”

  “Listen, pal, you might be a big effing whoop in jolly old England, but—”

  A loud ah-oogah sound from the street below broke the moment between the two of them. Hawke looked out of the window and was surprised to see a 1927 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost arriving in a billow of dust. On the louvered bonnet behind the famous “Flying Lady” atop the radiator was a small triangular pennant. Orange, white, and green, the national flag of the Kingdom of Oman.

  When the dust had finally settled, a nattily dressed man with slicked-back black hair, a full black mustache, and gold aviator sunglasses was revealed, sitting behind the wheel of the open car. He turned and grinned up at Hawke, who was looking at him through the window. He was wearing Western clothing, a white linen suit. He looked, Hawke thought, like a tango instructor.

  “I suppose that’s your friend,” Hawke said, watching the man climb out of the old Roller.

  “That’s him.”

  “Why is everyone in this bloody country named Ahmed?”

  “Not everyone. Only about 80 percent.”

  “Nice car.”

  “The sultan gave it to him. Prince Charles gave it to the sultan after he and Diana paid a state visit. They’re old buddies.”

  “I like your chap
’s low-key, understated approach to espionage,” Hawke said. “Exactly what’s required in a covert operation like this one.”

  “Look, Hawke. Everybody in Oman knows this guy. He was the sultan’s right-hand man for two decades, the go-to guy at the palace. He’s a living legend around here. What would be noticed is if he arrived on a camel or crept up to the back door in full desert camo.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Hawke said as the man entered the upstairs room and approached their table.

  “Sit down, Ahmed, and say hello to Alex Hawke,” said Brock.

  “A great pleasure,” Ahmed said, his wide smile revealing two gleaming rows of perfectly spaced white teeth. He bowed formally from the waist. “I have heard of you, Lord Hawke. The Prince of Wales speaks most—”

  Harry looked up. “Wait. Lord Hawke? Is that what he just called you?”

  “Drop it, Brock,” Hawke said, “I don’t use the title.”

  “Yeah, but still. I had no idea—”

  “Mr. Badur,” Alex said, ignoring Brock and motioning to the man in white to sit down. “Thanks for coming. I assume Mr. Brock has already told you why we’re here.”

  “He has indeed. Britain and America are old friends of Oman. And of Sultan Aji Abbas as well. You two men are here on a most important mission. Vital to our country.”

  Hawke looked at the man and decided that, appearances and conveyances to the contrary, he was a chap who might be trusted. Hawke said, “I am here as a private citizen, Ahmed. But Mr. Brock and I will do whatever it takes to resolve this crisis. Our first order of business is to rescue the sultan’s family.”

  “Yes. Please. This, we must do immediately.”

  “Who is holding them? Troops?”

  “Scum. French mercenaries. In the country illegally. They slipped ashore at night at Masara. A French submarine was spotted off that coast that morning. I have informants on the island who say they are all ex-Legionnaire washouts who do this kind of thing for a living.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Thirty-some-odd. But not under French command. A Chinese officer arrived here on a diplomatic mission two weeks ago. Along with his military aides-de-camp.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Yes. Major Tony Tang.”

  “Does this Major Tang stay in one place? Frequently, hostages are moved about.”

  “They have not been moved since they were placed under the protection of the French at the fortress. Don’t worry, your lordship. I know where they are at all times. I have a man in the kitchen, you see.”

  “Tell me about the location, please, Ahmed.”

  “It is a medieval fort on the island of Masara, sir. The fortress was originally built in the thirteenth century for strategic purposes. It guards the southern approach to the Strait of Hormuz. It is built into a bluff overlooking the sea. It is called Fort Mahoud and it is historic indeed. In late 1940 or so, Field Marshal Rommel himself chose it as his temporary headquarters while he was planning his relief of the Italians in North Africa.”

  “Rommel? I had no idea,” Hawke said. He had studied Rommel at war college and found the brilliant and complex man fascinating.

  “Yes. He made many modifications to the physical plant, naturally. Implemented much-needed reconstruction and modernization. In 1941, when the Desert Fox left to join his Afrika Korps in Libya, he left behind a great fortress indeed. And, a small Wehrmacht garrison as well. The Nazis remained there on the rock until the Allies finally drove them off near the end of the war.”

  “And exactly how did the Allies do that?” Hawke asked. “Drive them off.”

  “Bombed the living hell out of them, sir. From the air and sea.”

  “That works for me,” Brock said.

  “Bomb the living hell out of the sultan’s family?” Hawke asked Brock, his blue eyes unwavering.

  “It was the only way to do it, as you will both soon see,” Ahmed said.

  “Then what happened?” Hawke asked.

  “There was much damage, and after the war, the fort was pretty much forgotten. About twenty years ago, His Highness decided to turn the fortress into a national museum. A showcase for new generations to see the glories of Oman’s past. I am an architect by training. I was chosen by His Highness as the designer and curator. I have with me many sets of plans for the fort. Even those Rommel left behind. And my own plans for the museum I built. It has not changed much since I completed the work some twenty years ago.”

  Hawke was encouraged by this access to the plans. “Good. Could be a fairly simple snatch, then. Let’s find a fisherman willing to take us out there and go have a look.”

  “Have no false impressions, your lordship,” Ahmed said, rolling the plans out on the table. Brock put beer bottles at two corners to hold them down. “It will not be simple at all.”

  “Tell me why,” Hawke said, turning over an old exterior elevation of the fort, being careful not to tear it. “We just have to get the sultan and his wife out. And a few children.”

  “You have put your finger on the problem, sir.”

  “What problem?”

  “The sultan has more than one wife, sir.” “How many? Two? Three?” “Over twenty of them when last I counted, sir.”

  Hawke looked at Brock. “Twenty women?”

  Brock grinned, looking at Hawke. “Doesn’t sound like a simple snatch to me, your lordship,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Coney Island

  LIGHTNING SIZZLED ALL AROUND THE OLD AMUSEMENT park. Every second or two, the bizarre skyline of rocket towers and roller coasters was etched in stark relief against the dark sky. Congreve stood in the blinding rain, bathed in flashing blue lights, wiping the water from his eyes. The English detective looked through the binoculars for the umpteenth time, silently praying that one of these jagged bolts would strike the great whacking tower atop which the Chinaman now clung for dear life.

  Most noncivilians present were convinced that as soon as this driving rain and wind let up, the Chinaman would remove his weapon from the haversack on his back and start shooting. From his angle, at the very top of the Parachute Jump, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. He would be able to see almost straight down into the swinging car where Joe Bones cowered. Now, thank God, it was all the assassin could do just to hold on. Congreve knew how he felt. He, too, was holding on, but his frustration was mounting with every added second of uncertainty.

  Above his head, the rumble of thunder was preempted by the booming thump-thump-thump of the ATAC and NYPD helicopters hovering over the park. Most had their brilliant bluish white spotlights trained on the swinging car at the top of the Ferris wheel. A single black ATAC Sikorskey chopper under the ground command of Captain Mariucci was now hovering directly above the tower. The chopper trained its beam on the tiny man in white.

  Also aboard was a medical retrieval team. And an ATAC sniper who stood braced in the open bay. He had his sniper rifle zeroed on the Chinaman’s heart. His finger was on the trigger but he didn’t dare pull it. He had orders not to.

  He couldn’t fire because of the extraordinary political situation on the ground below him. Nor could his brethren in the circling NYPD helicopters. It wasn’t for lack of muzzles aimed in his direction that the man on the tower was still alive. There were plenty of guns trained on him. It was because an impasse had been reached in the raging turf battle between city, state, and federal law enforcement units. So, everyone just stood at the base of the tower and looked up at the Chinaman in the spotlight, clinging to the Parachute Drop.

  Except for Captain Mariucci, who was stomping around, splashing furiously in the puddles and demanding to know who the hell was in charge here. It was a good question.

  Amazingly enough, in Ambrose Congreve’s view, the sharpshooters on both sides of the law enforcement equation had been ordered to hold their fire. This was the crux of the argument. The man on the tower was trespassing, correct. He was a suspect in a homicide th
at had just occurred in Queens, yes. He was armed, yes, maybe, but you couldn’t prove it. Who knew why he was up there? And he hadn’t threatened or shot at anyone. Who knew?

  An NYPD commander had just told Mariucci that, for all he knew at the moment, the guy had permits to carry a concealed weapon from the freaking FBI. At this point, who knew? Maybe it wasn’t even a gun in that case on his back! Maybe it was an umbrella! Or a nine iron!

  “What? What did you just say?” Mariucci screamed. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Congreve, his face contorted with disbelieving rage. “You won’t believe what this lunatic just said to me.”

  “What did he say?” Congreve asked.

  “He said, and I quote, ‘Suppose we shoot this guy and when we scrape him up off the sidewalk we find out he’s some wacko Chinese rock climber on holiday who’s just getting in a little practice,’ close quote.”

  Who knew, indeed?

  Congreve and Mariucci, at least, were equally convinced of one thing. This was the Chinaman who had only hours ago stood over Benny Sangster and ingested his heart while the old mobster slowly bled out on his bed. Motive? It could only be that certain members of the French government had heard somebody was poking around inside a thirty-year-old murder case. So they sent a Chinese assassin to rub out the only two remaining eyewitnesses save the murderer himself.

  That, at least, was the case the captain was making to the powers that be at One Police Plaza at this very moment. That, and the indisputable fact that it was an urgent matter of national security.

  But Mariucci couldn’t prove any of it standing down here on the ground in the pouring rain.

  More red and blue lights flashed across Congreve’s face as Ladder Company 103 arrived on the scene. The massive hook and ladder fire engine came rolling to a stop on the midway, just at the base of the Ferris wheel. Immediately, firemen leaped off the truck and converged on the controls at the rear. There was a huge extension ladder mounted on a turntable. The fireman operating the ladder began raising it.