“Derrick Storm.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Jedediah Jones asked. His voice had its usual tone: calm but insistent.
“Not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”
“Well, let’s start with Jared Stack. How did you know about him?”
“Jared Stack?”
“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you. Rodriguez tried to cover for you, but I listened to a recording of the call. You’re not going to weasel out of this one.”
“Hmm,” is all Storm said for a moment as he tried to formulate a lie. The last thing he wanted was for Jones to know about Ahmed. Storm doubted very seriously that Ahmed knew precisely where the promethium was coming from. He also doubted the man was harboring any additional product—he would have sold whatever he could to Ingrid Karlsson just as soon as he laid his hands on it. Still, there was the general rule of doling out information to Jones: the less, the better.
“Ah, yes, Jared Stack. Sorry, my mind blanked for a second,” Storm said. “The contact you hooked me up with in Panama, Villante? He picked up some chatter that Jared Stack might be in trouble and he passed it on, knowing my interest in the case. You may be aware Stack had taken Erik Vaughn’s place as the biggest legislative impediment to the funding of the Panama Canal expansion.”
“I see,” Jones said. “Well, moving on, Strike said the two of you were forced to split up and she lost contact with you. Have you made any progress on recovering the promethium that was stolen from the desert?”
Storm smiled. Clara hadn’t ratted Storm out, after all. She was probably still pissed at him. But that wasn’t exactly a first, nor would it be a last. At least she had covered for him with Jones. Or perhaps she was only covering for herself. Either way, it helped.
“No, sir, I’m sorry. I tried, but I failed. I have no idea where it is.”
He could have easily passed a polygraph test on the last part—inasmuch as he was unsure which sections of the river bottom over which the promethium would eventually spread itself once it was done floating on the current.
“Well, to a certain extent it doesn’t matter anymore,” Jones said. “Strike came through for us, big time. She told us about how the promethium was coming from the desert. One of our techs was able to apply a beta version of a rasterized video search algorithm to our archived satellite footage. The computer was able to crunch the data and find one of the previous trucks that had made the shipment. Our tech was able to latch on to that truck and trace it all the way from its source to its destination. It was a helluva piece of work on his part, let me tell you. Really impressive stuff.”
Storm knew from the way Jones was talking that everything being said was fiction. Jones was selling the story too hard, throwing in details that he ordinarily would have skipped, sounding more like a cheerleader than the hardened operative he was.
The fact is, for as good as his satellites were, they did not record every inch of the entire world at all times. The cameras had to be told where to look, and unless they had been focused on the archaeological dig site at the aforementioned times, there would be no archival record created.
“Anyhow,” Jones continued. “We followed that truck’s payload all the way to, of all places, the Warrior Princess. It turns out this was all being done by Ingrid Karlsson. We’re not sure what exactly is in that woman’s head or what she thought she was going to accomplish. But Agent Bryan went through our dossier of plane-crash victims and he was able to confirm there was any number of people who had made themselves inconvenient to Ms. Karlsson. I’m sure this all comes as quite a surprise to you.”
Jones had dangled the last sentence out there as a bizarre kind of peace offering. Both men knew the other was lying. It was Jones’s way of saying, I know this is garbage. But let’s just bury it and move on. And maybe a younger Derrick Storm—the one who had not yet been scalded by Jones’s “killing” of Clara Strike and then letting Storm believe she was actually dead—would have accepted the olive branch with a halfhearted, “Oh, yes, I’m stunned.”
But not this Derrick Storm.
“You knew about Brigitte Bildt, didn’t you,” Storm said, evenly, in a way that was not to be confused with a question. “She told you why she was coming to America. The moment she was shot down, you knew Ingrid Karlsson was behind it. The reason you didn’t tell me or anyone else immediately was because you didn’t care as much about stopping her as you did about recovering the promethium, because you knew it would earn you a big pile of favors from the Joint Chiefs and an even bigger budget to boot.”
“Hmm,” Jones said, followed by his own pause. Eventually, he seemed to reach the conclusion that there was no point in trying to concoct a cover. “Well, look, you can tell yourself whatever bedtime stories you want to, Storm. It’s all above your pay grade anyway. I was just calling to tell you your involvement in this matter is now over. Your orders are to stand down. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“So that plane ticket you just bought to Morocco, the one the techs just alerted me about, you’re not going to use that, are you?”
Storm paused. “Actually, I probably will. I’ve got an old buddy in Tangier I’ve been wanting to see. We promised each other we’d have a good two- or three-day drunk a while back. This feels like the perfect time to celebrate the end of a successful mission. You have a problem with that?”
“No, I suppose not,” Jones said. “Enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks,” Storm said. “We’ll be sure to hoist one in your honor.”
STORM ENDED THE CALL and was about to get going again when he saw a new e-mail had arrived on his iPad. It was encrypted and asked for a password.
Storm just stared at it dumbly. Maybe whoever sent it to him had confidence he would be able to guess the password. But there was still a world of possibilities. He was about to start with some of the more obvious ones.
Then another e-mail arrived. It was from, of all people, [email protected].
I was just thinking about the game we played in Luxor, Clara wrote. That was a lot of fun. I hope we can play again sometime. I like the way it ended.
Storm stared at it for a second, then returned to the encrypted e-mail. It was from Strike, obviously. And she was trying to give him a clue about the password.
The game we played in Luxor. He typed in chess and hit ENTER. He got nothing. He entered the name of every chess piece on the board, from king down to pawn. Still nothing.
He looked back at Strike’s e-mail. I hope we can play again sometime. I like the way it ended.
He grinned. He got it now. He typed in checkmate. The message opened:
You were right about Jones. He’s made some kind of deal with Ingrid Karlsson where she gets to go free in exchange for the promethium. He’s assembling a team to send to the Warrior Princess as I type this. As far as I can see, the only way to stop this is if you get there first. Good luck.
Love,
Me
CHAPTER 30
TANGIER, Morocco
T
he announcement went out over the loudspeaker not twenty minutes after Storm’s plane had landed: as was forecast, the tropical cyclone had taken a left turn away from the French Riviera and was now barreling down on the Strait of Gibraltar. The eye was expected to pass very near Tangier. Ibn Battouta Airport, which had just opened up again, would officially be closing down. All flights in and out would be canceled until further notice.
As a smattering of departing passengers groaned, Storm actually pumped his fist in celebration. Whatever team Jones was arranging to take the Warrior Princess, their operation would be delayed until after the storm passed. There would have been no reason for them to take the unnecessary risk of carrying out the mission in the middle of a hurricane. They believed Ingrid Karlsson and the Warrior Princess would still be there when the weather calmed.<
br />
It gave Storm the narrow window of time he needed.
Get there, evade the Warrior Princess’s sophisticated sea/air defenses, defeat its well-trained security personnel, destroy the promethium, get Dr. McRae out safely, and arrest Ingrid Karlsson so that she could stand trial for her crimes.
All in the midst of a hurricane.
Storm was sure he had accomplished more impossible tasks. Just none that came to mind at this particular moment.
He walked quickly through the baggage area, still in disbelief he was back in Tangier. Long a haven for spies, writers, and other disreputable types, it had been under Moroccan control for more than fifty years. Yet it retained a distinctly international flavor from having been batted about between rulers for several thousand years. It had started out as a Phoenician trading post, then became a Carthaginian settlement. Then the Romans took over, setting the stage for it to be conquered and reconquered over the centuries: the Vandals, the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Portuguese, the Spanish, the British, and the French had all left their mark on the city and its history.
Then there was Storm’s own history here. But that was something he was trying to forget.
He walked outside the airport into the passenger-pickup area. It was covered, but the steady rain that was falling was being blown under the roof by the wind. The first tentacles of the storm were already lashing the area. Storm looked at the sky and saw nothing but gray. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He was still wearing the black T-shirt and pants he had bought in Asyūt, which didn’t provide much protection from the wet gusts.
Still, the moisture felt good. Refreshing even. He had grabbed a nap during his flight—and didn’t mind nature’s shower reviving him further.
As he scanned the cars waiting under the protected area, a camouflage-painted Hummer emerged from a nearby entrance ramp and made a line toward Storm. It slowed as it approached. The passenger-side window was rolling down.
Inside, Storm could already see the driver. Thami Harif—“Tommy,” to all his American pals—had a bushy head of silver hair, olive skin, and a scar that stretched across his left cheek, a memento from a knife fight. Ethnically, his father was of some undetermined mix of North African, Spanish, French, Portuguese, and perhaps other unknown strains, much like Tangier itself. His mother was a librarian from Bettendorf, Iowa, which meant Tommy had a full command of American English and all its idioms.
Storm knew Tommy would be driving with his left leg, if only because the right leg wasn’t an option. He had lost it to an explosion long ago. He had a rotating selection of prosthetics that he changed to suit his mood and he nearly always wore shorts, so the world could enjoy them, too. Storm’s favorite was a crude wooden stump made to look like a pirate’s peg leg. Just because Tommy Harif made his living as a shady international arms dealer didn’t mean he lacked a sense of humor.
Storm grinned and stuck out his thumb. Tommy’s booming voice was already emerging from the window.
“I received a notification this morning that a hundred thousand Euro had been deposited in one of my accounts,” he said. “I made some inquiries and learned it came from a man named Derrick Storm. ‘Derrick Storm?’ I said. ‘That’s impossible. He’s dead.’”
Storm’s smile went wider as the Hummer came to a stop. “Those reports have been greatly exaggerated.”
“He might as well be dead. I already spent half of his hundred grand on hookers and booze. The other half, I wasted.”
“It’s good to see you, Tommy.” Storm stuck his hand through the window and exchanged a vigorous shake with the man who had, quite literally, nursed him back from death’s door.
“Get in,” Tommy said. “Haven’t you heard there’s a hurricane coming? I hear it’s going to be a real wild storm.”
Storm opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Some people like a wild storm,” he said.
“Count me among them,” Tommy said.
“I missed you, Tommy,” Storm said, clapping the man on the shoulder.
“You look a lot healthier than the last time I saw you. Fewer bullet holes.”
“Well, we can’t all be supermodels like you, but I try,” Storm said. His gaze shifted down to Tommy’s right leg, which was a utilitarian titanium model. Tommy was all business on this day. “No pirate leg today?”
“I know how much you like it, but I get lousy traction with that one,” he said glumly. “It’s no good in the rain. Plus, it gets stuck in the mud.”
They took a moment of silence over this predicament. Then Tommy said, “So what brings you to my little city by the strait? A dangerous mission you can only tell me about if you kill me first, or however that little chestnut goes?”
“Something like that,” Storm said as Tommy got the Hummer under way. “I was actually hoping you could take me to your, ah, little warehouse for a quick shopping trip.”
Tommy said nothing for a moment. But Storm knew he was being studied out of the corner of Tommy’s eye. “Are you asking in the capacity of your work for Jedediah Jones?” Tommy eventually inquired.
“Not exactly. As a matter of fact, as far as Jones is concerned, you haven’t seen me.”
“I understand. So are you asking in the capacity of your work for some other part of the United States government?”
“Can’t say as I am.”
“Then who are you working for?”
“Why, Tommy, for the cause of righteousness, of course.”
Storm delivered the line with the same gee-whiz earnestness that Tommy had once used on him, causing Tommy to erupt in laughter. “I understand, my friend. I guess what I’m asking is, can I count on you for a certain amount of discretion where the United States government is concerned? Uncle Sam…might not approve of some of my possessions.”
“Do you even have to ask?”
“Where Jedediah Jones is potentially involved? Yes.”
“Okay. Well, then I can confirm for you I am totally off the books, operating completely on my own, without the backing or authority of the Central Intelligence Agency or any other portion of my government.”
Satisfied, Tommy continued driving them toward his home, a former Moorish castle set on a cliff just outside the city of Ceuta. It was about twenty miles from Tangier on a straight line, slightly longer on the N16, the highway that traced the shoreline of the Strait of Gibraltar.
As they traveled, Storm filled him in on all that had been happening, and what the true nature of his visit was. He did this, in part, to gain the man’s trust. But he also was eventually going to want Tommy’s input. Tommy was not without expertise when it came to the use of force, brute or otherwise.
By the time they arrived, it was midafternoon and the sky was a bruised purple. The rain and wind had slowly ratcheted up in intensity during the course of the half-hour drive. Storm could see the huge ocean swells rolling in the strait below.
Storm felt a familiar pang as the Hummer climbed the stone-lined driveway toward Tommy’s residence. The main keep had been well maintained. Some of the parapets and balustrades had crumbled a bit since he last saw them, during the days of his convalescence. And while it was not a time in his life he particularly cared to revisit, he still felt nostalgia’s grip.
Waiting for them on arrival was the meal Tommy had his chef prepare: couscous topped with lamb and vegetables. Storm demurred, saying he didn’t have time; but Tommy insisted, pointing out that he had to wait until darkness to approach the ship anyway. Storm capitulated easily enough. It didn’t help his resolve that he had eaten nothing more than airline food and that his mouth had started watering as soon as he walked in the door.
They continued talking throughout the meal, and as it reached its conclusion, Tommy summed up the obstacles facing Storm: “So, if I have this all straight, there is no way to approach this ship by air or sea, because anything much larger than a dolphin
will be automatically spotted by the ship’s detection systems. Even if you could get close, getting on board would be nearly impossible, because the boat will be thrashing around in heavy seas. And yet you can’t wait for things to calm down because then Jones’s goons will beat you to the punch.”
“Right,” Storm said.
“And then, even if you can somehow get on board, there are an undetermined number of highly motivated security professionals patrolling the decks. You have no idea where on the ship the captive is being kept, nor any idea where the promethium is being kept, nor any reconnaissance on Ms. Karlsson’s personal quarters, including what special security measures might be installed there. Finally, even if you manage to defeat security, subdue Ms. Karlsson, destroy the promethium, and find the captive, you have to get them all off the boat in one piece?”
“That’s about the size of it yeah. Any ideas?”
“Well, I do have one.”
“Please share.”
“Don’t go,” Tommy said. “Stay here with me. This is madness, even for a man of your abilities. Let’s ride out the storm drinking fine wine and then hit Tangier in a day or two and spend some of your new fortune in style. You came inches away from death the last time you came to this country. Are you really that eager to make that last step into the grave this time? Forget everything you’ll face once you get on board that boat; it’s suicide even to head out in this.”
“No, it’s perfect. They’ll never see me coming.”
“That’s not the point. Look, just let Jones win this one. Yeah, so the U.S. military gets a scary new toy and Ingrid Karlsson gets away. So what? What does it really matter to you? And don’t give me this ‘cause of righteousness’ crap. That’s my line, not yours. Why can’t you just let this go?”
Storm shifted a well-gnawed bone around on his plate. “Because the Pennsylvania Three were actually supposed to be the Pennsylvania Four. I was on that fourth plane, sitting in seat 2B. I saw all the people on my flight, people she was going to let die without a second thought. They weren’t anyone’s enemy, Tommy. They didn’t care about the width of the Panama Canal or the excise tax on auto parts heading into Germany. Their only sin was wanting to get back to their families to live a peaceful, happy life. I’m sure the people on the other planes were the same, and yet today their loved ones are burying whatever little broken pieces of them the authorities can recover from a catastrophic crash. The woman who caused all that pain has to face justice. She can’t be allowed to escape punishment simply because she has something that the Joint Chiefs really want.”
Wild Storm Page 29
