by Tom Hron
“I doubt they really know,” answered Shawki. “A case officer fronting as a junior diplomat most likely contacted a terrorist group, making sure there was lots of deniability along the way. It is all a game of pimps and whores, but with death as the payoff. These men would rather kill than breathe.”
Glancing at his friend, Harry felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He had just met his first professional psychopaths.
He listened to Shawki question them, grilling both in the guttural consonants of Arabic. They cocked their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and sat as still as stones. Shawki finally blew air through his mouth in disgust and turned his back on them. “I will turn them over to the police in the morning,” he said. “They will be treated as assassins for bringing silenced pistols into the country, and they will be lucky if they do not get thrown in prison with their hands cut off.”
Remembering the Middle East had its own way of dealing with terrorists, Harry shivered once more. But for the Grace of God, go I, he thought to himself. He had joined a lethal game of dungeons and dragons.
They tied the two Palestinians with cable wraps, locked them in the hold, and then went back up on deck and searched for the men who had gotten away. For a half an hour they shined flashlights on the water around the dhow, but there wasn’t a ripple anywhere. The inky surface soaked up the light in soft circles. Finally, they quit and told each other that they needed to go back to bed.
Harry went below but found that he couldn’t sleep, affected as he was by the danger that Shawki and he’d just overcome. He got up again, found some paper, and started writing, choosing his words carefully. When he was done, he read what he had written:
Dear Catherine,
My life is in danger and I need your help. A week ago I lost an aircraft that I was testing, and now I’m being blamed for the crash. I’m hiding with Shawki al-Hada, my old college roommate, but it’s not safe here any longer. I’m searching for some way to regain my freedom.
Shawki has learned that Abu Muhammad, Usama bin Laden’s last second-in-command, is now hiding in Iran. We can catch him if we locate the terrorist camp he uses near the Iraqi border. Surely, the Justice Department would let me return home if I offer them Muhammad. Will you please help me? The CIA must have photos of the base in their files.
I still miss you and wish we could be together, despite our separate lives. No one will ever know the happiness that you brought me.
All my love,
Harry
He read the last two sentences again, agonizing over what he’d written. Was he being fair, and would she see it as emotional blackmail? He really didn’t know and had only told the truth. Furthermore, there was no one else to turn to, no one who cared, other than Shawki. His life as a test pilot had been singularly lonely and now he was paying the price. If Catherine wouldn’t help him, he was in deep, deep trouble and as forsaken as the moon. He folded the letter, addressed the envelope, and crawled back into bed. He dreamt of his home. Of faceless people. Of an airplane that wouldn’t fly.
In the morning he helped load the Palestinians into a dingy and then watched Shawki motor ashore with them. From his commanding position on the dhow, he saw their faces pale when they noticed the police were waiting for them at the dock. Bahraini justice was utterly unforgiving, and they’d be lucky to get away with their lives. The last that he saw them both, they were being thrown headfirst into a police wagon.
He turned away and lay on a deck chair in the sun. Get a tan, Shawki had told him before leaving, and darken yourself as much as possible. Grow a mustache and make yourself look Mediterranean, since your life might depend on it. Wear a kaffiyeh, the headdress of an agal wound around a fold of white cloth, he had told him. Looking American in the Middle East was an invitation for murder. The advice had intrigued him, since an amateur soldier of fortune like himself, in fact, should learn to be a master of disguises. He rolled onto his stomach and felt himself getting sleepy. Maybe things would work out after all…
An outboard motor woke him with its waspy noise, summoning him almost like a siren. Shawki’s back, he thought. He watched his friend come across the clear green water, trailing a wake with the sun reflecting off everything but Shawki’s tawny face. Gulls wheeled behind the dingy, as though they had seen minnows on the surface. The air smelled of rotting jellyfish, seaweed, and dead shells drying on shore. Shawki swung along the dhow and cut the motor, though he held fast to its side rather than coming aboard.
“Harry, the emir is receiving your country’s ambassador tomorrow. They are quite definitely looking for you.”
The air burst from Harry’s lungs. Just when he’d sensed a little peace and found some freedom, something else had reared its ugly head. He wanted to say something but felt as if he’d lost his voice.
Shawki seemed oblivious to his frustrations. “There is something else important also. The Immigration Department called my father and asked if I was expecting someone from Mexico, a national on a transit visa.”
“What?” His voice had found itself but had sounded froglike.
Shawki frowned, leaving wrinkles around his eyes. “That was my first thought exactly, but then my father said something very strange. This person has two dogs.”
CHAPTER 16
THE WEST WING
It was back to waiting for the president in the West Wing, and for a few minutes David Skeleter strolled the cross halls and offices of the White House with his hands in his pockets. For many years it had been his sphere of influence, the epicenter, the place where he’d manipulated the presidents, guiding them through the nuances of foreign policy. However, he was now fighting for his survival in a dangerous enclave. A secret service agent, flat-faced and as thick-lipped as a boxer, passed by and called him sir, and the ubiquitous pages lowered their eyes when they saw him coming. They wouldn’t like what he really thought of them, he thought. A cold lucidity settled over him, as if someone had shot at him and missed, leaving his mind and body focused on self-preservation.
The president’s secretary signaled from down the hall, letting him know the British ambassador had finally left the Oval Office. Walking back, he went in and saw Connolly, dressed as sharply as ever in a blue mohair suit and striped tie, waiting for him. They exchanged smiles.
“David, welcome back. I see you made it in record time.”
“Thanks to Esthesia Cosmetics and your call to Rodriguez. I have no idea what you told him, but the airplane was ready when we got there. We weren’t on the ground thirty minutes.”
“Juan’s not only a good neighbor, but he’s a friend of mine.” Connolly rolled up against his desk. “How was your flight, and did you have a chance to think about what we discussed day before yesterday?”
“A little.” David hesitated. It would be better if he didn’t say too much. “My staff has told me the test pilot is hiding in Bahrain with an old college friend. A CIA informant spotted him when he got off the airlines.”
“Is that right?” Connolly narrowed his eyes and seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m not sure I like that, since our relations with that country are tricky at best. They like al-Jazeera TV and Islamic fundamentalism too much for my tastes.”
Skeleter looked straight at Connolly but waited. Did he know about the botched hit on Harry Sharp? The problem was the White House had about a million different intelligence sources. He decided to test the president. “I called our embassy in Manama and asked the ambassador to make some discreet inquiries,” he explained. “I really don’t expect much to happen, but at least it will give us an opportunity to learn a little more. The problem we have is a royal prince is protecting him and Bahrain is an autonomous monarchy. We have to move slowly.”
Connolly fiddled with his tie and then ran his hand up and down its red and white front. “What do you know about a senior director of yours going over to Langley on this Chamber’s thing? Did you tell someone to check something?”
David instantly wished he could breathe. “No, I’ve be
en gone, of course. Something must have come in and one of them went over to investigate. Do you know who it was?”
“I’m told it was your intelligence chief, Daniel Reechi.”
“He’s one of my best people,” he answered as calmly as he could. “I’m sure he felt compelled to do something in my absence. The FBI would usually share their information with him, but he’s the type who would want to go over and see what the CIA had as well.”
“I see … Well, tell me what he comes back with, will you?” Connolly’s voice then slowed, yet strengthened, as if he were reciting a telephone number. “I’m still trying to reconcile why two intelligence issues so unrelated would suddenly pop up all at once. Is there some way that Chambers would have known about the Aurora project? Does that make any sense?”
“No, I don’t think that’s possible, since almost no one knew about that particular aircraft.” Maybe he shouldn’t have been so damn emphatic, he thought afterward.
“That’s what I thought … Listen, this suspicion of yours about the test pilot, that’s been bothering me, so let’s for a moment presume it’s true. Wouldn’t that mean he’s working for someone? Whose asset would he be?
“But, before you answer me, why then would he have crashed in the first place? Do you see what I mean? Unless, of course, he didn’t intend to crash. Your idea of him being a spy doesn’t make any sense, and besides maybe the airplane simply failed.”
The heat on David’s face went up. What was the best way to answer? He quickly searched for something clever.
“A component failure or pilot error is certainly possible, but then why would he run off and hide where we can’t get our hands on him, at least not easily?”
David saw that he must have scored a point, because Connolly suddenly looked like he needed some air. The office fell quiet and the silence lasted a long time.
“How in hell would he know that he would survive?” asked Connolly finally.
“His file said he was the best in the business, so why not? The airplane had a sophisticated ejection system.”
Connolly raised his head as if he were listening to something that wasn’t there. Confusion, doubt, indecision—all three crossed his face at once, leaving him looking like a man lost in a maze. He lifted his forearm and gazed at his watch. “I leave for the G-eight summit in Okinawa, Japan, in a few days,” he said, “and I refuse to go before my peers, one being Dmitry Medvedev, who does nothing more than pimp for Vladimir Putin, an unrepentant ex-KGB thug if there ever was one, without knowing why the Aurora was lost and a CIA deputy was murdered at the same time. I have a bad feeling about all this. The Russians want to ruin the dollar and cut us down to size, their intelligence assets have been a lot more active lately, and look at what they’re doing in Iran by helping them with their nuclear program. There’s every reason to believe they poisoned President Yushchenko years ago and now we’ve learned they’re making cyberspace attacks on our most sensitive computers, right along with the Chinese. They’re certainly not above making a deal to get their hands on the Aurora or seeing that it was destroyed. Lord knows they’ve proven they have the technology.
“In addition, how can I carry on a meaningful dialog about terrorism, Iran’s warmongering, and North Korea’s long-range missiles, let alone a million other things that plague this world, when Sarkozy, Merkel, and Medvedev, if not all the rest of them know damn well that I’m talking out of my ass. You can bet their intelligence services are on top of this, if not behind it. Someone has a hidden agenda and so far I’m not smart enough to figure it out. Is France behind all this because my politics aren’t European enough for them and they see themselves as the nanny of the world? Frankly, despite what you say, I’m not sure they’re the friends they claim to be. Or are the Chinese somehow behind this, since years ago they darn near took over this town with their illegal campaign contributions and I put a stop to it? I just don’t know.”
Trying hard not to look relieved, David was almost certain Connolly hadn’t been told about the botched hit. He took a quick, empathetic breath. “I can’t help but feel that I’ve let you down, so tell me what I can do to help you.”
“A few days isn’t much time…” Connolly shifted in his chair. “The Chamber’s murder,” he continued, “I’m confident the FBI will make an arrest before long that may break the case. They have a suspect, a young woman, who they’re looking for right now. However, the Aurora is an entirely different matter. It’s so top secret I don’t want to give it to the FBI, or anyone else for that matter. I’ll have to find the answers on my own.”
David pulled his face into false lines of contrition. “Can’t I at least help?”
“David, there’s not that many people between the crash and me. I want to talk to every one of them, face-to-face, starting with the commanding officer at Groom Lake. Set it up for me.”
David’s face was suddenly on fire. “Ah … I’ve forgotten the man’s name,” he said, trying not to let his voice give him away.
“Well, look it up, call the guy, and tell him to get his ass back here as soon as possible.” Connolly then sat as still as a gravestone.
“Yes, sir,” answered David, suddenly realizing his invention was coming apart. He turned and left the office.
CHAPTER 17
THE PERSIAN GULF
Harry couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. A Mexican national with two dogs. Could it be?… He glanced at Shawki. “When does the plane come in?” he asked.
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Do we dare wait that long?”
“Yes, and we need to wait for Catherine’s answer, actually. The diplomatic pouch should get back about the same time.” Then Shawki waggled his head from side to side like a metronome. “However, my father insists that we sail as soon as possible, saving the emir any embarrassment. Get out of Dodge as you Americans like to say.” He grinned devilishly. “The excuses become easier if we are gone, yes?”
Harry simply answered with a slow nod, since his mind was in different time and place. Was it really Apache Joe? He wondered, and if so, what would he think of their crazy plan? Then images of the future flashed through his mind of dangerous shadows and hidden enemies. What made him think they could pull it off? Prepare, he thought. Get every detail down pat and don’t let all the dangers brainwash you into believing the worst. Let action overcome your worry.
They spent the rest of the day readying the dhow for the long voyage ahead by buying diesel for its engines and hauling out the great triangular sail, called the lateen. Shawki called two of his most trusted crewmen and asked them to come along, promising both they would receive their usual percentages, the same as if they were pearling. Harry watched them in fascination. Shaven-headed and all bone and muscle, both were as black-eyed as Mongols and moved around the deck with catlike fastidiousness, leaving nothing undone. The last vestiges of the ancient seamen of Mombasa, Lamu, and Zansibar, and the reincarnations of sailing the seven seas back then, he thought. He stripped to his swimsuit and worked alongside them, learning everything he could about the dhow’s rigging.
The next day Shawki and he bought black frogman suits and rubber rafts for the trip. They also bought binoculars, flashlights, backpacks, and hand-held GPS receivers, then ferried everything out to the dhow. They loaded fresh water until every tank ran brim full, and at last nothing was missing but the weapons they would need. Shawki said not to worry because he had the door key for the armory, a perquisite of the royal family, and he’d make a “midnight” requisition. His high spirits lifted Harry’s even more.
At day's end they ate a fish supper and watched the harbor darken on the changing tide, leaving the dhow swinging at anchor on the slack water like a sea monster the red sunset had highlighted last. Harry felt spellbound, listening to all the ship bells, the muezzins summoning the faithful to prayers, and the rattling of the flying fish. It became hard for him to believe in reality, and now there were no enemies anywhere. Only peace. At ten o�
�clock Shawki left on his clandestine run and Harry went below and fell asleep. For the first time in days he felt safe, since he’d come to believe the two Argonauts on deck never shut their eyes.
Next morning Shawki and he drove to the airport and waited at customs, for if Joe really was on the flight Shawki would have to sponsor him. They sipped strong coffee and wandered the gate, then watched a Gulf Air flight pull up. The passengers began trampling off—Bahrainis in white kaffiyehs, English businessmen, veiled women in traditional dress, French tourists, finally someone wearing a black, yellow, and purple serape. Harry’s eyes turned humid and his right arm shot up in a salute. Walking tall, Joe came toward him on the concourse. They were brothers again.
By midmorning they were on their way back to the dhow with Joe sitting in the rear of Shawki’s Mercedes with Cochise and Geronimo beside him. Only Shawki’s influence had saved the dogs, and Joe for that matter, from being thrown out of the country. His passport had been okay, naming him Enrique Maria Madero, but the collies had been an entirely different matter. What is this place, Nogales, Arizona? customs had asked. We thought Nogales was in Mexico. Which is it then, Nogales, Mexico or Nogales, Arizona? Where exactly is this town? Which are you truly from? … Joe had known the dogs couldn’t come in from Mexico, a prohibited country for pets, so he’d gotten the paperwork right, but then had been forced to leave himself looking suspicious. Shawki had finally said enough with the questions because he’s a friend of mine, and that had been the end of it.
Shawki stopped at the harbor, let Harry, Joe, and the dogs out, then drove off to see if Catherine’s answer had gotten back to the embassy in the latest pouch. A big entourage wouldn’t look good, he’d said, especially one with an individual the U.S. ambassador was asking about. Harry and Joe walked the collies. The dhow sat under the morning sunshine in the distance and cast reflections as if it were part of a watercolor. Smiling, Joe stripped to his waist and faced the sun.
