THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller

by J. G. Sandom

  As he inched his way under the fence, Ziad remembered a night he had once shared with El Aqrab some years before in Kazakhstan. They had been on an evening training exercise in the mountains, and they had stopped for a bite to eat on a promontory overlooking a narrow valley. The winter sky had been full of stars – so close, so bright – and El Aqrab had told him that the ancient Romans believed the Milky Way was Juno’s breast milk spilled across the heavens. Ziad had laughed at that but El Aqrab had thought the image beautiful. He was a strange man. He found beauty in the oddest things. And then he began to name the stars in the constellation of Orion: Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, Rigel, Saiph. So many of the stars, he told Ziad, had been named by Arabs, the first astronomers. So much had been brought into the world by the followers of Islam. Including nothingness.

  “What does that mean?” Ziad asked.

  “The Arabic number zero.” El Aqrab paused and looked about. Then he continued in a whisper, as if the night itself might snatch the words away. “It was conceived in a little village in north India, carried across the tip of the Red Sea, across the Saudi peninsula on camel back, the great Sahara, and finally into Spain by the Almoravids. They carried nothingness across the wastelands, and it changed the world forever.”

  Ziad had never forgotten those words. They seemed to sum up El Aqrab who, in the end, was like the number zero himself: empty, yet overfilled; a water bag distended by void. Much like his protégé, Hammel.

  Ziad rolled over onto his stomach. He lifted the knapsack toward his chest. He started to put it on again, when his hand touched something hard and stiff and, suddenly, that sound – like wind whistling through a wadi. Then, it stopped. A moment later, a rocket leapt into the air, and the night sky split apart with light. The trip flare hovered high above him, hanging from a tiny parachute, the smoke made visible by a brilliant luminescent glaze.

  Ziad reached down for his weapon, but it was already too late. He heard the sound of machinegun fire spit somewhere just ahead, saw the ground before him gradually unravel – like a poorly sewn seam – and felt the sharp wasp sting of bullets in his shoulder, back and legs. He tried to roll away, but they had found him and there was nowhere left to roll, or run, or hide. Besides, he couldn’t even move. He looked up at the sky, at the Arabian stars, and thought of nothingness.

  * * *

  IDF Captain Solomon Snow aimed his flashlight at the twisted carnage by the fence. There was little left of the guerrilla’s face. He pushed at the corpse with his boot, and the body flopped onto its back. The terrorist had been lying on his knapsack. Captain Snow squatted down and opened it with care. Although it was riddled with bullets, you could never be too vigilant. If the terrorist were a Hezbollah suicide bomber, there might be some triggering mechanism within.

  He peeled back the bloody flap, slowly, carefully. The light from his flashlight quivered back at him. There was something metallic inside. He held his breath and removed what appeared to be a large stainless steel attaché case. He slipped it onto the grass. The hinges had been hit. He lifted the top off delicately but it crumbled in his hands. It was some kind of electronic device, he thought, some sort of sophisticated communications or jamming instrument. He saw the bulbous protrusion on the right side of the casing and his heart came to a stop.

  He knew what this was! He’d studied illustrations of nuclear devices in his early training days and, while not identical, this instrument looked similar enough to make his fingers freeze. Then, he noticed the bulbous section was cracked, almost in half. And more salient, it was empty. Impotent. Unarmed.

  Captain Snow breathed a deep sigh of relief, looked up at the limpid stars, and started to pray.

  Chapter 21

  Monday, January 31 – 7:38 AM

  The Canary Islands

  On the island of Lanzarote, a hundred miles off the Moroccan coast, the Algerian mule Hammel watched as the Venieri bulldozer was hoisted by boom out of the forward hold of the freighter El Affroun. He had been waiting for this moment. The rest of the cargo scheduled for unloading – from generators and electronics, to razor blades and beef – had already been lowered down onto the docks over the previous hour. In most cases, the cargo was stowed in large containers and it was easy going. But the Venieri Terne Articolate 114 HP bulldozer was freestanding. So they had wrapped steel cables around her belly and lifted her by boom – via a pair of booms, to be precise – out of the forward hold.

  Despite tight mooring lines, the ship rocked in the wind. It was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. With barely a warning, the bulldozer began to swing, to pendulum back and forth. Hammel and a host of other seamen tried to steady her with hand lines, but the Venieri pitched out of control, swung and smashed against the starboard boom, leaving a great scar on the metal plating covering the gears and winch.

  Hammel’s heart gave up a beat. He heaved against the hand line, pulled with all his might. The dozer shimmied back and forth a few more times, then finally settled. The winches croaked and coughed as they hoisted her higher, higher and higher and up and over the rail, and finally down onto the dock below.

  As soon as the hand lines and hoisting cables were disengaged, a stevedore jumped up into the cab and started up the Venieri. Hammel watched as a plume of black smoke belched out of the exhaust pipe, and the yellow bulldozer roared away.

  Captain Abdullah Shamir was standing just outside the bridge, on the starboard side, watching the activity below. Hammel lifted his right hand for an instant, as if to wipe his brow. The Captain nodded almost imperceptibly, and the Algerian turned and started toward the gangway.

  Hammel waited outside the warehouse until nightfall, when the sun had disappeared behind the central volcanic slopes, and the harbor was cast into shadow. The city of Arrecife glowed to the west. Hammel could see the stone walls of the Castillo de Gabriel illuminated by spotlights only a mile or so away. A cool breeze blew in from the north and – buffeting the ancient fortress – whistled down the streets of Arrecife, capital city of Lanzarote, the easternmost isle of the Canary chain.

  Hammel looked at his watch. It was almost 7:00 PM. He slipped under the wire fence, dashed across the outer perimeter, and threw himself to the ground beside the warehouse. Then, he crawled forward on his hands and knees toward the main doors. A night guard dozed outside the entrance. He was sitting in a small shack made of local palm planks with a corrugated iron roof. Hammel smiled. One of the warehouse doors was slightly open. He dashed behind the shack, slipped to the ground, and slithered through the shadows to the entrance. A moment later, he was inside.

  It was a large warehouse, but Hammel spotted the Venieri bulldozer almost immediately. It was parked beside a tower of pallets near the entrance. He scanned the warehouse. The cargo was lined up in four rows, in some cases stacked almost to the ceiling on reinforced metal shelving. He checked the rows one by one. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.

  About halfway down the second aisle, he noticed a large wooden crate scheduled to be loaded aboard the Rêve de Chantal in the morning. Hammel studied the label with care. When he was satisfied, he picked up a nearby crowbar and opened the lid as quietly as he could. Moments later, he spotted a wine-colored blanket and, underneath, the cartoon faces of John, Paul, George and Ringo, three plastic periscopes and a yellow submarine. This was it. He continued to expose the Sound Leisure Beatles jukebox. When he had revealed the entire cabinet, he disassembled one of the polycarbonate bubble tube pilasters on the outer edge. It was no longer filled with water and it slipped off easily, revealing a large hollow in the casing below the compact disc machine. Hammel knelt down and felt inside. Plenty of room.

  He made his way back across the warehouse. There was a dramatic VF logo on one side of the yellow bulldozer; it had been manufactured by VF Venieri, Costruzione Macchine Industriali of Lugo, Italy. The bulldozer featured an articulated backhoe loader, a quick coupler, 4-in-1 shovel, a telescopic dipper stick . . . and a thermonuclear device.


  Hammel removed a screwdriver from his pocket. He slipped it underneath a panel immediately below the right door. It took only a few seconds and – with a loud pop – the panel separated from the chassis, revealing a satchel of plastic explosives, gunpowder bladders, and an aluminum attaché case within.

  Hammel looked about the warehouse. He was still alone. He snatched the satchel and attaché case, replaced the panel, and hurried back across the warehouse toward the second aisle. When he had reached the jukebox, he slipped the case into the opening. Then he mounted the plastic explosives and bladders along the inside seams, following a drawing he referred to in his hand. When he was done, he replaced the pilaster. Everything fit perfectly behind the bubble tube, invisible and safe, secure and . . .

  The noise of heavy footsteps broke his reverie. Hammel swung in behind the crate. It was still open, but at least it afforded him some measure of protection; no passersby could see him. He huddled down. The footsteps drew closer. He knelt behind the jukebox. He poked behind the waistband of his pants and felt for the plastic toggles. There they were. He tugged gently and the wire began to slide out of his waistband. It snaked around his stomach, slipped out and dangled in his hand. He unfastened the extra plastic toggle and refastened it to the naked wire tip. The stranger drew near. Hammel ran his fingers around the plastic toggles and pulled the wire tight.

  Nearer, nearer, and the figure shuffled into view: A large black man pushing a dolly – an African, no doubt – with thick black matted hair, a head round as a coconut, a fleshy mouth, immense flat nose and tiny eyes. He took in first the corridor, the open crate, and then the Beatles jukebox.

  Ali Hammel realized he was holding his breath. He looked down at the wire in his hands, the way it shimmered in the light, so sharp, so tight. The African continued to stare at the open crate. He looked about the corridor. He seemed fitful and nervous, as if he could somehow sense Hammel behind the jukebox. Then the African passed by. He kept on walking until he stopped, all of a sudden, by another crate. He propped the dolly up against a shelf and reached down for what appeared to be a case of wine. And then another, and another. He stacked three cases onto the dolly, then started back along the corridor. Once again, he passed the open crate. But this time the African didn’t stop. He simply kept on walking, turned the corner and disappeared, his footsteps gradually receding.

  Hammel waited a few more minutes before he unclasped the plastic handle, clipped it to the other side of the wire, and re-threaded the garrote around his waistband. Then he began to reassemble everything: the wine-colored blanket; the frame; the planking around the crate. He made sure the label was affixed just as before. When he was done, he returned to the front of the warehouse. The guard was wide-awake now, no doubt raised by the African. Hammel got onto his hands and knees. He crawled around the little wooden hut, around the warehouse, and made a dash across the macadam perimeter, back through the outer fence.

  Captain Abdullah Shamir was in his cabin when Hammel returned from the warehouse. He was relaxing, preparing to retire for the night. Hammel insisted on coming in and, after a moment’s hesitation, the Captain reluctantly agreed.

  “I need you to transfer me to the Rêve de Chantal,” Hammel informed him. “She came in from Marseilles this morning.”

  Captain Abdullah walked over to his refrigerator and removed a Fanta. He popped the cap off using the handle of the fridge, and the orange soda fizzed and fizzled over the lip of the glass bottle. The cap rolled somewhere out of sight.

  A small triumphant feeling overcame him. The Captain had been “asked” to add the mysterious Algerian to his active seamen’s roster, “asked” to ship the Venieri bulldozer, and “asked” to let the Algerian go ashore in Arrecife. As a faithful Muslim, he had taken the request most seriously. Captain Abdullah knew the fate of those who refused the Algerian Islamic fundamentalists. But, now, he was more than eager to get rid of Ali Hammel.

  There was something terribly unnerving about the Berber. He wasn’t particularly tall. He wasn’t particularly strong. He was, well . . . ordinary. Until you looked into his eyes. Then a palpable fear took hold. It was difficult to describe. His eyes were vacuous, bereft of feeling, of the compassion that made one human. Soulless, somehow.

  One time, years before, Captain Abdullah had taken his nephews to the zoo outside Algiers, and they had come across a large gorilla with the same discomforting expression. The animal had looked at them with understanding, with a sentient appraisal, but somehow empty, too – a spiritual castaway.

  The Chief Steward called the Algerian bewitched, a marabout of the shadows. Yet he went out of his way to curry favor with him, cooking him special meals, and leaving them outside the Algerian’s fo’c’s’le every evening after Hammel got off his watch. Ali Hammel never ate with the other men. In fact, some wondered if he ate at all, for his plates seemed no less heaped with food the following morning. All this was known to Captain Abdullah. But how to get him off the ship? “It will not be easy,” he said at last.

  “I didn’t think it would be,” Hammel replied.

  The Captain took another swig of his Fanta and sat down at the table. “The only reason a man’s excused from duty is in the case of illness, or personal tragedy. Then, he might transfer to another ship, like the Rêve de Chantal, in the hopes of reaching homeward passage. It is a courtesy, no matter what the shipping line. It’s understood. But isn’t the Rêve bound for New York?”

  “It will be easier for me to find passage there,” Hammel said. “Back to Algiers. What kind of illness?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Appendicitis. A case of fever, perhaps, but they would see right through that; you have no temperature. No. Something else,” the Captain said. “An injury. Some kind of incapacitating fall. A concussion, or a break.” He shrugged. “It is unfortunate you have to leave so soon. You’d like Brazil.”

  Ali Hammel walked over to the Captain’s refrigerator, and slipped his foot into the crack between the metal siding and the scuffed Formica counter, as if he were rooting around for something that had fallen in between.

  “Everybody does,” Captain Abdullah said. “The weather is beautiful this time of year. The food is wonderful, and cheap. And the women . . . ”

  With a smile that lingered in the Captain’s head for weeks, the Algerian threw himself to the floor, across his own leg. There was a sickening snap as his knee popped out of place. The Captain leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over.

  Hammel pushed himself slowly off the ground, using his forearms, trying to get up. He looked behind him. His right foot remained upright in the crack, while his body had turned completely over. He lay on his stomach. Pain contorted his face but he did not say a word. He did not utter a sound even as he twisted himself around, carefully, back onto his back, and removed his foot from between the refrigerator and the counter. It plopped out like a wounded fish onto the floor. The Captain looked down at the Algerian’s right knee. It was already swelling. It was already bubbling in his pants.

  “An injury,” Hammel hissed through his front teeth, trying to control their chattering. He was going into shock. He pointed down. “Like this?”

  Chapter 22

  Monday, January 31 – 9:27 AM

  Woods Hole, Massachusetts

  It took Decker a little over four hours to make the drive from New York to Falmouth, Massachusetts, on the Bruckner to I-95, and then east along 195 toward that little spit of land called Devil’s Foot, which juts out from the bottom of Cape Cod. As he approached the harbor, he noticed Martha’s Vineyard lying to the south, like a pearl gray shawl across the bright Atlantic. It was a beautiful winter day, cold and crisp, blown south and east from Manitoba and Ontario, from the arctic wastelands of the north.

  By the time Decker entered Falmouth it was almost noon. He traveled south along the coast road until Clearview Avenue; until he saw the mailbox leaning inbetween a pair of stunted hemlocks to the left; the number six, in bright metallic tape; and, finally, turned an
d snaked his way along the long black gravel driveway leading to the bay.

  A rambling white Cape Cod with pale blue shutters was perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the Atlantic and Falmouth Harbor, only two hundred yards from the shoreline. The lawn in front of the house was yellowed and studded with stone. The place looked deserted.

  No one answered when Decker crossed the porch and rang the doorbell. Then he noticed the door. It was slightly ajar. He poked his head in, saying, “Hello. Hello, Dr. White?” He stepped inside. Someone else was in the house. He could hear them. “Hello?” he repeated. He had a sudden premonition that he was being watched. Then he saw a young woman in the next room – reflected in a pre-Revolutionary convex mirror – look up and catch his face, and stop, and slowly turn.

  “Who are you?” she said, striding toward him with conviction. “And what the hell are you doing here?”

  Decker stalled at her approach. “Looking for Dr. White. Dr. James L. White? Isn’t this his house?”

  “Yes.”

  Decker stared at the woman. He waited patiently, in silence, until she added, “I’m just squatting.”

  Despite the bulky sweatshirt, despite the way her long blond hair was pinned up in a frumpy bun, despite her apparent aversion to any sort of makeup, the woman was absolutely stunning. She had bright, cerulean eyes, full lips, high cheekbones and the most delicate of noses. As a rule, Decker didn’t find blondes particularly attractive, but he caught himself staring at her unconsciously. She had disarmed him. It was rare to see a woman who was both beautiful and sexy. She could have been a model. No, a movie star, or . . . “I’m sorry,” he said. He took another step, stopped, looked about self-consciously, and added, “I’m here to see Dr. James L. White.”