Zac wanted to trust Ahmet, but he and Husam had spoken several times in the truck and Zac hadn’t understood a word. There was also a chance that Ahmet recognized Zac as the man in the picture at the checkpoint. Husam and Ahmet had cultural, business, and maybe even family ties that bound them together. They would look out for each other.
And they’d left Zac no choice but to use it against them.
“I’ll help.”
He climbed into the bed of the truck and started handing down milk containers. Ahmet smiled and nodded in appreciation, not realizing that he’d just become a hostage.
He told Zac that it would take a few hours for Husam to locate what he needed and negotiate prices with the various merchants. The two Iranians would sleep in the truck tonight and drive back early in the morning. Zac smiled and lowered another container down. When they’d finished unloading the milk, he jumped down and leaned against the truck. Husam emerged from the shop with a fat man in a filthy shirt. The two men reviewed a bundle of papers on a clipboard. Ahmet gestured toward the man carrying the clipboard.
“Husam will be haggling with that one forever. He’s so tight even water doesn’t run out of his hand.”
The fat man and Husam walked back to the shop. Husam looked over his shoulder and motioned for Ahmet to join them, but the trader just smiled and waved for Husam to go on alone. Husam shook his head crossly and beckoned Ahmet again. Zac put his arm around Ahmet’s shoulders and gave him a comradely squeeze.
“Tell Husam we’ll be fine. You can help me find the French consulate.”
Husam was persistent. He started walking toward the truck. Zac kept his left arm around Ahmet’s shoulders and slid his right hand under his shirt to the pistol tucked in his waistband. Husam saw the gun and understood immediately.
Rat me out and Ahmet dies.
Torn between his desire to exact revenge and his need to ensure Ahmet’s safety, Husam rejoined the man with the clipboard and disappeared into the store.
“Let’s see what we can find,” Zac said as he headed toward the waterfront.
Keeping Ahmet close would allow Zac to do his reconnaissance in greater safety. There were a few tourists about, but he wanted to blend in as much as possible. Crossing the street in the wrong place, failing to observe proper Islamic customs, or being unable to read a simple sign could cause an alert policeman to stop and question him. With no language skills, no identification, and a loaded pistol, Zac would be as good as dead.
A steady breeze helped offset the stifling heat as they neared the water. Zac looked out to sea while they walked along the coastal promenade. Brightly painted container ships, dilapidated ferries, and armed military vessels all plied the waters just offshore.
Zac was well aware that the United States didn’t maintain diplomatic relations with Iran, but he hoped that he could find the consulate of a friendly Western nation where he could make a call to Langley or London. He occasionally wondered aloud if the French consulate might be around this block or maybe the next, but for the most part the two men wandered in companionable silence. Ahmet knew nothing of any foreign presence in the city beyond the many Pakistani and Indian immigrants who worked there.
The pair walked past a massive artificial harbor that was protected by breakwaters on three sides. A narrow channel provided the only access to the Persian Gulf. Inside the harbor were passenger ferries, commercial fishing boats, and a number of smaller vessels in a variety of sizes. There were plenty of boats he could take if he decided to leave Iran by sea; but the larger ones, forty to fifty feet long, would require a crew to operate while the smaller ones, simple skiffs with outboard engines, would never make it across the Strait of Hormuz. Zac kept searching until a white sailboat on the eastern side of the breakwater caught his eye. He wanted to run onto the docks at that very moment, but he didn’t want to give Ahmet any clues about his method of escape. Zac would return alone.
The end of the promenade dovetailed with a dark, sandy beach. Ahmet suggested they turn around, assuring Zac that there was nothing of interest to him down there. Zac nodded, still thinking about the white sailboat. Off in the distance, past the beach, was the seaport. It was massive. Even from two miles away, Zac could see warships and commercial vessels in the harbor. Security there would be tight. It would be a place to avoid.
Zac glanced out to sea as they walked back to the center of town. He’d spent half his career studying maps of the region and he knew where he wanted to go, south across the Strait of Hormuz to the United Arab Emirates. Oman was a few miles closer, but he knew nothing about it. Saudi Arabia was too far, and probably had hundreds of miles of undeveloped coastline. He could make land there and be worse off than he was now. The UAE was a modern and Western-friendly country and Dubai was a cosmopolitan and sophisticated Middle Eastern city. Zac had been there once before, and could easily find the U.S. consulate once he made land.
He was deep in thought when he noticed Ahmet approaching a man in uniform, a policeman. Zac’s heart almost stopped, but the officer mostly ignored the two nomads and pointed in another direction.
“He say it over here,” said Ahmet with a grin as he motioned for Zac to follow.
The officer had directed them to what turned out to be the Indian consulate. As they stood out front, the Great Mosque began to broadcast the azan, calling the faithful to sunset prayers. Ahmet said he needed to leave to find a place to pray, so Zac thanked his new friend one last time and dashed up the steps.
The encounter with the policeman confirmed for Zac that he needed to get out of Iran as soon as possible. Even if he could reach someone at CIA, it would take them hours, if not days, to mount a rescue mission, and Zac’s presence on the streets was a disaster waiting to happen. He figured he had maybe two hours before Ahmet made it back to the truck and Husam went to the police.
Zac stepped into the consulate and took a seat by a window, pretending to read a brochure and visa application. When most of the people on the street had risen from their prayers, he stepped outside and headed for the waterfront promenade, dumping the papers in a garbage can along the way.
The area was brightly lit and brimming with people. Even from a distance he could smell the harsh aroma of the local cigarettes. Crowds of men stood about, chatting in groups and strolling through the flea market. Those walking along the waterfront were of the city’s middle class. The men wore collared shirts and kept their heads uncovered. Zac’s ratty clothes and chafiye were fine around the farmers’ market, but out here they invited stares and an occasional chuckle. Eager to avoid attracting attention, he walked onto one of the docks and ducked out of sight behind a storage shed. He stuffed the chafiye in his jacket and rinsed his face and hair with brackish water from a nearby hose.
Only a few mariners remained on the docks, unloading the day’s catch from their fishing boats and making ready for the next day. Zac walked around the bottom of the U-shaped harbor and started up the eastern side, heading toward the white sailboat he’d spotted while walking with Ahmet. He walked out along the dock until the light from the promenade faded away and only the moon lit his way. Twice he stopped and pretended to look at the boats tied up along the pier, checking for anyone behind him, but he was completely alone. The sailboat was halfway out, tied up among a few other pleasure craft in various states of disrepair.
It was white fiberglass, twenty or thirty years old, with a small forward cabin and a fixed compass. He paced it off as he walked. It was twenty-two feet long. The sails were aboard and it looked as if it had been reasonably maintained. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he’d seen, and with Ahmet on his way to meet Husam, it would have to do.
Zac had stuffed his pockets with food before he left the nomads’ camp, but his canteen held only enough water for half a day at sea. The water he’d used earlier to wash up had been brackish, but it wasn’t seawater. If he could find a bucket to store some, it might m
ean the difference between life and death if his journey took longer than expected. He found another maintenance shed farther out, near the mouth of the harbor. The door was locked, but Zac threw his shoulder against it and it broke easily. He used his lighter to look around and smiled at his good fortune. Stacked against the wall were cases of bottled water and half a dozen fishing rods. In ten minutes he’d loaded the boat and raised the sails.
Zac pushed off on his way to freedom, vowing to never again set foot in Iran.
THIRTY-ONE
CELIA HAD BEEN back in London less than twenty-four hours. Still feeling the effects of jet lag, she was resting in her bedroom when the telephone rang in her South Kensington home. She was grateful when her housekeeper answered the call.
A soft knock on the door made Celia sit up in bed. The housekeeper had been with her for over ten years and had excellent intuition. If she was knocking now, then either someone had died or one of Celia’s grandchildren was calling. The housekeeper was very good about collecting messages from everyone else.
“Yes, Fiona?”
“It’s Sir James from Singapore, my lady. He said it was important.”
“Of course. Thank you. I’ll pick it up in here.”
Celia stood and rubbed her eyes. James was the de facto leader of their merry band of expats and more than once he had been the bearer of bad news.
“Hello, James. Fiona said it was important. Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, yes, Celia. I suspect Geoffrey is probably still recovering from the Irish flu but it’s nothing he hasn’t had a thousand times before. Sorry to interrupt your rest, but I have a piece of news I thought you’d want to hear. What was the name of that young American chap you befriended on your flight from London? The one you mentioned to us at the Raffles Grill?”
“Zachary Miller. Why?”
“I’m afraid that’s what I thought. Honestly, I was hoping I’d misremembered.”
“Slim chance of that. What’s happened?”
“Well, it seems as if he’s in quite a spot of trouble. I just saw on the telly that he’s wanted for offing a streetwalker over here. It’s getting quite a bit of press.”
“Impossible.”
“Unfortunately there’s a pile of evidence. Forensics, you know.”
“Has he confessed?”
“No. They’re searching for him now. That’s why it was on the news. They’re asking for assistance from the public.”
“James, you’ve known me a long time. I’m an excellent judge of character. I know when someone is spinning me, and that young man was not the sort. I told you something was wrong with that fellow at the immigration counter and now I’m utterly convinced that there’s foul play afoot.”
“I do remember what you said and frankly I’m surprised this murder is getting so much media attention over here. It’s the kind of thing the government usually downplays.”
“You see? That’s something else that’s not quite right. James, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Oh, I hadn’t seen this coming.”
“Of course you did. Could you make a call? I know you still know people over at MI6, or SIS, or whatever it’s called now.”
“What makes you think that?”
“James, you worked for the Foreign Office for forty years and you’re one of the sharpest people I know, yet you never seemed to get a decent promotion. You bounced from country to country as a commercial attaché, diplomatic liaison, or half a dozen other vague occupations, the duties of which no one ever seemed to know. You disappeared for weeks at a time . . .”
“OK. I’ll make the bloody call. Just stop talking before we both end up on the wrong side of the Official Secrets Act.”
THIRTY-TWO
A GENTLE NIGHT BREEZE carried the little sailboat south toward the Strait of Hormuz. Gone were the fishy, tidal smells of shore and the sounds and lights of Bandar Abbas. Zac tied off the tiller and soon fell asleep on the cockpit seat, waking only occasionally to the passing wake of a distant ship.
He was wide awake by sunrise. He reckoned he’d covered twenty or thirty miles, yet there was still no land in sight. The Strait was supposed to be a strategic bottleneck for the world’s oil, a chokepoint where ships and even whole economies could be held hostage, yet it appeared to be massive. He began to think that he might be lost. He knew that he was navigating imprecisely, with only memories of maps to guide him, but he’d been disciplined about heading south. Still, between detours for ship traffic and the unknown effects of the current, there was a real chance that he’d been pushed miles off course. If he was wrong by twenty degrees in either direction, he could end up lost in the Gulf of Oman or deep in the Persian Gulf.
The sunset that night seemed to happen in slow motion. The cloudless blue sky lingered overhead until the falling light struck the dust-filled air of far-off deserts. In seconds, orange and red streaks erupted from the horizon and shot high into the atmosphere. Zac had been at sea almost twenty-four hours, and panic was setting in. A few times during the day he had seen faint images of distant land but each time the sightings had proved fleeting and ultimately false. By this time he’d expected to be across the Strait and to the northern tip of the UAE, if not all the way to Dubai.
Within an hour it was dark and the sky and sea blended together into a single, interminable blackness. Ships were visible only by their lights. Depth perception and navigation became nerve-racking and imprecise. He could easily be run down by a ship or miss his destination altogether.
Constantly distracted by hunger, he thought of the steaks his mother used to grill when he was a boy, and of the duck dumplings at Park Chinois, his favorite restaurant in London. He recalled the melted raclette he’d been eating in Paris just before his ill-fated trip, but the memory of the food quickly gave way to thoughts of the woman he’d been sharing it with. His mind was ensconced in pleasant memories when a powerful wave crashed into the side of the sailboat and nearly rolled it over.
Zac tumbled across the cockpit and his face slammed into the hard fiberglass. A second wave crashed over the side, flooding the cockpit and pushing him toward the open sea. The boat rolled to its side again and he was swept overboard. He made a desperate lunge for the rail with both hands. He caught it with one. He held on with all his strength, fighting the onslaught of water that was trying to separate him from the boat.
The water kept coming, forcing its way into his nose and mouth before pushing him under. Zac began to gag, inhaling more seawater. His grip on the wet rail weakened. Only the tips of his fingers kept him from being cast adrift.
But he held on and raised his head above the sea. The black hull of a supertanker blocked out the sky. The huge ship pushed a hundred million gallons of water out of its path every thousand feet. The displaced water formed the ship’s wake, meaning fifty million gallons of water would have to pass under, over, or through Zac and the little fiberglass boat before the ship would be gone.
Zac looked up at the tanker and came to the horrific realization that it was only the lesser bow wake that had so violently upended his own small craft. He hauled himself back into the sailboat and watched, awestruck, as the tanker passed alongside. The sailboat was nearly swamped. If he didn’t turn her toward the upcoming stern wake, the giant waves might send her to the bottom. Zac spat out a mouthful of blood and followed it with a curse as he pushed the tiller over hard. With hundreds of gallons of seawater aboard, and the tanker fouling the wind, the little boat wouldn’t turn. He pumped the tiller back and forth, trying to generate enough speed to turn into the oncoming walls of water. The tanker’s engines grew louder as the stern approached.
Zac leaned over and pulled the tiller to his chest. Slowly the bow began to swing around. When the wake hit, the sailboat rolled to her side, but Zac was able to steer again as she crested the wave. He pointed her into the next wake and the seawater inside the sailboat
acted like ballast, steadying her as she rode out the remaining waves and sailed into calmer water.
After a few minutes the little sailboat finally stopped pitching and rolling. Zac stood in the knee-deep water, spat out another mouthful of blood, and swore at the tanker’s stern as it steamed off into the night.
THIRTY-THREE
THE SUPERTANKER HAD been gone for several hours by the time Zac finished bailing out the sailboat. He was weary and sore, yet his spirits were high. He’d spotted a faint aura of light in the distance. It soon turned into a steady stream of civilization. Clusters of buildings illuminated the coastline and the lights of distant planes were visible as they flew between unseen airports.
Finding Dubai would not be hard if Zac had in fact located the Emirati coast. The United Arab Emirates was a union of seven wealthy monarchies, and Dubai was the most open and flamboyant of the group. Zac was especially interested in its often outlandish buildings, not out of any keen appreciation for architecture, but because it made the city-state nearly impossible to miss from the sea.
Dubai was home to not only the tallest building in the world but one of its finest hotels too. The sail-shaped Burj Al Arab was located on a small island attached to the mainland. Zac hadn’t stayed there on his government expense account, but the hotel’s distinctive shape would be easy to spot, and the staff would know how to contact the American embassy. If he could get to the Burj, he would be safe.
After a thorough check for ship traffic, Zac tied off the tiller and settled in for a quick nap. He awoke to the light of dawn and sailed closer to shore. From ten miles out he could easily distinguish major buildings and prominent features on land. He was pleased that his escape plan was working. It had been rough, and it had been dangerous, but everything he saw led him to believe that he was on his way to Dubai.
The marine traffic picked up and Zac trimmed the sails and headed toward a seaport that lay dead ahead. Cargo ships and private boats plied the waters just offshore. A hundred-foot motor yacht raced past at thirty knots, its white hull and gold fittings gleaming in the bright sunshine. Zac felt for a moment as if he were back in the West. It wasn’t Monaco or Newport, but it sure as hell wasn’t Bandar Abbas either.
Warning Light Page 12
