Beyond the Sea--An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “Well, I see you have made enough fame and fortune to fool your bosses into thinking you’re looking out for their best interests. Smuggling antiquities from your own people and department must be pretty lucrative.”

  The small man laughed. “Very lucrative.” Mobbari walked over and faced the handcuffed man. “Why do I get the sense that my presence here and my nefarious outside interests have not come as a surprise to you?”

  The man in the chair only smiled with blood staining his lower lip. Then he looked toward the man who had hit him. The smile eased off.

  “In case you have not noticed, I am a thief. Thieves know certain details about life in our game. You are one of those details. I am what is called an opportunist, a veritable black sheep in the antiquities world.”

  “Black sheep?” Mobbari asked, confused.

  “It’s an American turn of phrase. I sometimes hang out with some, well, let us just say, shady and despicable individuals.”

  Mobbari actually flinched back a step when the man had raised his voice when he said the word despicable.

  The smaller man quickly regained his composure.

  “It makes little difference just who your thieving friends are; they cannot help you at this time. We are very secure here in the museum. It is Sunday, we are closed, and the security department, well”—he laughed again, more heartily this time—“they’re mine also.” He lifted the blond-haired man’s chin up. “Now, let us speak on the subject of the crown of Ramses II.”

  “Is that something you have misplaced? For a fee, I could possibly put out some feelers and assist in finding this, well, whatever it is you’re looking for.”

  This time the blow was straight into the side of his jaw. His head burst with stars, but that didn’t stop the handcuffed man from turning and facing the bearded attacker. His eyes were intense and filled with malice as he took the brutish man in.

  “This facetious attitude will not help you avoid the pain that is coming your way, my German friend. All this talking is meaningless anyway. I am afraid your filthy ilk, your partners in crime as it may, have betrayed you.”

  The knock came loudly on the steel door. The sound echoed off the walls as if they were in a huge cave system. One of the uniformed men went to the door and slid a small door back and looked. He closed the viewing port and then turned to face the head of Egypt’s antiquities department.

  “Two museum staff with a small crate.”

  “Ah,” Mobbari said, smiling as he leaned down and into the face of his guest, “opportune timing, I must say. My German friend, it has arrived.”

  The blond man looked up as the smile on the face of not just this arrogant fool but his minions also became larger. It was if they all had a secret that he wasn’t privy to.

  “Let them in. I’m sure Mr. Udell would be interested to see what we have recovered.”

  The two men in white coveralls were allowed in. They had a small wooden crate between them. They set it on a table and then began to open it with small crowbars. Mobbari and his men were involved and excited as they watched the object being uncrated, enough so they paid no attention to the deliverymen. The top of the crate came off and then the sides. The two large men stepped back as all eyes went to the straw-filled case.

  Hasan Mobbari reached into the crate after donning white cotton gloves and pulled out a magnificent headpiece designed and built over 3,400 years before by the brilliant artisans in the court of Ramses II. The crown was white and had an inner crown of red; there was the golden cobra in its most menacing posture on the front—ready to strike. All this detail culminated in the most famous crown in history. The two differently colored parts indicated the kingdoms of Upper and Lower Egypt. Mobbari held it up to the light and then toward the blond man sitting in the steel chair.

  “Magnificent piece!” Mobbari exclaimed.

  “So, you were just torturing me for the pure enjoyment of doing so?” the man asked as he spit another mouthful of blood onto the cement floor. His eyes once more went to the bearded face of his assailant, who only nodded with pleasure and smiled even wider.

  “Not at all. It is and will be far more fun,” Mobbari said as he finally lowered the crown. “You see, I have contacts inside your world also. The men who turned you in, Herr Udell, informed on you when my rather extensive net was closing in around them. Not only did we recover the crown in your fifth hotel room—very resourceful, by the way—they also gave us your real name and profession—Mr. Henri Farbeaux. Or should I address you as Colonel?” Again, the irritating laugh. “Without even knowing it, we have captured a man wanted in nearly every country in the known world.”

  The five other men laughed also. The two larger men in the coveralls did not. They had removed the silenced dart guns so fast that the men were still laughing when the .22-caliber Phisolene anesthetic–filled glass darts slammed into their necks, chests, and even one man’s forehead.

  “Oh, shit. That had to hurt,” a blond man said as he removed his baseball cap and his museum overalls. “The instructions from Pfizer said don’t hit anyone above the neck.”

  The other man, this one with black hair, eased over to Mobbari and removed the crown from his shaking hands. “Well, I told you for years I was a better shot than you, Swabby,” the dark-haired man said.

  “Who are you men?” the antiquities director asked in as a defiant voice as he could muster after seeing his men fall to the cold flooring.

  “Who they are makes no difference, you traitorous thief.”

  All eyes turned to the door as ten men, followed by one in a black suit, entered the room. The ten civilian-attired personnel started kicking at the downed men and began removing them from the room, not too gently either, the handcuffed man noticed with pleasure. He also noticed they left his bearded attacker behind because of his sheer size.

  The dark-haired man who was still wearing the white coveralls placed the crown of Ramses II back into the crate and then placed the wooden sides and top back on. He faced the man in the black suit as he in turn placed a set of handcuffs on Dr. Hasan Mobbari.

  “General, thank you for the cooperation.”

  The tall, thin Egyptian pushed Mobbari to the floor until the portly man was on his knees, and then the newcomer held out his hand.

  “Knock it off, Jack. We’ve come too far for that kind of formality.” The man looked around at the unconscious men being removed and then over at the air gun Carl was still holding. “Although I must learn where it is you get such fantastic equipment.”

  Colonel Jack Collins shook the general’s hand with a smile. “We have an extensive toy box.”

  General Hasne Shamakhan, Egyptian Homeland Security, smiled again and then lifted Mobbari to his feet. “Thanks for this, Jack. We’ve been after this scum for quite some time, but we never could gather enough proof.” He looked down at the visibly shaken television star. “This bag of refuse has pulled the wool over our eyes for far too many years. Now, he will pay for his thievery and murder. Is that how you say it—wool over the eyes?”

  “Yes. But most times wool is easily stripped away.”

  The other man walked over to the chair and the angry prisoner sitting there glaring at the three men looking at him.

  “Hey, Henri. What’s up, man?”

  “I find it difficult to see how my battering at the hands of these men is worth a few industrial diamonds,” Henri Farbeaux said as he wiggled his hands that were still cuffed behind his back, indicating it would be nice to have them removed. “And the next time there is a change in plan, I would appreciate being informed of such.”

  “Oh, you knew all along the deal wasn’t going to turn out like you wanted.” The man leaned close to Farbeaux and whispered so the Egyptians couldn’t hear. “We let you keep the blue diamonds from the displacement machine. Your service to the United States was well rewarded. All that money just for a few whacks to the old jaw, sounds like a hell of a deal to me.” Captain Carl Everett, US Navy, smiled again as he
produced a small silver key. “Want out of there?”

  Jack smiled at the Egyptian general as Carl and Henri once more began their back-and-forth of mutual hate and respect.

  “Thank the president on my behalf, Jack. Now that this is done, I must ask the inevitable question: Why is the US Army taking an interest in foreign antiquities?”

  “Let’s just say we were in the region and were asked to help out a friend. Don’t get used to it, though; this was a onetime favor. As for the president, he’s always willing to loan out people like us; it’s his way of keeping us out of trouble at home.” Jack stopped smiling and then looked at an angry Henri Farbeaux. “But I must state it was Henri here who took the biggest chance. By the way, he made your security look rather foolish inside the museum.”

  “Yes,” the thin man said as he pushed the antiquities thief toward the open door. “We’ll have to thank Colonel Farbeaux another time for pointing that little flaw out.” The Homeland Security director turned and smiled at the Frenchman as his cuffs were removed. “After today, Colonel, your days of stealing within the borders of my nation are finished. At any rate, thank you for your assistance.” He became as serious as he could in warning. “The next time we will not be so welcoming, grateful, and friendly.”

  The three men watched as the general left with his prized prisoner, stepping over the still prone form of the bearded man who had assaulted Henri and who was in the process of being cuffed by one of the Egyptian Homeland Security men.

  “Gentlemen,” Farbeaux said, still rubbing his wrists from the chafe the handcuffs had given him, “you have fallen to the lowest order of men. You have taken advantage of my good nature and deep sense of gratitude for my earlier freedom from the American authorities in Brooklyn.”

  “Knock it off, Henri. You owed us for those blue diamonds you stole from the Wellsian Doorway. I think a payment worth $17 million is quite sufficient for your services in regard to assisting us in bringing Mr. Everett back from history, and for your expertise in your field of endeavor in recovering the crown of Ramses, and for helping us recover this.” Jack reached into his coveralls and pulled out a small object. It was a large piece of Americana stolen years before from the Smithsonian. Jack held the original surrender note from the pen of Lord General Cornwallis, asking General George Washington for terms of surrender of his British forces at Yorktown during the American Revolution. The old paper was in a plastic case and had been inside the offices of one Hasan Mobbari. Niles Compton and the president of the United States saw no need to explain their real intent to the Egyptian authorities. The president—nor, for that matter, Niles Compton—didn’t care for red tape all that much. This theft of American property was not something to take public.

  “I am so pleased to have assisted you in getting that little piece of history back into your hands. The diamonds were still not worth the humiliation of being slapped around by brutes with the IQs of a jackal. You could have also made your appearance somewhat earlier into my torture session.”

  Jack laughed and patted Henri on the shoulder as the Frenchman finished rubbing his wrists. “Come on, Henri. We’ll give you a ride out of here. You never know about the Egyptians; they could have a change of heart about allowing you to leave.”

  Farbeaux turned away from Jack and faced Carl. “I really don’t like you, Captain.” For emphasis on his words just as the last Egyptian was standing the bearded man up to escort him out, Farbeaux kicked the beast in the groin, doubling the man over. He fell, and then Henri kicked him in the side of his jaw. He then straightened and calmed himself.

  “Ah, but I thought we were becoming close friends, Froggy?” Carl said, but his attention was also drawn to the inherent temperament of the Frenchman when it came to vengeance. “Now, we have a plane to catch.”

  Colonel Henri Farbeaux turned to face Collins, and then with a wary eye on Carl, he said, “I’m sitting next to you, Colonel.”

  3

  KIROV-CLASS BATTLE CRUISER PETER THE GREAT

  FOUR HUNDRED NAUTICAL MILES NORTH OF HURRICANE TILDY

  First Captain Kreshenko stood on the expansive bridge of Peter the Great and faced the window that looked out over the stern. The helipad on the swaying deck looked to be a mile away. Kreshenko frowned just as the giant warship dipped her prow into the heavy seas. He couldn’t imagine what it was like even a hundred miles closer to Tildy. His ship was taking a pounding, and he was nowhere near the killing swirl of the hurricane. He watched through his binoculars as the heavy-lift helicopter, the Mil Mi-26, NATO designation Halo, hovered shakily over the stern. His crewmen were battling the seas, trying to guide the giant helicopter down to the pitching and rolling deck. Thus far, in three attempts, they had come close to crashing the hovering behemoth into the superstructure all three times.

  “Are they insane?” Second Captain Dishlakov said as he slammed his fist down upon the reinforced window frame. Both officers watched as the Halo came in for its fourth attempt. “Fools!”

  Kreshenko hissed as the huge helicopter’s tail rotor came close to striking the radar boom at the uppermost top of the mast. The tail boom spun crazily, and the captain thought to himself that he was possibly about to lose his ship to a fool’s stunt. He cursed as the Halo finally straightened and then rose once more into the rain-filled black skies.

  “That’s it. Tell whoever that is to get the hell away from my ship. RTB immediately. This is not only going to cost those idiots their lives, but we could lose this ship. I’m not having it. They can throw me in the deepest Gulag in Siberia. I’m not losing my ship because some brass-hat son of a bitch has a wild hair up his ass. Call them off, Dishlakov!”

  Peter the Great rolled to port, and the dark seas crashed over onto the helo deck. As the radio call went out, Kreshenko was satisfied when the giant helicopter started to rise and turn away.

  “Thank God the pilot has some common sense.”

  “Should we clear the landing party from action stations, Captain?” Dishlakov asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure those boys are wet enough. Let’s—”

  “They’re coming back!” called one of the bridge lookouts.

  Kreshenko was stunned as he turned back to the window, and through the wash of rainwater, he saw the Halo Mi-26 returning to the battle cruiser. This time, the captain took up the microphone. “Communications, order that bird away from my ship! If they attempt to land, I will shoot them out of the sky.”

  “Sir, the Halo is flashing command override on your order. They say they are coming in.”

  The captain cursed, and then, to his shock, the Halo came low once more over the fantail. He then saw ropes shoot out from the open doors of the air force bird. His eyes widened when he saw men rappelling down these ropes to the helo deck below. Several of these brave fools landed hard on the steel deck, but they kept coming. They streamed from both sliding doors of the Halo. He turned to his first officer as he watched this insanity through his binoculars. Dishlakov had noticed the same thing as the captain, and as he lowered his glasses, they exchanged worried looks. Each of the first fifty men to the deck was heavily armed. Finally, as they turned their attention back to the badly swerving helicopter, four men in different clothing rappelled down the rubber-treated ropes to land softly onto the pitching deck.

  “Second Captain, go below and bring the commander of this band of fools to my cabin, take the others to the ship’s mess, and station a marine guard on them until I get some confirmation on just who these idiots are.”

  The captain watched as the Halo, with her belly empty of men and equipment and after the last large bags of gear were lowered down, rose back into the black sky and then made a sharp turn to the north. Kreshenko slammed his fist onto the windowsill once more and then stormed off to his cabin.

  Two hurricanes were about to explode into the North Atlantic that day, and one was about to happen on board his ship.

  * * *

  It took the captain thirty minutes to finally get to his quar
ters after securing flight operations. His men were battered and seasick, and after he made sure they got something hot into them, he stormed into his cabin.

  The big man was dark haired and was using one of the captain’s towels to dry his head. He didn’t even notice when Kreshenko burst through the cabin’s door. He stared angrily at the man wearing black Nomex battle BDUs, the uniform commandos the world over were now wearing. In place of the Russian Federation flag was a Velcro patch depicting a black camouflaged star. The captain looked on his bunk and saw the belt with the holstered weapon. His eyes went from the bed to the newcomer, who seemed to be making himself at home.

  “Ah, First Captain Kreshenko. Is it too much to ask if you have a drink anywhere close by?”

  The captain watched the man as he smiled and then simply tossed the towel onto the tiled deck. Kreshenko closed the door and retrieved the towel as Peter the Great rolled to starboard. As the captain tossed the wet towel into his private head, he turned to face the stranger. He saw the man wore no rank on his collar and that he was one of those film actor types that always seemed to walk out with the women after the drinking establishments closed. The captain had seen his ilk his entire life and despised the breed.

  “I don’t have alcohol in my cabin. I try to shy away from it at sea.”

  “Ah, I had heard that you were a prudent man, Captain. Thank goodness I always come prepared,” he said as he retrieved his bag and produced a bottle of very expensive vodka. “Thank goodness it survived the flight.” He held the bottle up so the captain could view the label. “This was a gift from old Putin himself, the moron,” he said as a way of telling Kreshenko to be careful in his approach about his visitor endangering his precious ship.

  Instead of commenting, the captain walked to his desk and came back with two glasses.

  “You see, I knew you were a man of action, Captain,” the stranger said as he tore the protective plastic from the cork and then poured two glasses. “Just as your brave brother and his crew.” He held a glass up and then toasted, “To the new Russia.”