by Ward Larsen
Chatham handed the phone back to Grimm, not remembering to end the call. The Yank in the corner with the funny wand was staring at Chatham, but turned back to his business when the Englishman caught his look. Chatham glared seethingly at the window blind laying on the table. It was key. Key to something. But what?
The night was calm, light winds driving a mild two-foot chop on the southern Mediterranean. This was a blessing, since most of the men on board had never been to sea. Mohammed Al-Quatan could see the lights of Malta to the north, flickering yellow in a distant haze. He thought they were getting too close. Twelve miles was the limit. Colonel Al-Quatan strode purposely toward the boat’s captain, who stood at the helm.
“We must be there,” he insisted.
The captain, a crusty old sort, looked at a GPS receiver mounted above the steering console. He bobbed his head indifferently. “A few more miles.”
Al-Quatan spat, “A few more miles and we are in Italian waters!”
The captain snickered. “I am going to the spot you gave me, and that is fourteen miles off the coast of Malta. If you wish, I can turn around now, but the price is the same.”
A fuming Al-Quatan turned away. His own men would never speak in such a way. But the old beggar had probably spent his life on the high seas battling Mother Nature. He would not be easily cowed. Al-Quatan wished he had a real boat, not this tired old fishing scow. The Libyan Navy had big patrol boats, fast ones with real sailors. Unfortunately, Moustafa Khalif had not permitted it. He wanted the satisfaction of delivering their prize personally to the Great One. They would ask no help.
The first mate, who was standing at the bow, suddenly gave a shout. The captain leaned forward, peering through the salt-encrusted windshield.
“What is it?” Al-Quatan wondered.
“A boat.”
“Is it the one?”
“It is possible,” the captain said with a shrug, “but we must get closer.”
Al-Quatan gave a signal to his men down in the cabin. There were ten altogether, his best men, and they clambered up the stairs with weapons ranging from submachine guns to rocket-propelled grenades. They assembled unsteadily on deck, many still not accustomed to the movement of the sea.
A few minutes later Al-Quatan saw the outline of the boat, a hundred yards off. It was completely dark. “Get close,” he ordered, “and use your light.”
The captain maneuvered alongside the drifting boat. “It’s an old Hatteras 32 or 34,” he announced, “a good craft in its day.”
Al-Quatan didn’t care if it was Noah’s holy Christian Ark. “The light!” he demanded.
The captain obliged, putting his spotlight on the vessel thirty yards to port. There was no sign of anyone aboard.
Al-Quatan wondered where Roth was. He wanted the treacherous Israeli almost as much as what he was selling. The weasel had already squandered away one of the weapons — left it sitting in an English port. Al-Quatan had prayed he’d be more careful with the other. His men spread across the boat and fixed their weapons on the Hatteras, ten gun barrels oscillating against the deck’s rise and fall. Al-Quatan took over the spotlight as the captain edged closer. He illuminated the hatches and portholes, but there was no sign of anyone. In the partially covered wheelhouse, Al-Quatan spotted an object covered by a sheet of plastic. His heart skipped a beat.
“Now!” he shouted. “My men will go now!”
The captain inched closer until the two boats were only a few feet apart. Even with light seas, they rocked incongruously, like two drunks trying to waltz.
“That is all,” the captain said, “I can get no closer.”
One of Al-Quatan’s men jumped over to the smaller boat. Landing in a heap, he lost grip of his AK-47 and it clattered to the deck, unleashing a wild round. Everyone instinctively ducked at the sound of the weapon discharging, and Al-Quatan swore he heard the bullet whiz by his ear. Two more men leapt across uneventfully, but then the fourth mistimed his effort badly. He smacked squarely into the side of the Hatteras, with a hollow clunk, and fell helplessly into the wet chasm between the boats.
“Idiot!” the captain yelled. He gunned his motors into reverse to keep the fool from being crushed. The three men already aboard the Hatteras managed to pull their stunned comrade from the sea, minus his Uzi.
The boarding party quickly collected themselves and disappeared into the bowels of the drifting vessel. A minute later, one man stuck his head out of a hatch and waved an all clear signal.
“Get closer,” Al-Quatan ordered. Waiting for the right moment, he jumped across, two members of the team grabbing his forearms as he landed.
“There is no one below,” one of them announced.
Al-Quatan nodded, then went straight to the wheelhouse and ripped the plastic cover off what he hoped was his prize. What he saw surprised him at first. It was shiny, silver, and not terribly long. He had expected it to be bigger, more sinister looking. But then he smiled. This was it. He knew this was it! Khalif had been right. After so much effort, so many years of suffering defeat and indignity at the hands of the Zionists, they had finally succeeded. Mohammed Al-Quatan was suddenly overwhelmed, realizing the power that lay before him. He felt almost God-like.
Someone whispered a sharp, “Allah akbar!”
Al-Quatan turned and looked at his men. He saw the same amazement and pride in their eyes as they regarded the seed of victory that lay before them. When the Great One saw what they offered, he would provide anything in return. They would live in proper houses, eat proper food. And soon, certainly soon, the Great One would use this gift from Allah to rid Palestine of the infidels once and for all.
“We have done it, my brothers,” Al-Quatan said, offering an unusual moment of fraternity to his underlings. “We have done it!”
Pytor Roth exited the cab by the departures sign at Malta International Airport in Luqa. With no luggage involved, the driver stayed in his seat as Roth paid the fare. It was two minutes after nine in the morning here, but more importantly to Roth, two minutes after nine in Zurich. He went immediately into the small, run-down building that passed for a terminal, and found the lone pay telephone. His call was answered immediately. The Swiss were always so efficient. He spoke in English and, after one switch, was talking to the person he wanted.
“Herr Junger, it’s Pytor Roth.”
Junger’s English was decent, if a little hard on the consonants. “Gut morning, Mr. Roth. You are calling about the new account, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“One moment, I will check.”
He was put on hold for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Junger picked up again, “Ya, Mr. Roth. The funds are on deposit, as we discussed.”
Roth exhaled. His lips curled into a smile.
“Thank you, Herr Junger. I’ll see you this afternoon with further instructions. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Two o’clock, sir. It is on my agenda.”
Roth hung up, still grinning. He might actually sneak out of this predicament after all. For months he’d been stuck between that proverbial rock and a hard place, ending with his journey deep into the godforsaken Libyan desert, to barter with the devil himself. But now there was an end, an escape. And maybe even a profit. He was a man on top of the world.
As he turned away from the phone, Roth swore he heard someone call his name. At first it merely struck him as odd. Only when he saw the stern, heavy-set man closing in from his right did the alarms go off. Roth instinctively veered away, but then a hand gripped his arm on the other side, a grip that made him feel like an animal whose limb had just been caught in a steel trap. The second man was not as big as the first, but he was smiling in a most congenial, discomforting fashion. Roth hoped for a moment they might be some sort of airport security, but then the one with the smile opened his jacket lapel slightly to reveal an ugly handgun. He spoke in Hebrew and said simply, “Come with us, Mr. Roth, or we will kill you.”
Roth was stunned. He was so clo
se. So close to wealth and freedom. He felt himself being shoved along, back outside the terminal, one brute on each elbow.
“Who are you?” he asked desperately. “What do you want?”
Neither answered. The men steered him toward a car, a big sedan, and the back door swung open as they approached. Roth panicked. He saw a policeman directing traffic some distance up the curb. He tried to cry out, but at that moment there was a crushing blow to his solar plexus. He doubled over in pain, and nearly did a somersault as he was thrown into the back of the car.
Face down on the floorboard, he tried to catch his breath as the car lurched forward. Heavy boots stomped on his back and legs, holding him down. The car surged ahead, winding through a series of turns. He tried to talk again, but the only response was a quick kick to the back of his head. His hands were tied behind his back, and then a black cloth hood was wrestled over his head. He was frantic now, wondering who these people were. There were a number of possibilities. None of them good.
The car stopped suddenly and he heard a loud noise, like a jet engine nearby. Roth was hoisted out of the car to a standing position. He could see nothing through the hood, but now the noise was excruciatingly loud. He was shoved and guided a few yards, then literally lifted off his feet and pulled upward, his legs bashing over a short set of stairs. Someone yanked him again to a standing position and shoved him back until he fell into a soft chair. He felt bindings being secured around his legs and chest. Seconds later came the unmistakable whine of jet engines rising to full power. The acceleration pressed him back into the soft leather seat. He was on a plane. But going where? And with who?
For a few minutes there were no new sensations. The drone of the engines, the draft from an air vent overhead. But he could tell someone was there, watching him. Without warning, the hood was yanked roughly off his head. Involuntarily, Roth’s eyes shut tight, but then he opened them slowly and all became clear. Two men sat staring at him. Two instantly recognizable faces. The former Prime Minister of Israel and the former Head of Mossad glared with daggers of contempt. Pytor Roth knew he was in deep hara.
Christine arrived at the cafeteria to find a madhouse. If Scotland Yard was weathering a typhoon of an investigation, this was the eye of the maelstrom. A narrow refuge where the harried staff could find nourishment, companionship and, if they were really fortunate, a few moments peace.
Her escort, this one a grim, brooding type, parked himself at the door while she lined up at the coffee stand. They’d been granting her more freedom, and Dark confided earlier that she’d be released “soon.” Christine suspected that meant after this morning. The clock on the wall read 9:09. An hour to go. If only she could quit looking.
She took her fix in a Styrofoam cup, black, and searched for an empty table. Nothing was open, but then a familiar face emerged on the far side of the room, waving her over. It was Big Red. His real name, she’d found out, was Simon Masters. Until today, he’d worked the morning shift as her guard. And he was unquestionably her favorite. Yesterday they’d chatted for much of the morning. He was an affable fellow, with a wife and three small children at home. It had been a pleasant diversion to hear how his kids attacked him every time he came in the door. She could easily envision him falling to his knees while three preschoolers climbed onto his wide shoulders, turning Daddy into a sturdy, yet malleable piece of playground equipment.
As she weaved toward him, Christine noted one disturbing difference from the previous day. Masters was wearing some kind of combat uniform. A heavy vest, a belt bristling with gear, and a radio with a wire that ran to one ear. All of it was black.
“Hello, miss.” He insisted on calling her “miss.”
“Good morning, Simon.”
“Sleep well?”
She shrugged.
“Today’s the big day, is it?”
“Yes. What’s with all the armor?”
Masters looked uncomfortable. “Listen, this place is crazy. Me and my mates have a private room in back. It’s much quieter. Would you like to join us?”
“It has to be better than this,” she reasoned.
He signaled to her escort at the door. The man gave a thumbs up and moved to the coffee line himself. Masters then led Christine into an adjoining room, which was indeed quieter. The only occupants were five other men dressed identically to him. They noted her arrival, a few nodding, then went back to their conversations. A wide window at the back gave a panoramic view of a large helicopter outside, settled on a rooftop pad. The pilots were in place, standing by.
“What is all this, Simon?”
He sighed. “It’s the Rapid Response Team. I’ve been put in charge.”
“Response? Response to what?” Christine suspected the helicopter was loaded down with weapons. “Is this about David?”
He nodded. “We’re on standby. If anything … happens, we’ll be called in to find him.”
“Find him? You mean kill him!”
Masters said nothing.
She sat at a table, set down her coffee, and closed her eyes. “Oh, Simon. I’m sorry,” she recanted. “This isn’t your fault.”
He pulled a chair next to hers, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I know this is difficult for you, miss. I truly do. If anything happens and we get called in, I promise to do all I can.”
She nodded. “I know you will. I’m glad it’s you, Simon. I just wish that I could talk to him once more.” She studied her coffee cup. “Do you remember the other day, what happened between me and that Israeli man in the hallway?”
He nodded.
“He told me something. Something that could change David’s out-look entirely. But there’s no way for me to tell him.”
“Would you like to tell me? In case I run across him?”
She smiled forlornly, “Thanks, Simon. But honestly, I don’t think he’d believe it unless it came from that fellow or me.”
Christine spotted another clock on the wall. Did every room in this damned building have one? she wondered. It was 9:20.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Moustafa Khalif could see it in Mohammed Al-Quatan’s face. He felt it himself. Awe. Sheer amazement. It had been that kind of day.
To begin, Al-Quatan had pulled into the fishing docks of Tripoli with a 10 kiloton fission device (arriving well in advance of morning prayers, he’d noted, as if it were an omen). At that same moment, Khalif had been in a private meeting with the Great One himself, who was speechless when told what this small group of state guests had managed to do. From there, the Great One had taken over. He agreed with Khalif. There was only one place to keep such a thing, and arrangements were made immediately to transport it by military helicopter.
Now, hours later, Khalif had caught up with his prize. He was at the Sebha facility, isolated in the far southern reaches of the Libyan Desert. Or rather beneath it. He and Al-Quatan were presently underground, riding an electric golf cart through a tunnel that seemed to have no end. This was the place they had heard about, where important work was done and great secrets kept. It was bigger than Khalif had imagined. Above ground lay a small city — buildings and machinery, all encircled by fences and concertina wire, with guard towers every hundred meters. And then there were the soldiers. Everywhere soldiers. To get this far they’d gone through three security checkpoints. Al-Quatan had been forced to surrender his sidearm at the first. The last had included a full-body scan by some type of walk-through machine, like those in the airports, only bigger.
Then the elevator had taken them down. When it opened, the first thing Khalif noticed was the air. It was stagnant and damp, smelling of sulfur like the water that came from the very deep drinking wells back in Palestine. Then they were guided through a maze of corridors. There were offices, laboratories, and more elevators. Strangest of all was the tunnel through which they now passed. It was big, both wide and tall enough that a good-sized truck could make use of it. Overhead was a continuous, neatly carved arch of rock with a string of lights at
the crest. Occasionally, the earthen ceiling above glistened as the naked bulbs illuminated damp areas where moisture somehow seeped into the long cavern. This concerned Khalif, who thought it unnatural and certainly unsafe, but he kept the thought to himself.
The golf cart made a whirring noise as it scooted ahead, the sound accentuated by a constant echo. At the wheel was Dr. Aseem, the Director of the facility. Next to him was a pock-marked man with a submachine gun in his lap. The two visitors sat on a padded bench at the back. The ride had so far lasted ten minutes, probably over a mile.
“Are we getting close?” Khalif asked.
Dr. Aseem smiled. “We are nearly there.”
“The tunnel is so long,” Al-Quatan remarked.
“I know what you are wondering,” Dr. Aseem said. “In fact, I cannot even tell you how long. Not exactly. No one knows. It is a matter of great secrecy. I also cannot tell you what direction it is from the main complex. You see, the Americans have bombs that can go very deep, so the most sensitive parts of Sebha are some distance from the main buildings. And of course, the main facility itself has been largely deactivated. We had to convince our western friends that we are a peace-loving people.”
Khalif smiled, encouraged to see that the infidel Americans could be outsmarted. The tunnel came to a curve, then passed through a formidable set of steel doors. There, they entered a wide chamber full of equipment, including a small Toyota pickup and a forklift. Dr. Aseem stopped the cart and led his little group to a well-lit door.
Passing through, Khalif was immediately struck by the brightness of the lights. It was clearly a type of laboratory. There were pipes and flasks, workers in white coats, all of it very antiseptic in appearance. He also noticed how much fresher the air seemed here. Dr. Aseem led them down a hallway and eventually stopped in front of a long window. There, slightly below, and behind a thick pane of glass, was the weapon. It sat still and cold, resting on a metal cart as two men presided over it. They looked like surgeons dressed in scrubs, and each had a mask covering his nose and mouth. Something similar to a dentist’s X-ray machine hovered over the shiny steel cylinder.
