by Patrick Dent
Once there, they were moved to the catacombs below Tartus' citadel. Built during the Saadian Dynasty by the Portuguese, the Kechla citadel was enormous. Including the catacombs, there were over sixty thousand square feet in Kechla. The dungeon itself could accommodate over one hundred guests. Tartus' three thousand acre tract of surrounding property ensured complete privacy, enough privacy that they did not bother using the chloroform. With an empty cell between each prisoner, Tartus did not worry about communication among his girls.
Clients were welcome to visit and view the goods. Buyers came from far and wide to acquire household servants, wives, slaves, prostitutes, and of course, stock for their harems.
“And what about the Americans?” Tartus asked, his voice casual. Falon knew Tartus had been eager to inspect the rare new product. Nearly all of his merchandise came from third world countries. The three American women would bring him a premium much higher than the other thirty-five combined. Falon figured Tartus had already pre sold King Fahr, who would certainly pay the most generous premium for such a treasure.
“They are safe and sound,” Falon replied.
“I want to see them right away.”
After descending the stone steps leading to the lower level, Falon led Tartus to the right. They walked in silence past the heavy wooden doors on either side, hearing but ignoring the cries of the women who pressed their faces to the narrow barred openings in each door. Near the end of the hallway, they walked through an area barren of occupants for perhaps twenty meters. Finally, they reached the three cells containing the most precious goods.
Falon was proud that he had done his job exceptionally. Not only were the American girls separated from the rest of the group, they were evenly spaced among twelve cells. This ensured no communication between them. Tartus had told him the greatest threat to submission was communication. If prisoners were allowed to talk to one another, they redeveloped something that the trans-Atlantic travel had squashed – hope. A human being without hope was as malleable as a lump of clay in a potter's hand, something to be molded to the desired shape.
When they reached Lupe's cell, Falon gestured for Tartus to look through the slit in the door.
* * *
When Tartus stuck his face in the slit, he was surprised to see a woman's face right before his. She screamed at him in English.
“You bastard! I'm an American citizen! You can't get away with this shit! My father will see you rot in jail.”
Tartus involuntarily withdrew, not accustomed to such boldness in a prisoner. Her stunning beauty also took him aback. She was American, all right. She had jet-black hair, with large brown eyes, and had slightly Hispanic features. But, her race would not matter. She was obviously of the finest stock. Her look and manner screamed upper middle class America. I'll have to renegotiate price with King Fahr for this one, he thought.
“My Pretty, you will fetch me a fine bounty,” Tartus said in English.
The American promptly spat in his face. Tartus paused for a moment, and then belly laughed.
“My Pet, you have just increased your sticker price two fold,” he said with a mile wide grin on his face. His calm demeanor served simply to further enrage Lupe, who tried in vain to fit her hand through the tight bars to claw his brown face. Tartus chuckled and strolled to the next occupied cell.
This one cowered in the corner. Her golden hair was dingy and matted, but her beauty was undeniable. She sat with her knees held tightly to her chest. The girl wore no jewelry. No big surprise there, since Fejo's crewmen tended to have sticky fingers when it came to such things. Tartus did not mind the pilfering. It was part of the economics at that level.
She was obviously upper middle class American as well. Tartus could tell by the look in her eyes. Most of the Philippine and Brazilian girls had accepted their fate by this stage. This girl was in denial. Tartus saw the gears in her head turning, imagining some American knight in shining armor coming to her rescue.
The third cell contained a brunette, pacing wildly on bare feet. She did nothing to suggest she was even aware of Tartus' presence. Again, she smacked of America. Although her clothes were dingy, they were obviously expensive.
“Be sure to clean these three by morning. They are earmarked for a special client.”
“As you wish, Tartus,” Falon replied. Typically, the girls were sold in their natural state, as Tartus' normal clientele did not make a fuss over such things, their own personal hygiene leaving something to be desired.
Tartus heard the soft noise of sandal clad feet approaching, the leather soles grinding the ubiquitous sand into the stone floor. He looked to see Shahid, his head of security, walking hurriedly toward them.
“Sir, Fejo is here to see you. He says it's urgent.”
“With Fejo, it's always urgent,” Tartus replied. He had little patience for Fejo. “Tell him I'll meet him in the great hall.”
“As you wish, Tartus.”
* * *
When Tartus entered the great hall, he saw Fejo pacing nervously, waiting for him. He paused to soak in the glory of his favorite room. With forty-foot ceilings, the ground floor of his home was impressive, even to his most elite clientele. Richly restored sixteenth century tapestries covered the walls. On the east wall, there was a twelve-foot high fireplace with an authentic iron cauldron hanging idly above the carefully stacked logs.
“Tartus, we have trouble,” Fejo opened, speaking in his native tongue of Portuguese.
“English, Fejo. Or have you forgotten?” When dealing with people of other cultures, Tartus preferred English as the common denominator. Virtually everyone he knew spoke at least passable English. This was more an industry standard and professional courtesy than a necessity. Tartus had a facility for languages, being conversant in eleven tongues. “Now, what is this about trouble?”
“My boat was taken. My crew is assumed dead.”
“What?” Tartus asked in surprise. The disgusting but profitable little man had quite efficiently acquired Tartus' undivided attention.
“I barely escaped with my life.”
“Slow down, and start from the beginning.”
“We met Falon as planned, in international waters. The transfer of the merchandise was routine. But, when we approached Tarfaya, the Harbor Patrol intercepted us. It seemed to be a routine pass by or inspection. I was unconcerned at first. It's my job to have such men in my pocket, and I'm exceptionally good at my job.
“But when they were just about alongside, they opened fire and killed at least four of my crew in front of my eyes. They maneuvered to board my ship, and I was lucky to escape with my life. I didn't even have time to lower a lifeboat. I had to swim over two miles through ten-foot seas to reach the shore. I can tell you, I nearly drowned several times. I heard automatic weapons firing as I swam for my life. I must assume my crew was taken or murdered. What kind of savages would do such a thing?”
“Fejo, the first thing you need to do is calm down. Serenity always precedes success. The more pressure you feel, the more slowly you must act. My people have an ancient saying, 'Adversity introduces a man to himself.' So, Fejo, whom did you meet when your ship was under attack? A man of courage, or a good swimmer?”
“Tartus, you don't understand! If I hadn't escaped, there would be no one to warn you of this threat!”
“How many were there? How many men?” Tartus asked.
“Uh, two that I saw.”
“Two men? Against how many in your crew? Eight? Ten? What kind of imbeciles do you hire?”
“Tartus, the crewmen are sailors, not soldiers. We've never encountered anything like this before,” Fejo said.
“You know what I think? I think if you hadn't escaped, you might have killed the attackers and I wouldn't be facing a threat to a multi million dollar business.” Tartus' face was growing red with frustration and rage. Fejo's incompetence had placed his entire operation at risk.
Falon had maneuvered behind Fejo and was awaiting a signal from his bo
ss. He had seen such confrontations before, and he knew Tartus never raised his voice purely for show. Something ugly was about to happen.
Other staff members quietly appeared along the periphery of the great hall, their hands resting on their weapons. Most carried modern semi-automatic or automatic firearms, but a few still brandished traditional knives and short swords.
Tartus' men were well trained in the art of war, and any of them would die for him without hesitation. That willingness was the true measure of an army in Tartus' opinion. The choice of weapons was merely a detail.
“Tartus, I am not the enemy here! We must work together to find out what is going on. We don't know who these men are or what they are after.”
“And how have your actions brought us closer to knowing these things?” Tartus had to remind himself not to kill the man. He had made this promise to himself. His jaw was tight, and his eyes squinted. He leaned progressively forward into Fejo's face.
He forced his entire body to relax a notch or two. He nodded at Falon, who immediately knew to restrain Fejo. There was little danger that the man was armed, as everyone was subjected to a thorough search before entering Tartus' home.
“What is this?” Fejo asked in bewilderment as his arms were pinned behind him. Fejo looked around wildly as at least six other men converged on him. “Tartus! I am your loyal servant. I can help you find these men. I, I'm the single living person who can identify them. Please!”
“Fejo, I will not kill you, not this day. But, you must be reminded of your failure to serve me properly. Since you have demonstrated you are a man who runs away from danger, I'm going to help you with this problem. I assure you - the next time you are under pressure - you will not run. You will, by necessity, remain and have to think or fight your way through it. This will make you stronger by making you weaker, so to speak. Falon, please cut both his Achilles tendons.” This last part Tartus spoke in Arabic.
“No! Please!” Fejo screamed back in Arabic, not being totally ignorant of the tongue. But, Tartus was done talking, at least for now.
When the other men arrived, they roughly threw Fejo on the banquet table, face down. Two men lay across the backs of his legs while three others restrained his upper torso. Falon, renowned for his lack of emotion, calmly drew his knife and sliced the rear of each of Fejo's ankles to the bone. The man was hobbled for life.
Although the quantity of blood was terrifying to Fejo, it was by no means life threatening. No arteries had been severed. He would live to serve another day, but would never run again. In fact, he would walk only with great difficulty and the assistance of a cane for the balance of his life. Tartus smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Langley, Virginia
Special Agent Fulton wrung his hands in nervous tension. The Prometheus was nearly in place. Soon, he would have to set the plan into action. Although he knew his mission was pure and righteous, he still had the normal human doubts. Like all great men, he was not concerned about his game plan. He was worried about Murphy's Law. He remembered the courage and patriotism of his father during WWII. The man had stormed a hill infested with the enemy – an enemy hiding in caves. Fulton's enemy was flagrantly in the open, but somehow more elusive. The Gulf Six had raised the price of Saudi crude by an additional seventeen percent. The rat bastards actually had the gall to announce further production cuts on the heels of the price increase.
Fulton's homeland was threatened by a superpower more insidious than the goddamned Japs. These people were actually taking his country with the full knowledge and consent of the American public. Blue-blooded Americans were waiting in line for two hours to purchase gasoline.
Well, let the Arabs have their fun while it lasted. The Nixon administration would go down in history as the greatest leadership of the twentieth century. With Israel's government all but destroyed by Soviet missiles coming from the direction of Saudi Arabia, the US could justifiably bring down the hammer on the Saudis. Massive air attacks would take out most of the major cities within a few months, beginning with the capitol city of Riyadh, and the oilfields would be America's.
Fulton was calmed by the knowledge that his was a superior vision. He relished his morning coffee, knowing he would be one of the unsung heroes in American history. In fact, anonymity was something of a comfort to him. Nixon had the tough job. He didn't have the liberty of short cutting the system for the greater good. That was the job of the CIA. That was the job of Special Agent Robert Fulton.
* * *
The Prometheus
“Three more days,” Rymes said to Killian. It was the morning of March 15th, and both men knew the waiting was almost over.
“Still got the jitters?” Killian asked.
Rymes simply stared at Killian through bloodshot, sleep-deprived eyes. He was exhausted from stress, and was afraid his judgment was impaired.
“Sir, all this worrying won't help. We need you at your best on the eighteenth,” Killian said.
“Joe, I know you mean well, but trust me when I tell you to back off this issue.” Rymes was curter than he intended to be, but he was struggling just to hold himself together.
“Skipper, I'm only trying to help. If you need anything, to talk, anything, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks, Joe. I don't mean to be harsh, but men's lives are on the line here.”
“Well, they couldn't be in better hands. I don't think you realize how rare compassion is in a commander.”
“Again, thanks. Now go make your rounds. I want every circuit checked and double checked.”
“Aye Sir,” Killian said as he turned on his heel and headed down below deck.
* * *
Safi, Morocco
“So, did you find out?” Drake asked. Gip had been working the slums of Tarfaya in search of this Falon. Drake had expected him several hours earlier.
“What do you think, Man? Why would I come back without the answer? Falon is known to frequent a bar on the northern side of Safi – a real shithole, from what I hear, called Shaqra.”
“So, that's it, huh? Let's just hope we have better luck than Sierras One and Two did,” Drake said.
“Hope? Luck? Shit, man, we need better than that. What we need is to avoid the mistakes those other dudes made.”
“We're not taking their approach,” Drake said.
“I know that. What I don't know is what approach we are taking.”
“I'm telling you, I've got it worked out in broad strokes. First, we go to Shaqra and find Falon.
“That's your plan?”
“That's the plan, until I hear a better idea. The way I figure it, we don't have more than a few days to find Lupe and her friends. If it takes much longer, they will already have been sold. I get the feeling that in this business, speed is essential.”
“Hey,” Gip said, changing the subject, “I've got to ask you something. I saw the way you iced Felipe, and I saw the way you dealt with that guy on the boat. I know you put on this stone cold act, but this almost seems personal to you. You're even calling the girl by her first name – someone you've never even met.”
“Gip, have you ever been in love?”
“I've been in love plenty of times. Never for more than one night, though.” Gip chuckled.
“What if Lupe was the girl you loved?”
“But she's not. That's the point.”
“But someone does love her. That's the point.”
“You know, for a cold blooded killer, you sure have a big heart. I mean I'm standing next to a man who can torture someone to death in the morning, then turn around and refuse to eat meat for lunch cause it's inhumane. What's up with that?”
“Like I said, the cow never pissed me off.”
“Yea, well if I'm ever about to piss you off, do me a favor and let me know before you go pulling out my fingernails with some rusty old pliers.” Gip grinned.
“Deal. Now let's find this Falon.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shaqra<
br />
Initially, Drake had thought sparse clothing, such as the khaki shorts and short-sleeved white shirts worn by tourists, would beat the heat. But it hadn't taken him long to adopt the maximum coverage philosophy of the natives. The sun, sand and wind were brutal, and could sap the strength out of even a deep-south boy like Drake. They were traveling down a comically dusty road in the back of a taxi, just north of Safi, Morocco.
After the taxi dropped them off, Drake and Gip assessed their surroundings. They were in an ancient wooden building, with sagging eaves. The roof looked on the verge of collapse. They were in a remote section of Safi, where the streets were notably devoid of the vendors and beggars so typical in this strange country. The lack of traffic did have one major negative effect. The earth was not packed down. Sand bit into their faces and hands, carried by a perpetual cross wind.
Drake opened the door, and the contrast between the blinding sun outside and the pitch darkness within made the doorway resemble a porthole into another universe. He and Gip stepped inside. When the door closed behind them, they were momentarily incapable of seeing anything other than what Drake's mother called 'sun spots'.
They stood there for the better part of a minute, each pretending to be surveying the place, while they were actually praying their retinas had not been scorched beyond repair by the West African glare. As their eyes adjusted, they saw perhaps twenty or twenty-five customers, scattered throughout a two hundred seat bar. One bartender lazily read a magazine, apparently unconcerned about his clientele. The patrons did not seem to care. They had the look of men who valued privacy. Drake noticed the occupants were all men. Perhaps this was the Moroccan version of a gentleman's club. The principal difference was that, instead of exploiting women as their American counterparts did - gawking at naked specimens, the Moroccans excluded them entirely. Drake reminded himself that he was in a different culture, one he'd better learn quickly unless he wanted it to be the last he ever saw.
