by Patrick Dent
“First of all, don't call me 'Sir'. I work for a living! Sergeant,” Drake looked just above the man's heart, “Hudson, is it? Sergeant Hudson, we are covert ops, we don't carry ID's. And if you don't open this goddamned gate right now, I can guarantee that you will be scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush in Nepal for the next five years.” Drake had spent enough time in the military to know what motivated grunts.
“I'm here on direct authority of Major General Jeremiah Dalton of Fort Benning, Georgia, and I have thirty-eight females that were kidnapped by Moroccan black marketeers. One of them is the daughter of Congressman Hernandez. If I have to ask you again, I swear to god I'll shoot you where you stand, you pompous ass!” Regardless of the threat he made, Drake was smart enough not to draw his pistol.
The Marine recognized the names of the General and the Congressman. This got his attention. He radioed the head of security, and within sixty seconds, he opened the gates and let the battered truck roll onto American soil.
Drake took charge, barking orders to everyone he saw, regardless of rank. Medics rushed to administer aid to the girls. Three had been killed during the escape from the roadblock. Six more were injured, but not seriously. Lupe and her two friends were unharmed. The embassy had rudimentary medical facilities capable of stabilizing the injured until they could be moved to a local hospital. The rest of the girls were escorted to the living quarters where they were allowed their first shower in weeks. Clean and dressed in cotton robes, they went immediately to the cafeteria, which was still serving breakfast. A lance corporal made a list of their sizes and arranged for the purchase of western clothes.
Drake and Gip refused food and medical care, demanding to see the Ambassador immediately. They met no resistance.
Muddied and bloodied, Drake and Gip walked into the Ambassador's office. The expansive room was ornate, with hardwood floors, original Monet's and a bust of Richard Nixon in the corner. There was a large circular throw rug in front of his desk displaying the seal of the US president. The Ambassador was a portly man, with a light peppering of sweat on his bald head. He had a blonde Van Dyke beard that gave him an approachable look. He wore a conservative gray business suit not quite large enough to accommodate his frame. If he noticed the disheveled appearance of his guests, he gave no indication. He didn't even flinch when they plopped their filthy bodies into his pristine wingback guest chairs.
“Mr. Ambassador, I'm Sergeant First Class Drake and this is Specialist-5 Gibson,” Drake said in a formal tone.
“Gentlemen, welcome. May I offer you some form of refreshment?”
“Maybe later, Sir. Right now we need to talk.”
“Of course. I understand you've had quite an adventure in Morocco.”
“I wouldn't use that particular word to describe it, Mr. Ambassador. 'Romp through Hell' comes to mind,” Drake said.
“I'm terribly sorry to hear of your hardship,” he said in a tone one might use to calm a frightened animal. “May I offer you something to drink? I just received a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch from my stateside brother. Such extravagances are difficult to come by here, with the local religion prohibiting drinking and all.”
“No thank you, Sir,” Drake said flatly. He thought of Shaqra, with the stolid bartender who served up booze by the bottle. Apparently, the Muslims had at least one thing in common with the Christians – hypocrisy. “We're in a bit of a rush, and we need your help. Maybe after we talk, we could get a hot meal.”
The Ambassador spoke into his intercom, ordering a food for four. His assistant promised to have it ready within fifteen minutes. He returned his attention to the two ragamuffins in front of him. “I'll do anything I can, of course. Please tell me what you need.”
“Sir, we just wrested thirty-eight girls from the hands of heavily armed white slavers. Three were killed in the escape, but we do have Lupe Hernandez, the daughter of Congressman Hernandez, as well as two other American citizens. The other thirty-two are assumed to be Brazilian. We must contact Major General Dalton at Fort Benning immediately to inform him of the status of our mission. Once that is done, we must entrust these girls to your care. Six are wounded, but all require medical attention for shock and dehydration. At some point, they will require deportation. Sergeant Gibson and I have more business to conduct, and as I mentioned, we must leave as rapidly as possible.”
“I wish you could stay longer. I'm anxious to hear the details of what must have been a heroic endeavor.”
“Mr. Ambassador, we simply don't have time for diplomatic pleasantries,” Drake said.
“Of course. I personally assure you these women will receive the best of care. You may use my private line to conduct your affairs. It is quite secure. When you are finished, we will provide you with whatever transportation you need.”
“Thank you, Sir. Mr. Ambassador, do you have anyone on the premises who can read Arabic?” Drake asked.
“Certainly. I am fluent in both spoken and written Arabic.”
“I have something I need to show you.” Drake produced Tartus' notebook. “This notebook belongs to a man named Tartus. He's the leader of a global white slavery enterprise.”
“Interesting,” the Ambassador said, taking the notebook.
“Sir, we need to know anything that might help us locate this man, Tartus.”
The Ambassador perused the notebook for a few minutes. “Well, much of it is personal in nature – a list of names and phone numbers, a ledger of debts. Oh, here's something. There is a reference to a lunch meeting on the 17th, that's tomorrow, at a restaurant called Kahlid's in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, on the patio. It does not say whom he is meeting. Kahlid's is probably one of the ritziest restaurants in Riyadh. Does this have any significance?”
“If we know where Tartus will be and when, it has great significance. Sir, we must ask you a favor.”
“Anything, my friends.”
“We need identities, passports and papers that will get us into Saudi Arabia today.”
The Ambassador's eyebrows raised in curiosity. “What you ask is unconventional, not to mention illegal.”
“Sir,” Drake began.
“However…” the Ambassador raised his hand, palm facing Drake. “I think we can accommodate your request.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Tartus arrived ten minutes early for lunch. Although he was unable to deliver the goods he had promised, he kept the appointment. Damage control of this magnitude must be done in person. He scanned the patio. King Fahr was nowhere in sight, but two men who appeared to be bodyguards were already casing the restaurant. Sweat glistened on his brow as the midday sun beat down on him. He was beginning to regret choosing a patio table, but Fahr enjoyed eating outside.
He was still in shock from the events of the past seventy-two hours. Apparently, an American task force had wiped out an operation that took him over twenty years to build in a matter of hours. Had someone told him that just two men had taken down the Kechla citadel, he wouldn't have believed it. Based on the reports from his security detail, there had been at least an entire platoon of ground forces with coordinated artillery strikes as well.
When he had returned to Kechla, the dead were strewn everywhere. Many were so shredded that the parts could not be matched with the bodies. His grounds looked like some malign butcher had passed his men through a meat grinder. It hadn't been easy to find men willing to clean up that mess. He had lost thirty-four men – his entire staff, not to mention twenty-two of the mercenaries he had hired to recapture the girls. Falon was still missing, and at this point, considered dead.
Tartus was not looking forward to this meeting. He had pre-sold the American girls to King Fahr and hated to renege on his promises. It was not good for business. He strained to conceal his agitation, taking in deep, calming breaths.
Fahr approached from the sidewalk. Due to the lunchtime crowds, Tartus did not see him until he was a few meters from the patio. He recognized Fahr's be
ard before he saw the details of his face. The jet-black mane came to a sharp point about ten inches below his chin. The portion of his face not covered by hair was ruddy. Beady eyes a little too close together peered through wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hello, my friend,” Fahr said, “It has been too long since we last met.”
“Indeed,” Tartus replied in the calmest tone he could manage, “How have you been?”
“I am fortunate in that I am always in good health. And yourself?”
“Everything is fine. Business is strong.”
“What an odd response,” Fahr said. “I ask about your well-being, and you respond with an assurance about your business.” King Fahr was known to be an extremely perceptive man. Tartus had also grossly miscalculated the power and speed of the grapevine from Morocco to Fahr. Fahr expressed concern, leaning toward Tartus. “Is something troubling you?”
“Not at all, Honorable One,” Tartus responded. “It's just that sometimes I can't get my mind off of the daily details of my work. I guess it shows, huh?”
“You appear upset. Your breathing is deliberately slow and controlled. And why do you keep your hands in your lap? What is it about them that you do not wish me to see?”
“Honorable One, you see right through me. I admit that I am a bit preoccupied at present. But, it is nothing that will impact our relationship,” Tartus said.
“Then, you have what you promised?”
“Promise is a strong word, Honorable One. I may have been premature in passing along second hand information. My Brazilian connection radioed me with news that he had three American girls in his most recent shipment. However, once I inspected the girls, I deemed them to be inferior merchandise. Certainly not befitting a king.”
“Why am I just hearing of this now? Three days ago you said everything was on track. You told me you'd inspected the girls yourself and everything was a go. Such a miscommunication could have dire consequences for our business relationship. I believe you'd better clean these girls up and deliver them as promised. I will judge the quality of the merchandise.” Fahr's voice had the calmness of a man who possessed absolute power. There was no need for a threatening tone. His words were sufficient, as they were always translated into action.
“Honorable One…” Tartus' hands were shaky. He strained to resist wiping the sweat from his brow. “I have already disposed of the girls. They were diseased. I practically had to give them away. Surely The King would rather wait for the next shipment. I'm already working on a deal involving Southern California.” He referred to the scam the American agent had proposed.
“You plan to kidnap American citizens from their own soil? I find this implausible. Even a man with your connections cannot make it through American Customs with such cargo.”
“I have a man there who is setting up a travel agency. He will lure the girls out of America under the guise of a free vacation giveaway. Once they are in a location with friendlier authorities, we can make our move. This will work.” Tartus was lying at the speed of thought. He needed two things. First, he had to mollify King Fahr. Second, he needed to buy time. Within thirty days, he could rebuild his staff. But, with Falon gone it would be a challenge to reestablish his connections. And what about Fejo? In retrospect, he might have been a little harsh with him. He hoped he hadn't alienated the man.
“Interesting,” Fahr said, stroking his beard. “What you propose may work. However, I can assure you that my disappointment will know no bounds if you let me down again.”
Something struck Tartus as odd. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the crowd was not right. Had he seen a familiar face? He turned to look up the sidewalk, scanning the crowd.
* * *
“I think he made me,” Drake whispered into the microphone under his robes.
“Man, with that fake beard I hardly recognize you,” Gip responded.
“I've got a bad feeling about this. See those two guys at the corners of the patio? They're just a little too attentive. I think they're Tartus' men.”
“Look, even if they are, the plan will work. Let's do this thing.”
Drake's hands were surprisingly steady. He and Gip had seen Kahlid's for the first time just a few hours before. Their plan was quickly formed and required quick execution. He put himself in a semi-meditative state, filtering out everything except his target. This helped to calm his hands, which was critical to accuracy, even at close range. Beneath the sleeve of his robe, he held a silenced .22 pistol, the preferred weapon for close range assassination. Higher caliber weapons were noisy, even when silenced, and passed effortlessly through the human head, sometimes leaving the target alive. A .22 was quieter and tended to bounce around inside the skull, ensuring death.
Drake looked around him. As far as he could tell, he blended into the crowd in the Arabic garments the Embassy had given him. Twenty meters now. He matched pace with the crowd. Ten meters. Tartus was scanning the crowd, but his attention kept returning to his lunch companion. The other man was of no concern to Drake. There wouldn't be time for a second shot, especially with the bodyguards. Five meters. If Tartus looked his way again, Drake was close enough to take the shot. It would be messier from a distance, but it could be done. One meter.
* * *
Tartus was still listening to Fahr's admonition when he spotted the gun. His razor sharp mind took just a split second to sort out the facts. The American from the catacombs! How could this be? Who was this devil? He was already ducking when he heard a staccato series of explosions from across the street.
As Drake raised his pistol to shoot, Gip lit a string of firecrackers across the street. In a country where terrorism was commonplace, the percussion of the firecrackers caused a panic. The crowd screamed and scattered in every direction. Gip joined them.
Drake squeezed off the shot from arm's distance. A red dot appeared just off center of Tartus' forehead. He slumped to the right, falling beside the table in an unnatural heap. With him, the last pillar of the Moroccan white slave market died.
Fahr had already flipped his chair over and was hiding beneath the table. His bodyguards moved into action immediately. One raced to his king's aid, prepared to use his body as a shield. The other went after the sound of gunshots across the street.
Drake kept pace with the crowd, breaking into a jog and taking a left at the next street. He hastily removed his fake beard and black robe, revealing a white robe underneath. As he ran, he wrapped the beard and gun into a tight ball inside the robe. In the general panic, no one noticed when he dropped the package into a trashcan. He reduced his pace to match the crowd.
* * *
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
King & Prime Minister Fahr al-Azon Al Saud was disheveled. He sat at his kitchen table, surrounded by his security task force. “How could this happen? How could an assassin walk right up and nearly shoot me?”
“Sir,” his head of security began.
“I don't want to hear your excuses! You were charged with protecting the life of the most powerful man in the Arab nations and you have failed.” He turned to face his second in command. “You, arrest this man. Execute him at dawn.” If the security chief was surprised to hear this, he didn't show it.
“We will discuss this in detail later. I have a press conference to prepare for.” Fahr spoke directly to his new security chief. “Do you think you can get me through this press conference alive?”
“Yes, Honorable One. I will triple the contingent of guards.”
“Then do it. I don't want to spend one second alone for the next forty-eight hours.”
Fahr struggled to understand the reason behind the assassination attempt. Who would do such a thing? Why? The Israelis? No, that wasn't their style at all. He remembered what the Japanese Emperor had said after bombing Pearl Harbor. He feared Japan had awakened a sleeping giant. Had he done the same? Certainly the Americans fought the embargo, but they wouldn't assassinate a head of state, would they? Such an action woul
d imperil their status in the UN.
Then again, there was no link to America in this incident. There was no link to anyone. The attack could be blamed on any number of extremist groups. He thought of the news stories he had watched where American soldiers had wiped out entire villages in Vietnam. Civilian men, women and children had been slaughtered over ideological differences. Would a country capable of such acts hesitate to take one man's life when billions of dollars of oil were on the table? No, they would not.
He knew what he must do. The Arab nations would not oppose him because they could not risk appearing divided to the UN. Such divisiveness would weaken them in the eyes of the world.
* * *
The Prometheus
Commander Rymes was tense. Today was his opportunity to restore his good name. He had checked every system on the Prometheus and all were in working order. He was somewhat concerned about using brand new equipment that hadn't been field tested, but everything seemed in top shape. Within the next three hours, he would receive the launch codes that would enable him to fulfill his mission. He still had no idea what the targets were. In fact, he wouldn't know when he received the codes. He would have to hear about it in the news. Rymes tried something he rarely did. He prayed, not for his glorification, but for the safety of his men.
Killian strolled onto the bridge and immediately stopped in his tracks. A combat veteran, he recognized prayer when he saw it. He tiptoed away, leaving the commander to make his peace.
* * *
Langley, Virginia
Special Agent Robert Fulton watched the press conference with relish. King Fahr was expected to announce a price increase as well as a production cut. He glanced at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. His man in the Suez Canal would begin the rerouting of ships within an hour. Two hours later, he would transmit the launch codes that would ensure American control of the world's power supply into the next century.
