The Minzah’s bar had not yet opened for the day, but, a distant memory having been triggered by Ian’s mere mention of the hotel, Philip entered it and stood alone before Lavery’s legendary portrait of Caid Sir Harry MacLean, the early-twentieth-century British army officer and adviser to the Sultan of Morocco, who had been kidnapped and ransomed.
From the hotel he headed on foot toward the place de France. Once he had made a circuit of it, he retreated in the direction of the Medina, where several minutes later he happened upon a courtyard textile market in one upstairs room of which men of several generations had gathered for prayer. Their shoes and sandals had been left, carefully arranged, at the entrance, and Philip made note of both its location and the time.
He walked the streets of the bazaar spontaneously but before long began to feel himself on familiar ground. A moment later he was approached by a young boy with a balsa ukulele for sale.
“Sir,” the boy said. “You buy for your son?”
Philip shook his head. After a few seconds, he recognized the boy from the shop in which he had purchased his box.
“I give you good price.”
“Not interested.”
“Eight euros.”
“No. I told you.”
“Your son will like very much this gift. It is beautiful instrument.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Philip said. “I don’t have a son.”
“One day very soon,” the boy said, “you wait. Until then, six euros.”
The remark disturbed Philip. “I’ll say this,” he said. “You are a better bargainer than your father.”
“No,” the boy told him. “Come on, six euros is cheap.”
“It’s not, and you know it’s not, but I don’t want your damned ukulele at any price. Understand?”
“Five euros?”
“Get lost.”
“You give me two euros?” the boy asked. He seemed to be dancing around Philip suddenly, with the speed and directional improbability of a fly.
“For what?” Philip asked over his shoulder. “Why should I give you two euros?”
“I can be your guide.”
“I’ve no need of a guide.”
“Please, sir, just two. What’s two?”
Philip gestured with the back of his hand. “I’ll give you nothing but trouble if you don’t stop bothering me. You get the hell away from me this instant! Go on!”
“Sorry,” the boy said, retreating at last, “but you make a big mistake, sir. What I offer is very fine.”
“Somehow I doubt it.”
“Trust me, you will be sorry you did not buy it for your son. Just wait.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Isabella studied her watch. “I’d better ring Ian,” she said.
“What time is it?” Ty asked.
“Not quite a quarter past eleven.”
“Go ahead. He’ll know we’ve gone ashore. Why should he object? Actually, I think the Prajaptis were flattered we came along.”
“People like to be seen in the company of film stars. Anyway, to be honest, it isn’t Ian’s reaction that worries me.”
“I can handle Philip,” Ty assured her, “when the time comes.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Isabella asked. “About that and about this whole damned business?”
“I’ll apologize,” Ty said. “Here comes Oliver now.”
Isabella looked across the natural rockery, in which the last of the candytuft flowers were still in bloom, and focused on the rugged figure approaching them. They had taken the cable car to Top Station and begun their partial descent from there along the steep Mediterranean Steps. High above Europa Point, these afforded spectacular views but had to be navigated with care and complete concentration. A few steps down, pausing to steady herself, Isabella grabbed hold of a large iron ring that had been embedded in a rock and awaited Oliver Molyneux. “Sorry not to meet you halfway,” she told him as he drew near, “but this comes in handy.”
“I can see that,” Oliver said. “You know, in another time they would thread chains through those rings and use them to manhandle cannon.”
“How reassuring!”
“This is Commander Oliver Molyneux,” Ty said, “a very old friend of mine.”
“How do you do?” Isabella said. After a second’s hesitation, as she shook his hand and regarded him carefully, she added, “I know you. You’re Laura Molyneux’s cousin?”
“Is she a friend of yours?” Oliver inquired.
“She was a year ahead of me at school.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“We were great mates then, but we seem to have lost track of each other over the years. How is she?”
“She’s very well, married with two children, an impish little boy and a very pretty girl, so no complaints!”
Isabella smiled. “Tell her I asked after her, please, and send her my love.”
“I will,” Oliver said. “So, Ty, where do things stand?”
“It feels like a kettle is about to boil, but that’s purely intuition. All sorts of people come and go, but it’s hard to pin down who’s who. Ian has many more than one ball in the air at any given moment.”
“That’s an understatement,” Isabella added.
“I’m glad you two have found a connection,” Ty said. “Maybe that will make it easier.”
“Make what easier?” Isabella asked. “I haven’t agreed to anything as yet, only to you hear you out.”
“That’s all I meant,” Ty said. “If you know who Oliver is, that should make things easier.”
“Oh, I know who he is, all right. He was already in the navy, the Special Boat Service, I think. He came to Founders’ Day at our school in his uniform the year Laura was head girl. We all just about died.”
“Back to the matter at hand,” Oliver said. “If I need further vouching for, you can ring Admiral Cotton. I believe you know him.”
“I’ve met him. That won’t be necessary. Let’s get on with it, then, shall we?”
“All right,” Oliver said. “Straight to the point: If there are warheads, we’ve lost track of them.”
“You think they may have been offloaded in Naples?” Ty asked, for Isabella’s benefit.
“It’s a distinct possibility.”
“Do you know anything about Ian’s connections in Naples?”
Isabella squinted. “Nothing at all,” she said.
“Never mind,” Oliver said. “You can see where this is headed. We are going to have to figure out their destination and work back from there, and the only clues to that will be aboard Surpass.”
“As I’ve told Ty,” Isabella said, “I don’t have any idea what those might be. If they exist, they will doubtless be somewhere on Ian’s deck, which is effectively—and I do mean effectively—off-limits to anyone but him, including Philip. Beyond that, I wouldn’t know where to start. Who is involved and who isn’t? It’s all smoke and mirrors, isn’t it?”
“Your words, not mine,” Oliver said.
“No, but it is smoke and mirrors,” Isabella explained, “and that’s the wonderful thing about Ian. He creates this air of mystery, and that mystery then empowers him. It gives him all sorts of leverage he wouldn’t otherwise have.”
“You wouldn’t hazard a guess as to his customer?” Ty asked.
“Mine would be no better than yours. It could be anyone, or none of the people you’ve met since you’ve been here. It could a king or group of kings. What it could not be is a terrorist. Ian wouldn’t have a hand in that.”
“A group of kings is an interesting concept,” Ty said.
“Isn’t it?” Oliver agreed.
“Maybe not just a group of kings but a syndicate of sorts,” Ty continued,
“that would allow Ian to justify his action to himself. It would also conform to his widely espoused theory that safety results from standoff. If such a syndicate does exist, who would its members be and who would be in charge?”
Ty did not lift his stare from Isabella.
“If, and only if it did,” she said, “Philip would have to be someplace very near the head. He’s the only one Ian trusts enough. And much as it pains me to say it, Sheik al-Awad would probably be involved, too.”
“Why al-Awad particularly?” Oliver wondered.
“Well, for one thing, he’s spending a fortune on gems he doesn’t appreciate. He doesn’t know a ruby from a piece of stained glass.”
“So,” Oliver said, “either the man’s mad as a hatter or the gems are simply a way of funneling money, a device for Santal to skim, perhaps.”
Isabella frowned. “That’s not exactly his style.”
“Assuming your guess is a good one,” Ty said, “who are the natural bedfellows for Sheik al-Awad?”
Isabella laughed. “You’re asking the wrong person. I’m not in that loop.”
“Tim and Celia Foo?”
“Definitely not! She’s a gossip. That bores Ian. He’s a prude—about business. I’ve heard Ian say as much. That bores him even more. I think they are only still on Ian’s list for old times’ sake.”
“All right then, what about Harry Kosmopoulos?”
“It’s a possibility, but despite the hail-fellow-well-met façade, he’s timid by nature. He’s one of those a-little-here, a-little-there, don’t-bet-the-estate types.”
“Okay, we’ll put him to the side for a moment. What about Rahim Kakar and Aurelien Strigoi?”
“Both candidates, I suppose. I don’t really know them. I only met them when you did.”
“But not the Prajaptis?”
“Absolutely not. The Prajaptis are . . . well, they’re the Prajaptis. They have every reason to be more than satisfied with the status quo.”
“Finally,” Ty said, “the Al-Dosari twins?”
Isabella laughed out loud. “They present the biggest question marks, don’t they? I mean, if one accepts your narrative, Wazir and Fateen have to be implicated in whatever conspiracy might exist. They have hired Philip. They run an enormous fund. They move money all over the world every day. Or at least that’s what I’m told. On the other hand, the raison d’être of their fund is to bring civilizations together, not force them apart.”
“Allegedly. Do you trust them?”
“I’ve never thought about it one way or the other.”
“Is it your impression that they are especially greedy or just good, clever businessmen? In other words, would they risk their legitimacy in honest markets in order to operate and score a big win in the most dishonest one there is?”
“You’d have to ask Philip,” Isabella replied.
“That’s the problem,” Ty told her. “I can’t do that until I know the answer. Oliver, have the SIGINT guys spotted anything?”
“Not even a flurry of innocent wire transfers.”
“Who’s looking?”
“The best geeks we’ve got.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“They’d better be. You know how much they’re paid, don’t you?” Oliver asked.
“No idea,” Ty said.
“A lot more than any of us.”
“Not possible.”
“We’ll, maybe not more than you are. Excuse me. I’d forgot for a moment just what a dish of cream you’d fallen into, but more than the President or Prime Minister. Geeks of their sort are the highest-paid employees of either of our governments. Of course, they’re not formally employees. I believe the correct term is ‘contractors.’”
As this thread of conversation hung in the air, Isabella’s mobile rang. She glanced at it, then at Ty and Oliver. Both men grew silent.
“Hello,” Isabella answered.
“Hello, darling,” Ian said with characteristic enthusiasm, yet against a background of engine roar. “Where are you?”
“On Gib,” Isabella said. “We brought Ajay and Akshar over in the chopper. Ty had never seen the place, so . . . well, naturally . . .”
For an instant, Ian did not respond. Then he said only, “Yes indeed, that’s nice.”
“I can barely hear you,” Isabella said.
“I’m on the tender. What time will you be returning?”
“Soon, I should think. What time do you want us?”
“I don’t know. Whenever you wish, really. What time is it now?”
“Just past noon,” Isabella told him.
“So it is,” Ian said. “I didn’t realize it was that late already.”
Before Isabella could respond, the unanticipated thunder of an explosion tore at her ear, with such volcanic ferocity that she dropped her phone. Ty caught it in midair and handed it back to her. “Ian!” she cried out, frightened but at last raising the speaker to her lips. “Ian! Ian . . . what’s happened? Talk to me!”
Chapter Thirty-four
“Who profits?” Ty whispered.
Oliver nodded toward Isabella, who was on the phone with Surpass’s captain, asking one insistent question after another, desperately clinging to hope. It was clear from her fraught yet self-disciplined tone that her emotions had not yet accepted the fact of Ian’s death. She had yet to shed a tear.
“What do you mean, he was alone?” Isabella demanded. “He and Philip went in together.”
Ty and Oliver listened intently.
“Then where is Philip now?” Isabella asked. “Have you tried his mobile?”
As she digested the captain’s answer, Ty caught Oliver’s eye. “It doesn’t have the feeling of a coincidence,” he said, still quietly. “And if it’s not, then it’s much more likely there are loose warheads, that Philip was the instigator of Ian’s murder, and that this transaction is now so far along that Philip feels confident he can handle it on his own.”
“Of course, it’s a big leap to that conclusion, but not an unreasonable one,” Oliver replied.
“Can you come up with a more likely hypothesis?” Ty asked.
“Don’t I wish I could,” Oliver admitted.
“That’s impossible,” Isabella told the captain then. “Philip’s phone is always on. He would answer any call from you, unless there’s a problem with the reception. Let me try.”
As soon as she had disconnected from the captain, she found Philip’s number on her speed dial. While she waited for the call to go through, she looked at Ty and explained, “Ian spoke to the captain from the tender. He must have rung him just before he did me. He wanted the captain to know that they would not be pulling up anchor until Philip returned sometime after lunch. The captain doesn’t know why he stayed behind.”
“Is it ringing yet?” Ty asked.
“It’s just begun to,” Isabella said, and frowned as she waited in silence. When Philip’s voice mail finally picked up, she said, “Philip, where in God’s name are you? Call me right away. It really is urgent.”
“Let’s go,” Ty said. “You ought to get back to the boat.”
“I’ll make my way down in the next car,” Oliver said.
“Bye, Ollie. I’ll be in touch,” Ty said
“Do. Let me know what you find,” Oliver said as one of the celebrated apes that inhabited the Upper Rock dashed toward him on four legs and then with the front two snatched his canvas bag.
By the time they reached the base of the mountain, Isabella was finally crying. Ty put his arm around her, and she sobbed against his shoulder. The EC130 was on the tarmac at Gib Airport, its pilot already in communication with the control tower. Ty saw Isabella into the front passenger seat, then slid into the one behind. As the chopper rose and
arced and her nightmare solidified into reality, she felt irretrievably lost, as if not only had the man who might as well have been her father died but in doing so had displaced her from the landscape of her life. To Ty the formidable young woman in front of him all at once seemed a vulnerable young girl.
High above the Med now, he studied the coastlines of Spain and Morocco, the intricate roadways, sea lanes, mountains and caves, particularly those of Gibraltar into and from which the sea ebbed and flowed. Everywhere there was movement—cars and aircraft, tankers, barges, pleasure boats. There were more pieces to this puzzle than any man could comprehend, yet this was the battlefield upon which he must triumph or fail.
Philip had just begun his main course of red curry with beef when his driver unexpectedly entered the Tom Yam and began to make his way to Philip’s table. Across the cool room with its Zen decor, the emaciated man appeared distraught. Without bothering to introduce the chauffeur to Fateen Al-Dosari, Philip said, “What’s the matter, Martin?”
“The office has called,” the driver said.
“Whose office?”
“The livery, head office.”
“And?”
“There has been a . . . a bad explosion in the harbor,” the driver stammered.
“Go on.”
“They told me it was the boat from your ship.”
Philip immediately froze his gestures, then regarded Fateen with manifest concern. He said, “How bad?”
“Very bad, Mr. Frost.”
Philip reached into the pocket of his jacket, feeling for his iPhone, but where it had been he found only a dented tin cigarette case. He clutched the mystifying case and studied it, then set it to the side on the tablecloth. He was sure he had not seen it before. He checked his jacket’s other pockets, patted the side pockets of his trousers, stood up and checked his chair and the floor beneath it. “Goddamn it!” he exclaimed.
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