“Yes, sir. I’m still in shock.”
“I need you to be brave and take over his duties, effective immediately. Do you think you can you do that for me?”
“Yes, I can, sir.”
“Good. Please contact Mister Mitchell at the Raffles Hotel, and invite him and his friend to lunch with Mister Sandesh tomorrow at his hotel. After that, have one of our corporate jets on standby to fly them to Ambon Island in Indonesia. Make sure that you book them a rental car, and a hotel near the Commonwealth War Cemetery.”
“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else tonight?”
“No. By doing this you will have done a great service to Mister Sandesh and me.”
“I’ll get on this right away.”
Dimov hung up his phone. He tapped his right foot on the floor while he contemplated his next move. A devilish grin appeared on his face as he thought of how to kill and simultaneously ruin the reputations of the two Americans.
17
Muscat, Oman
Professor Al Zawawi greeted Sam and Cardinal with a welcoming smile on his weathered face. He was not a tall man, and had a neatly trimmed white beard on his round face. As befitting an older professor, he wore a tweed jacket, white shirt, and a blue and gold-striped tie.
“Please come in,” said Al Zawawi, ushering his guests into his small office. “Tea?”
“Yes, please,” replied Sam.
Al Zawawi yelled down the hallway in Arabic. A moment later, a young boy dressed in a long, white robe popped his head out of an open room and waved back at the professor.
“Please take a seat,” said Al Zawawi.
Sam and Cardinal each took a seat across from the professor’s cluttered desk. Cardinal made the introductions.
“I hope your flight here to Oman was pleasant enough?” enquired Al Zawawi.
“It was long, but tolerable,” replied Cardinal.
“Have either of you been to Oman before?”
“No, it’s our first time.”
“I hope your time here will be productive.”
Both Sam and Cardinal knew the drill. In the Middle East, nothing got done before tea and pleasantries. After chatting about where they grew up and their families, the young boy walked in carrying a tray with three glasses on it. Al Zawawi handed around the glasses of hot, sweet tea, thanked the boy, and asked him to close the door as he left.
Sam took a sip of the tea. She could taste a hint of mint, honey, and a lot of sugar in the drink. “Your boy is to be complimented. This is the best tea I have had in months.”
Al Zawawi smiled. “It’s is always good to hear when a guest is happy. Now, you have come a long way to talk, so let us get down to business.”
The professor cleared away some books, and spread an old survey map of the Al Hajar Mountains to the south of the capital on his table for all to see. “During the Second World War, four planes crashed in the mountains as they approached the British air base that once existed just outside of the capital. Three of those planes were found. The fourth, the one your office called me about, has never been discovered. I marked the other three on the map, so you can see where they went down and won’t spend your time confusing their wrecks for the one you’re looking for.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Cardinal, studying the map. All three planes had crashed reasonably close to one another, about twenty kilometers from Muscat.
Al Zawawi gave Cardinal a photo of a small, twin-engine plane. “The aircraft you’re looking for is a DH-95 Flamingo. It was used as a transport and liaison aircraft during the war. On the day it vanished, its flight designator was Whiskey-Five, and it was flown by Flight Lieutenant Peter Charles. From what I’ve read in the archives, Charles was new to the region, and had yet to fly more than a dozen hours in Oman. The flight originated from the RAF base on the island of Sur Masirah, and was to finish in the capital. However, as we all know, it never got there.”
Sam stood and bent over the map. “It’s awfully rough-looking terrain where those planes went down.”
“Indeed, it is,” said Al Zawawi. “All three planes that were found had smashed into the sides of mountains at almost three thousand meters above sea level.”
“Professor, in your years of research, have you been able to come up with a theory as to why the authorities never found the fourth plane?” asked Cardinal.
“As a matter of fact, I have,” replied Al Zawawi. “There was a rare rainstorm over the mountains the day Whiskey-Five disappeared. I believe the inexperienced flight crew got lost in the clouds and tragically made a navigational error. There was no GPS back then, so it wouldn’t have been hard to get lost and stray from the usual flight corridor over the mountains.”
“What made you come to this conclusion?” asked Sam.
“I came across a police report from 1942, in which some goat farmers living in Fanja reported hearing a plane fly above them in the clouds and then there was the sound of an explosion in the mountains to the south of where they were.”
“Did anyone go looking for the plane?” asked Cardinal.
“The sergeant who took the report claimed to have taken a drive up into the mountains to look for the wreckage, but found none,” said Al Zawawi. “Because the alleged crash occurred far to the west of the normal flight corridor, the British and Omani forces ignored the police report, and concentrated their efforts farther to the east.”
“Have you ever gone up into the mountains to look for the plane?” asked Sam.
“In my younger days, I would take some of my grad students and hike the mountains. We only ever found a few pieces of metal that looked like they could have come from a plane, but nothing conclusive ever turned up.”
“But you still feel it’s out there, waiting to be discovered, don’t you?” asked Cardinal.
Al Zawawi smiled. “I do.”
“How far is it to Fanja from here?” asked Sam.
“It’s a short, fifty-minute drive,” responded the professor.
“That’ll cut down on travel time,” said Cardinal.
“If you can afford it, I’d recommend you use a plane with a LIDAR pod attached to it, to survey the rocky terrain around Fanja,” suggested Al Zawawi. “It would greatly speed up your search. Unfortunately, my office could never afford such a luxury.”
Both Sam and Cardinal knew that LIDAR stood for light detection and ranging. The technology had been used to find ancient cities lost to time, and natural resources buried under the ground.
“Wouldn’t a helicopter be more versatile?” asked Sam.
“Oman does not allow commercial helicopter flights over its territory,” explained Al Zawawi. “A plane with a good surveillance suite will meet your needs.”
“Could you suggest a reputable pilot, who might be interested in making a few thousand dollars?”
“Not off the top of my head. Leave this with me, and I’ll give you a call at your hotel later today.”
“Sounds great,” said Cardinal, offering his hand.
Al Zawawi shook Cardinal’s hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you both, and good luck with your search. Don’t forget that anything you find is the property of the government of Oman. You’ll need to apply for a permit before you try to excavate the plane, should you manage to locate it.”
“We understand, and will follow the laws of your country to the letter,” said Sam.
Al Zawawi escorted them to the entrance of the history department building. “Please enjoy the rest of your day, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
“We will, and thanks for everything,” said Cardinal, handing the professor a business card with his contact information on it.
Al Zawawi left them, and headed back to his air-conditioned office. The sun hovering overhead was already hot.
“The professor’s given us quite the leg up,” said Sam. “We should aim to kick off at first light tomorrow, before it becomes unbearable out in the open.”
“I agree,” said Cardinal. For now, why
don’t we head back to the hotel and jump in the pool for a couple of hours?”
“Sounds good to me,” replied Sam.
As they walked to their rental car, Sam turned her head and looked south at the mountain range. A chill ran over her, as if warning her to be careful. Sam shook her head and dismissed the sensation as jet lag. She had her best friend by her side. Their assignment was supposed to be benign. What could go wrong?
18
Singapore
Mitchell and Jackson rode the elevator to the penthouse of the Hotel Stamford in silence. In the lift with them were two gruff-looking guards wearing dark suits, sunglasses, and earpieces. As soon as the door slid open, the guards stepped out first before waving the two Rangers to join them in the hallway. Less than twenty meters away stood two more men. Both had compact MP7 submachine guns slung over their shoulders.
“This way, gentlemen,” said one of the guards.
Mitchell and Jackson walked behind the man. The guarded door opened, and Dimov stepped out. Like his men, Dimov wore a dark suit with an earpiece.
“Good day, gentlemen. Please excuse the added security, but after last night, one cannot be too cautious,” said Dimov.
“I agree,” said Mitchell.
“Please, do come in. Mister Sandesh and Baroness Strachan are expecting you in the dining room.”
“I half-expected an elderly English butler to greet us at the door,” said Jackson.
“Normally, you’d be right, but for now it’s my men and me who will decide who gets near Mister Sandesh,” replied Dimov.
Mitchell and Jackson followed Dimov inside the opulent penthouse. The décor was a mix of Sandesh’s home, India, and his adopted one of Singapore.
“Sir, your guests have arrived,” announced Dimov.
Sandesh, sitting at a long, mahogany table with Grace by his side, stood up to greet them. “I’m so happy you could come for lunch with the Baroness and me.”
“Our pleasure,” said Mitchell. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Grace. She sat expressionless in her chair, looking past Mitchell as if he were beneath her.
“Please do join us for some lunch. I hope you like Vietnamese grilled-shrimp salad. It’s one my favorite meals.”
“Sounds delicious,” said Mitchell.
“Yeah, a salad is always on the top of my favorite foods,” quipped Jackson.
“Don’t worry, Mister Jackson. I’ve made sure the chef provided extra shrimp for you,” said Sandesh.
Mitchell and Jackson sat across from Grace and Sandesh. Two white-jacketed servers walked out of the kitchen, carrying silver serving trays on their shoulders. They placed the lunch meal down on the table and quietly left. An aroma of sriracha and mint wafted up from the food.
“Trust me, it tastes as good as it smells,” said Sandesh.
Mitchell took a bite. The food was delicious.
A server returned with four glasses of orange juice and champagne.
“The food’s as good as advertised,” said Jackson, poking his fork into a jumbo shrimp.
“Sir, forgive me for being so blunt, but why did you want Mister Jackson and me to come by before leaving Singapore?” Mitchell asked Sandesh.
“Last night got me thinking, and I’m concerned that there could be a connection between the attack on myself, and the disappearance of Mister Dinu and his daughter,” said Sandesh.
“That’s a possibility,” said Mitchell. “Have you shared your suspicions with the police?”
“No. I was hoping I could hire you to look into this for me.”
Mitchell placed his fork down. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re already working for someone else. If we weren’t, I’d bring up your suggestion with my employer.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping your inquiries would flush out who was behind last night’s attack.”
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it will.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, Mister Mitchell, who are you looking for?” asked the Baroness.
Jackson choked on his food, grabbed his serviette, and coughed out what was in his mouth. “Sorry, a little too much hot sauce on one of the shrimp.”
Mitchell looked Grace right in the eyes. If she was toying with him, it didn’t show. She was as cool as ice. “Baroness, it’s kind of complicated. The person we are looking for is called Grace Maxwell, and she went missing while inquiring about the whereabouts of Max and Nova Dinu.”
“I’m sorry I asked,” said the Baroness. “What kind of name is Grace Maxwell, anyway? It sounds like a made-up actress’s name from the 1960s. I can see the billboard now. Grace Maxwell starring in Elephant Safari. It’s all so dull.”
“Dull or not, my colleague and I have been hired to find her, and our next stop is Indonesia.”
“Dear, don’t you have some business interests there?” said the Baroness to Sandesh.
He nodded. “Several. Most are in and around the capital.”
“Sir, sorry to intrude,” said Dimov, entering the room.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sandesh.
“Nothing, sir. I thought it best if we were to inform your guests of the travel arrangements we’ve made for them to ensure their safety.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Travel arrangements?” said Mitchell, watching as Grace and Dimov exchanged a lingering glance at one another.
“Yes. Mister Dimov thought it would be a good idea if you were to fly to Indonesia onboard one of my Learjets,” explained Sandesh. “A couple of his best men will accompany you while you conduct your search on Ambon Island. Once you’re done, the plane will take you wherever you want to go. I couldn’t in good conscience let you fly to Indonesia without offering to help you.”
“That’s most kind,” said Mitchell. “But we can’t accept. You’re spending far too much money on us.”
“Nonsense. I insist. Besides, your luggage is being packed as we speak. It will meet you at the airport in time for your flight.”
“Thanks for the help, sir,” said Jackson. “Our own personal jet will be most helpful.”
“If Nate thinks it’s okay, then so do I,” said Mitchell, knowing Sandesh had painted them into a corner.
“It’s the least I can do to help,” said Sandesh. “Now, let’s finish our meal in peace before you have to leave us.”
A thought flashed through Mitchell’s mind. He excused himself, stood, and made his way to the bathroom. Inside, he locked the door and reached for his cell phone. As fast as he could type, he sent a message to Dawn. If she didn’t follow it to the letter, Mitchell was confident he and Jackson, like the Dinus, would vanish forever in Indonesia. When he was done, he washed his hands and returned to the table. Mitchell picked up his fork and looked over at Grace. She was playing her part perfectly. The trouble was, he still had no idea what she was playing at, but her clue couldn’t have been clearer. Their next stop was Africa.
19
Polaris Headquarters
“Good morning, ladies,” said O’Reilly, as he walked into Fahimah and Jen’s office in the basement of the building.
“Good morning to you, too, sir,” said Fahimah. “Jen and I were just about to come upstairs to brief you.”
“For the sake of variety, I thought this morning we could conduct your update briefing in your office. Besides, I was out all night with Bill Lancaster’s team while he put a Kenyan Special Police unit through breaching drills in the dark, and you two always have the best-tasting coffee in the building.”
“How did the training go?” asked Jen.
O’Reilly poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’m pleased to say the training went well.”
“Have a seat, sir,” said Fahimah. “Just give me a couple of seconds to bring up the brief on the screen.”
“Take your time.” O’Reilly pulled out a chair and sat. He looked over at Jen. “Is Sarah with her grandmother again today?”
“She is, and my mom couldn’t be happier,” said Jen. “Although by the t
ime I get home, she’s more than ready to hand off Sarah to me.”
O’Reilly smiled. “Diane said she’s coming by tomorrow to see her goddaughter.”
“If work isn’t too hectic, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“General,” Fahimah interrupted, “the information we’re going to present to you is based on some research we have been able to do, based upon what has been provided to us by our people in the field.”
An old black-and-white picture of Darcy Wright appeared. “Sir, after sifting through a ton of heavily redacted PDF files released to us by the British, the only thing we have been able to learn about Mister Wright is that his mission to help smuggle an elderly British citizen out of Hong Kong was not so much about the man as what he had with him.”
“Which was…?” asked the general.
“The files aren’t clear, but it would appear that the man possessed a priceless relic. The British government moved heaven and earth to ensure it did not fall into the wrong hands. Mister Wright was personally escorting the relic and its owner to London when their plane crashed in the mountains south of Muscat, Oman.”
O’Reilly ran a hand over his stubble-covered chin. “Sam and Gordon’s assignment just became a lot more interesting. I take it you were unable to discern what the relic may be from the files the British provided to you?”
“That is correct, sir,” replied Jen. “The only way we know there was a relic on the plane was due to an error made by the person who redacted the files. If the person had been more diligent, we’d still be in the dark.”
“I presume Sam and Gordon have this info?”
Jen nodded. “I sent them a copy of this morning’s brief just before you walked in.”
“Any new news from Ryan and Nate?”
Fahimah changed the image on the screen to that of the Singapore Grand Prix. “As you’re undoubtedly aware, there was an attempt on Varun Sandesh’s life last night at the grand prix.”
O’Reilly shook his head. “Yes, I saw Ryan’s antics on the news. Thank God nothing happened to him.”
Eternal Night Page 11
