Authors: Bill Evans
* * *
Goddamn brown buggers.
The sun beat down so hard that Rick Birk felt broiled alive in the blinding tropical heat. The skinny jihadist he’d dubbed Raggedy Ass had given him a swig of water but it had been hours since Birk had had a
real
drink. If he’d been dealing with anyone but an Islamist, he’d have offered to split his hooch just to get a few sips for himself. He still had his flask because, interestingly enough, Raggedy Ass and Suicide Sam hadn’t patted him down. Everybody—even fucking jihadists—figured he was too old to be a serious threat.
Well, maybe he, Rick Birk, who had survived the Shining Path guerrillas in Peru, the Vietcong, and right-wing death squads in more Latin American countries than George W. Bush could possibly name, had a gun in an ankle holster and was about to put a stop to all this madness.
Yeah, right. If only …
He wondered if he could convince Raggedy Ass that the flask contained very important medicine. He’d always thought about wearing one of those bracelets that lepers and diabetics have for emergencies, only instead of a snake curled around a staff, his would show a cheerful bottle of Bombay gin.
Fuck.
Fat lot of good a medical bracelet would do him now. Raggedy Ass was too busy to bother with him anyway. Had more
important
things to do, like dragging dead bodies down to the deck, the back of their heads bounce-bounce-bouncing off every metal step on the stairway, then leaving a big smear all the way over to the railing till they got the old heave-ho. Right in front of Birk. Who
wouldn’t
need a drink?
Oh, no, here he comes with number nine.
Birk couldn’t see Raggedy Ass because the aged correspondent was still lying facedown on the goddamn deck. But he heard the head of number nine—
bumpita-thumpita-bumpita—
and he was keeping track because when he got out of this mess he wanted to be able to report every little detail with absolute accuracy. He could already see the George Polk Award for foreign reporting hanging on the wall of his new
corner
office.
Christ, this one’s a moaner. Ah, Jesus fuck, there he is.
Not just moaning, but rolling his brilliant blue eyes in crazed panic. Catching Birk’s gaze and staring at him while Raggedy Ass hauled him to the railing.
Raggedy Ass paused and stared at the man, whose moans heightened in intensity. Then the jihadist screamed at him. Might have been “Shut up” in whatever bone-in-the-throat language he claimed, but if it was, the tanker crewman paid no attention.
The hijacker lifted the man up and pushed him over. Long way down to Davy Jones. At least fifty, sixty feet just to the water. And the sharks.
Oh, God, the sharks.
Birk’s groin tightened. With all the body bait that Raggedy Ass had dumped overboard, Birk figured there had to be a feeding frenzy down there by now. God knows, there were plenty of those deep-blue devils in the Maldives: The country had declared itself a shark sanctuary.
Raggedy Ass wiped his bloody hands on his bloody pants as he walked over to Birk. The correspondent did his best to keep his tone supplicating when he said, “Please, Mr. Raggedy Ass, scum-fuck terrorist, please don’t miss my vitals when you shoot me.”
Raggedy Ass peered at him suspiciously, as if trying to unlock the secrets of this severely sunburned old wreck.
“That’s right, needle dick, blow my brains out proper when it’s my turn.”
“Dick? Dick?” Raggedy Ass asked.
Oh, sweet Lord. Fucker knows one word of English and it’s got to be that one.
Raggedy Ass stared at him, and Birk offered his most craven smile. The jihadist grabbed his shoulder and dragged Birk to his feet. Emaciated, but strong. Raggedy Ass turned him to face the wall, kicked Birk’s feet apart as sharply as any NYPD tactical officer, and searched Birk’s pockets, finding his cell phone, notebook, pen, a fistful of blank receipts so he could cheat on his expense account, and, finally, Birk’s most prized possession.
Raggedy Ass unscrewed the flask, smelled the gin, and pulled his nose away in disgust. Birk looked over his shoulder, watching the jihadist pour out the liquor in a slow, tantalizing stream. The correspondent almost sank to his knees to try to intercept the precious, fragrant flow. But no, he held back and watched the flask empty even as he filled with longing deeper than the sea itself, thinking,
Bastard. Asshole. Shitface. Scum fuck,
and every other deprecation that came to mind.
Raggedy Ass cracked him on the head with the flask, then hurled it into the ocean.
Goddamn him.
That flask had more miles on it than a gypsy caravan.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Raggedy Ass kicked the backs of Birk’s knees, collapsing the old sod into a heap before he walked back up the stairs. Another body to retrieve, no doubt.
How many more before it’s my turn?
Birk’s eyes dropped to the gin-soaked deck. His tongue followed.
* * *
Jenna hurried out of Elfren’s office. Marv rushed after her, puffing audibly.
“Lucky break for you, huh?” he said, resentment poorly contained.
“Yeah, too bad for the planet.”
Jenna took the stairs rather than endure the elevator with him, guessing correctly that he wouldn’t follow her if it entailed any physical effort.
She rushed into her office, giving Nicci a joyful jolt with the news about the Maldives assignment. She stayed in the office only long enough to answer a few e-mails while waiting for her Ford Fusion to be brought around, then sped home. Arriving at her apartment, Jenna was immensely pleased to find Dafoe waiting for her on the sidewalk. After her telephone call from Marv last night, Dafoe was so certain that the network was going to send her overseas that he said he’d “move mountains” to try to see her before she left.
“You made it,” she exclaimed, giving him a quick kiss.
“Just got here. You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“I am.” A distinct stirring bloomed in her belly. “I’m really glad you’re here. Was Forensia able to cover for you?” She led him into the lobby.
“With Sang-mi, this time. Those two don’t go anywhere without each other these days. In fact, Richtor and three other Pagans are camped in their living room. They figure group living is the first line of defense against whoever killed GreenSpirit.”
She nodded. “Makes sense to me.”
“How’s your time?” he asked with a smile whose meaning was easy—and delightful—to divine.
She glanced at her watch as the elevator doors opened. “I’ve got a small window.” Her driver wouldn’t mind a short wait.
The first kiss began as the doors closed and didn’t end till they arrived at her floor.
To hell with the security camera,
she thought.
In a minute they were in her apartment, playing another round of bedspring boogaloo. She loved every second of it. He had the richest scent, and tasted
so
good.
But the real intimacy came after their most intense pleasure, when they lay on their sides, facing each other. Her finger trailed the line of his jaw, and then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. They were so close, inches apart, his look penetrating her much more deeply than even his most eager, aroused exertions. These were the most intensely loving moments that she’d ever known.
She finally had to pry herself away for a fast shower. She dried and dressed quickly, and packed in record time. Jenna was as efficient with her getaways as she was with her weather forecasts.
Together, they headed down to the elevator. Before the doors opened, she gave him one more passionate kiss, knowing it would have to last.
She almost let slip three little words that she hadn’t spoken in years. But she feared that “I love you” would only burden such sweet beginnings, though she felt certain that what they shared went well beyond basic chemistry.
So instead of “I love you,” she said, “I’ll miss you,” but she spoke with an unguarded honesty that was as new to her as the power of real intimacy. Even so, in the next instant Jenna wondered whether she should have gone further and stated her feelings with the same robust abandonment that her body had revealed upstairs—with the same intense longing that her heart had felt so palpably when they lay close to each other.
What if you never get a chance to say it?
Dafoe escorted her to the Ford Fusion. The driver took Jenna’s bag and she slid into the backseat.
Don’t be silly. You’ll have plenty of chances. Why wouldn’t you?
“Hey.” Dafoe motioned for her to lower her window. “Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”
“No telling. Could be over before we get there. Could be weeks.”
“Do you know where you’ll be staying?”
“The Golden Crescent Hotel.”
Dafoe bent toward the car window, and Jenna knew he was going to kiss her again, but the driver pulled out and the moment was lost. She waved at her dairy farmer just before she startled at the sight of her own face; it took a second to realize she was looking at a banner ad for
The Morning Show
on the side of a bus.
She sat back, smiling, thrilled by Dafoe, her assignment, and the life she felt privileged to have found.
CHAPTER 15
Parvez snapped his cell phone shut and gave thanks to Allah, the one true God. He walked along the shore, beaming. He had been blessed by Allah with insight and understanding, and with the courage to use both.
Warm surf rushed over his feet, washing away the tracks he left behind. In a moment he would be no more present on the beach than he had been on the phone. In the coded language of Al Qaeda, he’d told them of his plan. And in a reply that both surprised and honored him, his commander had ordered Parvez to return to the café across from the Golden Crescent Hotel at 7:00
P.M.
tonight for a rendezvous. They had additional jihadists already in place.
But why should I be surprised by their eagerness?
Parvez chided himself gently.
This is the greatest prize since 9/11, and I recognized that. I have great insight and understanding,
he reminded himself.
And courage.
He looked up and saw another jumbo jet heading for Malé International Airport, and had no doubt that many of the seats were taken by men and women who, upon landing, would soon head to their place of death. With each hour, more of the most powerful media personalities were arriving on the island—and getting whisked straight to its most exclusive hotel.
He cursed the name of the Golden Crescent Hotel as he hurried to his motor launch. Such a blasphemy to use the word “crescent,” much less to display crescents and stars like cheap ornaments all over a hotel where liquor is served and women flaunt their sex—where the impious pretend they are important.
We will show them, and they will never forget.
They had not forgotten 9/11, had they?
He looked at his watch as he boarded his motor launch and started the outboard motor. Ample time. He headed across the turquoise channel, thinking about the one-two punch that he had in store for the Western world. He knew all about this from his studies in Waziristan. The Koran, yes, he had pored over its sacred words every day. But he had studied the strategies and techniques of jihad just as diligently, and no strategy was more basic or brutal—or deeply blessed—than the one-two punch. The hard fist of Allah for the ugly faces of infidels.
A hotel was the easiest target in the world. You pulled up and the staff invited you right in. Guests were always welcome. Delivery vans came and went, day and night. Busy, busy, busy. Perfect for a bombing.
* * *
Adnan’s load had lightened considerably. Only two packages of C-4 remained in his suicide vest. He’d put the others exactly where Parvez had told him to. One of these last two would deliver the maximum damage to the most forward part of the hull; four other bombs had been placed aft.
The tanker was much bigger than any ship Adnan had ever sailed on—the length of at least two soccer fields, with many levels. When he’d studied the diagram of the
Dick Cheney
with Parvez, setting up the bombs had looked simple, but everything about the supertanker seemed oversized, even to a seasoned sailor like him. And his job had never entailed rigging a massive ship to blow up and sink.
Finding his way through the warren of hallways, berths, and storage rooms had taken Adnan hours. He’d worried constantly that around every corner he would be ambushed by seamen who’d hidden in the bowels of the tanker. Although only he and the leader of the Waziristanis had survived the assault on the ship, the crew had proved compliant when faced with automatic rifles, the RPG, and a suicide vest. More useful than those had been the short-handled ax that the jihadist had grabbed from a cache of firefighting supplies. While Adnan held an AK-47, the Waziristani had threatened to chop off crewmembers’ legs and arms if they didn’t tell him where other sailors were hiding. They all swore that everyone was on the bridge but the Islamist had still chopped off the hand of an African, just to make sure no one was lying. Sickened, Adnan had looked away. Later, he’d tripped over the amputated hand on a lower deck; the jihadist had thrown it away. The injured man had screamed and screamed until the Waziristani shot him.
Then the jihadist had killed them all, except for the captain, just as the plan demanded.
Adnan couldn’t have committed the Waziristani’s gruesome crimes.
This is different,
he reassured himself as he checked the wiring of the last bomb.
You’re a martyr,
he thought once more,
not a murderer.
Studying the diagram of the ship, Adnan had learned a great deal about tankers. The newest ones were designed so that if one part of the hull were compromised, the other holds would not lose their valuable—and often dangerous—cargo. But now that he’d rigged all the bombs to go off in quick succession, the
Dick Cheney
would split apart in sections and dump all the iron oxide it carried.