Heroes In Uniform (89 page)

“This is off limits to passengers, sir,” they spoke to him in clipped English.

“I’m with Moshe,” Kyle began. “I’m here to help him.”

“You are not going anywhere down here. Now, go back up to your cabins. Everything is under control.”

Like hell it was. Loud voices punctuated the air, the festive dancers stopped their chattering and their flutter of laughter and everyone focused on shouts and rants coming from the sick bay.

“What’s happened?” Kyle asked the large security man, wearing a badge that read, Kumar, from India.

Kumar held his palms at Kyle’s chest. “You must not go in there, sir. This is not allowed. There is no problem, no problem at all,” he said in his singsong dialect.

Moshe walked out of the sick bay, looking dazed and confused, scratching the back of his head. A metal bedpan came flying from the doorway, hitting him in the small of his back. There was no mistaking the Arabic shouts, including some invectives to Allah, from someone who was clearly very angry with him. The tall junior officer Kyle recognized as Maksym Tereschenko came toward Moshe from the other side of the hallway and stopped to whisper something to him, and Moshe nodded.

The tall Ukrainian officer briefly looked up at Kyle, Fredo, Armando and Nick, and then disappeared into the doorway under the red medical sign.

Moshe approached Kyle and directed the security officers back to the sick bay. He gave the SEAL a quick smile after the men were out of earshot.

“We’ve got ourselves a rat’s nest here. All these nationalities, and sometimes they don’t get along.”

“And someone got hurt,” Kyle said, nodding to the sick bay.

“Not really. I’d say more a hurt of the pride.” Moshe spoke tentatively, indicating he had more on his mind than he was letting on.

“What’s the injury?” Kyle asked.

“A glancing knife wound to the dancer’s neck that will heal just fine with butterfly bandages. No stitches needed.”

“Dancer? What dancer?” Kyle asked.

“They are part of a Moroccan dance troupe and they speak a dialect I don’t understand. They are Berbers.”

Kyle knew Moshe was fluent in Arabic as well as other languages in the Middle East including Pashto, Urdu, Turkish and Persian.

“What was with the bedpan?” Fredo asked.

Moshe flashed a smile. “I’m used to having things thrown at me, but that was a first. I’m guessing he recognized my accent.”

The muffled shouting began to die down. The hallway emptied and the normal bustle of a busy crew quarters resumed.

Moshe placed his arm on Kyle’s shoulder. “Thank you for your show of support, but I have a report to make and another dancer to interview.”

“Another dancer?” Nick asked. “What the fuck’s with the dancers all of a sudden?”

“The other dancer turned this gentleman’s blade back on his neck. He’s our Brazilian tango instructor.” Moshe shrugged. “I’m guessing he was feeling rather passionate about something. Apparently he’s a trained street fighter in addition to being a great dance instructor.”

Nick and Kyle shared a look. “One of our Team is kinda sweet on his dance partner.”

“Who? Sophia?”

The SEALs nodded.

“Get in line.” Moshe winked and waved goodbye as he stepped back a few paces, then turned and headed down the hall. Before he rounded the corner in the crew quarters, Kyle saw him report something on his radio.

Fredo texted Cooper. No one had seen Mark all evening. The SEALs took the elevator back up to their cabins on Deck 6.

Roberto let them
pound the door. He was in a foul mood. The evening had been comfortably normal, until everything went to hell when that damned American shoved his way between him and Sophia, whisking her away for a little private conversation. He could only guess what they were doing. He’d turn her in if he caught them so much as holding hands.

But now he had bigger problems than Sophia and her attraction to the American. He was the one in danger of losing his job, not Sophia.

Whoever it was banging on his door was about to break it down, so he gave up and opened it. The dark Indian security guard, an acquaintance of Roberto’s named Kumar, at first seemed surprised to see Roberto, his hand still suspended in the air with his brass buttons glinting in the hall light. He’d consoled Kumar when the tall Indian crew member broke up with his Swedish girlfriend.

“Roberto? This is you?” Kumar asked. His eyebrows bunched together and his lips formed a thin line across his face.

“This is me,” Roberto said and waited for Hell to freeze over.

Kumar turned to another security officer, the frizzy-haired Israeli. “There must be some mistake,” he said. “I know this man.”

But Moshe wasn’t listening, entering the tiny windowless cabin and instructing Kumar to stand in the open doorway.

“Sit,” Moshe demanded.

Roberto did so. Moshe sat on the bottom of the bunk Roberto shared with another Brazilian dancer.

“I’ve tried to talk to Azziz. I’m hoping you and I can have better communication.”

“Yes, well, that man’s an animal,” Roberto returned.

“That may be, but he’s the one with the injury, unless you’re covering up something.”

“He’s a stupid animal who doesn’t know how to fight. He should stick to dancing or playing those awful drums made out of dead snakes. He should learn not to pick a fight if he hasn’t the stomach for it.”

“You could have killed him.”

“Exactly. And I didn’t.”

“May I ask what all this was about?”

“He came after me with one of his swords.” Roberto decided to tell a little white lie and see if Moshe picked up on it. “I thought it was part of his costume, you know, plastic.”

Moshe immediately frowned. “And when did you discover it wasn’t a plastic blade?”

“When I put it to his neck.”

“And that was after you slammed him to the ground?” Moshe continued frowning, making notes in the small spiral notebook he pulled from his breast pocket. “Roberto, that your story?”

He had to think about that. “So he’s claiming back injury as well?” Roberto couldn’t believe the bastard would have the nerve.

“I’m not quite sure what he’s claiming. But I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to make sure you’re never alone with any of that troupe. It seems your indiscretion has taken on a holy war type of importance. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“So now he’s declaring a jihad?” Roberto wanted to spit at that, but didn’t want to insult his unwelcome guest.

“Roberto, I’m still trying to understand how it was that you overcame him and put the sword to his neck, the heavy sword that was made out of steel. The one you thought was plastic. Just before that happened, what was said or done? That’s the part I’m afraid I don’t understand and, frankly, Azziz was not willing to tell me.”

“I called him a name, but in Portuguese. I don’t think he speaks Portuguese,” Roberto responded. As he replayed the scene over again in his head, he realized Azziz, if that was his real name, had reacted as if he did understand his language.

Another miscalculation. Fuck it.

“And what did you call him?” Moshe asked, staring down at his lined tablet.

“Something…something like your mother loves pigs and donkeys—”

“It was a slur, in other words. You insulted him. Why?”

Roberto thought about this. Why had he said it? Probably because he was angry with Sophia, at the American, at the humiliation he’d received at their hand. He could still see the clown-like expressions of laughter on the faces of the beefy, weaving crowd of tourists he was supposed to turn into dancing elephants. He was pissed about his job, pissed that he had to babysit someone he wanted to fuck senseless. Pissed he’d given his word and had no intention of keeping it. And then some Arab guy had looked at him sideways, and that was all it took.

“Why did you insult him, Roberto?”

“Because he accidentally stepped on my foot,” he lied. “The guy thought he owned the corridor. Why can’t they walk single file like the rest of us? No. They have to walk side by side, not paying attention. We bumped into each other and he stepped on my foot, and it hurt.”

It was such a good story, Roberto even began to believe half of it. He was rather proud of that.

Moshe stood up and exhaled, hitching his pants up, tucking his shirt in and nodding to Kumar to close the door, leaving the two of them alone. Roberto saw the young Israeli officer was angry, but controlling it very well.

“Listen, Roberto, unless you want to die with your throat slit, I mean a real cut, because I don’t think they’ll give you the same break you gave them. It’s a matter of honor that you didn’t kill him. That has further enraged him. So, unless you want to volunteer for their knife-throwing act or want a knife in your back when you’re not looking, I suggest you stay far away from them. All of them. Do I make myself perfectly clear, Roberto?”

Roberto didn’t like the Israeli’s tone. He wasn’t a grade school boy, and he could handle himself, he thought.

“Roberto,” Moshe said as he locked a serious stare onto him, pricking some fear. “I can see you’re not paying attention to me, so let me just tell you this.” Moshe cocked his head and looked thoughtful before he blurted out, “I am responsible for the safety of nearly thirty-four hundred people on this boat, including eleven hundred staff.” He cleared his throat for emphasis. “I cannot be everywhere at once. In addition to all the issues that normally come up on a cruise, I now have a war between ten Moroccan dancers and fourteen Brazilian ones. I don’t care what those guys say to you, you stand down, Roberto. Do it like your life depends on it, because it just might.”

“Fine,” he said timidly. “You’ll not have any more problems with me.”

“Glad to hear it.”

But Roberto knew in his heart of hearts he wasn’t going to obey. The holy war Moshe mentioned was nothing compared to his injured pride.

Everyone always underestimates me.

He had told the truth about the Moroccans. They were stupid animals. He’d be prepared next time they tried to accost him, and no, he wouldn’t be merciful. In fact, he might even enjoy the fight and watch their surprised faces just before he sent them back to Allah, if that’s what it took.

Cruisin’ for a Seal: Chapter Fifteen

M
aksym looked at
the blood on the paper covering the plastic patient table, noting there was quite a bit of it for a simple flesh wound. The dancer Azziz sat shirtless, yelling at two of his troupe, who hung their heads.

I have to babysit assholes.

He wondered why they didn’t use more of his own people, there were so many disenfranchised Ukrainians these days, people who had played the game with the Russians, as well as the West, and found themselves caught in the middle, not trusted by either side. Dangerous people, he thought, without a loyalty to any country, like him, others who had lost everything they’d cared about.

His children would be attending the finest Russian schools, taken care of by the older rich Russian they would soon call Papa. Maksym would always be their father, but his wife’s sugar daddy, at least for as long as her looks held, would ensure the girls had a nice education and a beautiful home, and, most important, would be safe from interference from others. It was smart of the diplomat to choose a woman who had daughters she wanted protected. It ensured her complete loyalty.

But it still gnawed a hole in his stomach. He’d have laid down his life for them, something he doubted either his ex-wife or the diplomat she ran away with would ever do for anyone, including each other. Even though she’d cheated on him, he’d still have done it, if she’d come back to him.

What he shared with Helena was intense, which was what he needed, did not contain strings, which he really needed, and had a future involving a beach, an island somewhere and lots of sex with her, which he needed most of all. He just wanted to disappear.

But that meant he had to work with zealots who couldn’t keep their feelings to themselves, who hated everyone, including their own families. Maksym couldn’t understand those kinds of people. And he guessed they’d never understand him, either.

“So, Azziz,” he began in Tachelhit, the man’s Berber tongue, “I’m sure the Gray Wolf who set us up forgot to tell you the part about you keeping your mouth shut and not attracting attention. So I apologize for this oversight on his part.”

“The Brazilian said my mother fucked pigs and donkeys. That’s an offense that deserves the blade of my sword.”

“There are worse things than death, my good man,” he said to Azziz.

“Yes, living a dishonorable life.”

Maksym leaned forward and hissed, “So is having your skin peeled from your flesh a strip at a time and watching it being eaten by pigs and donkeys, Azziz. So help me, if you mess up this mission, I’ll make sure that is your fate.”

“You keep the Brazilian away from me.”

“I might let him kill you if you don’t behave. The man is dangerous. You stay away from him.”

“But we have the strength of Allah.”

“I think in Brazil they aren’t afraid of Allah. In fact, I don’t think Allah goes there very often.”