The First Casualty (15 page)

Viktor emptied his glass in a single gulp in true Russian fashion and narrowed his eyes as he faced Jason. “You are talking money?”

Jason stood. “A lot, but probably not so much to a man like you. In fact, it was silly of me to think you might be persuaded. I mean, you have this beautiful villa on one of the world's most exclusive pieces of real estate. You must be making money faster than you can count it, let alone spend it, not to mention a daughter. Plus a wife who would be very unhappy with you if she knew you were traipsing off to some faraway place to risk your ass for less money than you make in a month.”

He was turning toward the door. “Sorry to have bothered you, but thanks for the beer.”

Jason could only hope he had accurately accessed Viktor's character. The two of them, American and Russian, were alike though they had served different masters. Jason had known only two types of warriors: those who turned their backs on the profession of arms as easily as they might change a shirt to follow peaceful pursuits—men who devoutly wished to avoid conflict, or at least battle—and those of intense competiveness, men who relished competition whether in business or in more deadly endeavors. These men could no more walk way from a fight than they could give up breathing. Bored by extended periods of peace and tranquillity, they became edgy, if not irritable. They could be called mercenaries, extreme thrill seekers, or simply victims of their own DNA.

Jason knew the latter well. Though he tried to deny it, he suspected the breed included himself.

The question was: Did it also include Viktor?

As his hand touched the door knob, Jason realized he had been wrong. Viktor had the means to obtain anything he might desire. The good life had extinguished the warrior spirit. Jason had wasted a precious day in a futile effort.

“Wait! Just what did you have in mind?”

Helping himself to a second Carib from the refrigerator, Jason returned to the still warm seat of the rocker to explain what was wanted. A few minutes later, he and Viktor were haggling over price. Jason had offered a fraction of what he intended to pay and was only halfheartedly letting himself be bargained upward. He was aware the argument was not really about money; Viktor had more than he could ever wish. It was a matter of pride, price reflecting the degree of respect for the Russian's talents.

At last, they agreed.

Viktor produced another bottle of vodka from the refrigerator and placed a glass in Jason's hand. “Is Russian custom to seal bargain.”

Jason managed to beg off after a second shot, telling Viktor he would be in touch in a few days and securing the number of an account in the Cook Islands into which he was to wire half a million dollars as an advance.

Jason checked his watch as he climbed into the battered Suzuki Samurai he had rented at the airport. He was relieved to see he had plenty of time to catch his flight. Enough time, in fact, to pause at the top of the hill behind Gouverneur, get out of the car, and admire a view of golden sand, green hills, and blue waters, all framed by the blood red of trumpet-shaped hibiscus blooms along the corkscrew road. The sense of loss that he had no means to put the view on canvas was near tragedy, assuaged only by a promise to himself he would return, supplies in hand. A few minutes later, he was treated to a different, but equally spectacular, sight as the hill dropped down into Baie de Saint-Jean. He would not have been the first visitor to the island to run off the cliff that yawned beneath each hairpin turn, too enchanted with the scenery to pay attention to the snakelike road.

The road ran flat as it briefly paralleled the beach at Saint-Jean, a strand divided by the jutting prow of a rock formation upon which perched the Eden Rock hotel, where rooms ran thousands of dollars per night during high season. That, of course, included a complimentary bottle of reasonably good Champagne upon check-in and a daily breakfast buffet. The road, already narrow, was squeezed tighter by cars more abandoned than parked by beachgoers.

Jason took a right and began the ridiculously steep climb to a group of small cottages, the Village Saint-Jean. It had been the only place he could find without a reservation. Though the bedroom, bath, deck, and tiny two-burner-stove kitchen hardly warranted the price, the view of beach and sea were as magnificent as any on the island, with the airport thrown in. He parked under an arbor of bougainvillea and walked out onto the deck that would lead to his door.

He rounded a corner, key in hand, and stopped as though he had hit an invisible wall.

“Hello, Jason.”

Languishing on one of the two chaise longues was Dr. Maria Bergenghetti.

The ample amount of taunt skin revealed by a bikini was light olive-colored, the hair knotted into a bun black as a crow's wing, so black as to be iridescent. Skin and hair betrayed her Campania linage. The blue eyes that were staring over the tops of the oversize Foster Grants, though, spoke of ancient Norman or Viking intrusion into the bloodline.

She took off the sunglasses. “You don't look happy to see me.”

“I . . . I . . . I'm surprised. Astonished, actually,” Jason verbally backpedaled. “I mean, how did you . . . ?”

Good question. Jason had both arrived on the island and registered at the hotel under the George Simmons identity.

“You don't seem overjoyed that I did, find you, that is. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect you were here with another woman, but yours are the only clothes in the room.”

Better another woman than she find out why he really was here. An affair might be forgiven; planning violence would not.

She sat up straight, spreading her arms. “Aren't you going to at least give me a kiss? We haven't laid eyes on each other in, what, five or six weeks?”

That was one thing he could do. Stepping forward, he leaned over. Her arms encircled him. The next thing he knew, swimsuits were flying. He was kissing her nipple. “Shouldn't we go inside?”

Her hand searched for and found his crotch. “Why? No one can see us up here.”

Jason wasn't sure he cared.

31

Sankore Mosque

Timbuktu, Mali

8:20 p.m., Local Time

The Same Day

Abu Bakr ibn Ahmad Bian was puzzled by the nozzle's inability to receive the proper pressure. Just this afternoon, the device had tested perfectly. Of course, under test conditions, water was used instead of the mercury particles that had destroyed Flight 447 and would soon bring down another planeload of infidels. Using the real ammunition for trial purposes was impractical for a number of reasons.

First, it had taken over a year to produce and accumulate enough mercury particles to destroy another airliner. Working with the volatile element was slow, tedious, and dangerous. Plus, there were few facilities in the Arab world possessing the equipment or know-how to make the production process work. Complicating that problem was the necessity for secrecy. Unlike those fools in Iran with their nuclear program, Abu Bakr had no intention of being in a position to have to claim his project's use was peaceful. No one who had basic knowledge of chemistry or physics would believe the civilian use of reducing mercury to its basic atoms and propelling those atoms high enough to substantially reduce gravity and then cutting the nozzle pressure to bring them down on the target was peaceful.

Abu Bakr liked that: The idea of striking from the sky. Like the fist of Allah smiting the enemies of His people. Hence, the code name of the project, the Fist of Allah.

Second, the operation was not without risk. A malfunction or miscalculation could bring the entire mass of atomic-size mercury particles down on this very mosque. Abu Bakr was a devout Moslem, but he was no fanatic willing to sacrifice his life for a cause. That cause needed scientists like him, not jihadists willing to die for an unverified promise of seventy-two virgins. No, he could advance the cause of the Second Caliphate, the expulsion of the infidel Zionists from this part of the world, or whatever,
much more effectively with science than an explosives belt.

That risk had been the reason he supposed Moustaph had chosen this place, whose very name was synonymous with obscure places.

It had not always been so. The courtyard of this mosque had been laid out in the eighth or ninth century. The present building dated back to the fourteenth. On the southern periphery of the Sahara Desert, Timbuktu had been a center of commerce and trading then, crossroads for the treasure of Africa to begin its journey to Europe and Asia. The city had been a center for learning, also. This mosque was one of three that had become a madrassa, a Moslem school. The Sankore Mosque had gone on to become not just a place for study of the Koran, but of science and mathematics as well.

That also might have been a reason for Moustaph's choice.

Another might have been the unique minarets of the mosque. Instead of the needle with the bulging top common to most such places of worship, this one had thin pyramids towering above its walls, almost a custom fit for the giant nozzle.

Abu Bakr smiled. Even if the infidel should discover the existence of the weapon, the idiots would shrink from the prospect of damaging a UNESCO World Heritage site, as was the Sankore Mosque and all of Timbuktu. The infidel held places and things above Allah's law.

The sound of a door opening at the bottom of the stairs that led to this room made him forget his thoughts. It was past the time for the
Maghrib,
the prayer said after sunset, and not yet time for the
Isha
, the call to the final of the day's five prayers,
so
there could be only one person to whom the ascending footsteps belonged.

Abu Bakr hurried to undo the lock in response to the brisk knock on the door. Outside stood a man of indeterminate age, although his beard was more white than black. He wore the traditional Moslem clothing: a
taqiyah
, the small brimless hat; a
thobe
, the collarless long-sleeved robe, splattered with mud; and sandals caked with it. His only distinguishing features were a scar on his right cheek and eyes that seemed to burn with a light from within with such intensity that Abu Bakr found it uncomfortable to look the man in the eye when addressing him.

Mahomet Moustaph, now the most wanted terrorist in the world.

“Peace be upon you,” the newcomer said, giving the traditional Islamic greeting as he crossed the threshold.

Abu Bakr shot a quick glance down the steps, verifying Moustaph had not come alone. At least two figures stood in the shadows.

He gave the traditional response. “And may Allah's blessing be upon you.”

Moustaph wasted no more time on the niceties. Crossing the room, he stood before the nozzle, an object shaped like what one might find on the business end of a fire hose. This nozzle, though, was the size of a mini bus and rested on a steel gantry, which had been assembled from pieces small enough to be smuggled into the mosque under coats, robes, or other exterior clothing. The mosque's imam knew what was going on in the northwest minaret, but few, if any, of his congregation did.

Moustaph noted Abu Bakr's stare at the muddy footprints he was leaving.
“Mash
ā
' All
ā
h
, it is God's will. The river floods; the streets' dirt has become mud.”

He was referring to the annual late-fall flooding of the Niger River Delta reaching Mali in January. It was paradoxical that an area so close to the world's largest desert would flood.

Abu Bakr shrugged, a matter of no concern. “The reason I sent for you,
Sidi
, is that there is a difficulty.”

If possible, Moustaph's eyes grew even brighter. “Explain.”

Abu Bakr indicated a low table surrounded by cushions. A teapot and several glasses were arranged on its top.

Moustaph shook his head, rudely declining this basic Arab hospitality. He was known as a man with little patience for time-consuming customs. Rumor had it he had become even more brusque since his escape from the infidels. Many an elderly mullah took umbrage at what could be perceived as rudeness. Like a number of the younger jihadists, Abu Bakr believed custom and ritual got in the way of efficiency too often. The time for manners and the old ways would return when the devil himself—in the form of the United States and its imp, Israel—were wiped from the face of the earth.

So he answered the question on his feet instead of seated with a glass of tea in his hand. “It is the nozzle. For some reason, we are losing pressure.”

“You have checked the equipment below, to which it is attached.”

A statement, not a question.

“Of course,
Sidi
. All works as it should. The problem lies between the moving parts that create pressure and the hose itself.”

“A fitting?”

“Checked thoroughly.”

Moustaph caressed his beard in silence for a moment. “You have consulted an engineer?”

Abu Bakr tried with only modest success to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “I am an engineer, a graduate of MIT in Boston.”

The other man could not have been less impressed. “Then find an engineer from a good Moslem university, one who knows his Koran as well as his calculus. Make no mistake about it: In six days, we will bring down an infidel aircraft, a very special infidel aircraft.
In shā' Allāh,
if Allah wills it.”

32

Village Saint-Jean

Saint Barthélemy, French West Indies

1:40 p.m. Local Time

Jason had dozed off after making love. He awoke with a start. Had it been the sound of airplanes from the airport a mile or so away? Probably not. The uninterrupted drone of arriving and departing aircraft had become unnoticed white noise. More likely the departure of direct warmth of the sun as afternoon shadows engulfed the deck along with an increasing sea breeze. Or it could have been Maria leaving the chaise longue. The space she had occupied was still warm to the touch.

Her expedition to the volcanic eruption in Indonesia had been interrupted by a need for additional scientific instruments. Rather than awaiting their arrival in what she described as conditions not quite up to primitive, she had elected to surprise him with a visit to Sark, only to learn he wasn't there.

From inside, he could hear the sound of the open shower.

Now what? He could still catch his plane, but what was he going to tell Maria? Try as he might, he could think of only one rational reason for immediate departure: the truth. He stretched, got up, and went inside in time to see Maria wind an enormous orange beach towel with the hotel's logo around her body.

He reached past her to test the running shower. “You still haven't told me how you knew I was here.”

She was winding a smaller towel, turban-like, around her wet hair. She grinned impishly. “Suppose I decide I don't want to?”

Jason pursed his lips, the expression of man making a serious choice. “This isn't some game.” He stepped into the shower. “If you found me, some people I might not be quite as happy to see might find me, too.”

She clearly hadn't thought of this possibility and gave it consideration as he lathered up. Although Jason had foresworn the violence and death of his past, Maria knew there were still enemies out there, people who had vowed to see Jason dead. She also knew that these enemies were the reason for frequent changes in residences. She could accept that. She could not and would not accept the reality that mayhem, murder, and assassination were sometimes necessary.

She slipped out of the bathroom to return to sit on the chaise longue. He followed, leaving wet tracks on the tile floor.

“Really very simple,” she said. “The volcanic expedition is waiting for additional equipment, and I decided to spend the time with you rather than just sitting around with a bunch of boring scientists. You gave Mrs. Prince an itinerary and told her to ask for a man called Simmons in case there was some emergency with the house or the menagerie, the cat or dog. I remembered that horrid affair in Sicily. You went by the name of Simmons then, too.”

And people thought elephants never forgot.

Complete professional craft would have required Jason to cut himself off from his normal world entirely, not leave possible clues as to his destinations. But he couldn't ignore the responsibility of the house, Pangloss, or even the truculent Robespierre. Not to mention a way to learn if Maria was in trouble and without her ever-present iPhone.

“But you had no way to know at what hotel I was,” Jason protested, unwilling to admit he had taken more of a risk than he had thought.

She reached an arm behind his neck, pulling his head down close enough to kiss his nose. “You arrived via Windward Air at three twenty-four p.m., local time yesterday.” She leaned over, exposing impressive cleavage. “It was not so difficult to convince the nice Frenchman at the customs office that I wanted to surprise my husband, Mr. Simmons. He let me go through yesterday's arrival manifests. I knew you were here somewhere.”

“That wouldn't have given you the name of the hotel,” Jason argued, “When I arrived, I didn't know where I was staying.”

She got up, removed the towel from her head, and gave a shake, sending dark tresses flying. “But this morning, you rented a car. You have to put where you are staying on the rental agreement.”

Nailed.

“And,” she continued, “you didn't explain that bandage on your leg.” She wrinkled her nose. “From the looks of it, you need to change it.”

Jason glanced down. The morning's encounter with salt water and sand had soiled the gauze. “Er, yeah. I'll run by the pharmacy in Saint-Jean and get a clean bandage.”

Maria was still looking at it. “A Band-Aid won't do the trick. You are going to need a roll of gauze and adhesive tape. Just how did you hurt yourself?”

“You wouldn't believe.”

“Try me.”

“OK. I was on this train, see? I got into a knife fight with a woman. She sliced my leg before I managed to throw her off the train.”

Maria gave him a look very much like she might have shown a puppy difficult to housebreak. “I only asked because I care. You can spare me the sarcasm; I won't ask again.”

And that was fine with Jason.