by Seeley James
While the Americans’ attention was on me, I gave the word in Arabic. All the Moroccans dropped to their knees and put their foreheads on the floor.
The two American terrorists died half a second apart.
The people rose in shock and stared at the bodies. I handed my rifle to the policeman. In Arabic, I said, “Tell everyone to say you did it. I was never here.”
Outside, cop cars screeched to a stop. Loudspeakers barked orders. Men marshaled to their commander’s instructions.
I ran through the building, looking for the back door.
CHAPTER 46
Outside, the cabbie was fleeing in my direction. He picked me up. It turned out he wasn’t a licensed cabbie. King Mohammed VI frowns on that kind of behavior for thirty days at a time. Promising to keep his secret, I borrowed his phone to call the Sabel helpdesk.
They transferred me to Ms. Sabel directly. She said, “Thank god, you made it out. We’ve been tracking your movements through the GPS tracker. We have an exfil team waiting for you.”
“What about Jenny?” I asked.
“We have a team working on that right now.” She paused. “You got out quicker than we imagined possible. We hope that buys us time without triggering Nema’s wrath.”
She gave me instructions about where to meet the exfiltration team. I told the cabbie.
He gave me a skeptical glance, then put the hammer down and said, “We go, fast and furious.”
When we arrived, I understood his skepticism. We drove down the bluff on which the city was built to an old unfinished dock on an alluvial floodplain. The pier had been started back when men still went to the moon. Nearby a series of large pylons rose out of the water at regular intervals crossing the river. It was an unfinished bridge as old as the dock.
“What happened here?” I asked the cabbie in Arabic.
“The plans of the old king. He died.”
Ah, the joys of monarchies.
About then, a beautiful cigarette boat pulled up to the dock. I hopped out and thanked the cabbie. Thirty feet above us, on the main road, cop cars flew by. They were looking for me. Whether they wanted to thank me, shoot me, or ask me questions didn’t matter. I needed to save Jenny and the kids.
The dock was twenty feet wide, but they never finished the dock by putting a deck on the structural members. All I had to do was cross a sixty-foot-long pier on four-inch-wide girders spaced four feet apart. The distance was longer than a stride, shorter than a jump.
Two cop cars followed my cabbie as he made a quick exit from the river’s edge.
It was a wide and shallow riverbed. The old king had laid the foundations for a riverside resort. A wide stretch of concrete covered much of the floodplain, affording my cab driver a good deal of room to run.
One of the cop cars peeled off, turned around, and came back for me. I didn’t look local in my jeans and t-shirt.
With only one option left, I ran across the girders. My days as a high school track star were long gone, but with my life hanging in the balance, not to mention the potential for breaking a leg, I scampered across and jumped into the boat.
Until I crashed into the cushions, I hadn’t realized who piloted the thing. Mercury and Miguel. It was unclear which had the helm. Whoever it was, he threw the throttle back. I landed on my butt, squashed up against the engine compartment.
Mercury said, Welcome aboard, homie!
I said, Is Jenny safe? The kids?
Mercury said, Was I alone in thinking that video came from the dungeon in Úbeda? Tania thought so. Miguel thought the stones looked lighter in color. Pia-Caesar-Sabel sent a team from Sabel Security to liberate the hacienda. All they found was an old man ranting about the tenants who wrecked his gate and shot up his wine cellar.
I said, Damn. Where’s Jenny then? And how come there wasn’t any wine in his wine cellar?
Mercury said, The old man joined AA a few years back. The wimp. Bianca’s team is working on accessing the cellphone Nema used. They covered the GPS and IP addresses from the video, but she thinks she can isolate the transmission and follow it back to the source. Not easy, I’m told. Everything you clowns do with electricity these days is too much for my brain. All I know about this high-tech stuff is that without power, it’s useless. How do I know that? The number-one prayer all gods get is for another ten minutes of battery life for those stupid phones.
Miguel kept his eyes forward. He didn’t speak. I looked behind us. Our wake spread out wide, obscuring the view, swamping local fishermen and generally causing a nuisance. Which explained the police boat a quarter mile back with sirens blaring.
We had a significant speed advantage.
Miguel swished the boat back and forth, chopping a huge wake. The police bounced over it and almost capsized. They backed off and receded into the distance.
The river narrowed. Miguel kept the speed up. We neared a marina. He threw the boat sideways.
The Navajo tribe is not known for their watercraft skills, most likely due to their reservation being in the high Arizona desert. I’d never seen Miguel in a boat much less at the helm. He made a valiant effort at the high-speed maneuver. The boat began turning, but the arc was going wide. We would clip the seawall. We came close enough to see the irises on the seagull’s eyes widen. Crabs scattered out of the way. Miguel looked at me for ideas.
Mercury slapped his palm to his face. Reverse, homie. Reverse!
I reached for the throttle and pulled it straight back to reverse it. The big engines churned and clanked and were as unhappy as inanimate objects can be. But we slowed. The arc improved.
“How did you know to do that?” Miguel asked.
“I get—”
He finished for me, “—messages. Yeah. OK. And he knows all about powerboats.”
I shrugged.
Miguel put it in forward again. Slower this time. We zoomed into the little harbor and bounced off a wharf.
A local man tied it up. Miguel said thanks to him and kept striding up the gangway towards land. Miguel and I are flatlanders, landlubbers, whatever you want to call us. That ride scared the hell out of us both—only we weren’t going to let it show.
“Are you going to pay the man for renting that thing?” I asked.
“Rent? I bought it.” Miguel whipped out my wallet and handed it back to me. “Or, more accurately, you bought it. You’re right, that black card gets attention.”
Nice that everyone spends Ms. Sabel’s money like it was water out of the ocean, but I’m the guy Accounting calls to ask, WTF? In this case, they would be asking WT-actual-F? And I couldn’t blame them.
But then, it’s hard to argue with results. Sirens circled the neighborhood on the wrong side of the river. We could make a clean getaway.
Tania waited in a Toyota Quest. I asked if I’d bought the car too. They swore it was a rental. I’m never sure if I should trust these two or not.
We arrived at the Rabat-Salé airport’s executive terminal a short time later. Seconds after wheels-up the bad news hit.
The pilot announced on the intercom, “There’s a Royal Moroccan Air Force F-16 telling us we must return to the airport.”.
I ran forward and opened the cockpit. “Can you stall them long enough to get into international airspace?”
Pilots have restrictions on how much time they can spend at the controls. That’s how they fight off fatigue. It also requires Sabel Industries to keep contractors on retainer around the world. Most of the time we have no idea who’s flying the jet. Occasionally, we’ll see a familiar face. The guy in the pilot’s seat craned over his shoulder. He knew me.
“Stearne, right?” He rolled his eyes. “This is just like Oman. They’ll shoot us down.”
“No, they won’t. And the Omanis didn’t shoot us down.”
“I’m not prepared to take that risk. And the reason we lived that time is because the Omani’s missile failed.”
I didn’t see any reason to tell him we were protected by god then and now.
That kind of stuff usually derails the conversation. They call me a nut case. God knows why.
“Yes, you are ready to take that risk. We’re on our way to save seventeen kids and one adult who are strapped to a bomb.”
The copilot tapped his pilot. “Remember when I told you never accept a gig from Sabel? It’s always something sketchy.”
He looked me over. Then he looked over my shoulder at Tania. “Is he for real?”
“Yes.” Of course, she would’ve said the same thing with equal conviction if I’d lied. No better backup than Tania.
Miguel squeezed in behind us. “Just got the word from Bianca. They figured it out. Basel, Switzerland. There’s an empty castle there called Angenstein. She believes the kids are in the basement.”
“I’m gonna lose my license over this.” The pilot turned back to his controls. He clicked his mic. “Sorry, control tower has not given me a vector.”
He sparred with the Royal Moroccans for several minutes. At 500 miles per hour, it didn’t take long to leave the coastal capital and Morocco’s airspace. Unfortunately, it took us west. We had to skirt the country and fly over Spain. Air traffic controllers demanded we explain ourselves and our flight path. We promised to land in Paris and asked to be met at the airport by Lieutenant Colonel Hugo of the GIGN.
That bought us enough time to head northeast over Geneva.
Miguel had wisely repacked our HALO gear and stored it on Sabel Three after the jump in the Netherlands. We suited up. The pilot could only get down to 40,000 feet and could only slow to 200 miles per hour. Both would make the jump extremely difficult for us.
We dove out into bright sunshine. The Alps scratched at the sky far below us. Way far below us. We fell for close to three minutes before pulling our chutes. When we did, we floated to a steep hillside above the sixteenth century castle.
“What’s with Nema and her thing for the late Renaissance?” Tania asked.
I said, “Segregated times.”
CHAPTER 47
We hiked down the hillside through the forest having landed far enough uphill that a farmer wouldn’t see us floating out of the sky. And also so that a Free Origins guard wouldn’t spot us coming in for the big Hollywood rescue. The downside was the walk. It took an excruciating amount of time. The lives of seventeen children and my ex-girlfriend were on the line.
At some point, Nema would not see the news flashes she wanted to see coming out of Morocco. We’d already seen some reporting of an incident, but King Mohammed VI keeps a tight lid on his press. No rumors or sensationalized reporting came out of Rabat, only limited reports of a shooting with fatalities. She expected her people to die. She didn’t expect them to call in a full report. How much time that bought us was anyone’s guess.
Halfway through the forest, we heard my theme song playing. Police sirens. They sped down the highway in front of the castle. Not good.
We arrived at the edge of the forest in time to see the police arrive in Teslas and cordon off the area and enter the building.
I discovered we’d gotten a text from Ms. Sabel while falling forty thousand feet. It read, “After updating FBI Director Shikowitz, he determined the local authorities should be made aware of the situation.”
Mercury stepped out of the trees. They’re aware all right, homeboy. The local authorities have arrived and are ready to save the day. That’d be a problem for you, though. These cops are good, but they don’t know the full extent of Nema’s evil mind. You need to go down there and act all Caesar-like.
I said, What’s wrong with letting them handle it? They have professional hostage negotiators.
Mercury said, Who wanna appeal to the terrorist’s humanity to make them see the light. Only problem is, Nema put the trigger in the hands of an unwilling participant. Standard negotiating tactics will only add to the feeling of hopelessness. The more they work on him, the more despondent he’ll feel. Only you can do something.
I said, Am I still a wanted man in France?
Mercury said, That’s not your biggest problem.
I said, What does that mean?
Mercury said, The authorities in Morocco consider you one of the terrorists and have asked EU countries to arrest you on sight. But don’t go getting depressed, yo. The Swiss aren’t in the EU.
We stopped at the tree line. The scene wasn’t what I’d imagined. As castles go, this one was small. It had no outer wall, no crenelated parapets, no watchtowers. It did have thick stone walls with a few scattered windows and one big front door that looked like it could stop anything smaller than a tank. Five stories up was a modern roof.
Mercury stood in the castle’s driveway, looking up at the roof. What a view from there, huh, homie? Especially with those funny looking metal thingys. Highly suspicious objects if you ask me.
He’s not always wrong.
On the roof were three Yagi antennas pointing in three different directions. Yagi antennas are directional. They’re also an old technology dating to the 1920s. Naturally, the military uses them. They come in handy as a backup system in battlefield scenarios should the satellites go down. They can be adapted for high-speed internet access if you want to mask your physical location. Yagi antenna A sits on the castle, beaming a signal in a straight line of sight to Yagi antenna B. The B antenna could be miles away. They must have been the reason Bianca had so much trouble finding the location.
They would also make it harder to find Nema’s command center once we disarmed Jenny’s suicide vest. I texted Bianca a heads-up about the antennas.
Among the police was a tall, middle-aged woman who had raised children through their teenage years. Mothers who survived teens are easy to spot; they have that permanent your-bullshit-won’t-fly-with-me look on their faces. I figured she must be in charge. We approached and introduced ourselves.
Before I finished talking, I was facedown on the asphalt and cuffed. Someone grabbed me by the hair and yanked me to standing. I faced the serious woman. Someone introduced her as Kommandant of Police for the Canton of Basel-Stadt. No name was given.
In crisp German-tinted English, Kommandant said, “You are responsible for this heinous crime?”
“That sounded past tense,” I said. “Tell me they haven’t triggered the bomb.”
“You know this bomb? That man is one of your people?”
“The victim is my girlfriend. I don’t know who else might be involved. But I can neutralize this situation. Please, don’t send anyone in there. Let me go.”
“And let you kill all these children? No.”
“I worked undercover. I infiltrated the terrorists who put all this together. I can stop it.”
“We have assessed the situation. You will not be involved.”
Two of her officers began dragging me away.
Mercury leaned over her shoulder. Tell Kommandant you talk to the gods, homie. She’ll understand. She’s the kind of woman who respects power. I can get Juno in here for a consultation. Go ahead now. Tell her you have a direct line to Mercury, winged messenger of the Roman gods.
I said, I’m going to pass on that one. But thanks for the tip.
I called out, “Call FBI Director Shikowitz. He knows me. He’ll tell you I can resolve this situation.”
“You are FBI agent?” She peered at me with more suspicion than I wanted.
“Not exactly. But I know Shikowitz. I swear. Call him.”
Tania handed her my phone with Shikowitz’s cell number teed up and ready to dial.
She gave Tania a withering glance. She took out her own phone and handed it to an aide. In German, she told him to call the FBI headquarters and ask for the director. Not that I speak German, but the cross-over words combined with the side-eye she gave me translated it all for me. The two men holding me pushed us farther away from the action.
Kommandant turned to a man who’d just emerged from the castle. While I couldn’t hear him, his body language spoke volumes. These people had been to training. They had mastered horrific scenar
ios on paper. But a nice sleepy little canton like Basel-Stadt didn’t see a lot of violent crime. I could tell by the mixture of determination and fear on their faces. The man giving the report was explaining a hopeless situation.
Miguel and Tania scanned the police personnel holding us back. I followed suit, taking stock of the mostly male force, including the two guarding the three of us. Then my team members turned their gazes to me with a barely perceptible nod. The glance told me they were ready to take down the cops if it came to that. Like a pitcher communicating with his catcher, I shook them off. We would win the battle, but cops on edge have a tendency to pull their triggers a little too quickly. Someone could get hurt, and that would make me the terrorist that Kommandant—and everyone else in Europe—thought I was.
Kommandant questioned her man, he answered, and then she looked across the patrol cars at me. The officer she’d tasked with reaching the FBI Director handed over her phone. She spoke into it. Her gaze stayed locked on me while she spoke. Her your-bullshit-won’t-fly-with-me face hardened.
Mercury stepped into my line of sight. You know what that guy said? He said the situation is hopeless; we should let the American take the blame.
I said, You could hear them?
Mercury said, No. But I know how commanders think when defeat and destruction are inevitable.
Kommandant told her men to bring me forward. When they deposited me in front of her, they took my cuffs off.
“Director Shikowitz thinks well of you.” Kommandant observed me like she was going to pull my spleen out with her fingernails. “You know the situation?”
“Not the details.” I gave her my soldier stare. “I know the people who put it together, and I can stop them. Guaranteed.”
She took a moment to observe me with a hint of respect. She turned to three men waiting for instructions. They argued in German. Their voices rose, their faces turned red. All four of them were angry. Then, all at once, they stopped talking.
She turned to me. “Guaranteed?”
“Absolutely.”
Kommandant gave me a second, longer visual assessment. I stood stock-still, my eyes never leaving hers. She pointed to the huge front door. “Through the foyer, stairs on the left going down. Do not come back without the children.”