Giving up on any thought of a romantic lunch, Adam keyed his mic, described the boats’ location, and said, “Sophia, can you get some drones over there? Dogu is meeting up with Profit.”
“I’m on it. Already got ’em close by.”
Adam and Tripnee watched as the drone that had been hovering near them shot off down the mountain toward the two boats.
“See what I mean?” Tripnee said. “She’s spying on us.”
“Hold on, there could be an innocent explanation,” Adam said as he studied the two terrorist’s boats through his binoculars. “Maybe she had one positioned near us to be ready for this sort of situation? Or maybe she’s just a little jealous?”
“Wake up. I’m telling you, the woman’s poison.”
“Well, at the moment she seems to be a solid agent with one hell of a skill set crucial to our mission.”
“Blind asshole.”
“Look, we’ve got to hold our team together. The consequences of failure are unthinkable. Unthinkable. So, hold it together.”
Her eyes wild, Tripnee clenched her jaw.
Adam put an arm around her and his face softened. “We’ll keep an eye on her, okay? But we’ve got to track down every single one of those goddamn nukes, and we need her to do it.”
Tripnee’s jaw trembled while her chest convulsed, rapidly rising and falling. Was she hyperventilating? Was she okay?
Adam reeled inside. Not only was he worried about Tripnee, he had a strange foreboding about what was about to go down aboard the terrorist’s boats. As he watched through his long lenses, Bora came to rest alongside the anchored Profit, Bora’s crew went aboard the other boat, and then both crews went below decks.
Perhaps to calm herself, or perhaps because her brain was always in overdrive, Tripnee got out her own binoculars. She read aloud the name written big across the transom of the second boat, “Profit.” Then she said, “Ha. Get it? A clever way to hide a reference to Prophet Muhammad in plain sight, especially from English speakers.”
Sophia’s voice crackled over their earpieces. “Drones are aboard. Patching the audio through to you now.”
Dogu’s voice, then others, yelled, “Assalamu alaikum!”
After shouts of “Die, traitors!” Adam and Tripnee’s earpieces reverberated with the deafening rata-tat-tat of AK-47s mixed with prolonged, blood-curdling screaming. Suddenly, all was quiet.
Then they heard a voice: “Dogu, how could you?”
Dogu said, “MashaAllah.”
“We’ve known each other for years. Why? Why? Why?”
“I listen. I pay attention. You let it slip. You don’t like our plan. The fact is, you cannot be trusted. So, you die. Allah willed it.”
“But Dogu, I’m begging you. You and I grew up together. We are brothers fighting for Allah.”
“I know you too well, brother Galen. You would report everything to Cyclops. Cyclops must never learn of our secret meeting, of our plans—and especially of me and my crew killing you. Allah commands.”
“You always had the hot blood, Dogu. Hot blood does not win wars. Cool heads, like Cyclops, win wars. Thinking ahead smart, like Cyclops, wins wars.”
Because only she could see the video feed coming from the drone, Sophia narrated, her voice tense, “Dogu is putting a knife to Galen’s throat.”
Then over their earpieces Adam and Tripnee heard Galen cry out, “Have you lost your mind? Cyclops even now sees what you do. May Allah take you down.”
An ear-piercing scream was cut short, then there was gurgling.
“Allahu Akbar.”
Silence.
Sophia gasped. “Dogu slit Galen’s throat. The dirty, dirty rotten bastard.”
As Sophia narrated, Adam and Tripnee’s earbuds filled with the sounds of Dogu and his crew searching every inch of Profit. Eventually, they found a suitcase nuke and several duffle bags of money. Curiously, instead of carrying these aboard their boat Bora, they stuffed them back into their hiding places on Profit.
Seen from high up the mountain, the two terrorists’ boats appeared for all the world like a perfect picture of idyllic elegance and beauty, giving no hint of the horrors within. But the bloody reality sent Adam and Tripnee hauling ass down the mountain back to Dream Voyager. Nuclear bombs in the hands of murderous fanatics were on boats anchored a mile away.
Chapter 13
Naousa Marina
A s Adam and Tripnee sprinted along the quay, a cutter-rigged yawl jockeyed for position in the constricted harbor. Suddenly, the yawl dropped anchor and, angling across the violent, gusting meltemi, came flying stern first right into the tight slot between Dream Voyager and the next boat over.
The yawl had its fenders out; its crew stood ready with more hand-held fenders; and Adam and Tripnee hurried aboard Dream Voyager to assist with fenders of their own.
As the yawl’s stern neared the quay, its crew made the classic newbie error of attempting to throw their entire stern-line coils. Super heavy, these dropped straight into the water, where they were sucked down toward the boat’s reversing propeller, threatening to disable the boat. The skinny, intense skipper screamed profanities at his crew, adding to the mayhem.
At the last possible moment, the wild-eyed captain narrowly avoided catastrophe by finally throwing his transmission into forward. This pushed the submerged lines away from his prop, and sent his boat scooting back out into the small, windswept harbor. He then reset his anchor and jockeyed into position for a second try, which also failed because crew and captain repeated their same mistakes.
Adam didn’t need this. He had to get Dream Voyager underway to go after Dogu. But he couldn’t pull out while the big yawl thrashed back and forth, repeatedly backing in and accelerating out right next to them.
On the third frantic attempt, Adam and Tripnee yelled instructions to the yawl’s traumatized crew and got in position themselves on the quay to receive the tossed lines. This time the yawl, which had the name Humbaba emblazoned across its stern, finally got its lines ashore and completed its mooring.
When Tripnee and Adam descended into Dream Voyager’s salon, they found Sophia still diligently monitoring Dogu. They cooked up an assault plan, and the three of them went on deck to get underway only to find that a second boat, a sleek 70-foot schooner named Dido, was backing into the open slot on their starboard, windward side.
Dido was crewed by what looked like fourteen or so olive-skinned, well-oiled nineteen-to-twenty-two-year-old men in thong Speedos. Instead of using hand-held fenders, these muscular young men threw their massed bodies—like the Iwo Jima flag raisers but more compressed together—into the task of keeping their upwind boat from grinding against Dream Voyager.
Adam dropped a two-foot-diameter fender between the two boats, and—lucky thing—for it was squeezed down to a thin pancake as Dido jammed in to complete her Med-mooring.
Finally, they could get underway.
But Sophia stepped in close to Adam, and whispered, “I don’t believe it. We’ve got to talk. Below.”
Sophia led the way down into the salon where she slammed shut all the portholes and closed every curtain. Then she turned to Adam and Tripnee. “It’s impossible. It just can’t happen, but the fact is these two new boats next to us are crewed by Cyclops’ men.”
“Are you nuts?” Tripnee exclaimed. “Now you think every boat in the Greek islands is crewed by terrorists?”
“I know it defies logic,” Sophia replied. “I’m not saying it’s every boat. But the captains of these two new boats on either side of us are in the Interpol database. They’re known IRGC operatives, and it’s a good bet their crews are as well.”
“Are you sure?” Adam asked.
“The captain of the boat on our starboard side—”
“Dido,” Adam supplied.
“…is Ismail Kazmi,” Sophia said. “The guy’s a known terrorist. And so is the captain of the other boat—”
“Humbaba,” Adam offered.
“…Yeah, Hu
mbaba. That captain is Abd Quddus, a big-time terrorist linked to the attack on the Charlie Hebdo cartoonists in Paris.”
“Well, Humbaba is an odd name,” Tripnee commented. “In what’s considered the first work of Western literature, Gilgamesh fights the monster Humbaba. If Gilgamesh represents Western civilization, Humbaba represents mythical, god-like forces that challenge the West.”
“Yes,” Sophia added, “and Gilgamesh is attacked because Humbaba’s job is to protect a sacred forest. So, in Islamic eyes, Humbaba could be seen as protecting the sacred, the pure, the natural, the way things are truly meant to be.”
Tripnee nodded slowly. “That’s right.”
“Interesting,” Adam said. “Let’s stay put long enough to figure out if these boats have nukes. But at the same time, Sophia, we need you to monitor Dogu and make sure his two nukes don’t get away.”
Chapter 14
Cyclops: Taqiyya
P raise be to Allah.
“Taqiyya sanctions dissimulation, deception, lying. We are commanded to do whatever it takes, including lying, to destroy our enemies and spread Islam. The most perfect human, Prophet Muhammad, made this abundantly clear. Taqiyya is Islamic warfare.” —Cyclops
Tafsir on Qur’an Surah 3:28: “Al-Bukhari recorded that Abu Ad-Darda’ said, ‘We smile in the face of some people although our hearts curse them.’ Al-Bukhari said that Al-Hasan said, ‘The Tuqyah is allowed until the Day of Resurrection. Allah said.’”
“If you (Muslims) are under their (non-Muslim) authority, fearing for yourselves, behave loyally to them with your tongue while harboring animosity for them….” —Muhammad ibn Jarir at-Tabiri, Jami’ al-Bayan ‘an ta’wil ayi’l-Qur’an al-Ma’ruf: Tafsir at-Tabari, explaining Qur’an Surah 3:28.
“If you fear treachery from any of your allies, you may fairly retaliate by breaking off your treaty with them.”—Qur’an Surah 8:51.
In his court proceedings, 9/11 jihad hero Kalid Sheikh Muhammad gloriously gave voice to Prophet Muhammad’s deep truth: “War is deceit.”
Bismillah. In the name of Allah.
Chapter 15
Dido and Humbaba
S ophia set to work with her drones. At the same time, Adam and Tripnee did their own sleuthing.
Tripnee, her golden skin glowing in a pink bikini, stretched out on Dream Voyager’s starboard foredeck while half of Dido’s young all-male crew drooled over their ship’s rail a few feet away.
One crew member in a Speedo with no more fabric than a jock strap, took a long, slow hose shower nearby. Soaping and rinsing himself again and again, he repeatedly lifted the tiny Speedo away from his groin to allow the water to flow more freely, all the while his eyes going frequently to Tripnee, and, when she glanced his way, flashing a beckoning smile.
“Are you on a charter? Where are you headed?” she asked, her luxuriant, shoulder-length, raven hair dancing in the breeze.
“Never mind that,” the extremely well-built young man said, who was a head taller than his companions. “I’m Kurt Latifi. How about you and me go for stroll?”
“Join us for a party,” another said.
Meanwhile, near the stern, Adam struck up a conversation with the intense, sinewy captain on their port side, Abd Quddus. Adam asked about the boat name Humbaba.
“Humbaba,” Quddus said, “was a character in Gilgamesh. The first great book of Western literature.”
“Yeah? You’ve studied Western literature?” Adam asked.
“Absolutely. The name honors Western literature and the great traditions of the West.”
Adam raised his margarita, “To Western Civilization.”
Quddus doffed his captain’s hat, gave a little bow, then raised his own drink, “But of course, to Western Civilization.”
“It looks like your crew is pretty green.”
“No kidding. When it comes to sailing, they’re buffoons.”
“They chartered your boat?”
“No, no. I’m no charter captain. We’re just friends on a lark. Sailing wherever.”
The conversation ended when Quddus abruptly climbed out of sight down into his boat.
Later, the trio regrouped in the salon of Dream Voyager.
Grimacing, Tripnee mused, “Of course, actual terrorists would have a cover story. But if these guys are actual jihadis, either they’ve perfected great disguises or they’re piss-poor terrorists.”
“How so?” Adam asked.
“You’d expect, in some deluded way, for them to see themselves as devout warriors for Islam. But the Dido crew seems to be really and truly just a bunch of empty-headed kids looking to get laid.”
“They’re oddballs all right,” Sophia said, “and most of them are not in the Interpol database. But they’re definitely warriors. Get a load of this.”
Adam and Tripnee gathered around Sophia’s laptop which showed Captain Quddus sitting with both his crew and the Dido crew, apparently aboard Humbaba.
“Don’t worry, they’re clueless,” Quddus said.
“The guy has no idea who we are?”
“That’s Ismail Kazmi of Dido,” Sophia said.
“He’s an ignorant American,” Quddus said. “He doesn’t even know who Gilgamesh was, let alone Humbaba.”
“He bought your cover story?” Kazmi asked.
“The guy’s a pushover,” Quddus answered. “Totally gullible.”
“Still, it’s important we practice and perfect our cover stories,” Kazmi said, “so when we are put under scrutiny, we can go on fooling them.”
“You’re saying we should lie?” a new voice asked.
“That’s the guy on Dido who invited me to take a stroll,” Tripnee said, “Kurt Latifi.”
“No, no,” Kazmi said. “It’s taqiyya. The Prophet is very clear. When talking to infidels, we are commanded to say whatever will spread Islam and advance the cause of Allah.”
“Whether it is true or not?” Latifi asked.
“That is not the way to ask the question. The question is: What is the higher truth, the higher value?” Kazmi instructed him. “The higher truth, the highest value, is spreading the faith. Anything that hinders spreading Islam is a sin. Anything—anything—that spreads the faith is holy. Anything. That is taqiyya.”
There was a hushed pause in the conversation aboard Humbaba, then Abd Quddus boomed, “Infidels are stupid and gullible. My question is: Did Allah intend for us to take so much joy in fooling them and killing them?”
Pointing to an object partially visible on the laptop screen, something poking out from a cubby in a far corner of Humbaba’s salon, Adam said, “Sophia, can you zoom in on this?”
A movement of her virtual controls adjusted the drone’s optics and brought the object into sharp focus: A suitcase nuke.
Chapter 16
The Party
“W e’re surrounded. Nineteen of them. Three of us. How in hell are we going to take down so many?”
Got to think outside the box.
Sophia outlined just such an idea. Adam was impressed. It was outside the box all right. And for that very reason just might work. Diabolical as hell. Fight evil with the devil’s own tools. Just don’t ever get on this woman’s bad side.
“Gotta love arsenic. Colorless, odorless, tasteless. Deliciously lethal.” Sophia flashed an evil smile, coming out of her cabin with a small backpack. She reached in and pulled out a sealed canister the size of a loaf of bread. “This special formulation is slow to act, but when it does, it knocks ’em dead fast.”
“Horrendous but clever,” admitted Tripnee. “Used since Roman times to off relatives and rivals.”
“What about us?” Adam asked. “How are we going to keep from getting poisoned?”
“Got us covered two ways.” Sophia lifted a pitcher from her pack. “See this? When you press this button inside the handle, it pours from a hidden chamber. That’ll be how we pour drinks for the three of us. For our guests, we’ll pour from the main chamber, which we’ll refill from the bi
g, refreshing, arsenic-laden, knock ’em dead Mojito punch bowl.”
“And the other way we’re protected?” Tripnee asked.
“My homeopathic antidote.” Sophia held up a screw-top plastic bottle the size of a hand grenade. “We each need to take three doses of this before our party, just in case.”
Tiny bikinis did the trick. Tripnee invited the Dido crew to a party on the Voyager, while Sophia, in a minuscule number little bigger than three eye patches, went aboard Humbaba to welcome that contingent, and all accepted. Pretty soon, both terrorist crews came swaggering aboard.
Adam figured his best move was to keep a low profile and appear drunk. To downplay his height and physique, he slouched in a back corner of the cockpit hunched over in loose, shabby clothes. To conceal any alpha-male vibe, he took on a deer-in-the-headlights look and pretty much continuously smiled and bobbed his head. To subtly encourage drinking, but without overdoing it, he acted more and more drunk and oblivious as he chugged what looked like Mojito after Mojito, nevertheless on alert and ready for action all the while, beneath the bowing and scraping.
Tripnee and Sophia poured drinks, chatted up the guests, poured more drinks, laughed, smiled, playfully swatted away grabby hands while pouring more and more drinks. The Dido and Humbaba crews seemed to be swallowing the charade hook, line, and sinker. Beautiful.
Well, except for three guys.
Kurt Latifi, stronger and taller than the others, stood apart on Dream Voyager’s stern deck. Glowering, he observed the proceedings without taking part.
Not good.
And Ismail Kazmi and Abd Quddus talked quietly on the bow, with no drinks in hand. Even worse.
Cyclops Conspiracy: An Adam Weldon Thriller Page 7