by Ted Bell
Stoke held his breath. Ross may have just saved his life. These low-level special ops guys were usually what, in the SEALs, they used to call risk averse. Don’t like to take chances. Works in your favor sometimes, you get lucky enough.
Like now, the guy ripping open his fancy dress shirt seeing that bright gold medal hanging on a twenty-four carat chain around his twenty-four-inch neck. A nice shiny Cuban flag on the front. Man lifting it off his chest, looking at it up close. “Where you get this?”
“Cuba, where else? When I saved your comandante’s ass from those rebel generals couple of years ago, like I told you. You probably don’t remember all that. Probably still in grade school.”
“Shut up! Enough of this bullshit.”
“Tell him to read what’s on the other side,” Ross said.
“Yeah! Turn it over,” Stoke said. “Shine your damn light on it. Read what’s on the back. Out loud, por favor, so all your trigger-happy commandos with their guns on me know who they dealing with here.”
“Presented to Stokely Jones Jr.,” the guy read in English, shaking his head, not believing what he was reading, “In recognition of his heroic service to the Republic of Cuba. Fidel Castro, January 2002.”
“See what I’m saying? Fidel and me, we are two coats of paint. We are tight.”
“It’s—real? This is real?”
“Sí. Es real. Damn right it’s real. Think I went out and bought it in case I ran into some Cuban commandos didn’t believe my story?”
“Okay. Bueno,” the guy said, finally. Risk averse, all right. “Okay. I believe you.”
“Good. I’m Stoke, he’s Ross. What’s your name?”
The guy actually reached up and patted Stoke on the cheek. “Me llamo Pepe,” he said, “Lieutenant Pepe Alvarez.” Big smile, like they friends now. Not taking any chances whatsoever just like Stoke knew he would. Or would not. Whichever way you want to say it.
“Let these two gringos go,” he said to the guy behind him, “Cut them loose.”
“Good, Lieutenant. Now you focused. Lucky, too. You got two world-class cops here, help you go find this skanky piece of human garbage Rodrigo.”
“Right,” Ross said, rubbing his wrists. “This man you’re after murdered a friend of ours. A bride on her wedding day. And a Miami police officer in his bed, and now this poor lad here.” Ross knelt beside Preacher, covering him up best he could with his torn and bloody black tuxedo jacket.
“Scissorhands is going down, Ross,” Stoke said, looking at the dead boy on the floor. “When we catch hold of him. All the way down. Look at me. I promise you that.” He’d loved the kid. Planned to take him under his wing.
Somewhere out beyond the house, down the great sweep of lawn that ended at the edge of the bay, there was a heavy rumble. Two powerful and deep-throated engines erupted into life. Sounded like one of those hundred-mile-an-hour Cigarette powerboats. Also, there was the sound of about fifty Miami PD squad car sirens coming up the long drive that led to the former residence of Rodrigo del Rio; what used to be the Vizcaya Museum. Time to rock and roll.
“You guys come here on spec-ops boats, right?” Stoke asked the little guy, kneading his wrists, trying make his hands wake up. “Inflatables off some foreign freighter also stops in Havana, way I would do it.”
“Sí.”
“That’s good, ’cause we gonna need ’em if we going to catch Rodrigo. Hear that? Fixing to haul his ass away from the dock.”
“Vámonos!” Alvarez shouted, and everybody bolted from the rubble and ran down through the gardens to the Vizcaya docks where the Cubans had moored four high-speed inflatables. Stoke was bringing up the rear with his arm around Ross, who’d busted up his leg. Everybody jumped in, cranking the big outboards, throwing off lines. Stoke and Ross jumped down into Pepe’s boat as it roared away from the dock.
Stoke peered over the bow, the salt spray and rain stinging his eyes. All they could see of Rodrigo now was the huge white plume of his speedboat’s rooster tail as he raced away from the elaborate Venetian-style harbor, slashing southeast across storm-tossed Biscayne Bay. Boy had worked out his escape plan a long time ago, Stoke imagined. Saw this day coming. Contingency planning was what they called it.
Stoke was happy. He’d always liked being somebody’s contingency.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Suva Island
SNAY BIN WAZIR RELAXED BACK INTO THE DEEP LEATHER cushions of the armchair in his sitting room and fired up another Baghdaddie. The ornately carved door hushed shut; he was alone. Smoking with the cigarette held between thumb and forefinger, he inhaled deeply, the long yellow cigarette going to ash like a fire-cracker fuse. He gazed out the large oval window beside his chair. The Mountain of Fire lay smoldering some three thousand feet below him. The peak of the active volcano, rising up from the dense green carpet of rain forest, was wreathed with swirling scuds of rain clouds and tendrils of fog.
He heaved a sigh of contentment and pressed his face closer to the glass. Everything was going according to schedule in London. An attendant had just handed him a downloaded e-mail sent via the high-speed air-ground data link from Lily’s Blackberry PDA. Lily and the Rose had just arrived at Grosvenor House and cleared security. The target was present. They were proceeding.
All good, he thought, gazing at the idyllic scene below.
But it wasn’t really. There’d been a second downloaded message from the Emir. Crumpled into a ball, it now lay on the Persian carpet at Snay’s feet. The message could not have been clearer. One of his flowers had grown too tall for the garden. She would have to be cut down to size. Bin Wazir sighed. His beautiful Rose. Ah, well.
Fanning out from the base of the mountain, he could see the farmers and their oxen spread across the vast rice paddies. The volcano had erupted just last year, the fiery lava flow killing hundreds. But the farmers had rebuilt their homes near the volcano because it was the ash that made this region of the island’s soil so fertile.
If you look at a chart of the South China Sea and, more specifically, Indonesia, in the area just south of the Equator and just north of latitude 15 degrees south, you’ll see that 120 degrees of longitude perfectly bisects the small island of Suva, due west of Timor. Like all of Indonesia, it is Muslim; the largest Muslim nation on earth. In the seventies and early eighties, Suva Island was a vacation mecca for wealthy Arabs and their families. A long landing strip was slashed into the jungle to accommodate private planes. And then came the jumbo jets packed with rich young Arab tourists. The men in search of, not sun and sand, which they had more than their share of, but whiskey, wine, and casual sex.
The one hotel on the island is a sprawling resort set amidst many lush acres on the southern coast, with beautiful curving white beaches gently washed by the blue Suva Sea. It is called the Bambah. The Pink Palace. For most of the eighties and early nineties, it was a very chic destination. When it later fell out of fashion, it lay vacant for years, crumbling into a state of decay. Islamic guerillas discovered it, and, for years, it was a terrorist training camp before the guerillas were finally routed by government forces. Once more, the jungle asserted itself. The once beautiful buildings and grounds of the Bambah were overrun with riotous vegetation; the old hotel was left to molder and rot.
Snay bin Wazir was a sharp-eyed man who knew a bargain when he saw one. He bought it, and poured his wife’s millions into it. But, after a brief renaissance in the late nineties, the hotel fell once more onto hard times. The rambling pale pink Bambah hotel below was the last remaining link in bin Wazir’s once-golden chain. Gazing down upon its steep, fish-scale blue tile rooftops, he had to admit that the beautiful old hotel, once the jewel of his global real estate empire, had been a flawed stone.
As his 747 banked sharply, lining up for its final approach to the 10,000-foot jungle airstrip, Snay’s mind was crowded with dreams of future glory. His efforts to destabilize and terrify the American diplomatic service had succeeded beyond anyone’s hopes. Here at Suva, he w
as to set in motion the final phase of the Emir’s Grand Jihad. His hashishiyyun had rocked the Great Satan back on his heels. Now he would lay him low. As the big jet touched down, reversed its thrusters and lumbered down the runway, he was filled with hope. After many humiliations, glory would finally be his.
Bin Wazir stood in the opened cabin door and thanked his trusted and very British pilot Khalid al-Abdullah, and his copilot, an Irishman named Johnny Adare, for a smooth flight. Their work had just begun. They would supervise a waiting army of technicians and mechanics. They would create the Angel of Death.
Snay took a long, loving look back at his airplane as he descended the aluminum stairway to the ancient black hotel limousine. He knew the next time he saw his splendid green and gold Boeing 747, one of only three such privately owned aircraft in the world, he would scarcely recognize it.
The long black Daimler wound its way through the tenebrous jungle. The old pink palace sat on a rocky point of land jutting out into the Suva Sea. The hotel boasted a vast jumble of blue-tiled rooflines and minarets and other Middle Eastern architectural conceits. As the big car lurched to a stop at the covered entrance, he could see that a fresh coat of pink paint had been hurriedly applied to the rambling main structure.
The doormen and bellboys, in their faded pink jackets, were bowing and scraping before he and his bodyguard, Tippu Tip, had even climbed out of the rear of the car.
He’d given Ali al-Fazir, who ran the hotel, a few weeks’ notice. The owner was coming. Snay bin Wazir was going to host a convention of some four hundred “travel agents” gathering for a two-day training seminar. The theme of the seminar, created by Snay himself, was “Travel in a Changed World.” The attendees were scheduled to begin arriving first thing next morning. Al-Fazir had arranged a lavish welcome dinner for them, a traditional Indonesian selametan dedicating various foods to spirits and combining Muslim prayers with this spirit worship.
As Tippu and the elderly hotel driver removed three antique Louis Vuitton steamer trunks from the cavernous boot of the old Daimler, Snay bin Wazir climbed the wide semicircular steps leading up to the verandah. He was surprised not to see the normally obsequious al-Fazir standing in the doorway to welcome him with open arms. Some feverish last-minute preparations for his arrival, no doubt.
“Hello, Saddam,” he said to the dragon.
The Komodo dragon, traditionally kept chained to a stout metal post in one corner of the Bambah verandah, strained at the heavy links of its leash and bared its sharp, saw-like teeth. The animal, at just over ten feet in length, weighed nearly three hundred pounds. Komodos were the world’s largest living reptiles. Very quick and very strong, with razor-sharp claws, the lizard could easily overcome wild pigs, deer, and even water buffalo.
Before he’d finally been captured and adopted as official mascot of the Bambah, Saddam had eaten at least fifteen human beings alive. Farmers’ children, mostly, and one very old woman. He’d been weaned from such exotic fare twenty years ago. But Snay believed the dragon had never really lost his taste for human flesh. When you approached him, you could see his coal black pupils dilate, sense his fetid breath quickening.
Komodos are extremely fearsome creatures. Contrary to popular belief, the dragons don’t kill you with their sawlike teeth. When they bite you, bacteria in their saliva goes right into your bloodstream. It can take you three or four days to die. A horrible death, knowing the dragon is tracking you, waiting for the chance to enjoy you at its leisure.
Saddam dreams of us at night, Snay had once told Ali al-Fazir, who was terrified of the dragon. Yes. Colorful, exciting dreams. Stalking us, playing with us, seeing how long he can wait, waiting until he can stand it no longer. Then pouncing, gripping us with his claws as he opens his jaws, the taste of our warm meat and hot blood not nearly so exciting to his reptile brain as the sound of our cracking bones. Look, Ali, look at those eyes! He’s dreaming of you!
For weeks, Ali would use another entrance to the hotel, avoiding Saddam at all costs.
Since human flesh was no longer a regular item on Saddam’s menu, however, he’d acquired a great fondness for monkey heads, and there was always a pail full of them at the top of the hotel steps. Bin Wazir reached into the pail, plucked out a nice fresh one, and tossed it at the hissing beast. The lightning speed with which Saddam managed to snap the monkey’s head up and pulverize it with his powerful jaws never failed to amaze him.
Despite the thick iron collar bolted round his neck and the heavy stainless steel chain that held the creature in check, the very sight of him was enough to cause heart palpitations in man, woman, or child. Saddam had long been a bone of contention between Snay and his manager al-Fazir. Bin Wazir, who had personally captured Saddam and installed him at the entrance, contended he was a great attraction. The terrified manager, who had to submit his monthly booking figures to the owner’s wife, Yasmin, argued quite the opposite. “You could live with a man-eating dragon snarling at your door, but why would you?” he would ask Yasmin.
“Excellency!” al-Fazir shouted, rushing out of the entrance and embracing bin Wazir. “Allah has granted you safe journey! It has been a long time, my good friend. Much too long!” The man tried to hide his surprise at bin Wazir’s enormous girth, which had tripled to sumo size since last they’d met.
Snay bin Wazir made a show of returning the awkward embrace and then held the other man at arm’s length, looking at him carefully. He’d never completely trusted this al-Fazir. He always suspected his manager went behind his back, dealing with Yasmin on important hotel issues. Also, even the most cursory look at the books revealed a long history of inconsistencies. At any rate, year after year the hotel managed to eke out a small profit, Yasmin seemed to like the fellow, and so Snay tended to let it go.
“My great friend,” he said, looking down at the bleary-eyed man, for Ali was a good head shorter, “Are you all right? Have you been ill? Look, you are trembling.”
“No, not at all,” al-Fazir said with a thin smile, “A touch of monkey fever, perhaps, that’s all. I’m much better now, Excellency. Quinine, you know. Nothing better.”
Especially with vast quantities of Tanqueray gin, Snay bin Wazir thought. Actually he looked not good at all. His hands were damp and clammy, his skin sallow, his cheeks hollow, and his bloodshot eyes glassy and furtive. He had a long-standing bottle problem, Snay bin Wazir knew. Perhaps it had worsened. He smiled at the man and took his arm.
“Good, good,” bin Wazir said. “If you need care, I’ll arrange a charter. My pilots can fly you out to the hospital in Jakarta. The doctors are shit on this island as we learned during the last outbreak of the dengue.” Ali had lost his wife to dengue fever. He had not been the same man since.
“Come, we will speak of it later,” the bleary manager replied. “Let me take you up to the Owner’s Suite. It was a long flight. A drink, perhaps, first? In the bar? While your luggage is being unpacked?” The man looked desperate for a drink himself.
They sat drinking Bali Hai beer in a booth in the cool dark of the main bar, just off the lobby. The room smelled of spice and mildew and leather. Overhead in the gloom, the paddle fans spun silently. The room was richly paneled with various Indonesian hardwoods, with a soaring beamed raffia ceiling. Snay bin Wazir himself had designed the room, modeling it after the Long Bar at Raffles in Singapore. His ideas on hotel interior decoration were much changed, less extravagant and more traditional since the Beauchamps debacle.
There was a white man sitting at the far end of the bar, talking quietly with the bartender. He wore a soiled linen jacket over khaki shorts and had leather sandals on his bare feet. His longish hair and beard were bleached by the sun, and he was deeply tanned. Clearly, he was someone who spent most of his time in the bush.
“A guest?” Snay bin Wazir asked, the question laced lightly with venom. He took a long, slow draught of his lager as he eyed the man at the bar. He’d specifically told his manager this seminar was to be strictly a closed, private a
ffair; absolutely no outside guests when the attendees began arriving.
“Yes, yes, but do not worry, Excellency,” Ali replied. “Name’s Nash. He’s checking out first thing. Tomorrow morning.”
“No. He is checking out first thing this afternoon, Ali. What did I tell you?” Snay strained to contain himself. An outsider in the hotel was the last thing he needed.
“He has a charter, Excellency, flying in from Java. Picking him up at first light and heading back there. You have my humblest apologies that he—”
“Who is he, anyway? Looks like a fucking Brit to me.”
“Doesn’t he? He’s Australian. Perth, I believe. But he speaks perfect Bahasa. Like a native. He’s some kind of scientist, I believe, studying the fauna and—”
“Idiot.”
Snay bin Wazir rose from the table and strode deliberately across the room to the bar. Ali al-Fazir watched with his heart in his throat as bin Wazir stopped and whispered a few words to the bartender polishing glasses at the near end of the bar, then proceeded to the other end, taking the two stools next to Nash. As the two men spoke, Ali al-Fazir’s head sunk lower and lower until his chin was resting upon his sternum. Was the Pasha a day early? He couldn’t remember anymore. He was lost, drowning in the bottle.
“Hello,” Snay said to the foreigner. “I am Mr. bin Wazir, the owner of this establishment.”
“G’day, mate, Owen Nash is my name,” the man said, extending a strong brown hand, which bin Wazir shook.
“I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you, Mr. Nash. The hotel is fully booked.”
“Right, I understand there is a large group arriving tomorrow.”