Tahir avoided the gaze of the man sitting between his wife and his daughter, their eyes red from crying.
‘Please, sir,’ he repeated.
The man had something in his hand. A gun. At the end of it was an empty plastic Coca-Cola bottle. Tahir knew exactly what it was: a primitive but effective silencer.
The bureaucrat couldn’t control his shaking.
‘You have nothing to worry about, Tahir,’ said the man, leaning down to whisper in his ear. ‘Hasn’t Allah prepared a place in Paradise for honest men?’
There was a light report, like a whiplash. The other two shots followed a few minutes apart. Putting on a new bottle and securing it with duct tape takes a little time.
21
ABOARD THE BEHEMOTH
GULF OF AQABA, RED SEA
Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 9:47 p.m.
Andrea woke up in the ship’s infirmary, a large room containing a pair of beds, a few glass cabinets and a desk. A worried Dr Harel had made Andrea spend the night there. She probably hadn’t slept much, because when Andrea opened her eyes she was already seated at the desk, reading a book as she sipped some coffee. Andrea yawned loudly.
‘Good morning, Andrea. You’re missing my beautiful country.’
Andrea got out of bed rubbing her eyes. The only thing she could distinguish clearly was the coffee maker on the table. The doctor watched her, amused as the caffeine began working its magic on the reporter.
‘Your beautiful country?’ Andrea said when she was able to speak. ‘Are we in Israel?’
‘Technically we’re in Jordanian waters. Let’s go out on deck and I’ll show you.’
When they came out of the infirmary, Andrea lifted her face to the morning sun. It was going to be a hot day. She breathed deeply and stretched in her pyjamas. The doctor leaned on the ship’s rail.
‘Be careful you don’t fall overboard again,’ she teased.
Andrea shuddered, aware of how lucky she was to be alive. The night before, with all the excitement of the rescue and her shame at having to lie and say she’d fallen overboard, she hadn’t really had the chance to feel afraid. But now, in the light of day, the noise of the propellers and the memory of cold dark water passed through her mind like a waking nightmare. She tried to concentrate on how beautiful everything looked from the ship.
The Behemoth was heading slowly towards some piers, pulled by a tugboat from the Port of Aqaba. Harel pointed to the front of the ship.
‘That’s Aqaba, Jordan. And that’s Eilat, Israel. Look at how the two cities face each other, like mirror images.
‘It is beautiful. But it’s not the only thing… ’
Harel blushed slightly and looked away.
‘You can’t really appreciate it from the water,’ she went on, ‘but if we had come by plane you could see how the Gulf squares off the coastline. Aqaba occupies the eastern corner and Eilat the western one.
‘Now that you mention it, why didn’t we come by plane?’
‘Because officially, this is not an archaeological dig. Mr Kayn wants to recover the Ark and take it back to the United States. Jordan would never go along with that under any circumstances. Our cover is that we’re looking for phosphates, so we’ve come by sea as the other companies do. Hundreds of tons of phosphates are shipped out of Aqaba each day, bound for places all over the world. We’re a humble prospecting team. And we’re carrying our own vehicles in the hold of the ship.’
Andrea nodded thoughtfully. She was enjoying the peacefulness of the coast. She looked towards Eilat. Pleasure boats floated on the water near the city like white doves around a green nest.
‘I’ve never been to Israel.’
‘You should go sometime,’ Harel said, smiling sadly. ‘It’s a beautiful land. Like a garden of fruit and flowers torn out of the blood and sand of the desert.’
The reporter observed the doctor at length. Her curly hair and tanned complexion were even more beautiful in this light, as though any little defects her face might have had been diffused by the sight of her homeland.
‘I think I know what you mean, Doc.’
Andrea took out a wrinkled pack of Camels from her pyjama pocket and lit up a cigarette.
‘You shouldn’t have fallen asleep with them in your pocket.’
‘And I shouldn’t smoke, drink or sign up for expeditions that have been threatened by terrorists.’
‘Evidently we have more things in common than you’d think.’
Andrea stared at Harel, trying to work out what she meant. The doctor reached over and took a cigarette from the pack.
‘Wow, Doc. You don’t know how happy that makes me.’
‘Why?’
‘I love seeing doctors who smoke. It’s like a chink in their smug armour.’
Harel laughed.
‘I like you. That’s why it bothers me to see you in this damn situation.’
‘What situation?’ said Andrea, raising an eyebrow.
‘I’m talking about the attempt on your life yesterday.’
The reporter’s cigarette stopped midway to her mouth.
‘Who told you?’
‘Fowler.’
‘Does anyone else know?’
‘No, but I’m glad he told me.’
‘I’m going to kill him,’ Andrea said, crushing her cigarette against the railing. ‘You don’t know how ashamed I felt with everybody looking at me…’
‘I know he told you not to tell anybody. But believe me, my case is a little different.’
‘Look at that idiot. She can’t even keep her balance!’
‘Well, that’s not entirely untrue. Remember?’
Andrea was embarrassed at the reminder of the previous day when Harel had to grab her by her T-shirt just before the BA-160 showed up.
‘Don’t worry,’ Harel went on. ‘Fowler told me for a reason.’
‘That only he knows. I don’t trust him, Doc. We’ve run into each other before…’
‘And he saved your life then, too.’
‘I see you’ve been informed about that as well. While we’re at it, how the hell did he manage to get me out of the water?’
‘Father Fowler was an officer with the US Air Force. Part of an elite Special Ops unit that specialised in pararescue.’
‘I’ve heard of them: they go looking for pilots who’ve been shot down, isn’t that right?’
Harel nodded.
‘I think he’s taken a liking to you, Andrea. Maybe you remind him of someone.’
Andrea stared thoughtfully at Harel. There was some connection she wasn’t getting and she was determined to find out what it was. More than ever, Andrea was convinced that her reporting on a lost relic, or getting an interview with one of the weirdest and hardest to reach multimillionaires, was only part of the equation. On top of that, she had been dumped into the sea from a moving ship.
I’ll be damned if I can figure it out, thought the reporter. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on but the key must be Fowler, and Harel… and how much they’re willing to tell me.
‘You seem to know a lot about him.’
‘Well, Father Fowler likes to travel.’
‘Let’s be a little more specific, Doc. The world is a big place.’
‘Not the one in which he moves. Are you aware that he knew my father?’
‘He was an extraordinary man,’ Father Fowler said.
The women both turned around and saw the priest standing a few steps behind them.
‘Have you been here long?’ asked Andrea. A stupid question that only shows someone you’ve said something you don’t want them to know. Father Fowler ignored it. He had a grave look on his face.
‘We have an urgent job,’ he said.
22
OFFICES OF NETCATCH
SOMERSET AVENUE, WASHINGTON, DC
Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 1:59 a.m.
The CIA agent took a shocked Orville Watson through the reception area of his burnt-out office. There was still smoke in t
he air but even worse was the smell of soot, dirt and burned bodies. The wall-to-wall carpeting was covered in at least an inch of muddy water.
‘Be careful, Mr Watson. We’ve cut off the electricity supply to avoid short circuits. We’ll have to find our way with flashlights.’
Using the powerful beams of their flashlights, Orville and the agent passed through the rows of desks. The young man couldn’t believe his eyes. Each time the beam rested on an overturned desk, a sooty face or a smouldering wastebasket, he felt like crying. These people were his staff. This was his life. Meanwhile the agent – Orville thought it was the same one who had called him on his mobile just as he got off the plane, but he couldn’t be sure – was explaining every terrible detail of the attack. Orville gritted his teeth in silence.
‘The gunmen came in through the main entrance, blew away the receptionist, ripped out the telephone wires, and then opened fire on everyone else. Unfortunately, your employees were all at their desks. There were seventeen of them, is that correct?’
Orville nodded. His horrified eyes fell on Olga’s amber necklace. She was in accounting. He had given her the necklace for her birthday two weeks ago. The torchlight gave it an unearthly sheen. In the dark he couldn’t even recognise her burnt hands, which were now curved like claws.
‘They killed them one by one in cold blood. Your people had no way of getting out. The only exit was through the front door and the office is… what? A hundred and fifty square metres? There was nowhere to hide.’
Of course. Orville loved open spaces. The whole office was one diaphanous space made of glass, steel and wenge, the dark African wood. There were no doors or cubicles, only light.
‘After they were done, they placed a bomb in the closet at the far end and another at the entrance. Homemade explosives; nothing very powerful, but enough to set fire to everything.’
The computer terminals. A million dollars’ worth of hardware and millions of extremely valuable pieces of information compiled over the years, all lost. Last month he had changed his data storage back-up to Blu-ray disks. They had used nearly two hundred discs, more than 10 terabytes of information, which they kept in a fireproof cabinet… which now lay open and empty. How the hell had they known where to look?
‘They set off the bombs using cellular phones. We think the whole operation took no more than three minutes, four at most. By the time someone called the police, they were long gone.’
An office in a one-storey building, in a neighbourhood far from the centre of the city, surrounded by small businesses and a Starbucks. It was the perfect place for an operation – no hassles, no suspicion, no witnesses.
‘The first agents to get here cordoned off the area and called the firemen. They kept the snoops away until our damage-control team arrived. We told everyone that there had been a gas explosion and there was one person dead. We don’t want anyone to find out what happened here today.’
It could have been one of a thousand different groups. Al Qaeda, Al-Aqsa the Martyrs Brigade, IBDA-C… any of them, alerted to Netcatch’s real purpose, would have considered its destruction a priority. Because Netcatch exposed their weak spot: their means of communication. But Orville suspected that this attack had deeper, more mysterious roots: his last project for Kayn Industries. And a name. A very, very dangerous name.
Huqan.
‘You were very lucky to have been travelling, Mr Watson. In any case, you needn’t worry. You will be placed under full CIA protection.’
On hearing this, Orville spoke for the first time since he crossed the threshold of the office.
‘Your fucking protection is like a first-class ticket to the morgue. Don’t even think about following me. I’m going to disappear for a couple of months.’
‘I can’t let that happen, sir,’ said the agent, taking a step back and putting a hand on his holster. With his other hand he pointed the flashlight at Orville’s chest. The flowery shirt that Orville was wearing clashed with the burnt-out office like a clown at a Viking funeral.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Sir, the folks at Langley want to speak to you.’
‘I should have known. They’re willing to pay me huge sums of money; ready to insult the memory of the men and women who died here, making it out to be some fucking accident instead of murder at the hands of our country’s enemies. What they’re not willing to do is shut off the information pipeline, isn’t that right, agent?’ Orville insisted. ‘Even if it means risking my life.’
‘I don’t know anything about that, sir. My orders are to bring you to Langley safe and sound. Please cooperate.’
Orville lowered his head and took a deep breath.
‘Fine. I’ll go with you. What else can I do?’
The agent smiled, visibly relieved, and shifted the flashlight away from Orville.
‘You don’t know how pleased I am to hear that, sir. I would’ve hated to have taken you away in handcuffs. Anyway-’
The agent realised what was happening an instant too late. Orville charged him with all his weight. Unlike the agent, the young Californian had received no training in hand-to-hand combat. He had no triple black belt, nor did he know five different ways to kill a man with his bare hands. The most violent thing Orville had done in his life was to spend time on his PlayStation.
But you can’t do much against 240 pounds of pure desperation and fury when it slams you against an overturned desk. The agent crashed down on to the desk, breaking it in two. He twisted round, trying to reach his gun, but Orville was quicker. Leaning over him, Orville slammed him in the face with his flashlight. The agent’s arms went limp and he was still.
Suddenly afraid, Orville raised his hands to his face. This was going too far. No more than a couple of hours ago he was getting out of a private plane, master of his own destiny. Now he had assaulted a CIA agent, possibly even killed him.
A quick check of the agent’s pulse on his neck told him he had not. Thank heaven for small mercies.
OK now, think. You’ve got to get out of here. Find a safe place. And above all, stay calm. Don’t let them catch you.
With his huge body, his ponytail, and his Hawaiian shirt Orville wouldn’t get far. He went over to the window and began to hatch a plan. Some firemen were drinking water and sinking their teeth into slices of orange near the door. Just what he needed. He walked out the door calmly and headed towards a nearby fence, where the firemen had left their coats and helmets, which were too heavy in this heat. The men were busy joking around and had their backs to their clothes. Praying the firemen wouldn’t notice him, Orville took one of the coats and a helmet, retraced his steps, and headed back towards the office.
‘Hey, buddy!’
Orville turned around anxiously.
‘You talking to me?’
‘Of course I’m talking to you,’ said one of the firemen. ‘Where do you think you’re going with my coat?’
Answer him, man. Make something up. Something convincing.
‘We have to look at the server and the agent said we should take precautions.’
‘Your mother never taught you to ask for things before borrowing them?’
‘I’m really sorry. Can you lend me your coat?’
The fireman relaxed and smiled.
‘Sure, man. Let’s see if it’s your size,’ he said, opening the coat. Orville put his arms through the sleeves. The fireman buttoned it up and put on the helmet. Orville wrinkled his nose briefly at the mixed smells of sweat and soot.
‘Perfect fit. Right, guys?’
‘He’d look like a real fireman if it wasn’t for the sandals,’ said another of the crew pointing at Orville’s feet. They all laughed.
‘Thank you. Thank you so much. But let me treat you to a round of juice to make up for my bad manners. What do you say?’
They gave him the thumbs-up and nodded as Orville walked away. Behind the barrier they had set up five hundred feet away, Orville saw a couple of dozen onlookers and some TV
cameras – only a few – trying to get footage of the scene. From that distance the fire must have looked like nothing more than a boring gas explosion, so he guessed they’d soon be leaving. He doubted that the incident would take up more than a minute on the evening news; not even a half a column in tomorrow’s Washington Post. Right now he had a more immediate problem: getting out of there.
Everything will be fine as long as you don’t run into another CIA agent. So just smile. Smile.
‘Hi, Bill,’ he said, nodding to the policeman guarding the cordoned-off area as if he had known him all his life.
‘I’m going to get some juice for the guys.’
‘I’m Mac.’
‘Right, sorry. I mixed you up with somebody else.’
‘You’re with the Fifty-fourth, right?
‘No, the Eight. I’m Stewart,’ Orville said, pointing to the Velcro name-tag on his chest and praying the policeman wouldn’t notice his footwear.
‘Go ahead,’ the man said, moving the Do Not Cross barrier a little so Orville could pass. ‘Bring me back something to eat, OK, buddy?’
‘No problem!’ Orville replied. He left behind the smoking ruins of his office and disappeared into the crowd.
23
ABOARD THE BEHEMOTH
THE PORT AT AQABA, JORDAN
Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 10:21 a.m.
‘I won’t do it,’ said Andrea. ‘It’s crazy.’
Fowler shook his head and looked to Harel for support. This was the third time he had tried to convince the reporter.
‘Listen to me, dear,’ said the doctor, squatting next to Andrea, who was sitting on the floor against the wall, clutching her legs to her body with her left hand and smoking nervously with her right. ‘As Father Fowler told you last night, your accident is proof that someone has infiltrated the expedition. Why they attacked you in particular escapes me…’
Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition Page 10