Dark Watch of-3

by Clive Cussler

  “You are wise not to lie.” There was little praise in Rafik’s voice. “We know about Savich. Tell me where we can find him.”

  “I — I do not know,” Isphording admitted miserably. “He travels all the time. I don’t think he has a home, only a post box in Saint Petersburg.”

  Rafik made to strike the lawyer again.

  “It is true, I swear,” Isphording cried. “I have only met him once, over two years ago.”

  “We will return to him in a moment. What about this Sikh? Who is he?”

  “Shere Singh. He is Pakistani but now lives in Indonesia. He is a wealthy man. His holdings are vast — timber, shipping, real estate. The largest company is the Karamita Breakers Yard on the west coast of Sumatra. I believe he controls the two drydocks through it.”

  “Have you ever met this man? What does he look like?”

  “I’ve met him through a video conference last year. He appears to be a big man and like all Sikhs has a long beard and wears a turban.”

  Mohammad suddenly burst into the office, jabbering in almost incoherent Arabic. “Rafik!” he shouted. “Rafik, the police arrest Fodl. He knows our, our, eh…” He drew silent.

  “Location,” Rafik snarled in his native tongue. “Fodl knows our location.”

  The terrorist got to his feet. Isphording gave a startled cry and cowered into the couch cushions, expecting to be beaten. “Please don’t hurt me. Please.”

  “Silence!” Rafik snapped. He took a blindfold and a pair of hard plastic ear protectors from Mohammad.

  “What — what are you doing?” Isphording sniveled. Tears coursed down his cheeks. They were going to execute him right here and now.

  “I said, silence,” Rafik roared.

  Before Rafik tied the blindfold around Isphording’s head, Mohammad jammed soft rubber plugs deep into his ears. Then came the blindfold and finally the ear protectors. Isphording couldn’t stop shaking. He could neither see nor hear anything. He was then gagged, but surprisingly, not too tightly. One of the terrorists hauled him to his feet, and together they guided him from the office. He had no idea what was happening, couldn’t tell where they were taking him. After just a few steps he smelled the exhaust from the idling van. A moment later he was unceremoniously dumped into the back. Though disorientated, he could sense the presence of the three guards charged with driving him to his court date. His ankles were bound with some kind of plastic tie, while his wrists and hands were taped as tightly as a mummy’s wrappings. He couldn’t wiggle a single finger, which meant he’d be unable to worry the tape off his hands. Rafik’s men were as efficient as they were deadly.

  Isphording imagined the guards had been similarly bound.

  The doors slammed shut as soon as he was secure, and the van took off, but they went only a short distance. Judging by how he and the guards rolled across the floor, they’d made three tight turns. As near as he could tell, the Palestinians had merely stashed the van behind the warehouse. The driver killed the ignition. A few minutes passed before Isphording felt the driver slam his door.

  He and the guards were isolated from each other by the gags and ties, unable to hear because of the ear protectors. He could not imagine a worse feeling of deprivation, and while he was alive for the moment, he had no idea how long it would be before the van started up again and the four of them were taken away and killed.

  Chairman Cabrillo had slammed the armored van’s door hard enough for the men inside to feel it, then tossed the keys onto the roof. He checked the street fronting the warehouse one more time. No one had seen him hide the vehicle behind the building. He twirled the spray bottle of bleach around his finger as he walked. Certain that no one had left behind fingerprints, he’d taken the precaution of dousing the inside of the cab with bleach to dilute any trace DNA.

  Linc greeted him at the door. The ex-SEAL had unwound the kaffiyeh he’d worn to hide his black face and let the checkered head cloth drape around his wide shoulders. Artificial blood from when Julia had shot him dripped from the fringed edges.

  “Well done,” Juan said, and the two men exchanged toothy grins.

  “You must have a thing for playing Arab bad guys, Chairman,” the big man teased. “First you were Colonel Hourani of the Syrian Army, today you’re Palestinian terrorist leader Rafik. Who are you going to be tomorrow, Ali Baba?”

  “Only if you play Scheherazade and do the Dance of the Seven Veils.”

  Mike Trono, who’d taken over the role of Yuri Zayysev for Rudy Isphording’s benefit, was plucking the spent remains of devices called squibs from a special vest he wore under his shirt. The squibs were made of tiny explosive charges and an ounce or two of fake blood. These devices had been a staple of Hollywood effects wizards for years. A more sophisticated device had been placed inside Linc’s head scarf to make it appear that Julia had shot away half his skull. The office had also been rigged with small charges along the walls and on the furniture to further the illusion of bullets striking the plasterboard and metal. Of course all the weapons they’d used to stage the assault had fired blanks.

  When Isphording and the guards were found, the story they would tell would be too bizarre to be anything other than the truth. After being grabbed by the Russian mob, the lawyer’s rescuers had then been attacked by rogue members of the PLO looking for money missing since Arafat’s death. The attack had been savage, and none of the Russians survived. Then the terrorists ran off when they learned one of their men might have been picked up by the police. What couldn’t be so easily explained is what happened to the Russians’ bodies and why the terrorists hadn’t taken Isphording with them. Nor would they be able to trace how the “Palestinians” got into the country in the first place.

  Juan wasn’t too concerned with those details. The Swiss authorities would rattle their sabers about tighter border restrictions, but in the end they’d be satisfied because no civilians had been hurt throughout the ordeal, they had their star witness back in custody, and the world was minus a few gangsters from Saint Petersburg. And as a bonus, he thought that they would probably put pressure on Isphording to explain where the former head of the PLO had stashed the billions he’d stolen from his people. Who knew, maybe they’d even get some of it back.

  The one thing he couldn’t control was if the lawyer revealed what he’d said under interrogation. He didn’t want the Swiss looking into Anton Savich, whoever he was, or a Sikh shipping mogul named Shere Singh. He could only hope that the lawyer was as frightened of Savich as he was of the PLO and would keep silent.

  Dr. Huxley stepped out of the warehouse’s only lavatory. She’d washed away the fake blood from her face. She’d also stripped down to a black tank top that barely contained her curves to clean the mess away from her arm. The squib that had made it appear her arm had been blown nearly off had left a livid purple bruise on her otherwise flawless white skin.

  “Are you okay, Ludmilla?”

  “Da,” Julia deadpanned, rubbing the spot. “Is nothing.” Then she arched a teasing eyebrow. “Why is it everyone but you and Hali look like extras from some zombie B-movie?”

  “Because none of you either speak Arabic or look Arabic.” He laughed. “Although Hali’s portrayal of the steely-eyed terrorist, Mohammad, left a lot to be desired. He had just a couple of lines to learn, and he managed to mangle both. On a brighter note, I have to hand it to Kevin and his team in the Magic Shop. They really outdid themselves this time. Especially Linc’s effect. For a second I thought it had gone wrong and his head really had exploded.”

  “Scared me, too,” Julia admitted.

  Juan called out to gather the rest of the team. “Okay everyone, listen up. First off I want to commend each and every one of you on a job well done. This little caper was a long shot from the beginning, and you pulled it off flawlessly.”

  “That mean we’re getting bonuses?” Hali asked.

  “You most of all, Hali. I’m sending you to a Berlitz so you can at least fake speaking Arabic.” This earn
ed a round of good-natured laughter at Kasim’s expense. “Julia, head back to your hotel as soon as you’re ready. You’ve made your flight reservations?”

  “I’ll be in Istanbul by two o’clock. From there I can hook up with you anywhere. Judging by what Isphording said, I take it we’re going to Indonesia?”

  Cabrillo nodded. “Shere Singh sounds like the next link in the chain.”

  “As soon as I reach Ataturk International I’ll book a flight to Jakarta.” She slipped into a dark blouse. “All of my disguise stuff is in a suitcase in the office.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s burned,” Juan assured her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Julia waved good-bye to the others and settled into her rental car. Linc opened the garage door, and she roared out of the warehouse.

  “Okay then, I’ve wiped down the armored van for prints and hit the cab and door handles with bleach. Even though we’re torching this building, make sure you go over everywhere you’ve been, especially the bathroom. Not that any of our DNA is at Interpol, but I don’t want to take any chances.

  “You all have your escape routes planned. Stay loose, and we’ll all be on the Oregon by this time tomorrow.”

  Although he’d used disguises each time he’d made most of the rental arrangements, Cabrillo was the most likely to be identified, so he would be the next to get out of the country. While the others cleaned up the warehouse, he changed clothes and used a bucket of water and a rag to wash the concrete dust from his Mercedes SUV. By the time he finished, Hali, Linc, and Trono had finished scrubbing down the warehouse and placing incendiary bombs throughout the structure.

  “How long should I set the timer?” Linc asked.

  “Hold on.” Juan used his cell phone to call the Oregon.

  “Law offices of Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe,” Linda Ross greeted in her high-pitched voice.

  Cabrillo calculated the time difference between Switzerland and the South China Sea. “Good evening, Linda.”

  “Chairman, how’d it go?”

  “Smooth as silk. Listen, have Murph and Eric been monitoring the news here in Zurich?”

  “Sure have. Let me get them.”

  Mark Murphy came on the line a moment later. Juan could hear the speed metal music blaring from the headphones Murph had pulled down around his neck. It sounded like someone using a chain saw against a piece of railroad track. “Chairman, from what I’m getting from CNN and SkyNews, the Swiss don’t have a clue what happened. At first they thought it was a structural failure of some kind, and then they thought they were having their own 9/11. From what I can get from local police chatter, there’s been a couple mentions about the missing armored car and unknown gunmen at the scene when the explosions went off.”

  “Are they closing borders or delaying flights?”

  “No. They think this is a local thing.”

  “So we’re safe for the time being.”

  “It’ll take them so long to add two and two they’ll need to include interest.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a joke. You know, Swiss banks? Interest? Hey, that was funny.”

  “Stick to being a connoisseur of fine music and leave the humor to the professionals, like Max. How far are you from Sumatra?”

  “A few days still, why?”

  “Rudolph Isphording said the guy who controls the Maus is named Shere Singh. He owns a company called the Karamita Breakers Yard. Check them both out. Also track down another floating drydock called the Souri. Singh owns it, too.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  Juan did and added, “It’s French for mouse.”

  “Got it.”

  “Thanks, Murph. Tell Max I want you to break off from the Maus and make best practical speed for the Karamita Yard.” Best practical speed was far slower than the Oregon’s top speed, but running that fast during daylight hours or without radar jamming would give away one of the ship’s most important secrets.

  “I’ll pass it along.”

  “See you in a day or so.” Juan killed the connection and turned to Linc and the others awaiting orders. “It seems the police don’t know what happened, so we’re in the clear for now. We’ll all be out of Switzerland within six hours, so set the charge for eight p.m. Isphording and the guards are in for an uncomfortable day, but they won’t dehydrate by the time the local fire department arrives and discovers the missing armored car.”

  Cabrillo fired up the SUV’s throaty V-8. He had a long drive to Munich ahead of him where he’d catch his own flight out of Europe. He hoped that by the time he got there, the adrenaline still pumping through his body would dissipate, because his hands remained shaky and his stomach was still knotted. He also hoped that Mark would find that the Maus’s sister ship was operated as a legitimate drydock and not involved in hijacking on the open seas, but he knew the chances of that were longer than Hali Kasim giving the keynote sermon at next year’s hajj to Mecca.

  18

  JUAN Cabrillo knew the type. The man behind the desk opposite him dressed poorly and took little pride in his personal appearance other than to follow the tenets of his faith. His turban was wound tightly around his head, but the fabric was frayed and stained with sweat. His shirt was of cheap cotton, and the dark circles under the arms looked permanent. Bits of food clung to his beard and mustache.

  The office was also staged to present a particular image. The desk was covered with papers, and the file cabinets were filled to bursting. The furniture was cut-rate and uncomfortable, and the posters on the wall were most likely given away by the Indonesian tourist board. The computer behind the desk was old enough to be in a museum of ancient technology.

  The woman who had shown Juan into the office was perhaps the only genuine article about the whole setup. She was an elderly Indonesian woman, stick thin and tired. Her clothes were as cheap as those worn by her boss, but Cabrillo suspected it was because he paid her a pittance and not because she was putting up the front of a struggling business.

  After reading a complete dossier put together by Mark Murphy prior to the meeting, Cabrillo knew more about Shere Singh and his family than he’d ever wished to. He knew their estimated net worth was nearly half a billion dollars. He knew that the family’s patriarch lived in a five-hundred-acre compound in a house large enough to keep his eleven children and their families under one roof. He trusted his sons-in-law only to a point. It seemed that the sides of the business they were in charge of were for the most part legitimate. It was Shere Singh’s own sons who ran the illegal operations. Abhay Singh, the eldest, was the representative for the Karamita Breakers Yard.

  He maintained their offices in a run-down district of Jakarta, near enough to the docks to occasionally hear a ship’s horn but far enough that one had to search to find it.

  Setting up this meeting with Abhay Singh had been simple. Cabrillo had contacted the company while en route from Munich to Jakarta, representing himself as the captain of a ship he wanted to sell for scrap. He wanted to know what Karamita Breakers Yard would bid for the hulk.

  Juan wasn’t dressed much better than the ship broker. He hadn’t shaved since the day before snatching Rudy Isphording and wore a greasy black wig under a yachtsman’s cap. His duck trousers had never seen an iron or a press, and the blazer stretched over his enormous gut was missing several buttons on the sleeve. If the wealthy Singh family wanted to present themselves as struggling workers, Juan could just as easily play the part of a down-on-his-luck captain.

  Abhay Singh read over the report Juan had handed him on the Oregon, although he’d listed a false name that was currently being painted on the old freighter’s hull. The papers gave her dimensions, tonnage, and lists of equipment and appointments as well as several dozen photographs. The Sikh’s piggy eyes scanned the documents rapidly and thoroughly. The only sound in the dilapidated office was the rattle of a black oscillating fan and the traffic on the street one floor below the open window.

  “There is one thing I do not see here, Ca
ptain, er, Smith,” Singh said, shooting Cabrillo a penetrating stare. “And that is your ownership documents. It appears that perhaps you do not own this vessel you want to sell for scrap.”

  Cabrillo, playing the part of Jeb Smith, one of his regular personas when dealing with officials, matched Abhay Singh’s dark gaze. “There is something else you don’t see there.” He handed over another sheaf of papers.

  Singh glanced at them skeptically, got halfway down the top sheet before his head shot up, his eyes glinting with avarice.

  “That’s right.” Juan nodded. “Her holds are filled with eight thousand tons of aluminum ingots we brought aboard in Karachi. How about we make ourselves a bargain, Mr. Singh? You forget that my ship is owned by someone else, and I forget that when you take possession I know she’s carrying ten million dollars’ worth of raw metal that doesn’t belong to any of us.”

  Singh set the papers flat on his desk and folded his dark hands on top. He gave Juan a speculative look. “How is it, Captain, that you came to us at Karamita?”

  Cabrillo knew what he was really asking is how did Captain Jeb Smith know that the owners of the Karamita yard were open to corruption and bribery. “Poets often write about how vast the ocean is, and that’s true, Mr. Singh, but don’t you know the world can also still be a small place. One hears things.”

  “And where does one hear things?”

  Juan looked around furtively. “Different places from different folks. I can’t quite recall who told me about your fine facility, but word of mouth spreads faster than dysentery and can be even uglier to deal with.” His eyes settled back on Singh’s, and his expression had turned to stone. Abhay Singh understood the subtext of what Cabrillo was saying: Ask any more questions, and I’ll make sure the authorities take a closer look at Karamita.

  Singh flashed an insincere smile. “It gladdens my heart to hear that others speak so highly of our business. I think we can come to an arrangement, Captain Smith. You must know the price of scrap steel is up in the markets, so I can see you receiving a hundred and ten dollars per ton for the hulk.”