by Peter Nealen
“I’ve got a meeting with our ‘facilitator’ this afternoon,” Santelli said. “I’m going to mix things up a bit, since you were front and center on that last deal, John. Hopefully he doesn’t screw us again, but we’re going to have to be ready if he tries.”
“Curtis, Aziz, and I will be running backstop on the meet,” Flanagan said. “We’ve got enough pistols to go around if things go sour this time, though our ammo supply leaves something to be desired.”
Brannigan nodded. “Hancock and I will go see about getting some boats for insert. That was supposed to happen today, anyway, and I think we can rely on boat sellers not being an ambush, especially with the amount of tourism around here.”
“Have we got transport to get us closer to the island before launching?” Villareal asked from the back of the room. He’d had very little to say during the preparations, outside of his medical classes.
“Working on that, too,” Brannigan answered. “Given that we’d be moving in the direction of Khadarkh, where nobody wants to go right now, that might have to be on our facilitator.” Santelli nodded, making a mental note.
“All right, let’s get this done,” Brannigan said. “Keep your heads down and try not to look suspicious. As Aziz said, it’s only a matter of time before the local cops come looking for us, so let’s not move that timeline up any more than we have to.”
***
The meeting was in the Armani-Hashi restaurant in the Burj Khalifa itself. Santelli didn’t know if the contact, whom he only knew as “Mr. Green,” was the actual facilitator or simply an intermediary. Given the tangled web of licit and illicit networks that formed the weave of the tapestry that was Dubai, either one was a possibility, though Santelli’s money was on Mr. Green being an intermediary contact.
The restaurant was not busy, and Green had apparently flashed enough dirhams at the staff to get an entire corner blocked off for his use. Not exactly as low-profile as Santelli would have liked, but it would give them some privacy, provided there weren’t half a dozen laser mikes already zeroed in on the window.
“Mr. Green?” Santelli asked as he came to the table. “I’m an associate of Mr. Zebrowski’s.”
The man called Mr. Green looked up. He was enormously fat, with a dark complexion and completely bald head. He was dressed in Arab casual, with dark slacks and a dark sports coat, open, a white shirt, and no tie. His eyes were brown, and he could easily have hailed from any Mediterranean country, whether north or south. When he spoke, he had no appreciable accent that Santelli could identify.
“Ah, yes, have a seat,” he said. “And how is Mr. Zebrowski?”
“Surprisingly well,” Santelli said, pulling back a chair and sitting down. “Considering that the last contacts you gave us didn’t work out so hot.”
“Yes, I heard about a bit of an altercation up in Sharjah,” Mr. Green said, apparently completely unfazed. “The police are eager to find out who killed several of the Suleiman Syndicate without them knowing about it.”
Santelli studied the man in front of him. There was little doubt in his mind that he was dealing with a sociopath; most men didn’t become underworld facilitators otherwise. Which, to him, made Green ultimately unpredictable. He didn’t know what all was going on under the surface, what kind of tides of information and money were going to decide for Mr. Green, or whoever he worked for, whether it was lucrative to do business with Brannigan and his men, or to turn them over to someone else, either the police or the Suleiman Syndicate, which would doubtless be looking for revenge after Al Fulani’s death.
If anything, Santelli liked this kind of thing even less than Brannigan would have. There were realms of endeavor that Carlo Santelli was very good at. Soldiering was one of them. Reading between the lines of money, power, and criminality was not. And when he wasn’t good at something, it tended to make him angry. Fortunately, a lifetime of discipline and professionalism had enabled him to detach his anger from his words and actions.
So, he watched and waited while Mr. Green examined the menu, peripherally aware that Flanagan, Curtis, and Aziz had slipped into the restaurant behind him, and were spreading out around the room, taking up positions where they could cover the doors as well as Green himself.
Green put the menu down on the table and finally looked levelly at Santelli. “I am honestly unsure, at this point, just how wise continued business with you and your people really is,” he said. “Piles of corpses, in Dubai, of all places, is not conducive to my work, or that of most of the groups in whose circles I move. I am not suggesting,” he continued, raising a finger, “that I will turn you in to the authorities. That would not be good for business, either. But if more of this kind of violence is in the offing, here on what is, ostensibly, safe turf, I might have to distance myself and my operation.”
Which could be disastrous, Santelli knew. They had no other contacts, and if Green pulled out completely, any other potential contacts were probably going to disappear, as well. Which would leave them stuck, less than a hundred miles from their objective, having to slink back home with their tails between their legs and leave the hostages to their fates, unable to procure weapons or insert.
“I am curious, however,” Green said, “as to just how you managed to turn the tables on the Suleiman Syndicate so thoroughly, especially considering the unlikelihood of your getting weapons into this city beforehand.”
Santelli leaned back in his chair. It creaked a little under him; the restaurant might have been fancy, but the furniture was a little chintzy up close. Which fit with most of the Middle East. “You’d be surprised what can be accomplished with a combination of speed, surprise, a few two-foot lengths of rebar, and a complacent opposition.” Not to mention a fist-sized rock launched into the one rear guard’s head with the speed and accuracy of a fastball. Hancock had a hell of an arm.
Green cracked a faint smile, one that never reached his eyes. “Interesting,” he said. He pursed his lips as if thinking, though Santelli was sure it was an act. Whatever course of action the man had decided on had been determined long before this meeting had begun.
“While I have certain misgivings,” he said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table, making the entire thing tilt toward him, “there is one more possibility that I might have for you. Time is of the essence, of course. Your welcome in Dubai is waning fast. Whether you manage to make a deal with these people or not, you had best be on your way out of the city within the next twenty-four hours. And I would not suggest returning within another year, at least.”
That was going to affect their extract plans, but there was another port not far away, in Abu Dhabi. That might work.
Green reached into his coat and pulled out a small, folded piece of notepaper, placing it on the table in front of him. “If you are at this location, between the hours of eight-thirty and nine this evening, carrying a white plastic bag with the emblem of the Dubai Mall, you could make contact with some individuals who might be able to help you.”
Santelli reached for the menu, palming the note as he did so. “Who are these ‘individuals?’” he asked, as he scanned the menu.
Green shrugged. “They are business associates,” he replied unhelpfully. “The one I have spoken with the most goes by the name Dmitri.”
“Russian Mafiya,” Santelli said.
“Perhaps,” Green said. “Perhaps not. Does it matter, as long as you obtain the supplies and equipment that you are looking for?”
“That depends,” Santelli replied. “Considering the way the last meeting you set up went. Of course, we’ve got a bit more in the way of, shall we say, ‘contingency planning’ available to us this time.”
For the first time, something close to expression actually flickered in Green’s eyes. It might even have been nervousness. His gaze flicked to one side, and Santelli thought that he’d just noticed either Flanagan or Curtis, and put two and two together.
“Just try to avoid leaving a bloodbath behind,” Green said, h
is voice still composed, sounding almost bored. “It is bad for business, and if it happens again, I might have to report on certain contacts I’ve had with aggressive Westerners to the police, if only to cover my own ass.”
“We’ll be nice,” Santelli assured him as the waiter, who had been hovering at a distance during their conversation, finally approached the table at a faint nod from Green. “Until it’s time not to be nice.”
He doubted the underworld facilitator would get the reference.
CHAPTER 7
Roger Hancock was relaxed as he stood in the parking lot near the Royal Arms Hotel, looking like just about any other Westerner in Dubai on vacation or business, waiting for a taxi. The shopping bag in his hands, bearing the Dubai Mall crest in gold on its white plastic, was filled with various and sundry knickknacks, along with a box of baklava. He wasn’t carrying a firearm, himself. That was left to Flanagan and Childress, who were shadowing him in one of the Land Rovers from the previous day, with the captured AKMS and one of the AKS-74Us next to each of them.
Hancock had been comfortable with danger for a long time. Whether it was the dangers of training and combat, or the dangers inherent in dealing with rough men who had passed into the gray areas where many former soldiers and Marines walked, Hancock had become familiar enough with them to be comfortable. He was still alert, every sense honed to a fine edge, but he was not frightened.
Maybe it meant that he’d been out in that gray area himself for too long, he mused. But he didn’t consider it complacency. Complacency would have meant treating this meeting like another tourist lark, and he was far from doing that. He was aware of everything around him, aware with a keenness that only adrenaline made possible. That was probably why he surfed, and skydived, and did all the other wild stuff that he did when he was at home. He wasn’t looking for a high, unlike so many others who took up such hobbies. He was trying to maintain that edge; to keep his adrenaline levels up to where he could really see.
He was a little surprised when the gleaming, black Hummer H2 pulled up beside him and a faintly accented voice from the rolled-down window said, “Get in.”
He’d been expecting something a little less ostentatious. But then, it was Dubai. Conspicuous displays of wealth were the norm, to the point that they no longer were conspicuous.
The door swung open and he got in, pointedly avoiding looking over at the Land Rover behind him. He knew Childress and Flanagan were watching, and that they’d be discreet when they followed. They were pros. He’d known Flanagan for a long time, and from what he’d seen of Childress so far, the other man wasn’t far behind his taciturn old friend.
He slid onto the leather seat and pulled the door shut behind him. The overhead light had not turned on when the door had opened; his hosts didn’t want their faces seen, at least not yet. The other man in the back seat, who was little more than a silhouette, a few details of a flat, pugnacious face limned in the faint glow of the streetlights and the blazing neon in front of the Royal Arms, tapped on the driver’s shoulder, and they pulled out of the parking lot. The Hummer had barely stopped long enough for Hancock to climb in.
“We can talk,” the other man said. “My name is Dmitri.”
“Roger,” was Hancock’s reply. His first name would give no one much information.
“I am not going to search you, Roger,” Dmitri said, a faint note of amusement in his voice. “Call it a show of trust. I know what you did to those Suleiman Syndicate fools. That is part of why we are meeting now. I admire that sort of ingenuity and ruthlessness. I wanted to meet you and your associates, if only because of what you did to them.”
“We must have hurt them more than we thought,” Hancock said blithely, “if you’re so happy about it.”
The other man laughed. “Indeed, they have been a thorn in our side,” he said. “Arrogant goat-fuckers. Bunch of rich upstart sons of rich oil sheiks want to muscle in on the Bratva’s turf.” He sounded like he wanted to spit, though in the shifting lights from outside the vehicle’s windows, he had a hard, amused look on his face. “It is always good to see them get their comeuppance.”
He lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter momentarily giving Hancock a clear look at him, as well as the driver. Dmitri was of medium height, medium build, with a mashed nose that looked like it had been broken a lot, and brown hair slicked back over his boxy skull. The driver, who had not made a sound, was a mountainous shaved gorilla, his traps nearly reaching the base of his scarred, stubbled skull.
“So,” Dmitri said, as he blew out a cloud of harsh, noxious smoke, “you are looking for small arms, explosives, ammunition, combat gear, and transportation.”
If the other man was looking for a reaction to his extensive knowledge, Hancock did not oblige him. All the same, it was worrying that this Russian gangster knew so much about their operation, and their shopping list. Hell, he didn’t think that transpo had even been discussed with the facilitator.
Dmitri grinned in the dim, orange light of his cigarette as he took another drag, the coal glinting in his eyes as he studied Hancock. “Oh, yes, we know all kinds of things,” he said merrily. “Though some of it was more a matter of ‘putting two and two together,’ as you Americans say.” He took another drag. The cab was getting hazy with the foul smoke. Those Russian cigs were really bottom of the barrel. Hancock momentarily wished he’d brought some American cigarettes along just so that he could have offered the man one, if only to get him to put that rotgut cancer stick out.
“Several Americans try to make a deal with the Suleiman Syndicate for small arms, ammunition, and explosives, preferably both Semtex and grenades,” Dmitri continued. “Interestingly enough, this deal happens to coincide with a certain hostage situation involving Americans not far from Dubai, on the island of Khadarkh. A hostage situation that presently appears to have the American Navy paralyzed, probably to avoid harming the hostages.” He shrugged, a vague movement in the darkness. “It was not actually all that difficult to figure out.”
Hancock leaned back in the seat, eyeing the dark form of his companion. “So, that raises another question,” he said contemplatively. “Aren’t the Iranians Russian allies? I’ve heard a few things about the Bratva’s Russian patriotism from time to time. Why would you help a bunch of Americans against an Iranian op?”
Teeth flashed in the dimness. “Ah, but Tehran has not claimed responsibility for anything happening on Khadarkh,” Dmitri pointed out. “So, technically, even if we were not transnational outlaws, there would be no harm to Russian-Iranian relations from the Bratva making a bit of extra profit on the side.”
Hancock got the message. The Mafiya might occasionally work with the MGB when they saw it as being in their interests, but greed is the eternal motivator. However they had decided, this particular clan of the Russian mob had come to the conclusion that there was no patriotic reason to go along with the Iranian hostage takers. That was, of course, assuming that this wasn’t another setup.
Either that, or they simply didn’t imagine the American mercs had a prayer of actually pulling a rescue off, and figured they may as well make a few extra bucks “helping.”
“So,” Dmitri continued, “what do you need?”
“Fifty rifles, with fifteen magazines and a full combat load of five hundred rounds apiece,” Hancock said. They didn’t actually have a use for that many weapons, but at this point, the less an observer could tell about their operation from supply numbers, the better. Besides, Brannigan had expected that they might well get a lot of non-functional weapons mixed in with good ones. Ordering fifty for seven men made the odds better that they’d have plenty of working weapons when the time came. “Fifty pistols, with four magazines each, and ammunition. Two machineguns, with two thousand rounds per. One hundred frag grenades, and one hundred concussion grenades. Fifteen satchels of Semtex, with detonators, blasting caps, time fuse, and shock tube. Fifty combat vests, desert tan, for the rifles, and two machinegun chest rigs for the MGs. Fifty s
ets of night vision goggles—the best that can be found, not the fifteen-year-old Russian models.”
Dmitri hadn’t taken notes, but he was nodding. “That is a considerable order,” he said, “but one that I believe we should be able to fulfill, and even on short notice.” In other words, they had gotten word, probably through spies, as to generally what the Suleiman Syndicate had been hired to provide, and had already made arrangements to poach the deal. Whether they had intended to move on the Syndicate before or after the Americans made some sort of deal, Hancock didn’t know, nor did he particularly care.
“You will need transport to the island, as well, will you not?” Dmitri asked.
“We are getting boats,” Hancock said.
Dmitri laughed. “Rubber dinghies, I am guessing?” He shook his head. “No good, my friend, not for seventy-five nautical miles across the Gulf.” He took another long drag on the cigarette, which was almost burned down to his knuckles, then rolled the window down just far enough to toss the butt out into the night. “We have a dhow that can get you within five nautical miles of Khadarkh without raising suspicions. This Commander Esfandiari is looking for American Navy ships, not ancient, creaky Arab dhows.”
“How much more will the use of the dhow cost us?” Hancock asked.
“Not much,” Dmitri assured him, in a tone of voice that nevertheless said, A lot. “Another…five hundred thousand dirhams?”
Which, given what they were already prepared to pay, was going to mean nearly a million dollars’ worth of dirhams going into the mafiya’s pockets in a single night.
Brannigan had assured him that whatever they ended up having to pay, as long as it was within the limits of the cash they had brought with them, he would lean on Tannhauser to make sure they all still got paid. Expenses and pay were two separate animals, and Brannigan was going to make sure that their employers understood that. Even so, it was a good-sized chunk of their cash on hand, and they would still need more to get out once the job was done.