As they waited to grab the last barrel, Jinn and several of his men came out of the tunnel.
Sabah held up a hand like a traffic cop, and all activity stopped as he went to talk with his master.
Kurt cut the engine, hoping to overhear.
Another group of men joined Jinn. The young woman Kurt suspected to be the real Leilani was with them.
“You’re bringing her with us?” Sabah asked.
“I am,” Jinn said. “This complex is no longer secure.”
“I’ll contact Xhou,” Sabah said. “The Chinese are treacherous, but they always prefer to save face. That is why he sent Mustafa. He will redouble his efforts and release more funds. He will not be a problem until the sting of this failure has gone away. And that will be long enough for us to gain full control.”
“I’m not worried about the Chinese,” Jinn said. “That American was right. His government will move aggressively. They no longer care about borders. We’re not safe here.”
“We shall see,” Sabah said.
“I need a new headquarters,” Jinn insisted, “one they will not suspect. And I must do more to ensure our plan goes into effect, efforts I cannot make from here.”
He pointed to the woman. “Keep her out of the way until the loading is done. Then put her in the third plane, away from the men. I don’t want them near her.”
“She should be guarded,” Sabah said.
“Her will is broken,” Jinn said. “She will soon do as I demand, but if you must have her watched, send two guards, no more. And warn them, Sabah, if they touch her, I will stake them to the ground and set them on fire.”
Sabah nodded. He picked two men and they took Leilani toward one of the waiting transports. As she was dragged away, Kurt and Joe exchanged glances.
Kurt started the engine again and turned in silence toward the last of the yellow drums. He picked it up deftly, an old hand by now. Joe secured it and came back aboard the forklift.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Joe said.
“Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
“Wouldn’t if I could,” Joe replied. “Do you want some help?”
“I’d love some,” Kurt said. “But someone’s got to figure out where these drums are going and warn whoever they’re meant for. This way, we’re not putting all our eggs in one basket.”
They’d reached the truck. Kurt grabbed the lift lever and began to raise the drum.
“As soon as you can get to civilization, contact Dirk. We have to let Paul and Gamay know they have a mole in their midst.”
Joe nodded. “Once you grab that girl, get out of the hornet’s nest. Don’t take on more than you can chew.”
The drum had reached an even level with the truck bed and the rollers. “Hornet’s nest? I thought we established that this was a lion’s den?”
“Lions don’t fly,” Joe said. “Once you’re up in the air, it’s a hornet’s nest.”
“Now you’re getting the hang of this.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment, friends who’d bailed each other out of countless scrapes. Splitting up went against every instinct in their hearts. Fight together, survive together, they’d often said. But in this case it would mean abandoning a young woman to a terrible fate or cutting in half their chances to alert the world and their friends of pending danger. The stakes were too high for that.
“You sure about this?” Joe asked.
“You take the low road and I’ll take the high road,” Kurt said, “and I’ll be in civilization before you.”
“Define civilization?” Joe said, unlashing the barrel and sliding it forward.
“Somewhere that no one’s trying to kill us and where you can get an ice-cold Coke if you want one. Last one to reach it buys dinner at Citronelle for the whole team.”
Joe nodded, probably thinking of the menu and the ambience of the well-regarded D.C. area restaurant. “You’re on,” he said, lashing the drum into place.
Kurt watched, feeling a mixed sense of concern and relief. The trucks were not meant for cross-country desert travel, they had to go where the roads went. And even in a country like Yemen, that would soon lead to some area of civilization. With luck, Joe would be quenching his thirst and on the phone to NUMA before dawn. Kurt knew his own prospects were less certain.
Joe grabbed a tarp that would cover the back of the truck. He glanced at Kurt. “Vaya con Dios, my friend.”
“You too,” Kurt said.
The tarp dropped, Joe vanished and Kurt backed the forklift away, turning toward the staging area without another glance behind him.
All he had to do now was find out which plane Leilani was on and sneak aboard without being discovered.
CHAPTER 32
JOE ZAVALA HAD HUNKERED DOWN IN THE MOST FORWARD section of the flatbed, between the yellow drums and the front wall. No one had seen him there. Beyond taking a cursory glance from the back end of the truck to count the barrels, no one had even checked. With all accounted for, the tarp had been tied down tight. The doors up front opened and then slammed shut, and the big truck had gone into gear. Soon they were rumbling across the desert.
At periodic intervals, Joe had stealthily checked the surroundings. He’d seen only darkness and sand and the other trucks in the convoy. He wondered where they were headed.
After four hours, they finally began to slow.
“I hope we’re about to hit a rest stop,” Joe muttered to himself. He snuck a peek from under the canvas but saw no sign of civilization. Eventually the truck coasted to a stop, though the engine continued to idle.
Joe wondered whether to make a break for it. He hadn’t really considered jumping from the truck while it crossed the desert because he had no idea where they were and without water he didn’t want to go back into walking mode. At least not until there was somewhere to walk to.
He considered making a break for it now, but a second problem had compounded the first. Somehow, his truck had ended up in the front of the convoy. The other trucks sat behind him with their lights blazing away in the dark. To move now would be like going over the prison wall in broad daylight. He had to wait and hope for a better opportunity up ahead.
Shouting and orders came out of the dark. The big rig lurched as it went back into gear and began to inch forward again. It went over something that felt like a curb, and the flatbed trailer twisted and flexed as each set of wheels crossed whatever it was. The yellow drums shook from side to side. Joe put a hand out to steady the closest one.
“Take it easy on those speed bumps,” he whispered.
Then the nose of the truck angled down as if descending a ramp. The drums strained forward against their lashes, sliding his way. Joe’s sense of anxiety grew.
They leveled out after going no more than fifty feet and then continued forward on much smoother ground. Finally they stopped again. The driver and passenger climbed out, slamming their doors behind them. The lights of the second truck crept closer, penetrating the tarp as they came.
As Joe listened to the sound of the engine and the sound of the shouting voices, he detected an echo. He noticed the smooth ground beneath them after bouncing so long on the desert road and the fact that the truck’s engine had been shut off for the first time.
I’m in a warehouse.
That meant civilization: computers, phone lines and running water. Maybe even a Coke machine in a break room somewhere. A smile crept over his face.
When the lights of the next truck inched up tight and then shut off, Joe was certain of it. He only had to wait until all the trucks were parked and shut down for the night and then he could probably slip out unnoticed.
The smell of diesel fumes grew thick as the other trucks maneuvered back and forth in what must have been a fairly tight space. Finally the last engine shut off. He heard more talking.
“Come on,” he whispered, “everyone out. It’s got to be Miller time by now.”
Voices echoed through the dark for a whil
e longer, but they were slowly growing more distant. The sound of heavy doors sliding shut rang out, and the silence that followed told Joe he was probably alone.
Choosing to be extra cautious, Joe waited in the silence. After a few minutes, he felt it was safe to move. If there were guards, they were probably posted where they could keep people from getting into the warehouse, not out.
Joe made his way past the other barrels and toward the rear of the flatbed.
Kurt really should have come with me, Joe thought. In a few minutes he’d be free of trouble and dialing up NUMA. From there a description of the Be-200s could be relayed to the military, a satellite sweep could identify the traveling planes and Special Forces could be called in. Leilani Tanner would stand a much better chance of being rescued by them than she did with just Kurt and the stolen 9mm pistol he’d taken from the guard.
But this way Joe would be responsible for saving both of them. He was glad for the chance and he looked forward to the satisfaction of having Kurt foot the bill at Citronelle and admitting that he had rescued him.
He reached the tailgate of the flatbed. He pulled the tarp up a fraction and peered out. It was pitch-black in the warehouse. All he could see was the nose of the other truck pressed right up against the rear bumper of his.
Nice parking job.
He listened again for any signs of trouble. He could hear something. It sounded like a distant rumbling. Almost like another truck beyond the walls. Or even the diesel engine of a freight train in the distance. Trains meant rails and rails led places. He found himself growing more excited by the moment.
He untied the rear flap, slid his legs over the edge and lowered himself down. As he turned sideways to fit between the two trucks, an odd sensation came over him, like dizziness or vertigo. Perhaps he’d been sitting too long. Perhaps the lack of water had begun to affect his balance.
He put a hand on the hood of the second truck, steadied himself and let go. He edged out into the space between the two rows of vehicles. The rigs were parked so tightly, they’d had to fold in their mirrors to stop them from breaking off.
With just enough room to walk between the rows, Joe headed toward the end of the rows of trucks and what he assumed was the door through which they’d come in.
The vertigo hit him again and he felt his knees almost buckle. He began to fear some of the microbots had gotten out of the barrels and into his ears. That was the problem with things too small to see: one never knew where they were.
“A Q-Tip,” he mumbled, rubbing his ear, “my kingdom for a Q-Tip.”
His balance came back and he moved another step. This time the sensation came quicker, more pronounced and smoother somehow. Joe felt it in his legs and felt it in his neck as if he was being pushed back and forth. He heard a creaking sound.
He held as still as possible. The sensation repeated itself yet again. It wasn’t his imagination. It wasn’t vertigo. It wasn’t even the bots, throwing off his balance. The feeling was real and extremely familiar.
His heart began to pump. He moved faster, slipping between the trucks, his feet sliding across the metal floor. By the time he reached the steel door at the end of the rows he could feel the floor moving beneath his feet in a slowly repeating pattern, smooth and steady, up and down.
The sound of a foghorn far above confirmed what Joe already knew.
He was on a ship of some kind, not parked in a warehouse. The odd sensation beneath his feet was the deck moving on what he could only assume to be a freighter of some kind riding out past a breakwater and into the swells at an angle.
The deck rose and fell and also pitched and twisted. The movements weren’t pronounced, just enough to throw him off in the darkness, but they were unmistakable now.
Joe found the latch to the rear door. It was bolted heavy and tight.
He recalled his boast to Kurt. There are only so many roads and so many places a truck can go from here.
Yeah, he thought. Unless you put the truck on a ship. Then it can pretty much go anywhere.
CHAPTER 33
KURT AUSTIN WAS TRAPPED IN THE LAVATORY. HE’D SNUCK aboard the plane with the most equipment and the fewest of Jinn’s men milling around and had hidden himself in the small facility near the front of the cargo compartment. After drinking a dozen cupped handfuls of water from the small faucet, he’d stepped up on the toilet so no one could see his feet.
With the curtain drawn, he waited and listened. Crates and big stacks of equipment were loaded aboard and lashed down. He heard swearing as something heavy was dropped and then the voices of the pilots as they climbed up a small ladder and entered the flight deck.
Eventually he’d heard the sound of harsher voices ordering someone around. In response, a woman’s voice said in American English; “Okay, okay. Stop pushing me.”
Kurt felt certain it was the woman from the hall, who he believed to be Kimo’s sister. At least he’d chosen the right plane.
A few minutes later the aircraft had sprung to life. With Kurt holding on and trying desperately not to slip from his perch, the Russian transport/flying boat taxied onto the runway, ran its engines up to full power and accelerated down the surprisingly rough lake bed. The takeoff seemed to last forever, and Kurt was glad when the plane finally clawed its way into the air.
Based on the slow pace of the climb and the length of the roll out, they had to be fully loaded and heavy with fuel. That meant a long journey.
In a way, that played into his hands. Sooner or later someone would have to go to the bathroom. If it was Leilani, he would get a chance to talk with her. If it was one of the pilots, he would stick the pistol in the man’s face and take over the plane. If it was one of Leilani’s guards, it would be the last thing the man ever did.
As it turned out, one of Jinn’s guards was the first to feel the call.
Two hours into the flight, Kurt heard the man’s boots clunking toward him from the rear of the aircraft. He put the pistol away, pulled out the knife and pressed himself as far to the side as possible in the closet-sized space.
The man grabbed the curtain, yanked it aside but didn’t step in.
Kurt had the knife out ready to strike, but the guy was looking back down the aisle of the plane, shouting some joke to his comrade and laughing at his own words even as he spoke.
Finally he turned and stepped in. Kurt grabbed him, wrapped a hand around his face, clamping it over his mouth, as he drove the knife into his back just below the nape of his neck.
With the spinal column severed, the man went limp. Kurt held him up and turned him, keeping his mouth covered until he sensed no breath coming forth. Gently, he sat the man down on the toilet seat and stared into his eyes. The light was gone from them.
He pulled the knife out. No reaction.
Kurt hated killing, but there was no grounds for mercy here. Only one side would get off the plane alive: either Jinn’s men or he and Leilani.
Recognizing the thug as the one who’d driven the truck that dragged him and Joe across the desert, Kurt felt a little less remorse. The next stage in the plan was more complicated. To begin with, blood was everywhere. Kurt used the man’s head covering to staunch the flow and eased him back against the bulkhead, wedging him into the space.
He gauged the man as roughly similar to him in size and shape, and they wore similar uniforms, but there was one glaring difference: the thug had thin black hair, Kurt’s hair was thick and steel gray.
With few other options, Kurt chose to wet his hair down and press it flat to his head. It was dark and cold and tremendously noisy in the plane. And who would suspect trouble at thirty thousand feet anyway?
He figured the other guy had seen his friend walk to the head. He would have to look really closely not to see his friend coming back a few minutes later.
Kurt pulled the curtain and prepared to play his gambit. Just in case, he held the knife concealed in his hand.
He stepped out of the lavatory and marched confidently back to
ward Leilani and the remaining guard. It was easier than he thought. The hold was filled with equipment. At least two of the rigid inflatable boats he’d seen and, more ominously, racks of what looked like handheld ground-to-air missiles.
But the clutter left only a small space for the passengers. Leilani and the guard were sitting across from each other in foldout seats that attached to the aircraft’s walls.
The most cursory of glances was all the guard gave him. He then leaned his head back against the headrest on the side of the plane and shut his eyes.
Even Leilani had her eyes closed.
After all, it was the middle of the night, and even with the pressurization of the cargo hold the air was still thin and dry, most likely set to an altitude nine thousand feet or so. That kind of air had a way of making people drowsy even if it was all but impossible to really sleep in such conditions.
Kurt sat down a foot from the guard, right across from Leilani. He switched from the knife to the gun once again and stretched his foot out to tap her.
She opened her eyes and saw him with a finger to his lips.
The one thing Kurt had remembered Kimo saying about his sister was that she worked with deaf kids. Kurt knew American sign language. Or at least he once did.
With great effort he signed I … am … a … friend, hoping he hadn’t misspelled the last word and told her he was a fiend.
She seemed puzzled but her eyes were hopeful. On the chance he’d messed up the whole sentence, he signed something she would have to understand: N … U … M … A …
Her eyes grew wide and he held a finger to his lips again.
He nodded toward the guard, pulled the pistol from his pocket and cocked it. The man’s eyes opened at the sound.
“Don’t move,” Kurt said.
He held the pistol with his right hand and grabbed the man’s own pistol. The guy didn’t flinch.
Kurt pointed toward the back of the plane. When the guard looked that way, Kurt whammed him on the side of the head with the pistol. The guard dropped like a sack of flour, but he didn’t go out. A second blow did the trick.
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