The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  “Where?”

  “Purdue has the most complete animal database. It’ll take two weeks, maybe less.”

  “Crap, that long?” Cotsworth couldn’t wait. The director personally called him every other day.

  “I’ll let you know when I know,” said Horowitz. “Have a nice day.”

  Cotsworth slammed the phone. “If you’re screwing with me, Brosinski…”

  Sliding his notes in a folder, he dropped the sleeve in a drawer and pushed back his chair. The bar at the Berghoff was two blocks away and he wanted some sauerbraten—and a beer.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Badar-e-Abbas, Iran September 24, 2003

  Jamil and Morgan said goodbye at the Iranian port terminal. There the two remaining cargo containers from Berbera were offloaded.

  “My destiny takes me farther, my friend,” said Morgan.

  “Mine also.” Jamil handed him a small piece of paper with a name and address. “My brother, Omar. God willing, your journey takes you to him. He will help as he has helped many.”

  Morgan memorized the information and tore the paper in tiny pieces, which fluttered to the water.

  When they embraced a final time, Jamil said in his ear, “Beware of the captain. His god is money and worldly pleasure, not the true Paradise we seek.”

  “Peace be with you,” said Morgan and watched Jamil descend the gangplank and turn for a final wave with his dervish cane in hand. He boarded a large sport utility vehicle with dark windows that in moments became part of the endless traffic.

  After the Sagar pushed out to sea, Morgan climbed to the bridge deck and stared at the distant coastline, softening in the darkness. Only a distant lighthouse beacon confirmed that land was still there.

  “Barif, come in,” the first officer called after Morgan knocked. He never entered the control center unless invited. He saw Arwan swooning on a couch as several empty bottles of Dutch beer rolled on a nearby table with each sway of the ship.

  “I suppose you’re here to use the loudspeaker again…for those damn prayers.” Arwan’s drunken eyes glared with contempt. “You people should have some fun…fuck camels or—”

  The first officer cut him off. “When are you leaving us, Barif, now that Jamil is gone?”

  “Soon, I hope,” the captain answered for him.

  “Yes, soon,” Morgan replied.

  The first officer continued. “Barif, you’re a fine sailor. I will hate to see you go.”

  “I fucking won’t,” said Arwan.

  The first officer glanced at the hull speed then performed the simple long division. “If the seas stay calm, the Sagar will be in Karachi…perhaps 0300 the day after tomorrow.”

  Morgan drifted beyond the center console, stopping outside the chart room. “May I go in?”

  “Of course,” the officer laughed.

  “Stay away from the Playboys in there,” grumbled Arwan. “Keep your dick in your pants, ‘cause if I find you beat all over them, I’ll personally stick mine up your little ass,” he said.

  “I won’t touch them,” Morgan said, entering the calm space used to plot navigational courses.

  The door shut. Aglow in red light, he waited for his eyes to adjust. Locating a chart for the coast of Pakistan, Morgan took his time studying the sea lanes and water depths.

  Dripping with sweat, Morgan paused to look over the railing at the fan of light spreading up from the explosive late-September sunset. With nothing left to do but remove the backpack from below the hatch and get his remaining clothes from his bunk, he continued exercising long after dusk. He’d be off the Sagar soon. For that he was grateful. He’d had enough of the crew, especially Arwan. But the freighter had served his purpose.

  “Jamil was very accommodating…”

  Perhaps in another life Morgan would have called him a true friend, but even in Houston his actions portrayed authority—and intent. Berbera, Perim, and Badar-e-Abbas confirmed it.

  Morgan would find Omar.

  Groaning in rhythm with each wave, the guy-wires hummed in the wind above the containers. Across the bow the shore beacon winked twice every nine seconds, confirming what Morgan had learned from the chart. The Cape Monze lighthouse was thirty miles west of Karachi, leaving only two more hours at sea.

  He threw his exercise equipment overboard then sat on a box in his sweaty workout shirt and shorts to look at the nebula over the port city. With a crescent moon hiding hours beneath Earth, even the stars seemed extraordinarily bright. He relaxed, thankful that the first mate had forgotten to switch on the lights. That never happened at night when the freighter was underway. His face washed by the sea air’s shifting texture, his thoughts drifted into the distraction of what would never be.

  “Tomorrow’s your birthday, Cay,” he sighed.

  They never had the opportunity to celebrate it even once.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

  He glowered.

  To his right he heard a sound that wasn’t metallic. His auditory perception focused in the direction of the noise. He glanced that way but saw nothing,

  A quartet of soft thumps came from the port side. He knew the ship made peculiar noises, all boats did. When he studied the grayness around him again, his adrenalin surged.

  The lights were never supposed to be off.

  A blade tip pressed between his ribs. Fast, foul, heavy breathing came from above his head. Only one person on board was that tall.

  “Captain sell you as a fuck slave.” Hamid released a putrid laugh. “Split the money with me.”

  The blade persuaded Morgan to stand. As he slowly rose, a face coalesced in front of him.

  Oozing fury, Arwan’s bitter visage spoke.

  “Sorry your friend Jamil isn’t here to play too.” The captain was drunk. “Hamid…go ahead…See if his asshole’s big enough.”

  Hamid pinched the blade tip in Morgan’s side, forcing him to bend over. Pulling down his workout shorts, Morgan glanced at the bulkhead. He would have to be patient. A firm, thick penis began its probing. The sensation grew painful when Hamid forced in the erection.

  The pumping started.

  Arwan unzipped his pants. Before they landed at his ankles his reeking penis rubbed across Morgan’s lips.

  “Suck hard!” he commanded and moaned when the organ pushed deep in Morgan’s mouth.

  Hamid pumped faster. The knife pressure softened.

  Morgan waited.

  Hamid’s sharp jabbing ended as he became consumed in orgasm. Morgan clamped his teeth hard on the captain’s penis. He screamed as he tried to pull out. Morgan opened his mouth and with two quick steps yanked the pickax off its bulkhead mountings.

  Hamid never felt the four-inch steel tip sink through his ear. As swiftly as the spike went deep in his brain, it came out. Morgan turned toward the captain, crumpled in agony. Swinging in an underhand arch, Morgan impaled the pick below Arwan’s breastbone, driving it into the bottom of his heart. The captain became upright.

  His breathing stopped.

  Morgan moved his hand down the ax handle to pull the man closer. The captain tried to focus but the eclipse at the outer rims of his eyes was rapidly migrating inward. Before his vision dissolved to static, he stared at the halcyon eyes of the passenger named Barif Ali and saw a blankness he hadn’t appreciated before.

  Morgan never blinked as he tugged the handle up.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Latitude 24.76 Longitude 66.85 September 26, 2003 0218 Pakistani Standard Time

  Morgan let his grip relax, allowing the ax handle to slide through his fist until the sagging body lay on the deck. He scanned the space around him. He was alone, the stillness interrupted only by the wind. What light there was came from the muted glow of the bridge house, splintered into penumbras by the derricks, containers, and rigging. The Monze lighthouse was barely visible, but the one near the port channel was much brighter. Obscurity wouldn’t last long.

  Morgan hacked and spit. The foul taste stuck in his
throat, but relief would have to wait. He turned to the immediate task.

  The impaled ax handle rocked with the panting sea. Soon the force would rent the tissue and there would be blood—and a mess. Morgan’s night-adapted eyes guided him to the hatch near the gunwale. Spinning the wheel, he opened the lid and reached in among the wires. He lifted the backpack from its hook and set it on the deck.

  Morgan removed the ax pick from Arwan and dragged the body until the head and shoulders sagged into the hole. Elevating the captain by the legs, gravity ultimately swallowed the rest.

  The Somali followed.

  Deep inside the double hull, they’d remain interred for months. No one ever descended into the airless catacomb unless an electrical short required such an exploration.

  “You bastards,” he whispered. “All I wanted to do was get off this damn boat.”

  It would be their only epitaph. As sweat poured from Morgan’s body, he dogged the hatch shut.

  Morgan looked across the water for the port channel. Little time remained.

  He stuck the stiletto in the outer mesh of the backpack and strapped the bag on. Pulling out some fire hose, he opened the valve a little, gargled and spit out the seawater.

  It didn’t help.

  Increasing the water pressure, Morgan washed the deck, hatch, and ax and carefully scrutinized the area. No evidence of any struggle existed. The crew would shortly discover three men were missing, and it was imperative to keep them confused. Without bodies no one would know what happened—at least until Morgan was long gone.

  “Shit…”

  He’d have to leave behind the clothes on his bunk.

  “I got to get the fuck outta here,” he said, heading aft.

  Sitting at the bottom of a rope loop, Morgan hurtled forward again.

  Crash!

  His cocked knees absorbed another blow as the Sagar pitched forward in the waves. Once again his head missed smashing against the transom. Hooked through a steel eyelet forty-five feet above, the rope was a rattail whip with Morgan at the end, holding on.

  Between each swell he struggled. The unbalanced backpack contributing to his precarious position, he fought to regain his orientation before the next pitch. The life of the old pair of running shoes would soon be over, but right now they were all he had to protect his feet from the razor-sharp barnacles. The rolling sea and lingering foul taste made him nauseous. He breathed deeply, sucking in as much air he could.

  Crash!

  The ship descended suddenly, the stern crushing the crest of a wave. Thousands of gallons of cold water shot upward, drenching him. He shivered as the foam blew off in the wind. The harsh turbulence burrowed the square knot he had tied deeper into his violated ass. He accelerated forward again, holding the rope arms tighter and vomiting.

  “Captain Arwan to the bridge please,” the first office called over the loudspeakers, screaming life into the ship. Morgan looked at the water and saw no shadow. He was invisible.

  The Sagar’s heading changed, and with it, the wave beat.

  “Captain Arwan to the bridge,” the first officer called again.

  As the ship turned toward the channel, the relentless pitching subsided more. Waves rolled lengthwise under the hull, sweeping Morgan gently back and forth. City lights filled the starboard sky.

  He had two miles to wait.

  Seconds passed.

  “Captain Arwan to the bridge!” The first officer’s voice was distorted. “Hamid! Barif! On deck…immediately!”

  The growling engines dropped an octave, diminishing the wake. Their rumble grew even deeper.

  Moments later came three prolonged blasts from the ship’s horn and a general alarm.

  Man overboard!

  Beams from searchlights pared the darkness. Voices shouted above Morgan. The poop deck’s lantern scattered off the choppy backwash, surveying the sea.

  The hull speed decreased again, but Morgan knew the ship couldn’t slow much more. If the Sagar lost steerage this close to the channel’s mouth, she’d run into the rocky breakwater before the tugboats arrived. He looked at the water moving below.

  Only a minute more…

  He listened, knowing a search-and-rescue helicopter would come soon. Dissecting the noise, he soon heard the sound of chopping air echo off the water. Under a brilliant spotlight, the search would begin at the bow, progress aft, and continue in the wake.

  Morgan pulled up so his shoes straddled the knot. Above his head one hand gripped both lines together as his other hand used the stiletto to gnaw through the rope close to his waist. When the knot fell away, the downward pull became immense. The knife fell into the water and his free hand joined the other. Hanging by both arms, Morgan glanced to his left and right. The quarter-mile-long breakwater was imminent.

  Looking up beyond the white letters Shindu Sagar, beyond the poop deck through the diffused light spilling over the edge, he inhaled and stared at the heavens.

  He could smell Caroline as their lips riveted together, his fingertips running through her hair. She smiled—her eyes radiant, telling him what he longed to hear but never would again.

  His right hand joined his left, and the rope’s free end sped up and out of the steel ring. Dr. Morgan slid into the disturbed charcoal sea.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Even at slack tide, swimming out of the ship’s wake was a bitch. Wearing a buoyant backpack made it damn near impossible. Cursing the added drag with the slap of every wave, his arms fought to pull him farther away while his cupped hands tried to clear an opening through the floating effluence.

  The searchlight brushed over him. He unclipped the bag and submerged, gripping one of the straps. The beam returned and paused trying to pierce the turgid water, then moved away for good.

  The current pushing him where he couldn’t go, Morgan knew the breakwater pilings had to be close. If he got swept into them, his injuries would be lethal, but he stayed below the surface until his lungs screamed for air, then he swam like hell. The waves pounced, rolling him with added offense. But the turbulence gradually eased, and he paused to tread water to inventory what he saw.

  The helicopter was low on the horizon, tracing the phosphorescent plankton wake. Several patrol boats were out of the channel in the open water, their lights surveying intensely for human outlines. The pulsating bursts of brightness from the lighthouse illuminated an empty beach.

  Morgan swam another hundred yards then treaded water again. Waves crashed on the deserted beach.

  Removing his backpack, he sank several feet beneath the surface. His shoes made contact. With the black bag in front to hide his face, he followed a small spiller in, pausing in neck-deep water to look around.

  “Ouch…”

  His right leg became instantly on fire. He touched the throbbing blaze. His skin was intact.

  Jellyfish…

  Constraining each breath, he struggled up the steep underwater terrace, his feet sinking in the gravel. He crawled onto the beach and lay flush on the sand, studying his surroundings again.

  The helicopter was miles away, so were the patrol boats and…

  God, how his leg hurt!

  No time to think about it.

  Morgan sat and pulled the backpack close, opening it. It was dry inside. The dual zippers had maintained their seals. He removed a gray satchel and laid it on the sand, scooped a few rocks into the backpack, and zipped it partly. Returning to waist-deep water, he heaved the bag as far as he could. This reliable accomplice, bought long before his fingers ever jammed a crack, burbled and sank.

  After another scan of the beach, he emerged from the water and urinated on his leg. The soothing liquid soon dried. The breeze made his skin burn again.

  The thin moon had risen. To the west Mars was minutes above the horizon, making dawn three hours away.

  Morgan opened the satchel and removed a black salwar kameez that he put on over new cotton underwear. His feet slipped into supple leather sandals. He picked up his running shoes
, nylon shorts, and T-shirt and stood in the quiet strangeness. Bathed in a cool sea breeze, an odd tranquility came over him—the last few minutes on the ship’s foredeck a remorseless memory.

  He smiled impassively. Six miles ahead were millions of Karachi citizens, and by sunrise he would plan to disappear in the faceless throngs.

  With the satchel slung over a shoulder, Morgan walked along the island road. One shoe found a trash can, the other landed in a mangrove swamp. Everything else was lost to a cluster of bushes.

  He found a bicycle outside a dark house. A mile down the sand-swept road, past the hanging fishing nets, the bicycle seat pressing into his chafed rear, he heard the pitch deepen and smother the world in a clamoring roar. The Sea King search-and-rescue helicopter was returning home. The searchlight was off—its mission futile.

  Barif Ali rode on as the machine flew overhead.

  Before dawn Morgan abandoned the bicycle against a crumbling wall and walked the last mile until he found a stone bench near the Old City Street Market. His body craved both food and water, and he knew he could find whatever he needed there—after dawn. He waited, the pain in his abraded anus made worse from the worn bicycle seat, while his leg, inflamed from the jellyfish stingers, burned.

  A dense cloud of cannabis drifted toward him from a hidden source. Morgan held his breath waiting for it to pass, then with slowed breathing let the purity of his training relax his body to soothe the pain. Even in his prime as a surgeon he was never able to completely reduce the tension that crept through his neck and shoulders when he leaned over the operating table. Now not a single thought or calorie was directed toward feeling relief, worry, or anything at all. His concerns were only practical. The notion of congratulating himself for doing what years ago would have been impossible never even occurred to him. All he thought was: At least I’m off that piece of shit boat…

  Fuck ‘em,” he said under his breath.

  They were dead and he wasn’t, and nobody would know what happened.

  Listening for noises where his eyes could not see, his intense focus finally brought enough reassurance that he allowed his senses to submit to the aroma of baking breads and sizzling lamb with curry and onions. As sunlight seeped between the buildings, loudspeakers from rooftops projected the muezzin’s atonal chant, calling the city to prayer. Minutes later the market came alive with the music of Qawwali, hip-hop, even American pop.