A little more than another hour of comfortable flight in the sleek helicopter put Kyle Swanson and Beth Ledford on approach to a luxurious yacht that was cruising straight toward a brilliant sunset. “That rowboat down there is the Vagabond,” Swanson said.
“That’s huge. It’s as big as a Coast Guard cutter,” she said, astounded at the obvious richness of it all. She estimated the airplane alone had cost almost four million dollars. The yacht would carry a much higher price tag. “It must be two hundred feet long.”
“Only one-eighty,” Swanson replied. “Twenty-nine feet wide.”
“This all belongs to your family?”
“Take the comfort while you can, Ledford. We won’t be here long.”
He had dodged answering her question, so Beth tried again, much more forcefully. “So just who the hell is your family?”
Kyle looked at her and smiled. “I’m kind of the adopted only child of Pat and Jeff Cornwell, a British couple you’ve probably never heard of.”
Beth gulped, startled. “You gotta be kidding. You are related to Sir Geoffrey and Lady Patricia Cornwell?” She unconsciously touched her hair. “God, and I look a mess. Dammit, Kyle Swanson, I hate you more every day. How did that come about?”
“I don’t talk about my private life.”
“So I have noticed. In fact, you never explain anything, but now you’ve dropped this bomb in my lap, and I need to know some background before you let me make a fool of myself.” How was she supposed to greet a lord and lady? Shake hands? Curtsy? Little-girl fairy tales swam to mind.
“The short version is that Jeff retired out of the SAS and got into weapons development, then started his own company. The Pentagon lent me to him as an expert adviser in developing the Excalibur sniper rifle, and we all hit it off from the very start. I had grown up as an orphan and they had no children, nor any other living relatives. We just sort of found each other.”
“So it’s not a blood relation?”
“Oh no. Much better than that. We actually enjoy each other.”
The helicopter swept in closer and circled the vessel, then approached the helipad on the stern and set down. Crewmen dashed forward and lashed it to the deck as the pilot powered down and the spinning blades slowed. A hatch opened, and the fresh salty air wafted in. A short stairway folded down, and a suntanned man in a white uniform trotted up and inside the chopper. “Welcome aboard, Kyle,” he smiled, extending his hand. “You, too, Ms. Ledford. I’m Michael Berryman, the captain of this barge.”
“Hello, Mike. Good to be back, even if we are just passing through.”
“You always are, mate. Come along now. I’m to fetch the both of you immediately to the main salon.” They all stepped onto the deck, feeling only a gentle roll underfoot as the Vagabond surged through the calm sea. “We’ll have good weather for the next few days. Maybe an overnight squall, but that’s all.”
“How’s the old man?” Kyle asked.
“Irritable. Still thinks he’s the indestructible Special Air Services colonel. The legs give him trouble, but at least he’s no longer wheelchair-bound. It’s a miracle he even survived that terrorist attack on the castle in Scotland, much less that he is walking again.”
“What’s that about?” asked Beth, as they entered the central corridor of polished paneled wood that ran the length of the vessel and looked like the entranceway of a five-star hotel. “What terrorist attack?”
Kyle said, “Jeff and Pat were damn near killed when some tangos blew up a reception they were hosting for the signing of a peace treaty between Israel and Saudi Arabia. The Muslim fanatics did not like that idea, so they tried to kill everyone involved.”
“Of course! I remember that. Can I stop off at a restroom before we go in? I’m a frump.”
Captain Berryman chuckled. “Please be at ease, miss. You look quite exquisite, particularly after such a long journey. Now, here we are.” He tapped on a wooden door, opened it, and stepped away.
A slender, middle-aged woman with traces of silver glistening in her blond hair was on the other side and threw herself on Swanson, burying her face in his shoulder and embracing his neck. He picked her up in a bear hug, spun her around, kissed her cheek, and said, “Hey, Mom. Can I stay here tonight?”
She held him at arm’s length and stared at him, cocking her head to one side. “Maybe. We’ll see.” She turned from him. “You must be Miss Ledford. I’m Patricia Cornwell, but I insist that you call me Pat, and I will call you Beth because … well, just because I want to. Come in, come in, my dear. We are so very happy that you are here.”
Swept up by the woman’s charm, Beth was barely able to speak in a normal voice. “Hello,” she said. “Please pardon my appearance, Pat. I wasn’t expecting this.”
Lady Patricia still had the slight figure of a fashion model and wore an elegant pale green blouse-and-slacks outfit that matched her eyes. She linked her arm through Beth’s and led her into the salon, where Swanson was locked in another hug with an older man who was leaning on a knobbed wooden cane. The man pounded Kyle heartily on the back.
“Beth, let me introduce you to my grouchy old bear of a husband,” Pat said. “Jeff, say hello.”
Sir Geoffrey Cornwell turned from Swanson, bowed, and took Beth’s hand to give it a light kiss. “Welcome aboard, Petty Officer Ledford. Please consider yourself among friends on the Vagabond. You will be safe here, and we can brew up a nice little war.”
12
SERGEANT HAFIZ JOGGED ALONG in lightweight exercise gear through the tunnels, disguising his inspection as being nothing more than a regular evening workout. His running shoes thumped a steady tempo, and his breathing was easy. During the past few days, the workers, engineers, and technicians had grown used to seeing the big man doing his routine and ignored him as he loped and dodged through the work areas. Some nodded a greeting, but he did not interrupt their work to chat. Hafiz wanted to be regarded as unimportant as he accumulated more knowledge each day, exploring each cavern and cave and tunnel in turn—miles of them, some illuminated only by bare bulbs hanging from a spider’s web of overhead wiring, with idle machinery covered with protective plastic lining the walls. Much of it smelled dry and dusty.
Midway through one of the broader tunnels, down several levels from the surface, he slowed to a walk and leaned over, hands on knees, to catch his breath. The hallway was pale yellow and bore a bright red cross with the word INFIRMARY printed neatly in three languages, including English. He entered a large door that gave way to an airlock and then to a central chamber with several small side rooms. The smell changed to the antiseptic aroma of a functioning medical center, more like a hospital than an emergency field infirmary. Current medical needs were served aboveground in a medical trailer. Men seriously injured on the job site were transported out to hospitals by helicopter. As far as Hafiz could determine, this clinic, with its specialized hardware, was ready for its very important role of serving any medical need of Commander Kahn. All it needed was an increased staff of doctors and nurses.
As Hafiz walked through the room, his shadow slid along the smooth walls and tiled floor, all the way to the far side, where another large door was closed and locked. Hafiz gave the handle a hard jerk, and there was no give. Good. We need to post a guard here. Beyond that door lay the living chambers, which he had visited often. The underground suite, complete in every respect, was served by a private entrance and had a unique design that provided all the amenities for a comfortable life: filtered, pure air and controlled air-conditioning and heating, soundproofed walls, adjustable lighting, expensive furniture, and cushions and pillows stacked on lush carpets and rugs. A full kitchen was attached to one side, as were guest rooms for important visitors. A door in an outer wall led to a sheltered stone patio that overlooked the valley.
Down a short hall was a modern studio from which the Commander could record broadcasts to be transmitted to the world. There would be audio only, for the Commander never allowed his picture to be t
aken. Hafiz had been given a demonstration of that facility only yesterday.
He would report his conclusion to General Gul at the ISI headquarters that the place was ready for occupancy, pending final inspections. Hafiz trotted back into the corridors to finish his daily run, mentally composing his account. The strange little chief engineer had done a magnificent job.
That would be another matter to be enclosed in the confidential report: Mohammad al-Attas, the brilliant designer whose delusional personality was putting the project at risk. By the chief engineer’s own estimate, construction was more than 80 percent complete, and specialists to man the battle stations were still to be trained elsewhere, so his unique skills were still required.
Things were reaching a critical stage, and Hafiz planned to ask for a full security detail, at least a platoon of regular soldiers, which would allow him to establish patrols, overwatch positions on high ground, put automatic weapons in bunkered positions outside, and patrol the road.
The tales of the evil spirit haunting the valley were balloons of illusion, waiting to burst, and no deterrent at all from a tactical standpoint. Even some foreign civilians had managed to accidentally penetrate the chief engineer’s digital battle space with ease before they were captured. The chief engineer had been so enraged by that breach that he had fallen into his ferocious personality in the room where they were being held prisoner and slaughtered them. The bodies were then quietly trucked away and dumped elsewhere. Still, the killings had drawn unwanted attention from the outside world, almost as if a bright golden arrow were flashing for the world’s intelligence services to follow. The secret was at risk. Had al-Attas outlived his usefulness? Could other engineers finish what had been started? For the moment, Hafiz believed, the strange young man should be allowed to continue his work.
* * *
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, NIGHT swept into the undulating valley, and pale moonlight painted the trees, rocks, and water through scudding clouds. Workmen on the road and in the tunnels toiled on, wary of venturing beyond the edges of the racks of spotlights fixed along the construction zone. They had heard stories of men who had gone alone into the darkness and met their deaths somewhere out there; the Djinn roamed after midnight.
“Post Three reporting.” The voice of an ISI sentry came crisply into the earpiece worn by Sergeant Hafiz. “He’s outside. I saw movement at the base of the western bridge abutment.”
“Close on that area,” Hafiz ordered. He pulled his night-vision goggles down over his eyes. Would the Djinn go afield tonight, or try to pick off a straggling workman? “Don’t let him see you.”
“Post Three. Confirming that he exited through the hatch closest to the river.”
“Stay with him, Three,” Hafiz said. “We’re moving toward you.” With an exact location, the three outposts could triangulate on the moving figure so that somebody always had him in view. Hafiz scrambled down the slope, his boots sliding on the loose rocks and scree while his hands grabbed branches.
“Post Two reporting. I see him now. He’s apparently heading back to the old bridge. I’m too far away to be certain.”
Hafiz had been spending time at each outpost every night since he had arrived. Only once during those four nights had he seen Mohammad al-Attas leave his residence to hunt, almost invisible in a loose black robe. That first night, they had watched, but done nothing, as the Djinn crept into a small dwelling at the edge of the workers’ camp. He remained there for almost an hour before leaving and making his way back to the hidden entranceway, staggering like a drunk. The following morning, the mutilated body of a murdered woman was found in a blood-soaked hut.
“Post Three here. Sergeant, how close are you?”
“About two hundred meters from your position. Why?”
“My eyes must be playing tricks. It’s the Djinn, all right, but he is naked.”
“Say again, Three.” Hafiz picked up the pace, and the soldier with him matched his stride.
“He is walking around without any clothes. He has a dagger in his right hand and is slashing at the empty air. Wait. He’s at the old bridge now and is working out toward the middle.”
Sergeant Hafiz stopped. He could see the man standing on a slanted steel beam, totally nude, dancing and spinning. The knife moved fast, and a howl of pain rose from the thing on the bridge, rattling the nerves of the watchers.
“Everybody move in!” Hafiz ordered, breaking into a run when he saw a gush of blood spurt from the arm of the crazed man. “Get in there now! He’s cutting himself to ribbons. Take him down.”
* * *
MOHAMMAD AL-ATTAS’S EYELIDS FLUTTERED as he rose into consciousness. At first, there was stillness all around, cool air, and a terrible taste in his mouth. Then he made out vague figures and felt a gentle hand on his chest. When he tried to move his arm, he could not, and when he tugged harder, panic overtook him. He heard some talking far away, then more people speaking close by. His other arm was also immobile, and his feet refused to obey his mental commands. A doctor peered into his eyes, then adjusted the drip in an IV tube, and a warm sensation of weightlessness consumed al-Attas, dropping him back into unconsciousness.
He came out of it again four hours later while someone was spooning chips of ice into his dry mouth. He groaned and coughed and opened his eyes to find himself in a white room. A slash of pain hit him when he tried to move. The first face he recognized was that of Sergeant Hafiz, standing at the foot of the bed, looking concerned. “What’s the matter with me?” al-Attas said in a thick voice. “Why am I here?”
Hafiz smiled. “Ah. You’re back. Very good.” The big man came around and pulled a plastic chair close to the side of the bed. “Don’t worry. Everything is under control. You must remain still, sir.”
A nurse was busy unfastening the straps that had held him immobile. The IV tube remained connected to a small needle that was taped in place on the back of his right hand. He noticed that bandages wrapped his left arm, his chest, his stomach, and his left thigh.
“You had a very close call, my friend,” the sergeant said. “An assassin attacked while you were asleep. You somehow woke up enough to fight back, but by the time we reached your room, you were a bloody mess, rolling around on the floor, fighting the attacker. You prevented him from slitting your throat or puncturing your vital organs. Well done, Chief Engineer.” Hafiz patted the uninjured arm and smiled. “Maybe I could make a soldier out of you.”
“Please, can I have some water? My throat is as dry as the sands.” The nurse came with a jug and a glass of ice. She put a straw into his mouth, and he sucked in the chilled liquid. “An assassin? In here?”
“Yes. Of all people, it was your servant, the mute. Obviously he had been put in play by our enemies to spy on your work. Now that you are nearing completion of this magnificent project, his paymasters decided to stop you before you could finish.”
“What happened to him?”
“I killed him.” Hafiz shrugged. “Piece of filth. The ISI is going through his past history now to determine who he worked for. It looks like the work of the Zionists.”
Al-Attas sagged against the pillows. “I cannot believe it. The man was a termite, a nothing, merely someone to clean my living quarters. I hardly ever noticed him. He could not even speak.”
Hafiz said, “Exactly. What a clever fellow, eh? Who would ever have suspected him? We will find someone more trustworthy to perform those duties. But that’s over, so don’t worry about it. Here you are with about a half-dozen good cuts, some of them deep, and the doctors had to spend some time sewing you back together. You lost quite a bit of blood. It was good fortune that you had built this wonderful medical facility, for by doing so, you helped saved your own life. Allah was merciful.” At a nod from the sergeant, the nurse opened the morphine drip again.
“I am tired.” Al-Attas’s pain receded into a mild throbbing, and then went away.
“Then sleep, Chief Engineer. All is well now, and you will be back to work in n
o time.”
Sergeant Hafiz sat back in his chair and stared at the bandaged young man. He had changed his mind. What am I to do with you?
* * *
UNDERSECRETARY WILLIAM LLOYD CURTIS of the Department of State’s Bureau of American-Islamic Affairs received a copy of Sergeant Hafiz’s report to General Gul, which was hand-delivered by a member of the Pakistani Embassy with diplomatic immunity. Curtis dismissed the messenger, so he could read and consider the message in private.
The near-suicide by Mohammad al-Attas did not exactly come as a surprise, for the man had been known for some time to be somewhat mentally unstable. The peculiarities of his personality were far outweighed by the value of his ideas and his work.
Curtis had known him a long time, since he had personally recruited the young engineer ten years ago, while al-Attas was still a semester short of obtaining his master’s degree in electrical engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The brilliant student had been not much more than a boy, only nineteen years old, but Curtis believed that al-Attas had an innate talent and could probably build a cathedral from a child’s set of plastic LEGO bricks. Further specialized education had followed MIT, with field assignments on major projects in Brazil, Arizona, Germany, and Indonesia. It was in the mosques of the teeming capital of Jakarta that al-Attas’s latent Islamic beliefs bloomed into serious study of the Koran.
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