“Okay, here is what we need. I don’t know if it will be possible. We need to know where the Alpensturm is heading. And we need to know what preparations are underway in the destination port.”
“That’s it?”
“Will you be able to find that out?”
“It shouldn’t be that hard. Anything else?”
“Well, as the airports are being watched, we’ll need a way out of here.”
“Torgrim, this is too little. I am ashamed. You must ask me for something more.”
“Let’s start with this, Faisal.”
Faisal shrugged, but from the little swelling in his eyelids and pucker at the corners of his lips, Rygg knew he was pleased. He ground out his cigar in a bucket of sand by his desk, which contained a dozen or so butts like lopped palm stems. Then he leaned forward and with a sweep of his arms gathered the cell phones to him. From the collection he plucked forth eight and arranged them in front of him, side by side. He clasped his fingers together, turned them out and flexed them. There was a series of reports like fireworks as his knuckles cracked. “Bismillah,” he muttered. Rygg leaned toward Marin. “Watch this,” he said. And it was extraordinary.
With a grace that belied his bulk, Faisal began playing the cell phones like a piano, clicking through lists, bringing up numbers, snatching up first one, then another, barking into them or whispering to them as if they were tiny creatures he was trying to wake up or lull to sleep. At times he had two phones in each hand, propped between his fingers, and was shouting into all four, and at times he cradled a single phone in both palms and was almost humming to it, sotto voce, coaxing it. Most of his speech was in English, some in Arabic, but Rygg also heard French and Italian, and there were a couple other languages in there that he couldn’t place. From time to time, Faisal shoved a phone away from him until there were only three phones remaining. Speaking into two of these, he pulled a laptop toward him. He held the phones to his ears with hunched shoulders and typed on the laptop, then clicked, like a staccato drum roll, with a laser mouse. Finally he discarded two of the phones, though he still manipulated the mouse. One of the phones on the desk rang. He picked it up, then sat back with his eyes closed, listening to someone on the other end, humming every once in a while as if to keep the person going. He gave a short speech, listened again, typed for a while on the laptop, and then threw the phone on the desk as though he was the conductor of an orchestra who had just commanded the last note of the performance.
“Did you time me?” he asked Rygg.
“Twenty-three minutes. You still have the magic, Faisal. I don’t know how you do it.”
Faisal’s bulk seemed to swell. He placed a thick palm flat on his forehead. “All in here, Torgrim. I can’t forget a name or a number. And I have helped many people, so they help me in turn. The world goes around.”
“So tell me. I couldn’t follow everything.”
“Yes. Very interesting. Very, very interesting. This is what we have. The Alpensturm was boarded two days ago. It is still in international waters, but moving toward the Mediterranean. I called my contacts in the usual places – Algiers, of course, which is where the original reports said the cargo was headed. Then Latakia, Valletta, Beirut, Piraeus. I even checked with my chaps down at the port here and in Suez, to see if they’d heard anything. But nothing at all. Finally I tried Limassol. This was really my last choice. I mean, Cyprus is actually Europe. None of my boys dock there – it’s too heavily policed, they all follow the rules, you know what I mean. Even Piraeus, Bari, you can bribe those guys. But Limassol – no way. Anyway, I tried Limassol – I’ve got a chap there who was with me at Victoria College. He worked his way up, and is head of immigration. He called his boy at the docks, but turned up nothing. But, listen. He’s the chap who called me back, a minute later. He told me that he’d found something at Larnaca, the smaller port on Cyprus. Larnaca, Torgrim. Why Larnaca?”
“You found the Alpensturm?” Marin asked, cautiously optimistic.
“Well, not in so many words,” Faisal turned his heavy-lidded eyes to him. “I was looking for berth reservations, between a certain set of dates, and I found something that fit. The right size, the right dates, the right, how might you say …” he grappled at the air with his plump fingers, “the right … feel.”
“So you’re not totally certain?” Marin pursued, but Rygg put a hand on his arm.
“Not to worry, Marko. Faisal is a genius. If he says your mother will be on the moon at three o’clock on Tuesday, she will be there.”
“Okay. Well, I think I might be able to tell you why the Alpensturm is docking in Larnaca,” Marin suggested, leaning in closer to the desk.
“Tell us,” Rygg said.
“Larnaca is a small port,” Marin told him, “and it is a secondary port. But the Alpensturm is a small ship. It doesn’t need a big port. And being out of the way is an advantage. But what Larnaca has is a huge international airport that can handle 747s and such.”
“So you think …” Faisal said.
Marin nodded, not even needing him to finish what he was saying. “Can you check that for me?”
“No problem.” Faisal made a call, talked for a few minutes, and set the phone down. He nodded. “This will take longer, Mr. Marin. I have a few people looking into it. They will call me back, today sometime, I am hoping. When did you want to leave Alexandria?”
“Is this evening at all possible?”
“This evening? I hoped you would be my guests for some days.”
Marin shook his head. “We have little time, I’m afraid.”
Faisal nodded sorrowfully. Then he picked up a phone and made a call. He readied another cigar, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder. Then he said, “Shukran, ya habibi,” and tossed the phone onto the pile.
“So?” said Rygg.
Faisal shook his head. “Nothing today, I’m afraid. Tomorrow night at the earliest and even that is uncertain. Torgrim, listen. I have a nice villa out in Mareotis. No one will ever find you there. Private beach. Stay for one day at least.”
“One day. All right. One day, Faisal.”
Faisal took them out to lunch in a private upstairs balcony of the Yachting Club, overlooking the harbor. The waiter trundled a trolley out to their table. On the trolley was a wooden box filled with ice. Nestled in the ice were a couple dozen fish, of all shapes and colors. Taking his time, Faisal chose half a dozen fish, giving detailed instructions. The waiter pried them loose and set them in a bucket and pushed the trolley away.
Rygg and Faisal chatted about old times as they waited for their meals to arrive. The fish came, smelling delicious, and were stuffed with tomatoes and garlic and cilantro, then slathered in olive oil and grilled. There were also a dozen platters of salads: tahini, baba ghanoug, a spicy potato salad, arugula, tiny stuffed eggplants and peppers, various marinated vegetables.
“Welcome to Alexandria!” Faisal said. He began prizing away chunks of fish and setting them onto their plates, saying their names in Arabic. They squeezed halved limes over the fish and prepared to feast. The food was extraordinary.
As they were eating, a phone rang in Faisal’s jacket pocket. He took it out and looked at it, then apologized and held it to his ear. “Aiwa?” he said. He listened for a long time without saying anything, asked a question, then listened again. He put the phone back in his pocket.
“Very interesting,” he said. He took a forkful of fish and chewed it slowly.
“Faisal!” Rygg said, exasperated.
Faisal grinned and winked at Marin. He took another bite before he addressed Rygg. “That was my friend Yannis, from Larnaca. He told me something I think you will find interesting.” He paused.
“If you don’t tell me within thirty seconds, Faisal, I will put this fork in your eye,” Rygg informed him.
“Thirty seconds is not a very long time.”
“Faen ta deg din kødd!”
“Okay, okay.” Faisal grinned at Lena. “When he starts
swearing in Norwegian, you know you must obey. Okay, Torgrim, listen to this. I had Yannis ask around – anything to do with Russia, Israel, Iran, you know. And he turned up something. He says there is a Russian chap – quiet, professional, diplomat-type – who came into town two days ago. Now, most of the diplomats, they come to Larnaca to … they like to have a good time. There are nice ladies, nice restaurants. But this chap doesn’t go out at night, he doesn’t pay any attention to the pretty ladies in the lounge. Okay, fine, he’s a straight player. What’s he doing? Yannis made some calls. You know what he is? He’s logistics.” Faisal nodded slowly. “Logistics,” he said again, meaningfully.
“Logistics? I don’t get you,” Rygg said.
“He’s doing prep work for a delegation. Hotel reservations, vehicle reservations, translators – Russian-English, Russian-Greek. Very, very thorough, no expenses barred, but also very discreet. No names, no nationalities, no passport numbers.”
“How many?” Marin asked.
“Looks like about nine.”
“There are at least twenty-one on board the Alpensturm.”
“So maybe just the hijackers? Or just the crew?”
“Why wouldn’t the crew stay on board?”
“Just the hijackers?”
“A Russsian diplomat making a nest for Israeli hijackers?”
“I know, I know.” Faisal rubbed his fat fingertips together. “But here’s the other thing. Remember the airport?”
Marin nodded.
“He was there, too. The cargo area is being cleared.”
“What are they bringing in?”
“Get this: An-124.”
“Oh my God!” said Marin.
“Oh my God is right,” Faisal beamed.
“What is An-124?” Lena asked.
“Russian cargo plane,” Marin told her.
“So when is all this happening?” Rygg asked Faisal.
“Two nights from now.”
“Mr. Faisal.” Marin leaned forward. There was an urgent note in his voice that Rygg hadn’t heard before, even during the Moscow run. “Listen. We have to be there before they arrive. We have to.”
“But you promised me. My villa is being prepared.” He looked mournful and his chins quivered.
“It’s really life or death, Mr. Faisal. And not just my life. We’re talking the lives of thousands here. Possibly Egyptians. If Iran gets the bomb, anything is likely. We must be on Cyprus by tomorrow evening.”
“Well, if you absolutely …”
“We do.”
“I have a friend who has helped me out from time to time. Girgis is his name. But it’s not a safe option. I am worried about you.”
“We’ll take any chance.”
Faisal shrugged. “It’s your life,” he said. Then he leaned across the table. Rygg thought he was going to grab Marin’s shirt front, but he pointed past his shoulder and into the bay, where a hundred or so boats bobbed. “That is your boat,” he said. “With the stripe.”
“The one with the sail?” Lena said delightedly, but he shook his head.
“Beside that one. To the left. It has the painting of an eye on the front.”
Rygg looked dubious. “It’s awfully small,” he said.
“True. But it is the only option I can think of. If it does not sink – and that is a very strong if – tomorrow afternoon you will be on Cyprus.”
“It looks fine, Mr. Faisal,” Marin said. “It looks fine. Thank you very much. And money is not a problem, you know.”
“If you mention money again,” Faisal said equably, “I will destroy your face.” Needless to say, no one ever mentioned money again.
After their Yachting Club luncheon, which ended pleasantly with coffee and a couple water pipes, Faisal led them slowly around the club and across a filthy strip of beach where yachts were being built – mostly for wealthy Gulf clients, Faisal informed them. At the waterline, he ushered them onto a long wooden dock along which men sat fishing. When they reached the end, he called to a couple boys who were diving off the prow of a fishing boat.
“Aandi shugul l’Girgis,” he told them, and they immediately flicked into the sea. Arms flashing, they wove their way through the prows and painters and buoys. After a while, they heard them banging on the side of a boat and shouting: “Girgis! Ya Girgis!”
About five minutes later, they heard a tinny putt-putt and saw the boat slowly nosing its way toward them, one of the boys pushing the prows of the fishing boats out of the way with a rubber-tipped stake. The boat pulled alongside the dock. It looked far too small – like a large rowboat with a motor. There was a makeshift awning of palm stems and plastic bags over half the boat, and a fishing net lay tangled in the bilge-water under the benches.
Girgis tossed the painter to Faisal, cut the motor, and stepped onto the wet boards of the dock. He grinned at the company gathered there. Rygg tried to summon a reciprocal smile, but it withered on his lips. Most of Girgis’s teeth were missing. Those that remained were little rust-brown pebbles. His right arm had been broken at some point and had clearly been left to heal on its own: it was bent almost backward, the elbow turned outward and the forearm deeply dented above the wrist. Three of the fingers were missing. Despite the horror of the man’s appearance, Faisal embraced him. He seized his head with both his flabby palms and whispered something in his ear, then took an envelope from his jacket and shoved it into Girgis’s belt. Girgis just nodded, but his grin grew wider, displaying even more rotten teeth. He gestured to the boat with his left hand.
“Well, here we go,” Rygg said. “Are you ready, Lena?”
“No,” she said.
“You will be fine,” Faisal told her. “Girgis is very experienced.”
They said goodbye to Faisal, and then Marin extended a hand to Lena and helped her onto the boat.
There was barely room for all five of them on the boat. Rygg took the front bench, a little triangle wedged into the prow of the ship. The gunwales squeezed his ass. Lena and Marin sat together on the middle bench, and Sasha sat under the awning, close to Girgis.
Girgis was fiddling with the motor. It had no casing, and looked as if it had been roughly wired together from pieces of other motors. He fished a bent spoon from beneath his bench and shoved it into the innards of the motor, turning it this way and that. Then he reached under the bench again and brought out a rock and bashed the motor on the side.
“I like his tools,” Rygg said. “I wonder where he shops for those.” He chuckled at his joke; however, no others did. They were clearly nervous about the condition of their vessel.
Marin was looking around the boat. He peered under the benches, and parted Rygg’s legs so he could look into the little triangular area at the front of the boat. He looked up at Faisal. “Where’s the water?” he asked.
Faisal turned to Girgis and said something. Girgis replied with a shrug.
“It’s a short trip,” Faisal said. “Just twenty hours. You don’t need water, I think.”
“Sorry,” Marin said. “We cannot leave without water and food.”
Faisal hesitated, then nodded. “One moment,” he said. He brought out his phone and made a brief call. He’d just stuck the phone back into his pocket when the motor shuddered into life. It popped and fizzed, releasing fat gouts of black smoke. Girgis waved at Faisal and gunned the motor, but Marin leapt up and grabbed his arm. Girgis released his hold on the throttle. The motor idled, spitting and hiccupping, jostling the boat.
In five minutes or so, a waiter from the Yachting Club trotted over with four plastic bags. Three were filled with plastic water bottles. The other contained a pile of pita bread and a number of little plastic containers. Faisal handed them to Marin, who stashed them under his bench. He gave a thumbs-up to Girgis, who gunned the engine, swung the boat around, and they were off.
Chapter 20
The Boat
It took them a few minutes to negotiate their way out of the harbor, past ocean-going yachts and rickety fishing
dories and tiny catboats and rowboats. On Girgis’s orders, Rygg wielded the rubber-tipped prod, directing the boat under painters and between hulls. But at last they were moving past the Qait Bey fort, through the arms of the breakwater, and into the open sea. Turning back, they could still see the rotund figure of Faisal waving at them from the dock.
The water of the bay had been relatively smooth, but as soon as they eased beyond the breakwater, the waves grew higher, and the little boat rocked and danced. They gripped the gunwales. The waves were coming at an angle, and every time the boat crossed one of them, a salt splash wet their shirts.
Rygg looked down at his bandaged finger, fearing that the wound would really sting and take a turn for the worse if it got all wet. They adjusted one of the plastic bags filled with water and wrapped it around his bandaged finger, protecting it from the elements.
“It will be a long voyage,” Marin said. “But we will take turns to sit in the cabin.”
“By ‘cabin’, Marko, are you referring to those plastic bags over Sasha’s head?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to it. Hey Sasha, how is it in the cabin? Don’t get too comfortable in there – I’m taking a turn after a while.”
But Sasha just looked at Rygg grimly. His face was a grayish green, his eyes were sunken, and he was gripping the bench so hard his knuckles were white.
“Are you okay there, Sasha?” Rygg called again, but there was no response.
Marin turned around and looked at Sasha for a moment. He said something to him in Russian, and Sasha nodded. He moved over to the side. The boat tipped slightly, and Marin immediately scooted to the opposite side to compensate. A moment later, Sasha lifted the lower edge of a plastic bag, stuck his face out over the side of the boat, and vomited copiously. Rygg watched the remains of the fish feast join the wake. “Sorry about it, man,” he said. After a while, Sasha pulled his head back in. Lena reached into her handbag and pulled out a pack of tissues and passed them over. He cleaned his face off, then swished some water from one of the bottles around in his mouth, likely hoping he could alleviate the bitter taste of vomit. His face was still mottled green and white. He buried it in his knees.
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