Helldiver: The Alex Morgan Interpol Spy Thriller Series (Intrepid 4)

by Chris Allen

  Within two minutes they were airborne, swinging back out over the ocean and traveling fast, southeast along the golden-edged turquoise seahorse that was the coastal strip of the Ala Wai Canal, Waikiki Beach and Diamond Head.

  So, the house at Diamond Head, he thought. And then what?

  One thing he’d observed about Zolner was that he was a very private person, secretive to some extent. Certainly not the high-profile billionaire of the Branson or Gates variety.

  For the first time since he’d accepted the job on Zolner’s security team, Alex Morgan began wondering what he’d got himself into.

  Whatever it was, he was about to find out.

  CHAPTER 4

  Katak Airlines Flight KTA 712, Singapore to Beijing, via Kuala Lumpur

  It was 1800 hours at Kuala Lumpur International Airport, getting close to take-off at 1910, and the crew of Flight KTA 712 were keen to get underway. It had been a long day, departing Changi Airport at 1000 with an eight-hour layover in KL. Most of the crew were changing over in Beijing but with the flight not scheduled to arrive in Beijing Capital International Airport until just after 0100, the day was definitely becoming protracted. The mood among the crew was bright and professional but subdued. Perfect.

  Adnan “Rez” Reza flew JF-17s as a squadron leader in the Pakistan Air Force. He commanded the first JF-17 squadron to see action in Operation Rah-e-Nijat in 2009, yet despite his many successes against the Taliban, his reluctant participation in the infidel-led operation to destroy his Muslim brothers confirmed emphatically where his loyalties lie. Within a year he had resigned his commission from the PAF and offered his life to jihad. His services were welcomed by his brothers, who were ready to guide his atonement for his sins. And so, he was told to establish himself as a commercial airline pilot and await activation.

  Tonight, after five long years, the moment had come. Tonight he was flying not as Adnan Reza but as Captain Farooq Chaudry, the now dead man whose identity Reza had assumed and the man whose name would forever be associated with this night.

  Reza sat in the left-hand seat, the captain’s seat, and turned to the first officer, Safwan Khan, whom he’d met in Singapore at the commencement of the flight. Reza had kept their interaction professional but friendly enough, and avoided any unnecessary conversations during the layover in KL, choosing instead to spend his final hours in solitude and prayer. He didn’t want any distractions. Thankfully Khan had taken the hint and maintained his distance.

  “Are we prepared for flight, first officer?” Reza asked, preserving the formality.

  “I’ve conducted the preflight inspection of the aircraft, captain. Everything looks good. Here is our flight plan.” Khan handed him a clipboard containing the airline’s predetermined flight plan for the journey to Beijing. “The aircraft has been fully fueled and I have completed the weight and balance calculations and loaded them into the computer. We have one hundred and forty-nine souls onboard.”

  “Excellent,” Reza replied. “How are the skies ahead of us?”

  “I need to draw your attention to some bad weather, captain. It’s just been officially declared a cyclonic weather system, Cyclone Penciptaan, and it is currently due west of northern Malaysia. It began as a tropical depression over the Gulf of Thailand a little over a week ago and has been moving steadily west-nor-west across Thailand and Malaysia to the Andaman Sea over the last few days. The latest report is that it has developed into a cyclonic storm and appears to be maintaining its current course toward the Bay of Bengal. Our flight plan keeps us well clear and to the east of it, but we may experience some rough weather as we approach the Gulf of Thailand.”

  “Very well,” Reza replied. “We’ll monitor the weather as we approach the coast and if necessary we’ll take the aircraft further east. What are our options in the area if we have to put down?”

  “As we leave Malaysia over Kelantan, we have the Sultan Ismail Petra Airport in Kota Bharu. Further north once we’re over the Gulf of Thailand there’s Hat Yai International or Narathiwat, domestic. Of course heading for either of those would require a change of course to the west,” Khan replied, “toward the weather system. Further west, we have Langkawi or Phuket. Beyond the Gulf to the north would be Ho Chi Minh or Phnom Penh.”

  “Very well,” said Reza. “Hopefully we won’t have to consider any of them but let’s ensure that we factor them into the flight plan as options. Please proceed.”

  Khan continued his briefing on the technical aspects of the aircraft’s readiness, including some additional weather-related issues further north over China.

  “Any problems with the crew? I expect they’d be reasonably well rested after a few hours off, yes?”

  “Yes, captain,” Khan replied. “I believe that most of them are ready to take some time off in Beijing, but they’ll be fine.”

  “Very well, let’s get underway.”

  With the engines already humming and the first officer beginning the radio check-in process with KL air traffic control, Reza welcomed the passengers and crew aboard over the PA, briefed them generally about the flight and, without going into any detail, mentioned the potential for some rough weather ahead. Soon, the routine of a standard take-off had passed, the landing gear was up, the flaps and slats retracted, and the passengers and crew of KTA 712 began to settle in for a long flight. Thirty minutes later, autopilot had brought the aircraft to its programed cruising altitude, the captain extinguished the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign and the crew began to serve the evening meal. A female steward entered the cockpit, bringing in meals for the captain and first officer. Reza wondered why she was not wearing a veil. Another of the new breed. She did not linger, simply handed the meals over, exchanged some pleasantries and left, resecuring the cockpit with the help of Khan.

  Khan mumbled something about the bathroom and Reza heard him close the door. Calmly Reza checked their current position. They were making good time and fast approaching the northeastern coast of Malaysia. He consulted the latest information concerning the status of Cyclone Penciptaan. Warnings to aircraft and shipping to avoid the Andaman Sea due east of Phuket were prevalent. The intensity of the storm had increased from Category 1 to Category 3.

  The plan had been in train many months, only the opportunity was required. And when that opportunity presented itself in the form of the tropical depression in the Gulf of Thailand ten days earlier, the scene was set. Farooq Chaudry was finally replaced and Adnan Reza’s fate was assured. Of course, nobody could ever have foreseen that the storm would intensify to such magnitude.

  Khan rejoined Reza at the controls and, as they had previously agreed, began to eat his meal.

  Reza heard himself making general observations about the weather system as Khan ate. He noted that his tone was relaxed yet confident, instilling in Khan an equally calm and relaxed state of mind. While the first officer had been in the bathroom, Reza had removed the fork from the cutlery pack of his dinner tray and placed it under his right thigh. During training for this mission, he’d been advised to avoid the knife. The propensity for the long blade to catch on any number of items around and upon the central control console that separated the captain and first officer, or for it to be deflected if the strike was not perfectly aligned, presented too much room for error within the confined space and range of movement that were available to him. Therefore, the fork was preferred. It enabled him to grasp and conceal the handle completely with only the four short prongs protruding beyond the soft edge of his right hand. He glanced across the controls and noted that Khan had just taken another mouthful of food and was chewing.

  Reza drew the fork out from under his thigh, positioning it within his hand out of Khan’s view. He took a slow, deep breath, leaned imperceptibly over to his right and then brought the weapon up above the central console. Before the movement had been noticed by the first officer, Reza struck directly at Khan’s carotid artery with unrestrained force, repeating the strike three more times in quick succession.

 
; Khan’s meal fell from his retractable tray and spilled over his legs to the floor. His hands clutched uselessly at his throat as he instinctively tried to stem the flow of blood while choking on food that was only partially swallowed. The combination of hemorrhaging wounds, shattered larynx and food-jammed pharynx made any form of verbal communication impossible.

  Reza stood, pulled the rapidly expiring Khan awkwardly from the first officer’s seat to the floor, placed his right foot on the man’s throat and rested his full weight upon it. Thirty seconds later, Khan had died of shock and suffocation.

  Reza resumed the captain’s seat, buckled himself back in, disengaged autopilot and reset the aircraft’s flight plan for a heading west-nor-west, directly toward the Andaman Sea.

  The center of Category 3 Cyclone Penciptaan.

  CHAPTER 5

  Oahu, Hawaiian Islands, United States of America

  Following one of Zolner’s personal assistants, a young American guy, solidly built with an immaculately trimmed beard, who’d introduced himself only as Simon, Morgan made his way from the sitting room – where he’d been cooling his heels since Kristina Zolner had dropped him there – through the twists and turns and corridors of the Zolner’s palatial home. Easily in the twenty-five to thirty million range, the house was a Kahala beachfront property located on Kahala Avenue, one of the most prestigious addresses on the island of Oahu. It was an 18th-century French design nestled at the base of Diamond Head with panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean, oceanfront lawn and a hundred feet of private beach. Inside, everything was white, cream or gold, and every piece of furniture he laid eyes on complemented the French period design. For the first time in his life Morgan was up to his neck in the affluent treacle only the mega-rich could afford to immerse themselves in and he felt it with every cushioned step upon the ankle-deep plush pile carpets that carried him effortlessly through all of it.

  Morgan found himself genuinely curious about what Zolner might have to say to him. The past few months had been relatively quiet for Morgan and he had to admit that his social skills could probably do with a major overhaul. He’d been leading a solitary, bordering on reclusive, lifestyle since everything had come to a head at the end of the Night Witch operation. The trip from Gemini back to Oahu aboard the Aquariva, followed by the chopper flight down to Diamond Head, had unexpectedly rekindled his memory of the extraction by sea from Belize, when George Hemsworth and AJ Armstrong had returned to collect him and Jovana from the beach. They’d rendezvoused twelve miles offshore with a rigid-hulled inflatable boat from the RFA Wave Knight, a British fleet tanker of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary, and Morgan had bid farewell to Hemsworth and Armstrong. Then the RHIB took Morgan and Jovana out to the Wave Knight, the tanker steamed north toward the Florida Keys and they were eventually transferred aboard the Wave Knight’s AW101 Merlin, along with the prisoners who’d survived the gun battle, to the US Naval Air Station Key West. Everything then was pretty much a blur of handing the prisoners over to the FBI, placing Jovana into the care of the Interpol liaison officer, and then returning once again to Intrepid headquarters in London.

  He shrugged away his thoughts as he followed in Simon’s wake up a lavish cream marble spiral staircase that delivered them squarely into the center of Zolner’s private living areas. At the top of the stairs, Simon turned and waved him on to the next stage in the conveyance process.

  “Out here.” Rodenko, Zolner’s head of security and personal bodyguard, stood in the middle of a quarter-mile of glass doors that looked out onto a balcony the size of a football field and beyond to an unimpeded view of the ocean. Morgan didn’t like Rodenko. Rodenko obviously didn’t like Morgan much either. The location and views more than made up for it.

  Rodenko slid the door open just as a well-dressed man, who looked to be mid-fifties, Latin American and well-groomed, was finishing up his farewells with the Zolners. He exited as Morgan was being ushered in. Morgan brushed past him, stepping over the threshold from the plush carpet and silence of the home’s interior out into the sunshine. Rodenko remained inside, reluctantly it seemed, like he’d been told to “stay”, and silently closed the door once Morgan was outside.

  Hedeon Zolner was standing in front of a huge TV screen that appeared to be able to retract into a recess in the wall. His shoulder-length white hair was unkempt and tinged with gold in the late afternoon sun. He was in a polo shirt, shorts and bare feet. His right leg was bandaged between knee and ankle and Morgan noticed he was favoring it. Zolner’s attention was glued to CNN and rolling satellite images of what looked like storms over Southeast Asia heading west across the Bay of Bengal toward the subcontinent. The weather coverage was interspersed with file images of a Katak Airlines A320 and footage of military aircraft apparently conducting search operations. Kristina Zolner was to Morgan’s left, draped across a semicircular sofa that ran around the southeastern boundary of the balcony surrounding a low table covered in a variety of fresh fruits and canapés. Sipping on a cocktail, her attention was also locked onto the coverage. She saw Morgan first as he came through the door.

  “Oh, hello, Morgan.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Zolner.”

  “Ah!” Zolner turned immediately from the TV screen and smiled broadly the moment he saw Morgan. He walked over awkwardly and shook Morgan’s hand. “Thank you for coming.” His accent was well-heeled Russian tinged with that same slight American twang many Europeans seemed to pick up when they learn English. Most likely because many would have learned it by watching American films and TV shows.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Morgan said, glancing toward the TV. “Something recent? I haven’t seen much of the news lately.”

  “Overnight, apparently.” Yep, Russian. “It appears that the aircraft flew directly into the path of a cyclone. A hundred and fifty people on board, they say. Terrible.”

  “Jesus!” Morgan replied. “Any word from the cockpit before it happened?”

  “Nothing. From take-off in Kuala Lumpur, everything was routine with no indication of any problems and then complete radio silence from the time they left the northeast coast of Malaysia. Malaysian air traffic control lost them until they were picked up by Thai military air traffic control well to the west of Phuket, completely off their expected course to Beijing. Extraordinary; truly, extraordinary.”

  “How many does that make now?” Morgan said, remembering there’d been similar occurrences in recent months. “Two or three, at least?”

  “I believe this is the fourth,” said Kristina.

  Zolner and his wife exchanged an almost imperceptible look, but Morgan caught it and sensed some private issue between them. Then Zolner limped carefully back to the table, picked up two glasses of what Morgan presumed to be scotch, complete with bobbing ice cubes, and offered one to him.

  “Anyway, enough talk about disasters,” said Zolner. “I heard you like single malt?”

  “I do,” Morgan replied, accepting the drink.

  “This one’s the fifty-year-old Glenfiddich. It’s my favourite; za váše zdoróv’je!”

  “Cheers,” replied Morgan, raising the glass in response before taking a brief, restrained drink. Zolner did the same. The warmth and bite of the drink instantly told Morgan it was exactly as Zolner had said.

  “Good?”

  “Very. Thank you. My budget only gets me as far as the eighteen-year-old,” Morgan replied good-humoredly. “This is a rare treat. How’s the leg?”

  “I’m lucky to have a leg at all, or even a head on my shoulders. But I do, and I have you to thank for that. What you did took some real balls, my friend. I don’t believe anyone else on my crew would ever have thought to do the same. Not even Rodenko,” said Zolner, gesturing toward the closed door.

  “I’m sure he would have. I just happened to be closest.”

  “Bullshit. From what I’ve been told, you reacted instantly. Kristina saw it all. You didn’t hesitate to get in the water, even though there were all those fucking sharks swimming around
out there. I mean, Jesus. You must be crazy.”

  Morgan took another drink. He was uncomfortable with all the praise and he couldn’t tell where Zolner was going with it.

  “It’s what you pay us to do, isn’t it? Protect you, I mean.”

  “Let’s sit down, please,” Zolner said, offering Morgan a seat on the sofa before joining his wife directly across the table. Morgan felt them both appraising him microscopically, especially Kristina.

  “My husband and I are very interested in you, Alex. Can I call you Alex? It’s not often we take such an interest in people who work for us. But you saved Hedeon’s life without hesitation and that means a lot to us both.”

  Morgan remained quiet.

  “So, we asked to see your resume,” said Zolner. “Very impressive. Former major. Paratrooper. Won the Military Cross for gallantry in Afghanistan, the George Medal for evacuating British workers from the middle of the civil war in Malfajiri, and a string of other decorations. Now, I understand, you only work freelance? With experience like yours, you should be running your own show and living it up a little. Getting other people to do the work. You must tell me, how the hell did you end up here?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes,” said Kristina. “We really do.”

  “Well, it’s pretty straightforward and really not all that interesting, I’m afraid. When I left the army I didn’t want to be tied down anymore. I’d had enough of being told what to do, and to this day I make a point of avoiding corporate jobs. I only take things that interest me. That’s why I work freelance. A friend of a friend connected me with Norland about a vacancy in your security team and I thought, why not? I was at a loose end, it was different from anything else I’d done before and you only needed someone for two months. I figured if it wasn’t for me then it’s only a short-term gig. So, here I am.”