“How did you know we were investigating your operation?”
“From Jabir.”
Marais knew it was the truth. “And how did he know?”
“He said it came from our spies inside your government.”
“Who?”
“I do not know.”
Marais stood and slammed her fist on the metal table.
Shunnar jumped.
The sound it produced, like that of a gong being struck, echoed throughout the room. Marais felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “You are trying my patience with your pretended ignorance!”
“It…it is true,” Shunnar stammered. “Every member in Qibla is specialized in a particular area. We do not know the operations of each other. This is for security.”
Marais sat now, convinced he told the truth. “Continue, please.”
“Jabir never discusses such matters with those below him. He confides in no one. He is a very secretive man, and is popular with those that have money or hold prestigious office. He is a difficult man to get close to, and even more difficult to find. I believe he has probably already left the country.”
Marais thought about this for a moment. Shunnar wasn’t really telling her anything she didn’t already know about Jabir al-Warraq, or that she couldn’t have surmised from the intelligence profiles they had on him. His activities in the Qibla were well publicized, but it was very true that one couldn’t easily gain an audience with him. He was well guarded whenever he made a public appearance, and his social activities were said to be limited to only private homes of the rich and famous, which were quite often well guarded. No written records were ever kept of his movements previous to Rensberg’s thorough notes.
Marais pulled a picture from her pocket—a copy of one of the photos found in Rensberg’s camera—and set it in front of Shunnar. “Who is this man talking to al-Warraq?”
The terrorist leaned forward and studied the photograph for a minute.
Marais studied his face for any sign of recognition, but she didn’t see it. Part of her recruit training into the SASS had been detecting telltale signs in body language or behavior that betrayed nearly any individual during interrogation. Sometimes these were designed to assess if someone was lying, and other times to note particular emotional responses such as love, hate, nostalgia or guilt. Mostly, though, these were techniques designed to assist interrogators in asking specific questions that would guide the interviewee down a particular path.
Shunnar finally sat back and shook his head. “I do not know this man.”
“Have you ever seen him before now?”
“Yes,” Shunnar said, nodding. “I do remember seeing him once before, but I do not know his name.”
“What about this picture? Do you recognize where they are at, or where this picture might have been taken?”
“I do not.”
Marais started to become angry again, but kept her temper in check. She had to remain calm and to keep Shunnar that way. For all she knew, he could be lying to her about everything. It might have been a stall tactic or a way to throw her off Qibla’s scent. In either case, she couldn’t lose control with him. She had to be the one who maintained control.
And, sadly, she would have to keep Shunnar away from the Americans. At least until she had finished with her mission. There were those powerful factions inside the South African government that had their own special interests and concerns about the Qibla threat going public. It couldn’t get out, and it was her job to make sure it didn’t. This was an election year. It wouldn’t do anyone a spot of good if even the hint of this kind of thing were leaked to the public. Shootings like the kind that had occurred at the wharf today could be minimized in the sense of damage control. Press could be bribed and local officials could be told to keep their noses out of where they didn’t belong.
And Marais was also responsible for insuring the Americans were kept on a short leash, as well. Let them chase their ghosts in Table Mountain. Even her own people, with advanced equipment, couldn’t find any evidence of terrorists hiding or operating anywhere near that area. She didn’t give a damn what Rensberg’s notes said.
Marais didn’t want to do this to her American colleagues, but she didn’t see that she had a choice. She’d already kept her word to Shunnar, made him think she could keep them at arm’s length, and now she’d have to make good on that. If Shunnar thought he couldn’t trust her, she’d never find out who was behind Rensberg’s death. His superiors had backed her play against the local police investigator—she owed them. She owed them a hell of a lot more than she owed the five strangers. Except maybe Matthews. Yes, he had saved her life and she owed him a debt of another kind, that, given the chance, she would try to repay.
But the rest of them she would have to keep away from Shunnar until she’d obtained what information she needed. Then they could have him, do whatever they pleased with him. In the meantime, the security of her nation came first, even over the needs of the Americans. She bore them no ill will; she just believed her mission had become more important than theirs, and she would do what she had to do. Jeanne Marais would protect her own.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Boston, Massachusetts
Fortunately for Nootau Hightree, Rosario Blancanales was a skilled medic.
After a thorough assessment and treatment with ice, bandages, a forearm splint and some antibiotics purchased from a medical office in the projects—the kind where the more money, the less questions asked—Hightree was as good as new.
“You’ll need to rest up at home for a couple of days, but I think you’ll be fine,” Blancanales told the big Fed.
“I owe you guys a lot for pulling me out of the fire,” Hightree replied.
“You should have followed orders and stayed out of sight,” Lyons grumbled.
“Consider us even,” Blancanales told him. “If you hadn’t provided that distraction we might not have made it out of there with our skins intact.” He gave Lyons a you-know-I’m-right look, and the blond warrior decided to shut it down. He couldn’t be too hard on Hightree. The guy had saved their asses just buying them the few extra minutes Schwarz had needed to download the information from the onsite computer systems. Now they would just see if this was actually a peaceful Qibla cell or a terrorist faction trying to gain a foothold for whatever operation was coming down the pike.
Lyons looked at their prisoner on the other bed. “What about sleeping beauty there? You think he’s going to wake up soon?”
Blancanales rose from the chair he’d placed at Hightree’s bedside and conducted a quick assessment. Finally he stepped back with a satisfied grunt. “He’s got some superficial burns, but nothing that can’t wait for treatment a few more hours. And I don’t see anything that makes me suspect he suffered any internal injuries.”
“Good,” Lyons replied. “I don’t want to turn him over to the locals before we’ve had a chance to question him. Is there something you’ve got in your bag of tricks to revive him?”
“Assuming the absence of a closed head injury, I think some anti-emetics and smelling salts ought to do the trick.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
Blancanales flashed a wicked grin. “Then I’ll try a pitcher of cold water.”
“Well, don’t go that route without me. I want the honors.”
The Able Team leader nodded, then Lyons left the main bedroom of the Stony Man safehouse and made his way to one of the three spare bedrooms. This one had been converted by Kurtzman’s cybernetics team into an operations center. It had two computer workstations tied into a central server connected with fiber-optic, high-speed data/voice-over-Internet-protocol lines to Stony Man’s secured network housed in the Annex.
Gadgets Schwarz sat in front of one of the workstations, his face reflecting the intensity of a skilled professional. His technical skills had saved the lives of his companions on occasions too numerous to count, and Lyons was glad to have him as a colleague and a friend. Frankly,
he didn’t know what they would do without Gadgets. Lyons wasn’t afraid of technology—he didn’t have much use for a lot of it. Some of the high-tech toys were great, and Lyons was always up for testing the latest in weapons systems, but he just couldn’t get into all the other jazz.
“What’s the story, Wizard?” he asked. He spun a nearby chair so its back faced the terminal, and plopped down.
“I’m waiting to get something back on the information I uploaded to the Bear.”
Lyons furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s taking him so long?”
Schwarz turned and studied his friend. “Give him a little time, Ironman. D-Day wasn’t won overnight, you know.”
“Would’ve been if we’d been there,” Lyons quipped.
“I—”
“Wait up,” Schwarz cut in. “There’s something coming through now.”
At first, Lyons couldn’t tell if anything was happening. The screen was completely black. Abruptly, information appeared on the screen, the text dancing by almost too fast for him to make anything out. Schwarz didn’t seem to be having the same trouble. Lyons watched as his teammate’s eyes moved quickly, seemingly scanning the data and then hitting the Return key to take in more of the same. After about four or five pages, Schwarz sat back, folded his arms and grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Well?” Lyons finally prompted.
“According to what we pulled off those systems, the Qibla group has definitely been involved with activities of those companies in South Africa. It seems our friends on this end were sort of the business side of the operation. Their books show not only a ton of donations from investors, but also some significant outflow to as yet unnamed sources.”
“So they’ve got entrepreneurs, businessmen and sympathizers financing their cause,” Lyons said. “Big deal. Terrorists have been doing that for aeons. There’s nothing new about that.”
“Maybe so, but there’s an interesting twist here. All of these companies specialize in one thing—salvage. They bought up a bunch of old freighters, solely for the purpose of refitting them for active shipping duty. At least, that’s what was written on the bills of lading when they were delivered into Qibla hands.”
“Yeah, but transport what?”
“Well, we might have a clue to that, too.” Schwarz wheeled in his chair and blasted away at the keys. No more than ten seconds elapsed before he had a new screen, this one with a scanned image of some type of document. He emitted an “aha” of triumph and gestured at the screen.
Lyons squinted, tilting his chair forward so he could see what was displayed. “A shipping manifest?”
“Not just any shipping manifest,” Schwarz said.
“South Africa,” Lyons replied.
“Yeah, Cape Town, to be more exact, which is where they sent David and the boys to take a look-see.
“Lovely,” Lyons replied. “Well, the Bear will get that information on that company to them, and they can check it out.”
“That’s not what bothers me,” Schwarz continued. “I know they can take care of themselves. What worries me is some of the equipment listed on that manifest. Oh, sure, there’s a lot of the normal stuff you’d expect to see there, but also a ton of stuff that by itself probably wouldn’t draw a lot of attention. But I know those materials well.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on, Ironman,” Schwarz said. “Ultrathin aluminum sheeting? Steel slide rails? Electronic and GPS equipment? Titanium-alloy pallets? Oversize hydraulic lifts with portable loading capabilities? Use that hard head of yours and think about it.”
“This hard head of mine has an ache,” Lyons grumbled. “I don’t want to think about it. Just tell me already.”
“That’s the kind of stuff you collect when you’re plan to build launch pads. Remember all that fuel we saw in those pics Rensberg took? I couldn’t really make out the symbol because of the quality, but—” he turned and brought them up on the computer “—looking at them now, I can make an educated guess. Those, my good man, are the markings of rocket fuel.”
“Oh, shit,” Lyons muttered. “Missiles.”
“And you can just bet that they’re probably loaded with that cholinesterase Calvin managed to scare the living shit out of us about. Now we—”
Both men looked down simultaneously as their pagers went off.
Damn! That was all they needed right now. Lyons had wanted to question their prisoner, but now that would apparently have to wait. They had done their duty, and delivered the information Brognola and the rest had asked for. What the hell more could they possibly want?
Lyons picked up the phone and punched in the security number that would connect them via a series of cutouts to Stony Man. When Price finally answered, he said, “What’s up?”
“We need you to get over to the main Coast Guard headquarters at Boston Harbor.” She gave him the address.
“Do we have to? We just ordered out for pizza.”
“Leave it for your contact,” Price said, giving back as good as she got. “Your country needs you.”
“What’s going on?”
“Our shores may be under terrorist attack.”
USCG GROUP BOSTON’S motto was “Birthplace of the U.S. Coast Guard.” It was the unadulterated truth. The Group’s operational area extended from the New Hampshire state line border with Massachusetts all the way to New York. Three agencies, all formed during various periods in America’s history, had merged to form the USCG. Massachusetts had been at the heart of those mergers. Five lighthouse stations and one command area made up the unit, along with the Coast Guard Cutters Grant and Lockett, and a small boats interdiction team. LantArea Command was the Group Boston command authority out of Portsmouth, Virginia.
They were a proud and able bunch.
Captain Samuel Bryant, commander of the Lockett was at the top of that proud and able list. When the call came in, he scrambled his crew and stood stiffly on the foredeck as they were the first to put out to sea. According to his orders, a heavy commercial freighter originally headed north in international waters had turned and was now inbound. Despite repeated requests for the ship to identify her crew and cargo, the freighter had failed to reply. She had also apparently refused all requests to turnabout—or to halt and prepare for inspection—and was now approaching the twelve-nautical-mile border of U.S.-international waters. Bryant was nearly halfway to intercept when he was called to the communications deck and handed a confirmed message to return to Boston Station to pick up three specialists with the Department of Homeland Security. The orders dumbfounded him.
“Captain on the bridge!” Commander Jude Sherman called as Bryant stepped through the hatchway.
“Orders from LantArea. Come about and put back to station.” He turned to the helmsman and added, “Best possible speed, mister.”
“Aye, sir,” the seaman replied.
“What’s the story, skipper?” Sherman asked, ordering a chief petty officer to take control of the bridge before following Bryant out the door.
Bryant got out of earshot of the bridge before stopping and swearing under his breath. “I don’t know, Sherm, but I’d guess it’s some fat-assed bureaucrat who doesn’t trust us to not cause an international incident. Command insists we return to let these landlocked simpletons tag along. They don’t seem to care that I have a goddamned job to do here, and I don’t have time for this.”
“But we’re more than halfway there,” Sherman said, the tone of his voice indicating he thought it was as preposterous as his superior. “Tell it to LantArea, Number One. You’ve got the bridge. I’ll be belowdecks. As soon as they’re aboard, come get me.”
“Aye, sir.”
THE SHIP’S COMMANDING OFFICER stiffly studied the men of Able Team as they crossed the gangplank from the dock onto the cutter. Carl Lyons could always tell when someone was scrutinizing him, and this beanpole captain acted as if he should be commanding a Navy cruiser instead of a sixty-four-foot cutter. Well, the Able
Team leader didn’t have time for a turf war.
“So you’re the three with Homeland Security I was ordered to come back for,” the captain announced as Lyons extended his hand and introduced himself as Carl Irons. “Great.”
Lyons felt his blood begin to boil as he glanced briefly at the man’s name tag. “Yeah, nice to meet you, too. Listen, Bryant, as far I’m concerned, you’re the boss on this ship—”
“You’re sure as shootin’ I am, mister,” Bryant replied, whirling to call up to the bridge. “Get us under way ASAP and lay in a course for that freighter! Best possible speed!”
“Aye, sir,” the big man called. He tossed a salute, then disappeared inside the bridge.
Lyons got close to the officer and showed him a wan smile. “I see you like to get right to the point. That’s good, I like that. In fact, my friends here will tell you exactly how much I like that.”
“Ironman?” Blancanales said very slowly and deliberately. “Be cool.”
“I’m cool,” Lyons said, not taking his eyes from Bryant’s. “Before I was interrupted, I believe I was saying that you’re in charge of this ship. But I’m in charge of making sure whoever or whatever is aboard that freighter never reaches American shores. So, you decide what happens on this ship, but that freighter is our department. Now I could go into exactly who it is we work for, but…I think you can probably guess. So I’ll spare needless dick-flexing and summarize by saying that when it’s time for us to take that thing down, if I say jump, you ask how high. You got me?”
Bryant’s face went beet-red and he became visibly rigid, his lips pressed tightly together. He looked as though he wanted to haul off and hit Lyons, but the uncertainty in his expression said he knew he didn’t stand a chance. He simply replied with a stiff nod, then spun on his heel and headed for the bridge.
Lyons turned and joined his friends in preparing their equipment. On the trip to Boston Station, Gadgets had loaded several more spare clips of the SS109 ball ammo for his over-and-under, and checked the workability of the two MP-5/40s Lyons and Blancanales would carry into action. The smoker grenades, along with some high-explosive rounds, would provide an extra-heavy dose of firepower if they should require it. The three Able Team warriors then slid into their LBE—load bearing equipment—harnesses. Lyons figured their best bet would be a direct approach. The terrorists, if there were any, were expecting standard USCG troops and were hardly prepared to go against experienced antiterrorist veterans like Able Team. Lyons figured that gave them the advantage.
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