“You caught a big break. If you hadn’t been wounded, who knows, you might have joined the family business.”
“Unlikely. I wasn’t cut out to be a detective.”
“I meant the CIA.”
“Those are old rumors. I thought they’d been extinguished years ago,” Ty said, “but I guess the Internet has resurrected a lot of such rubbish.”
“Talk about the long half-life of lies,” Ian replied gracefully.
“Of course, I’m not entirely blameless in the matter. I mean, I made no effort to set the record straight when the PR types tried to make me out as larger than life. All that stuff about speaking all those languages, for example—it was absolute crap. Sure, I took courses. And we lived abroad for a while when I was a kid, but I don’t have the right kind of mind for that stuff. God knows I wish I did. I wish I hadn’t lost whatever I once had. The truth is, maybe I’m a little bit dyslexic. I have enough difficulty remembering my lines when they’re in English.”
Ian laughed along. “Never discount the value of appearing larger than life,” he said. “What makes you so certain your dad was just a detective?”
Ty gave a dismissive laugh. “We lived in a small house. I was the only child. It would not have been an easy place to keep that secret.”
“Not to contradict you,” Ian said, “but I once knew a woman who as a school leaver was sent to work at Bletchley Park, where the British decoded the Germans’ Enigma machine. She was given the job because the people in charge there knew her and had known her family for generations. Basically, it was secretarial work, but it was being done in one of the most secret places in the world, and her superiors told her then that she was never to speak of it to anyone. Well, the Second World War was over in April 1945, and she died in May 2005, having gone on to marry and raise a fine and very happy family. Do you know when her husband and children first heard about her work at Bletchley? When it was mentioned in her obituary notice in the Telegraph!”
“Apparently whoever recruited her chose wisely,” Ty observed.
“Apparently,” Ian repeated, and smiled broadly, as if finally admitting defeat. “Well, you were there. You know your own history far better than anyone else. No doubt you’re right about your dad, but the media can’t resist a good story, can they? A dollop of espionage goes a long way to luring readers’ attention. Never mind, tell me about your plans.”
“I don’t have many at the moment. Right now I’m taking a breather. I’m not even reading scripts.”
“I assume you’re sent a stack of those every day.”
“My agent is. Some have roles for me. Some are meant for my production company. Others are for both. Netty does a great job culling the stacks, but I’ve just shot four films pretty well consecutively, and I need to clear my head before choosing a fifth. Back when I was reading scripts, I didn’t come across anything that—”
“Raced your motor?”
“That about says it.”
“Comedy or tragedy, though, which way are you inclined for your next project, or are you ambivalent?”
“‘Ambivalent’ is precisely the right word. It will all depend on the script. It always does.”
Ian nodded approval. “If I were casting you, I think I would make you an adventure hero, a figure of action but also judgment that the audience might not expect from a man in possession of your looks.”
Ty laughed. “You sound just like my agent. They call those projects ‘tent poles.’ The suits on the business side all love them.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” Ian asked. “You would be a very credible Indiana Jones—updated, of course.”
“Perhaps,” Ty replied, in a tone intended both to deprecate and deflect the very idea, “but I didn’t become an actor in order to play a single role, which can be a hazard for action heroes.”
“No, of course you didn’t,” Ian reflected. “A young man with your gifts would be barking mad to put so much promise in such jeopardy.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Aboard Surpass, breakfast was served on bridge deck. From half an hour after first light until nine-thirty, a buffet was set out and refreshed. On a table nearby could be found whatever newspapers the crew had been able to scour from the nearest port.
Ty was quenching his thirst with a tumbler of the best orange juice he had ever tasted, glancing at a copy of that day’s International Herald Tribune, when Ajay Prajapti whispered, “Well, sadly, we’re off after breakfast.”
“We’ll miss you,” Ty replied. “Off to where?”
“Home, where I am told it’s extremely hot at the moment. That was a lovely little party,” the elder Prajapti continued, referring to the previous evening.
“Yes, it was,” Ty replied, although he had found it neither fun nor in the least useful. As the dancing had worn on, he had continued to worry and later, in a post-midnight e-mail to Oliver, had written, “Wasting precious time here. Santal suspicious. If I were not Ty Hunter, I might be dead. Escape strategy?”
“I didn’t know anyone, really,” Akshar Prajapti offered softly.
“Nor did I,” said Ty, who had felt on display among the Arab women and their enigmatic men. Right now he studied the Prajaptis, amused by the confidence required for a father whose name meant “Invincible” to give his own son one that translated to “Imperishable.”
Just then Isabella arrived. “Good morning,” she said breezily, then turned to approach the buffet.
“My heavens, what’s that?” Ajay gasped at the sudden purr of an unfamiliar motor followed by what sounded like a vast wall retracting.
“The tender’s being started, that’s all,” Isabella explained, only minimally distracted from the steaming scrambled eggs. “I’ve no idea who’s going where.”
“I thought the plan was that we would be going back to Gib by helicopter.”
“Really, I’ve no idea,” Isabella said, and smiled lavishly, taking the seat next to Akshar and across from Ty. “Transport is Ian’s department.”
“Speaking of whom,” Ajay Prajapti said as Ian descended the stairs from his deck, followed by Philip. Both men wore sharply creased trousers and had jackets draped over their wrists.
“Morning, darling,” Ian said at once. “Good morning, everyone!”
“Morning,” Isabella replied then, when the two men seemed to forgo joining them at table, asked, “What’s the form?”
“Philip and I are going into Tangier.”
“Just you and Philip?” Isabella inquired plaintively. “Why don’t we join you? There’s plenty of room in the tender.”
“There will be time for that, I promise you. Now, pretty much everyone else said good-bye last night and, I presume, got off early.”
Jean-François, standing nearby, nodded.
“The Prajaptis are leaving on the chopper at ten-fifteen. You and Ty will entertain them until then, please,” Ian instructed. “Look, I really am sorry, darling, but I simply must concentrate on business on this particular trip. I’ve no time for sightseeing and cannot be constrained by the movements and whereabouts of others.”
“I understand,” Isabella said.
“Of course you do.”
After they had waved good-bye to the tender, the Prajaptis excused themselves to pack. The cigarette boat’s engines could still be heard, its high, white wake still traced when Ty drew Isabella back to the breakfast table, where, on a scrap of found paper, he wrote, “We have to talk without being overheard. Where is the best place?”
“Why?” she whispered, but stopped short. Seconds later, on the same paper with the same pen, she wrote, “Epidendrum.”
After finishing their meal at a pace calculated not to draw attention, they made their way to Isabella’s stateroom.
Ty surveyed the walls and ceiling with obvious circu
mspection, then returned to Isabella.
“No one would dare,” she admonished him.
“Even Ian?”
“Especially Ian! Are you mad?”
“I suffer from an excess of caution, with good reason.”
Isabella stood still in the center of the lemon yellow sitting room. “It’s not who he is. It’s not how he sees himself.”
“Then why did he place a GPS in your car?” Ty bluffed.
Isabella’s answer surprised him. “That was done with my permission. Ian wanted to be sure I would be safe. The roads around Pond House can be treacherous, as I’m sure you’ve seen. Anyway, why would I mind? I’m not living a secret life.”
“No,” Ty said, “I’m sure you’re not.”
“He loves me. In his mind he might as well be my father. What the hell is going on? Who are you? Forgive me. That’s a stupid question. Let me rephrase it: Who are you?”
“A guy in a corner,” Ty told her.
“How uncomfortable!”
“Who finds that the only way out is to uncover the truth.”
“Bravo! Well acted.”
“I’m not acting. I wish I were.” Ty hesitated. He had been ordered never to speak of the matter to anyone outside the small circle who had gathered at Camp David, but circumstances had changed. Time was growing dangerously short. On his own he had come up empty-handed and without Isabella’s help was sure to continue to do so until it would be too late. To confide in her now might be fatal, yet not to confide, given the protocols aboard Surpass and Ian’s suspicion, would almost certainly doom any chance he had of succeeding. He drew a deep breath, then said, “Ian or Philip or both, or maybe neither, may be in the process of transferring nuclear warheads.”
“Next joke,” Isabella said. “Who told you that? Obviously it’s another lie.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“The only thing either one of them has ever had to do with nuclear weapons is that Philip has practically killed himself trying to rid the world of them.”
“Perhaps,” Ty said. “No one would be happier if you turned out to be right.”
“Are you sure?”
“Warheads might be missing from a Russian installation that Philip decertified,” Ty said. “If they are, each could be used to launch nuclear attacks on up to thirty targets. That would be the end of the world as we know it.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Where did you come by this extraordinary information?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Then tell me this: Does anyone else believe this preposterous story?”
“That I can tell you,” Ty replied. “The President of the United States does, for one. At least he believes that it is more than possible and therefore cannot be ignored. I’m pretty sure the same can be said about your Prime Minister.”
“Now I am lost,” Isabella said. “All this, not from some secret agent but a film star! I’m sure you can understand how it could be too much to take in.”
Ty kept silent.
“Or are you both?” she wondered aloud. “It’s as though Matt Damon really were Jason Bourne, isn’t it?”
With that she retreated to her bedroom. After a few seconds, Ty heard water splashing in her basin, a drawer being opened and closed, after which she returned.
“Look around you,” Ty said. “At some time you must have asked yourself where this yacht and Pond House and everything else came from.”
“Ian is a genius. I’ve told you that before.”
“And it may well be true, but what if he’s even more than that? What if he’s so much of a genius he feels himself above the common morality that binds most other men? You read the newspapers. Every few days, there’s a new alarm about loose nuclear materials somewhere. Usually it’s small amounts of fissile stuff. But what if Ian thought bigger? He would, wouldn’t he? What if he laid a plan so simple and audacious and for such momentous stakes that no normal person would think it possible? You have to admit, that would be entirely in character.”
She shot him a ferocious look but did not speak.
“Tell me,” Ty said, “that it has never once occurred to you that someone just like me might knock on your door one day.”
“Oh, please!” Isabella exclaimed. “Someone like you with a story like yours—the odds against that must be one in how many gazillions?”
“What I meant was, just a stranger who came suggesting that everything wasn’t as it appeared. You have to have wondered.”
From her pocket she withdrew a Derringer and pointed it at him. “I’m going to call Jean-François,” she said.
“Put that down,” Ty insisted.
“No, I will not! I’m afraid of you.”
“If you were, you would have called him already. You haven’t because you know I might be right and you don’t want to be responsible for what will happen if I am. You don’t want to live with that.”
Isabella glared at him. “What do you want? You’re too rich to be a thief.”
“First, put that damned thing down.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m not a thief and whether you know it or not, you and I are on the same side.”
“We’re not.”
“Somewhere buried in that beautiful, stubborn head of yours, you know that we are. Now, for the last time, put it down or I’m going to take it from you. You’ll have to shoot me to stop me.”
Isabella took a deep breath. “I’m not going to shoot you,” she said.
“Good, that’s a relief.”
“Not because I believe you, but because I don’t want to end up in the tabloids and be known for the rest of my life as ‘The Woman Who Shot Ty Hunter.’”
Ty smiled. “I imagine that would be very bad for jewelry sales,” he said as she reluctantly handed him the gold-plated, ivory-handled Derringer.
Isabella looked down shyly, then up at him again. “Now will you please tell me what it is you want?”
Ty said, “First I have to get into your godfather’s quarters.”
“Impossible,” Isabella told him. “They lock automatically whenever he leaves. I have no way to get into them. No one but Ian does, not even Crispin. What are you looking for in there?”
“I have no idea, but whatever it is, if it’s on Surpass, it’s bound to be there.”
“Even if I tried to break in, I’d be stopped before I could. Also, Ian would know immediately, because the alarm would sound on his BlackBerry.”
Ty considered their options in light of what she had said. “The Prajaptis are leaving for Gib,” he said. “We’re going with them.”
“We can’t.”
“We were told not to come along to Tangier and to entertain the Prajaptis. Ian gave no other instructions.”
“Why are we going to Gibraltar?”
“To see the apes,” Ty told her.
Chapter Thirty-two
“The bouquet of decay.” Ian sighed. “Savor it!”
Philip regarded him silently and with the just-shy-of-disdainful curiosity he was apt to show whenever Ian became overly philosophical.
“Breathe it in, Philip,” Ian urged. “Tangier is like a rare orchid. It flowers, as it last did in the fifties and sixties, fades, then, when least expected, blooms once more. And bloom it will!”
They had landed at the yacht-club quay, where Surpass’s shore agent from Agence Med had greeted them, along with the British consul and the commissaire divisionnaire de police. Now they were in the backseat of a hired car commencing its ascent along the rue Portugal with the Grand Mosque and the wall of the medina, the Old City, at their right. The white city, dappled by soft morning sunlight, rose with the hills upon which it had been settled by Carthaginian colonists in the
fifth century B.C.
Just beyond the Légation Américaine, Ian instructed the driver to stop. He and Philip exited quickly. Drifting on the tide of tourists they proceeded on foot to a narrow iron gate. The gate opened onto a courtyard garden in full flower, at the center of which stood a fountain in whose colorfully tiled mosaic basin water burbled softly. They crossed the garden rapidly, proceeding through the shadowy rooms of an Arabesque mansion until they came into an arbor of astounding luxury, so peaceful and fragrant it might have been hours from any city.
Wazir and Fateen Al-Dosari were waiting for them, along with Sheik al-Awad and three other of their middlemen colleagues from the Arabian Peninsula and the Persian Gulf.
Ian greeted them as though it were they rather than he who had just arrived. “Our adventure is about to have a happy ending,” he declared.
“I am very glad to hear this,” said Wazir Al-Dosari.
Ian’s quick nod betrayed a trace of impatience. “First I want to thank each of you for your good work so far. I also want to let you know that, as agreed, we are, as of this moment, issuing the required seventy-two-hour notice for the transfer of the first tranche of funds. Philip will now review those details.”
“You have each subdivided your own accounts into units that should be able to fly below the regulatory radar,” Philip said. “Moreover, you have wire-transfer instructions relating to our accounts, which will be capable of receiving funds on the same basis. Clearly it will be in the best interest of everyone involved if such transfers are sequenced between now and the close of business three days from now. Are there any questions?”
When no one spoke, Philip continued. “The final half of your payment will be expected at the moment our merchandise is delivered to you on behalf of your clients. In both instances, let me assure you, the money will orbit the earth far faster than any satellite. Where it originated and where it is destined will be undeterminable.”
“I wish you all good luck,” Ian said. “Salaam.”
“Salaam.”
“If I might have a word,” Sheik al-Awad said, taking Ian aside as the brief meeting dispersed. “I shall, of course, deduct the funds I’ve laid out on gems and jewelry from my share.”
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