by Ethan Jones
The prince’s quarters’ door opened with the now-familiar creak. “Is someone here?” a loud strong voice said.
A light came on in the living room.
Justin had positioned himself behind the office door, which was slightly open.
“Who’s there?” the voice said.
Then came the cocking of a pistol.
Justin held the scimitar tight in his right hand.
The guard stepped through the office door.
Chapter Forty
February 25
Aboard Prince Al Khater yacht, Lusail
Off the coast of Larnaca, Cyprus
As soon as the guard appeared around the door, Justin thrust his scimitar.
He had misjudged the distance.
The letter opener sliced through the air, but fell short of stabbing the guard. He swung his right hand down—it was holding a pistol—and easily blocked Justin’s attempt. Then the guard threw a left punch, which connected with Justin’s head.
The hard blow almost knocked him off his feet. Justin leaned against the door to keep his balance, then heaved his body against the guard.
The pistol went off. The bullet echoed like a cannon and shattered one of the glass windows.
Justin bit his lip as he and the guard rolled onto the marble floor. The man climbed on top of Justin and threw another left punch. Justin jerked his head, and the guard missed. But he tried again, and this time, his fist struck against Justin’s right ear.
The throbbing pain almost blinded Justin, but he kept his vise-like grip on the guard’s right hand still holding the pistol.
The guard pulled the trigger again.
The bullet struck the prince’s large computer monitor.
Justin kicked hard with his legs and knees, trying to shake off the guard. The man stayed on top of Justin. The guard’s left fist went for Justin’s head again. He blocked the blow and returned a swift hook to the right side of the guard’s jaw.
The guard lost his balance for a split second.
It was enough for Justin to roll over and climb on top of the guard.
Justin punched the guard once, then again, and tried to pry open the guard’s pistol-holding hand.
His fingers began to slip off the pistol. He punched Justin hard in the chest. Justin grunted and ignored the pain. If he could only wrestle the gun away from the guard, this would all be over in a moment.
The guard’s grip around the pistol had loosened. A moment later, the pistol dropped to the floor.
Loud shouts and heavy footsteps came from the deck and the prince’s living room.
Justin had only seconds to retrieve the pistol.
The guard’s next blow hit Justin in the throat.
He gasped for air, but his hand went for the pistol, and Justin wrapped his fingers around it.
Two guards burst through the office door.
Justin fired two rounds, planting a bullet in each guard’s chest.
Before he could aim at the guard still throwing punches, one of those blows caught the side of Justin’s face. He tasted blood at the back of his mouth. He turned the pistol toward the guard’s chest and fired once.
The guard’s arms fell back, and he stopped moving.
Justin drew in a deep breath and glanced at the door. No more guards barged into the office, but angry shouts and rushing footsteps came from the deck. A moment later, a volley of bullets came from the broken window.
Justin returned fire, just a quick burst, and crawled to safety near a metal bookshelf in the corner. Bullets pierced or shattered everything around him: the prince’s large desk, lamps, framed pictures hanging on the walls, bookshelves. Justin stayed low, flat against the floor, waiting for a break in the barrage.
When the break came, he slid across the marble floor toward the office door. He wanted to get out of the trap before the shooter resumed fire.
The flash drives.
He looked up at the computer. Bullets had pierced holes in it, but the flash drive seemed to be intact. Justin grabbed it, then looked at the laptop. It was not where he had last seen it. The barrage had sent it crashing to the floor. He searched for the flash drive among the debris littering the floor, but could not find it.
“He’s still there. Fire, fire!” an outraged voice shouted from outside the window.
Justin crawled away from the window. As he neared the office door, a guard charged through the other door connecting the prince’s living room to the deck. He fired a quick burst that missed Justin’s head by mere inches. He double-tapped his pistol and put two bullets into the guard’s head.
Loud barrages erupted in the distance. Assault rifles. That must be Carrie and Vale.
Justin glanced at the door, expecting other guards to rush in. When they did not, he crawled away from the office and climbed to one knee. But before he could get to his feet, an explosion came from the prince’s office.
Grenade.
Justin was thrown to the floor as the office’s solid wood door was flung across the living room. Shrapnel, splinters, and glass fragments hailed over his head. He stayed down on the floor as a cloud of dust began to drift over him.
Gunfire continued from at least two locations. Justin found it difficult to judge the distance, as his ears were still ringing from the explosion. A sharp pain shot up from his left knee when he tried to climb to his feet. He leaned against the wall with his left, reinjured hand, then took an uncertain step. He shook his head and drew in a deep breath. Yeah, I can do this.
He wondered about Prince Al Khater, his associates, and the Saudi executives. They’re probably holed up inside the conference room.
He had just gotten out on the deck, when machine gun fire came from the stern. Justin could not see the shooter or the target. Must be Ali Mansour. He bit his lip and advanced toward the conference room. He kept his pistol close to his face, ready for action.
Justin had taken a couple of steps when a huge explosion rocked the yacht. He held on to the deck rails as flames from the stern rose into the dark sky.
Two guards came out of the conference room. One of them glanced toward Justin. “We’re under attack,” the guard shouted. “Come this way.”
He must have not gotten the memo that I’m a part of the attack. His hand holding the pistol was behind him. In the chaos and the dark, the guard had missed the weapon.
Justin nodded at the guard. “I’m wounded. My leg . . . You go ahead.”
The guard dashed forward.
Justin waited another moment. He looked over his shoulder. Nothing. Then he glanced at the conference room door. One of the prince’s close associates came out, followed by a guard. Then, Prince Al Khater also stepped on the deck.
He looked toward Justin. “There, he’s there,” he shouted at the guard.
The guard turned his head and raised his pistol.
Before he could aim it, Justin fired a round. The bullet caught the guard on the left side of his chest. He spun around and fell overboard.
Prince Al Khater spat on the deck. “You . . . you’re a spy. I trusted you.” He walked defiantly toward Justin.
Justin took a couple of cautious steps. “You’ll pay for fueling the Syrian conflict with your illegal weapons.”
“Me? I will pay? Aren’t you forgetting someone bigger than me, than all of us? America? Russia? They are the real criminals arming government forces and rebels in Syria. And you come after me?”
Justin shrugged. “Stop arguing and get down.”
Prince Al Khater shook his head. “Never, I’m not a dog to crawl on the—
A colossal explosion violently shook the yacht.
Justin was thrown against the deck as flames and smoke erupted from the stern. Then the entire deck began to lift up underneath his feet. A series of explosions ensued with larger flames.
That must be the engine room. The yacht’s going down.
The prince’s associate slipped and slid toward the stern.
Prince Al Khater was h
olding onto the rails, but only by the skin of his teeth.
Justin tried to grab onto the rails too, but the deck shot up about a foot. His right hand slipped, and he fell head first into the dark sea.
Chapter Forty-one
February 25
Overboard Prince Al Khater’s yacht, Lusail
Off the coast of Larnaca, Cyprus
Justin tried to pull his arms and legs close to his body, to avoid breaking anything in the fall. Still he plunged hard into the cold dark waters. His lips split, and he tasted blood mixed with salt water. He closed his mouth quickly and ignored the agonizing pain over every inch of his face as he sank further down. I’ve got to swim, swim up, if I want to live.
His right hand was still holding the pistol. He let it go, then pushed his body toward the surface. The white robe clung to his body and obstructed his movements. He kept his eyes open, but everything around him was dark. He threw his right arm upward, followed by his left arm, ignoring the pain stabbing him. He kicked with his legs and advanced a few feet.
Justin felt his lungs beginning to burn. He had swallowed some of the water and had not been able to breathe in enough air before the fall. He looked around to gather his bearings, to determine which way he should go. He needed to go up, but he also needed to avoid being too close to the yacht. The guards might try to take shots at him.
He thrust his body upward, struggling to reach the surface. Justin disregarded the bursting sensation developing deep in his lungs. He would have to surface for air soon.
A few more seconds, he encouraged himself.
He kept swimming, although his movements had slowed. Justin finally reached the surface. He drew in a long deep breath, filling his lungs with precious, life-giving air. He kept his nose just an inch above the choppy surface of the water, avoiding the waves splashing against his face. Then Justin looked to his right at the yacht.
It was sinking.
Flames had swallowed the bow and most of what was left above the water. Two or three silhouettes were trying to escape the vortex swirling around the yacht and growing larger and stronger by the moment.
Yes, get out of here, Justin. Now!
He turned and began to swim away from the yacht as fast and hard as he could. He advanced maybe five or six feet, and he felt the unmistakable pull of the whirlpool. He redoubled his efforts, although pain shot from every part of his body. You can do this. You will do this.
Justin swam as he had never done before. He covered a few more feet. He reached the edge of the vortex and did not feel the pull any longer. He drew in a series of deep breaths, then turned around.
The yacht was gone. A cloud of thinning smoke hovered over the wreckage site, which was littered with debris. No one was moving.
“Justin, Justin,” someone shouted.
He thought he heard Carrie’s voice, but he could not tell her location. Justin glanced around then saw Carrie waving her arms about fifty yards or so to his left. “Carrie, Carrie,” he shouted back.
“Stay, stay there.”
He saw Vale steering the motorboat toward him. Justin glanced around for Ali Mansour and his speedboat. It was on the other side of the wreckage site, circling around the debris. Ali Mansour was standing near the bow, and then he fired a quick burst into the waters.
What about Mossad’s boat? Where are they?
A few seconds later, Vale stopped the motorboat a foot away from Justin and reached with his arm. “Justin, come on.”
Justin grabbed Vale’s arm and mustered all the strength left in him to climb aboard. He then rolled and lay on the deck.
“Justin, how are you?” Carrie crouched over him.
“Oh . . . okay, just . . . out of breath and . . . strength,” he said in a low voice in between gasps and shivers.
Carrie pulled out a couple of thick blue blankets from one of the storage compartments. She wrapped one around his body, then began to dry his head and shoulders with the second one.
Vale turned the motorboat around and began to steer toward Ali Mansour, who was still going around the area where the yacht had been floating only moments ago.
Justin looked at Carrie. “Thank . . . thanks. What . . . what exactly happened?”
“We came along the side, as planned, as soon as we got the green light from Mossad’s operatives.”
“Yes, where did those guys go?”
“As soon as they brought the system down, they sped away to safety.”
Justin nodded.
Carrie continued, “I saw you walk along the side of the deck, then fight with the guard. We drew nearer, and when the fighting started, we joined in.”
“How did the yacht sink?”
Carrie shrugged. She nodded toward Ali Mansour, who was glancing toward them. “He’ll have to tell you all about it. He fired a couple of RPGs. One of them must have struck the engine room, causing the fire and the huge explosions.”
Justin nodded again.
The motorboat bumped gently against Ali Mansour’s speedboat. He glanced at Justin and said, “Justin, brother, how’re you doing?”
Justin coughed. “I’m . . . I’ll be okay, Ali Mansour. Tell me how you brought that Goliath down.”
Ali Mansour shrugged. “They opened up with machine guns. Almost blew my head off.” He showed a few bullet holes on the speedboat’s port side. “So I repaid them in kind. An RPG tore through the engine room. The explosion . . . Wow! Did you see it?”
Justin shook his head. “No, but I felt it. It knocked me off the yacht.”
“Ouch. Anything broken?”
“No, thankfully.” Justin’s body shivered. “Bumps and bruises, but nothing serious. Once I’ve warmed up, I’ll be okay.”
“See if this helps.” Carrie offered him a small thermos. “Hot coffee.”
Justin smiled and sat up slowly. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Carrie shook her head. “No, coffee never hurts, right?”
“Of course, not.” Justin took a long sip. “Mhhhh, good, very good.”
Ali Mansour looked at the yacht’s fragments floating around. The whirlpool was all but gone. “No survivors,” he said with clear satisfaction in his voice.
“You took care of a couple who almost made it,” Justin said in a flat, nonjudgmental tone.
“I did, and I don’t regret it. One of them still had a gun in his hand. These were the people who tried to kill you and us. Besides, we can’t have any witnesses.”
Justin frowned. “Yes, this . . . this mess will be difficult to explain to Prince Al-Taweel. He’ll be furious.”
Carrie shrugged. “Well, the fact that there are no witnesses will definitely help. No one will find their bodies; even if they do, this won’t be connected to us.”
Justin glanced again at the dark swirling waters. Then his eyes went up, to the dim lights of Larnaca, flickering on Cyprus’ coast. Yes, we’ll be able to create a credible coverup.
Epilogue
Ten days later
ECS Headquarters
Vienna, Austria
Justin glanced at Carrie, who was following a couple of steps behind in the hall leading to Flavio’s office. She had stopped and was fixing her shoe. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“My heel. It’s loose, almost broken.”
“How did that happen?”
Carrie shrugged. “I must have stepped funny. I’ll get it fixed later. Don’t want to make us late.”
She hobbled for the next ten steps or so, then Justin knocked on Flavio’s office door.
“Come in, come in,” he said in his strong voice.
Justin opened the door and let Carrie enter in front of him.
Flavio was standing by the arched windows of his small office with his phone by his ear. He gestured for Justin and Carrie to sit in the brown leather chairs across from his dark mahogany desk, the centerpiece of his office.
Carrie sat to Justin’s right. He placed his black briefcase near his feet, then pulled out a manila folder.
He picked it up with his left hand, which had fully healed. The doctor needed to have a final look, but Justin felt no pain and had regained full range of motion of his fingers.
He exchanged a look with Carrie, who gave him a nervous smile and flattened the front of her cream suit jacket. She always got a bit apprehensive about her look when she needed to wear business attire. Although Flavio had not requested a strict office dress code, both Justin and Carrie felt they needed to look at their best when appearing in front of their boss.
Flavio walked toward the table. “Yes, yes, minister, I understand. No, eh . . . no, of course, not. Yes, yes. We’ll make that clear to the Russians, of course. Take care.” He ended the call and sighed. “Some people.” He shook his head and sat on his chair. “How are you doing today?”
“Pretty good,” Justin said.
“Can’t be better. It’s good to be back home,” Carrie said.
“And it’s good to have you around for more than a couple of days. So much work, and you’re a great help in getting it all done.”
“Glad we can help, sir,” Justin said. “Here’s the final after-action report.”
“Thanks. I’ll review it tonight.” He put it aside, then picked up one of the red folders from a stack at the left side of his desk. “Cyprus OP” was stamped across the cover. He opened it and skimmed through the first page. Then he glanced at Justin. “I don’t think I’ve shared this with you. I should have, but so many things happened last night and this morning. It’s the final report from the Cyprus authorities. They’ve closed the investigation on the Prince Al Khater yacht’s disappearance.”
“And it’s good news, right?” Justin said.
“Excellent; it’s the perfect coverup. Their conclusion is that the most probable cause of the sinking was an explosion on board. Investigators found debris, but none of the bodies. You can read about the details, but that’s a brief summary of the report.”