Van Loon, now preoccupied with watching instruments, nodded toward a door in the bulkhead behind him and said, “Radio room, ma’am, last I saw.”
Stephanie marched herself uneasily across the moving deck to the door indicated by van Loon, struggled for a moment with the latch, and entered. To her left, at a desk in front of an L-shaped bank of electronics, sat a seaman holding one earphone of a headset against his left ear while writing with his right in a log on the desk before him. To the right, on the other side of the desk, sat Brian Sullivan. His briefcase was open to his right and in front of him sat a jet-black GRiD 1450 sx laptop computer. A telephone connecting wire ran from it to a receptacle on the bulkhead. The screen was up and lit, and Sullivan was so lost in concentration on it, he failed to notice Stephanie until she was upon him. “Mr. Sullivan,” she said, “we’re moving! You invited me here for breakfast, to be finished by seven so I could get to work on time. It’s ten of, I’ve had nothing to eat, and this damn boat is sailing down the river. So what are you running here? Some kind of white-slave operation? I’m kidnapped, right? Next stop Saudi Arabia?”
The radio operator looked up, wide-eyed. There was no failing to notice Stephanie Hannigan now. Brian Sullivan looked distinctly annoyed at the interruption. Stephanie noticed that the screen of the computer was covered by some kind of shorthand. Abruptly, the screen went dead, and Sullivan said, “Glory be to God, woman! Y’gave me a start! White slavery is it? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, y’get a fine head of steam up when y’er hungry, a regular lioness she is when her stomach’s empty. How many minutes ago was it we were talkin’ about trust?”
Stephanie wasn’t buying any. “Don’t you add blasphemy to your sins, Brian Sullivan. I’m as Irish as you are, and I know blarney when I hear it. Trust is it? Then why’d you turn your computer off the minute I lay eyes on it?”
Sullivan’s face darkened with anger. “Now, just a moment there, Miss High and Mighty. Number one, the screen went dark because it’s programmed to if I don’t use it for a short period. ’Tis automatic to save the battery. It’s on battery because, as you so noisily noted, we’ve left the pier and I don’t trust the ship’s voltage not to crash my work. And I’m just as annoyed as you are to be sailin’ away like this. That telephone wire’s to the computer modem and I was in the middle of transmitting the results of my interview with the scientists aboard when the connection was broken as we left port—which we did, I’m informed, because of the commotion you saw as well as I did at the Riegar plant. Seems the animal protesters thought we had a load of beasts aboard and threatened to assault the ship to free them. With high tide only minutes away, the captain, very wisely in my opinion, decided to avoid trouble and leave immediately. You’ll get the breakfast I promised, and a nice trip downriver, into the bargain. We’ll get off with the pilot and return by train. I regret the inconvenience but certainly not the story: SHIP FORCED OUT TO SEA BY ANIMAL PROTESTERS. White slavery, indeed. ’Tis a high value y’put on yer feminine pulchritude, woman!”
“Okay, so I get a bit cantankerous before breakfast. But what do I do about work? I’m supposed to be in court this morning.”
“Crawford,” Sullivan said, addressing the radio operator, “would you mind patching Miss Hannigan through on the ship-to-shore phone to whatever number she gives you? I’d be much obliged.”
“A pleasure,” said Crawford, always ready to do a favor for a beautiful woman. “Number?”
Stephanie thought for a moment. At 7:00 A.M., it was possible that no one had arrived yet at the public defender’s office. She gave Crawford Naomi Fine’s home number. In moments, Crawford handed her the handset.
“Naomi?… Stephanie. You were right. I’ve been kidnapped.”
“What!”
Stephanie laughed. “Relax, it’s an inside joke. Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Call my office in a little bit and tell them I can’t make it in until late today.”
“Do I get to tell them why?”
“Remember that mysterious breakfast I told you I was going to?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it was aboard a freighter, down at the Riegar dock. Only there was a fire there last night and some commotion, something about the protesters rushing the ship. Anyway, we’re on our way out to sea! Downriver, anyway. Mr. Sullivan and I get off outside New York harbor with the pilot. I’ll take the first train back, but God knows when I’ll get there. Be a love, huh?”
“Didn’t I tell you, Neffie? Didn’t I? What happens when you clear the harbor and they don’t let you off? Jump off and swim? Are you sure you’re all right? Is somebody making you say this? Are you being held against your will?”
“Oh, Naomi!” Stephanie laughed. “Don’t I wish. You’re such an incurable romantic.”
“What’s the name of the boat?”
“Wait.” Stephanie held her hand over the mouthpiece and said, “What’s the name of this tub again?”
“Aka Maru,” said Crawford before Sullivan could respond. “A-K-A M-A-R-U.”
Stephanie removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “Aka Maru,” she said.
“What?”
Stephanie spelled it out for her.
“What kind of name for a boat is that?”
“Japanese, I think. At least the captain is.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Naomi. Please. Just make the call, okay?”
“All right. But you tell those people if you’re not back this evening, I’ll have the coast guard on them!”
“Thanks, Naomi. I love you, too.”
Stephanie handed the phone back to Crawford and turned to Brian Sullivan. “So,” she said, “who do you have to know to get some chow on this bucket?”
Sullivan switched off the GRiD and rose. With a mock bow, he said, “Right this way, m’lady.”
* * *
Michael Stone, for all his urgency, did not forget his training. He surfaced back at his entry point slowly, then waited, motionless, long enough to check for danger. Finding none, he climbed out of the water and walked easily to the van, knowing that to run would attract the attention of anyone in the area. Casually, he reentered the van through the rear door. Leaving on his scuba gear, he said to Saul Rosen, “Home, James.”
Saul followed instructions. As he pulled out he asked, “What happened?”
Stone’s annoyance with himself and the failure of his mission was evident in his voice as he answered: “Damn near got myself ambushed by another frogman. Guy was good, too. I was lucky. By the time it was over, the ship got away.”
“That’ll teach ya not to have me point for you. You never could sniff out an ambush.”
“Yeah.” Stone growled in acknowledgment. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. We’ve gotta get that ship intercepted before she makes it into someone else’s territorial waters.”
As the van made its way back to Garden Street at speed under Saul’s deft driving, Stone rocked around in the rear getting out of his scuba gear. “Hey, Mike!” Saul called back over his shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“Hope you’re not still pissed about what happened up there outside the lab. I appreciate your straightening me out—and not doing it in front of anyone else.”
“Forget it,” said Stone. “Never would’ve happened if your sister hadn’t been involved. That’s why doctors don’t want to operate on close relatives. My fault for exposing you to it.”
“Anyway,” said Saul, “soon as we get back, I’ve got another videotape to show you. While you were off having a good time in the water, I got some work done. Tried to pick up the latest on the Riegar computers to see what the reaction was.”
“What’d you come up with?”
“Zip. Not close enough, down there by the ship. But I got a nice sharp intercept, anyway. So sharp it had to be emanating from the ship.”
“What’d it say?”
“Don’t know. Couldn’t read it. Some Middle Eastern language, I think.”
“Arabic?”
“Uh-uh. My Arabic’s as good as my Hebrew. More likely Farsi. Here we are,” Saul continued as he turned into Stone’s driveway. “Take a look at it inside.”
“What good’ll that do?” Stone asked as they both got out and went up the steps. “I wouldn’t know Farsi from shorthand.” At the word shorthand, Stone’s memory triggered. The paper he’d taken from the dying Ira Levin was still in his wallet upstairs. “Okay,” he said to Saul as they went through the door, “put it on. I’m going to change and be right back down. I want to show you something.”
Pappy Saye heard them and came out of the kitchen. “Mike, you gotta come look at the television. CNN’s up here, live, covering it from the plant, the P.D., and the hospital. There’s a riot down the plant gate—Eddie Berg and the Mexican guy are giving interviews from the hospital. The cops found the dude with the hole in him at Riegar, and they’re grillin’ Sara down the station. So far, nothin’ about us, but the shit could hit the fan any minute if that Berg kid gives us up as the ones sprung him. So far, though, he’s just screamin’ about human experimentation. But I dunno, man, things are gettin’ out of control.”
“SHIT!” said Michael Stone. “That’s all we fucking need! I’ve gotta get someone down there to cover Sara while I try to get that ship stopped.” He went to the telephone and dialed Stephanie Hannigan’s office. “Yes. Good morning. Michael Stone for Ms. Hannigan, please?” Stone listened, consternation growing on his face. “Are you absolutely sure of this? No. No message. Thank you.”
Stone hung up. “GODDAMN!” he exploded. All turned to look at him, questioningly.
The outburst was all Stone allowed himself. Calmly he said, “A friend of mine, Stephanie Hannigan, an assistant public defender I was trying to get to go cover Sara for me, is aboard Aka Maru with that Reuters guy, Sullivan. Seems they got caught when the ship sailed ahead of schedule to avoid the mob. They’ll be getting off with the pilot. Saul, figuring that ship’s speed and how soon she’ll be in international waters, we’ve got a small window. Nobody in Washington is even going to take my call, much less listen to me. Get on the phone, burn all the favors you’ve got, and see if you can get that ship stopped before she clears the territorial limit.”
Stone didn’t wait for Saul’s answer. He started to bolt up the stairs, only to nearly knock down Aunt May, who was starting to hobble her way down. “Here, young man!” she reprimanded him. “There’s nothing so urgent that you have to knock an old lady down the stairs of her own home! What’s all the goings-on I hear downstairs, anyway?”
“You’re right, Mazie, and I apologize. Lots of excitement in town. All sorts of things happening. The boys have it on television down in the kitchen.” He kissed her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get out of these wet things and be down in a minute.”
Stone changed into slacks and a rugby shirt, took Levin’s paper out of his wallet, then slipped the billfold into his hip pocket and went down to his office. Saul was there, just hanging up the telephone.
“Well?” asked Stone.
“Naval Attaché at the embassy’s gonna do everything he can, but he says there’s gonna be all kinds of questions he’s in no position to answer. We’ll see.”
“All you can do is all you can do,” said Stone to his friend. “Thanks.”
Stone handed the paper he took from Ira Levin to Saul. “What do you make of that?”
Saul studied it. “It’s Arabic,” he said, frowning. He read the note slowly, as if puzzled: “‘Al rajul min al jazira al khadra.’” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Al Rajul!” he said excitedly. “Where did you get this?”
“I took it from Ira Levin after he died.”
“Son of a bitch,” Saul said, letting out his breath slowly. “The Mossad got it.”
“Got what? Goddamn it!”
“Al Rajul. The Man. Remember, I told you it wasn’t a proper name, that there was more?”
“Yeah, yeah. So what is it?”
“‘Al Rajul,’” Saul read. “The Man. ‘Min al jazira al khadra’: From the green island.”
“From the green island,” Stone repeated. “What the fuck does that— Holy shit!”
“Sullivan,” Saul said. “He’s probably the guy who shot Levin.”
“Been right under our noses all the time,” Stone agreed, “just waiting to get his hands on that lingering Sarin.”
“What a beautiful double-cross,” Saul said. “No matter what lunatic it was supposed to go to—Qaddafi, the PLO, Saddam Hussein, Rafsanjani—they’ve all supported Al Rajul at one time or another.… He’s ripped them off.”
“Maybe,” said Stone, “maybe not. He could have been here ramrodding the whole program, or keeping an eye on it until it was ready for delivery. At any rate, Sullivan’s got it now.”
“If his name’s Sullivan,” said Saul Rosen, “mine’s Goebbels.”
“Whatever,” said Stone. “It’ll do for now. The question is, what’s he up to? Where’s that intercept you think came from the ship?”
“Right here.” Saul held up a videocassette.
“You pretty sure it’s Farsi?”
“Not sure, no. But it’s not Hebrew, and it’s not Arabic. I’d say Farsi was a good bet, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
Stone picked up his telephone and consulted his desk pad, then dialed. He held his hand over the speaker and said to Saul, “Roll one of the televisions in here you guys were using earlier—one hooked up to a VCR. Then load that tape in it, okay?”
“Sure,” said Saul, and left the room.
“Hudson Cab,” said the voice on the other end of the telephone.
“Yeah, listen,” said Stone. “This is Michael Stone. I’m at 182 Garden Street in the city, and I’d like a cab sent over right away. If possible, I’d like a driver I’ve used before. I’ve got an elderly aunt with a bad leg, and this guy was good with her. She likes him.”
“Yessir. What’s his name? I’ll see if he’s available.”
“That’s my problem. I can’t remember. He was a foreign guy. I think just recently in this country, still speaks with quite an accent. Try a few names on me. I’ll try to pick him out.”
“Well, there’s Thomas, he’s a Jamaican…”
“No, this was a white guy.”
“Hispanic?”
“No. Keep going.”
“Singh? He’s from India.”
“No.”
“How ’bout Montazeri?”
“He’s not Italian, is he?”
“No, no. Iran. But he’s been here awhile. Since the Shah left.”
“Yeah. That’s the guy. Have him come in the house so he can help me get my aunt out to the cab.”
“Ah … okay. He’s available. Be right over.”
Saul Rosen opened the door and wheeled in a television on a cart. A VCR was on the bottom shelf. He busied himself connecting cables and plugging the set in, then loaded the videocassette and pushed the Start button. There was a hash of lines for a few moments, then a picture held. At that moment, the front door chimed like the grandfather clock. “I’ll get it,” said Stone, and left the room.
“Mr. Stone?” asked a very thin, worn-looking man in a shirt and slacks.
“Yes,” said Stone. “Come in.”
“I wasn’t sure. They said I was here before for old lady, but I have no memory.”
“Don’t worry,” said Stone, escorting the man into his office. “You’re at the right address and about to make the quickest twenty dollars you ever made.”
“Yes?” The driver’s eyes brightened with interest.
Stone pointed to the television screen. “Can you read that?”
The driver moved closer and into a position directly in front of the screen to avoid a reflection from the window on the glass.
“Yes,” he said. “Is Farsi. I speak.”
Stone picked up a pad from his desk and took one of the pens from its holder, poised to write. “What does it say?�
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The driver squinted at the screen, then said, “Look, mister. Whoever you are. I’m just a cabdriver. I happy to be in this country. I want no trouble.…”
Stone took out two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. He did it slowly, the driver’s eyes following the move every inch of the way. Sweating, he turned back to the screen and said, his voice trembling, “Say to … ah, no, no. My English is not so good, you know? Ah, Instruct, that is it. ‘Instruct the soldiers of God…’” The driver paused and looked nervously over his shoulder at Stone. Stone waved the two bills and said, “Go on.”
The man took a cloth handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his face. He turned back to the screen and said, “‘Instruct the soldiers of God…’ ah, ‘what follows,’ or, ‘the following: For the glory of God and revenge upon the Satanic infidels…’” The driver’s mouth worked, but for a moment no sound came out. Then he said, “‘Revenge … infidels, you are to be given the … the…’ How do you say it? Ah, privilege, that is it, ‘privilege of martyrdom and … immediate entrance … or, admittance…’ ah, ‘admission into paradise by … by … releasing that which has been given…’ no … ‘entrusted to you, upon the … towers that are his pride’?” I am sorry. It does not make sense, but that is what it says.”
“You’re sure?” asked Stone.
“As best my English, yes.”
“Continue.”
“What?”
“Keep going.”
The thin man wiped his mouth nervously with his hand: “‘Give God’s soldiers … the soldiers of God…’ ah, ‘the holy writings, and they shall obey your every instruction…’ no … ‘command.’ Like orders, no?”
“Any more?”
“No, that is all.” The man was shaking as Stone handed him the forty dollars and said, “You just forget all about this, okay?”
The terrified man was halfway out the door already, saying, “Is already forgotten, mister. Thank you. And please, you call me no more!”
Stone closed the front door, returned to his office, and read the translation back to Saul Rosen without interruption.
The Monkey Handlers Page 35