by Don Brown
"By all means." Brightwell motioned for the senator and Wallace to follow him.
"You can come too, Lieutenant. He's your client."
Karen filed out of the office behind Senator Claxton, Wallace, Captain Brightwell, and Commander Carpenter.
CHAPTER 17
Heathrow International Airport
London
British Airways Flight 0117, Heathrow to JFK
8:20 a.m. (GMT)
Flight attendants, prepare for departure." The male British accent boomed over the plane's loudspeaker.
"Excuse me, Father, but could you bring your seat to the upright position?"
A single electronic tone beeped overhead.
"Of course." Robert looked up at the rosy-cheeked British Airways flight attendant and pressed the button to bring his seat forward. He silently prayed they would soon be airborne.
He'd escaped France last night on the cross-channel ferry, before anyone could connect him with his dead driver. And now if he could just get out of England, the chances of their turning this bird around over the Atlantic were remote. Of course, they could always arrest him when he changed planes at JFK...
"Ladies and gentleman, this is the first officer. We are number one for takeoff. We should be in the air and on our way to the colonies in approximately one minute."
The engines' whine turned to a high-pitched roar as the giant airliner rolled, gaining speed, down the runway. He felt the nose tip upward, then felt the wheels break contact with the runway.
Heavenly Father, grant thy servant safe passage to America. And may these papers be delivered into the right hands. And may thy hand of protection be upon thy child Jeanette L'Enfant, wherever she is at this hour. Protect her from all harm, and may justice be accomplished by my mission. In the name of thy only begotten Son, Jesus Christ, I pray. Amen.
Robert made the sign of the cross as the plane rolled to the right. He knew the route. They would fly north over England, then Scotland, and then roll to the east, flying over Northern Ireland and then across the Atlantic.
He reached into the back flap of the seat just in front of him and extracted the report that Jeannette had given him, aware that this was probably the only such copy now in the free world. He had made the extra copy and crammed it against his chest, under his clerical collar. Now if he could just get the report into Commander Brewer's hands. He made another sign of the cross, wrapped his arms around the report, and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 18
Bridge
Russian freighter Alexander Popovich
Course 15 degrees
Southeastern entrance to the Bosporus
Sea of Marmara
It is a beautiful sight, is it not?" Captain Yuri Mikalvich Batsakov smiled at the sight outside the bridge. They had reached the entrance to the Bosporus, the narrow strait of water that split Istanbul in half and connected the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea. Beyond that, the great Muslim city Istanbul waited in all its glory on both sides of the narrow, twenty-mile strait.
Sailing through the Bosporus at night was like sailing through a sparkling jeweled necklace. This was the Bosporus that he, along with so many fellow Russian and Ukrainian sailors, had come to know and love. When he passed through this multicolored gem, its lights blinking along the hills to the entrance of the Black Sea, he would soon be home.
Batsakov brought a glass of vodka to his lips as two other ships -- a freighter flying the horizontally striped azure and gold ensign of the Ukraine, and a cargo ship flying the horizontally striped white, blue, and red flag of Russia -- moved in front of the Alexander Popovich. Both ships sputtered black smoke into a fading orange sky.
The Ukrainian ship was now edging its way into the Bosporus.
"Yes, beautiful indeed, my capitan." Fadil extracted a cigarette and a lighter.
"Soon we will be in the Black Sea. The territorial waters of the old Soviet Union." The captain inhaled a drag from his cigarette and followed that with a swig of vodka. "The finest waters in the entire world." Another drag. The Russian skipper unleashed three perfectly formed smoke rings. "I trust you will find our sailing there most hospitable."
"And I trust, my capitan, that Allah will bless this ship as we sail past the beautiful mosques and minarets of Istanbul and along the Turkish countryside." Fadil took a satisfying puff.
"You sound like a man who has sailed the Bosporus?"
"No, capitan. Only a man who has worshiped Allah in the greatest city of the old Ottoman Empire."
"Engines ahead one-third." Batsakov poured more vodka.
"Ahead one-third, Capitan," the helmsman parroted.
"So then," Batsakov continued as the engines of the Alexander Popovich revved, vibrating the ship, "perhaps your Allah will make an exception to his boring rules on alcohol and permit you to share vodka with an old sea dog?"
"Perhaps Allah will forgive me if I make this one exception?"
"Now that's my man." Batsakov chuckled. "Of course Allah will forgive you." The captain snapped his fingers. "Vitaly!" A scruffy-faced Russian sailor came running to attention.
"Dah, Capitan," the sailor said.
"Bring another bottle from my stateroom, for me and our guest, in honor of our passage through the Bosporus."
"Dah, of course, Capitan!"
"Steady as she goes," the captain bellowed. The Alexander Popovich edged into the entrance to the Bosporus. On the sides of the entrance, two ancient forts -- the Fort at Anadolu on the Asian side and the Fort at Rumeli on the European side -- stood as relics of the Crimean War.
"Vas vodka, Capitan," the steward returned.
"Spaceeba." The captain raised his hand. "Pour some for our friend."
"Dah."
There was a clanking of glass, and within seconds, Fadil held a glass of clear vodka in his hand. Alcohol was against the strict teachings of Mohammed and the Koran. On the other hand, the Council of Ishmael was based upon and prided itself on the premise that its operatives could blend into any culture in the world for the advancement of the cause. For the advancement of the council and world domination of Islam, any ends would justify the means. Allah would understand. Allah willed it.
"To friendship." The captain raised his glass.
"To friendship." The vodka burned the back of Fadil's throat.
The captain drained his glass with one gulp and then poured another. "You know," he said, "they used to string a huge chain between these two forts to block ships from passing through."
"So I have heard, Capitan." Batsakov topped off Fadil's glass again. "During the Crimean War, as I understand it."
"Yes," Batsakov said, draining yet a second glass in a single gulp. "And speaking of chains, what is the status of our star passenger?"
"How kind of you to ask, Capitan. Perhaps you could spare another cigarette?" The captain produced a lighter and a cigarette, then lit the cigarette as Fadil sucked in.
"I ask from the goodness of my heart," the captain said. Another swig followed by a deep guffaw.
"And I suppose, Capitan, your interest has nothing to do with the $50,000 bonus you are promised by the council if our star passenger is delivered to the shores of Russia."
"Fadil," the captain laughed, "you make me sound like a capitalist pig. You know all old Russians are communists at heart." Another swig and a smile. "We are idealistic. Not so consumed with the mighty dollar."
"Of course." Fadil tried matching the captain's sips. "Just as we Muslims are all teetotalers, not tempted by the satanic alcoholic drinks of the West."
More laughter. More clanking of glasses.
"And not tempted by the non-satanic beverages of the east, such as pure vodka." Batsakov chuckled.
"But of course not!" Fadil faked a sip. "Anyway, all this talk of friendship and of our star passenger is tugging on the emotional strings of my compassionate heart, Capitan." Fadil mimicked the Russian, raised his glass to his lips, and, with a wobbly hand, downed the rest of his vodka. All in the name of
international relations, of course. The bridge seemed to spin, and for a moment, the only sound Fadil could hear was laughter.
Russian laughter.
Lots of it.
And then the bridge stabilized. "My capitan, perhaps I will pay a visit to our star passenger. You know, to ensure our cargo is still seaworthy."
The captain grinned, revealing a yellowish smile in much need of dental work. Some teeth were capped. Others were chipped. A few were missing. "Vitaly!"
"Dah, Capitan."
"Accompany our friend here down to Guspyadeen L'Enfant's state-room. No need to accompany him inside. Just make sure he gets there. Do you understand, Vitaly?"
"Dah, Capitan. Completely."
Fadil felt the captain's aide lead him off the bridge onto the catwalk, where the cool sea breeze invigorated the blood rushing to his head. In a moment, he would rouse the woman who would catapult his status to the stars.
Conference room 1
U.S. Navy brig
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego, California
Let me make this clear, Ensign Eckberg. We contacted you because we do not think you should plea."
Wofford Eckberg couldn't believe his eyes. Standing before him was the woman he admired most in the world. The woman who would be president. She stood beside his attorney, Lieutenant Jacoby, along with two other naval officers, the commanding officer of the brig and a lieutenant commander JAG type.
But for the time being, the naval officers barely held his attention. The woman who had stood for gay rights more than any other in the world was in a conference room in the navy brig. With him. How was this possible? When he dialed the number the man gave him at the courthouse, he had no idea it would lead to this.
"Senator, this is an honor indeed. I'm overwhelmed by your interest."
"Ensign Eckberg, why don't you have a seat and relax." The senator waved him from a parade rest position.
"Thank you, Senator." Wofford pulled up a chair and sat at the conference table. Claxton sat down just opposite him across the table. "Anyway, Senator, Lieutenant JG Jacoby has already worked out a deal with Lieutenant Commander Brewer. Under the agreement, I wouldn't have to plea at all. I would just resign from the navy. That way, I would avoid any possibility of a conviction on my record."
Claxton exhaled, almost in a sigh, then glanced in the direction of the distinguished-looking man whose name Wofford could not remember at the moment.
"Look, Ensign, do you mind if I call you Wofford?"
"That would be fine, Senator."
"Good. And by the same token, all my staff and close friends call me Eleanor. And I'd like you to do the same."
During his four years of intensive training at the Naval Academy, he had been drilled on the formalities of the chain of command, which placed members of Congress on a higher pedestal than even navy admirals -- and made him uncomfortable to even consider addressing the most powerful woman ever to serve in Congress by her first name. On the other hand, if the ranking minority member of the Senate Armed Ser vices Committee insisted that he call her Eleanor, then as far as he was concerned, it was tantamount to a direct order.
"Yes, ma'am... uh... Eleanor."
"Now that's better." She mustered a fleeting smile that for an instant cast a soft, pretty look across her face. She reached across the table and patted his hand; her touch electrified his body as if an invisible magnetic field flowed from her. Whatever she wanted didn't matter. What did matter struck him to the core: he wanted to please this great woman. "Wofford, there's somebody I want you to meet." She raised her hand, and Jackson Gallopoulous opened the door behind her.
It was him -- the stranger from the courthouse. The Islamic man who had given him the note.
"Wofford, I'd like you to meet Mohammed. Mohammed, this is Wofford."
"Nice to meet you in a more relaxed setting." Mohammed smiled and extended his hand across the table for a shake. Something about this Muslim was very odd. If Wofford didn't know better...
"You're Muslim?"
"I was Muslim, Wofford." He released Wofford's hand and pulled up a chair next to the senator. "Now I work for a greater cause. I kept the name to underscore a point."
"I don't understand."
"Wofford," Claxton said, "we live in a world of constant change. Change is either progressive or regressive. If elected president, I want to be an agent of change. You see, many institutions have been guilty of homophobic bigotry. Religious institutions have led the way. Christians have been the biggest offenders. But Muslims, who also trample on the rights of women, have been complicit in this bigotry.
"Institutions that oppose gay rights, whether religious institutions like Christianity or Islam, or military institutions like the U.S. Navy, must be brought down. Mohammed here had the courage to stand against part of his heritage that is anachronistic and oppressive. He's like Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks. He's a pioneer in civil rights. And you, Wofford" -- Claxton reached out and put her hand on his --" you also have a unique opportunity, as fate would have it, to become a hero for millions who follow you."
Wofford scanned the room. The Claxton party nodded in agreement. Captain Brightwell, the brig CO, seemed stolid, while Lieutenant JG Jacoby was wincing.
"I don't understand, Senator. What do you want me to do?" Claxton poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the center of the table, then took a sip. "We are concerned about the hate crimes committed against you, Wofford. We know Lieutenant Jacoby has done a good job for you, but if this is swept under the rug, how will this kind of reprehensible conduct be deterred in the future?"
"I see your point."
"If you stand and fight these charges in a court-martial, we will make the crimes committed against you a public issue. You will have the best legal defense money can buy. If fact, Web Wallace here will step in and defend you -- or assist Lieutenant Jacoby in defending you -- at no cost. And even if you are convicted, Wofford -- and I don't think that's likely -- but even if you are, I guarantee there will be book deals, interview opportunities, and a job on my staff when I am elected president of the United States." The senator's eyes narrowed into a piercing gaze. "And, Wofford, I will be elected." A feminine smile returned to her face.
"Wofford." This was Mohammed. "What they did to you was wrong. They beat you up, and now they're prosecuting you. Don't sweep this under the rug."
Wofford glanced at Karen Jacoby. She was looking the other way.
"We'll stick by you," Mohammed continued. "Look. I'll stick by you."
The senator nodded her head in approval, again smiling.
"Okay, Senator. Okay. Whatever you need, I'll do it."
CHAPTER 19
Amidships
Russian freighter Alexander Popovich
Somewhere along the Bosporus
Dusk
They embraced on the rocky beach by the blue waters of the Mediterranean. He was stunning in his white shirt and khakis. She looked up into his face as a breeze off the sea blew a shock of silver hair across his tanned forehead.
She had worn a white sundress just for the occasion.
Tonight would be the night.
A woman always had intuition about these things. Or so she had been told.
Tonight he would propose.
She was sure of it.
And then they would drive through the dark the short distance east to Monaco to announce their decision to her parents. Soon Jeanette L'Enfant would no longer be only the associate of Europe's greatest avocat.
She would be his wife.
His arms caressed her waist. His hands moved up her arms. And then he held her shoulders. A fire ignited in his eyes.
"What's the matter, Jean-Claude? Why are you shaking me?" Pain shot through her arms. "Jean-Claude, please. You are hurting me!"
Her vision blurred. The Mediterranean morphed into a fog. A white fog. And then the repulsive grin of a bearded Middle Easterner came into view. His face was menacing, but h
is eyes were anxious.
Then it hit her. Her dream was shattered. Jean-Claude was dead.
"Wake up, my princess!"
"Robert? Where's Father Robert?" A dull pain throbbed in her head. "Water. Please."
The scruffy-bearded man snapped his fingers and another man, a scrawny European-looking man stepped over her head. Scruffy Beard pulled her up by the shoulders to a sitting position while the other man poured water on her lips. Most of it spilled down her dress. A few drops seeped into her esophagus, reawakening some of her senses.
She heard a humming sound. Perhaps the sound of generators. And when she blinked again, regaining more of her vision, she felt shackles on her hands and feet.
"Where am I? Where is Robert?"
"Come, we'll go for a walk."
They guided her off the single bed and helped her shuffle, chains clanging, across a Formica floor. The steel door was oval-shaped with something that looked like a steering wheel in the middle.
The man with the European features steered the wheel to the left and the door opened. He and Scruffy Beard led her outside into the salty-smelling breeze, which brought her senses back to life. Then she realized she was on the deck of a ship.
The sun had set, and they appeared to be sailing down something that looked like a river, past a well-lit city.
"Where are we?"
"This is the Panama Canal," Scruffy Beard said through a cloud of suffocating cigarette smoke. "That is Panama City. Soon we will be in the Pacific."
Panama City. Of course. She had every reason not to trust these two. They murdered Jean-Claude. And now probably Father Robert. Wherever they were, the writing on the neon signs was not Spanish. And the illuminated mosques dotting the landscape of the city meant one thing.
The Middle East.
That had to be it. Where else would they be taking her? This was all connected to the Quasay case. She had angered the wrong people by allowing the plea that saved Quasay's life.
She looked across the waterway to the shoreline, searching for a national flag of some sort to help determine their whereabouts.