The Fusion Cage (Warner & Lopez Book 2)

by Dean Crawford

‘They’ll be back,’ Ethan said. ‘Let’s go, before the other helicopter or that drone gets a fix on us.’

  Ethan clambered onto the motorbike once again as Amber shifted position back onto the pillion seat, and then he turned the bike around and twisted the throttle wide open.

  Together, the two motorbikes accelerated away toward the distant deserts and the city of Damman.

  ***

  XXI

  Kingdom Palace, Riyadh

  ‘This way, please.’

  Assim Khan walked slowly, his shoes making no sound on the thick carpets. The interior of the palace was as hushed as the empty deserts and yet as cool as the breath of the clearest morning. His chest ached and twinged where the bullet had passed through it, and he knew that it was no more than luck and Allah’s guidance that had spared his life: an inch to the left and he would have been dead. Now, heavily dressed in bandages beneath his shirt, Assim mastered the pain and observed his unfamiliar surroundings.

  Assim knew little of the residence in which he walked, led by two young manservants immaculately dressed and groomed. The palace was sand colored on the outside and had been built at a cost of some three hundred million dollars, that much he did know, but the rest was rumour. It was said to contain over three hundred rooms and one and a half thousand tons of Italian marble, with gold plated faucets and oriental silk carpets. He had heard it even had its own cinema and no less than five kitchens, each specializing in different cultural cuisines.

  Assim was led through the cavernous interior to a plush waiting room adorned with some of the carpets he had heard about, great canvasses adorning the walls depicting members of the House of Saud and historical battle victories, epic desert scenes filled with war horses and flashing cutlasses.

  Assim did not have to wait long before a tall man approached him from a side room, dressed in a designer suit. As was befitting Muslim dress codes, he wore no tie around the collar of his silk shirt, and his hair was immaculately parted as though painted upon his scalp. Assim noted the scent of a cologne likely more expensive than some cars, and a thick gold ring on the man’s finger encrusted with diamonds.

  ‘Assim,’ the man greeted him warmly. ‘I have heard much about you. My name is Rasheed, and I will not take too much of your time.’

  ‘It is my honor to be here,’ Assim replied, shaking his host’s firm, dry hand.

  ‘I apologize for not being able to bring you before the prince himself, but matters beyond the Kingdom keep him long overdue.’

  Yemen, Assim recalled briefly, another uprising.

  ‘It is not a problem. What can I do for you, Rasheed?’

  ‘You have been working for an American, Huck Seavers, on our behalf.’

  ‘Yes, escort duties, some investigatory work.’

  ‘We have some further tasks for you to complete but now you will work for us directly, if that is okay with you?’

  Assim shook himself out of the spell that Rasheed and this immaculate palace had put him under. This was business, and despite being made to feel as though he should do anything these people asked, he was not about to be manipulated.

  ‘That would depend on the terms,’ he said in a reasonable tone.

  ‘Of course,’ Rasheed smiled. ‘Perhaps your payment from Seavers Incorporated, multiplied by eight, would be satisfactory?’

  Assim forced himself not to smile. ‘That would be perfectly acceptable.’

  Rasheed smiled that perfect smile and produced five black and white photographs which he handed to Assim.

  ‘The payment will be made, in full, immediately. Please feel free to add any costs incurred to you between now and completion of the task. I take it you are familiar with the individuals in these images?’

  Assim looked down at the pictures and he nodded. ‘I am. What would you have me do?’

  Rasheed smiled and his voice dropped lower.

  ‘Find all of them and make them disappear. Permanently.’

  Assim forced himself once again to nod, to not show any unwillingness to perform the actions required or to hesitate and cause doubt in his new employer.

  ‘It will be done,’ he said. ‘Do we have any idea where they are heading at this time?’

  ‘They were last seen fleeing for Damman and it is believed that they are Americans. We have solid evidence, intercepted from Mossad, that they and another American operative are at large in the Kingdom and are pursuing a man named Stanley Meyer.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ Assim confirmed.

  ‘Remove them all,’ Rasheed said again. ‘No questions asked.’

  Assim nodded as he scanned the images. ‘I have no questions. I will send word privately when the task is completed.’

  ‘Your professionalism precedes you,’ Rasheed said. ‘Good luck, Assim.’

  Rasheed shook his hand once more, then turned and walked casually away having just condemned three men and two women to death. Assim looked down at the images and allowed a grim smile to spread upon his features, the pain in his chest forgotten now.

  Ethan Warner, Nicola Lopez, Stanley Meyer and Amber Ryan were all to die. He had only to learn the name of the dark, tall American photographed leaving a private jet in Riyadh, the tail code clear in the background. Whoever he was, Assim thought to himself as he walked toward the palace exits, he was not long for this world.

  *

  The sun was high in the sky when Aaron Mitchell stepped out of the air–conditioned interior of the sedan and out onto the scorched asphalt of the metalled road. The heat of the lonely desert cloaked Mitchell, and for once he was dressed simply in slacks and a loose shirt, his sunglasses reflecting the barren wastes as he observed the oily pall of smoke spiralling up into the hard blue sky.

  The wreckage of the Apache gunship was shielded from the view of any passing traffic by a series of white canvass walls that rumbled in the wind, erected by soldiers who now stood guard, assault rifles at the ready as Aaron was waved through by a senior officer.

  ‘The event has been presented as a militant action,’ the officer reported brusquely, clearly displeased with the overt American presence at the scene of Saudi deaths, ‘despite my own personal preferences.’

  Aaron did not respond as he strode down the embankment and across the dusty plain to the canvass barriers and walked past them.

  The Apache was a twisted, blackened mass of smouldering metal and glass that seemed to still be baking beneath the desert sun. Aaron could smell aviation fuel and the acrid stench of burned plastics and other chemicals staining the wind. He removed his sunglasses for a moment as he searched the deserts around them and saw more troops gathered near the entrance to a distant wadi.

  Nearby, more troops guarded a hastily–erected field hospital around which worked a group of nurses. Aaron strode across to them, and as he reached the side of the hospital he saw a raggedly dressed man lying on a gurney beneath a sunshield, his legs stained with blood and an intravenous line in his arm.

  Aaron paced closer to him, saw a wedge of bone protruding from a tear in his thigh, the broken leg the subject of the nurse’s hurried ministrations. The man turned his head at Aaron’s approach, dark eyes aflame with pain and eternal rage. As if sensing Satan close by, the man scowled and turned his head away.

  ‘A moment,’ Aaron said to the nurses.

  His words were almost quiet in the desert wind, but they were deep enough to cause every one of the nurses to look at him and back away. The phalanx of armed guards accompanying Aaron ushered the nurses away, beyond the canvass shields as Aaron approached the gurney and looked down at the wounded militant.

  ‘Where did they go?’ he demanded, his Arabic broken and accented but easily understandable.

  The militant looked up at Aaron, confusion in his eyes.

  ‘My brothers and sisters of the resistance will already be in Paradise,’ he seethed, ‘a place of greater glory that you will never know.’

  ‘If it’s the place where terrorists and the murderers of innocen
t Americans go after they die, the only reason I’d travel there is to destroy it,’ Aaron rumbled back. ‘Last chance: where did they go, the Americans who were with you?’

  The militants smiled through his pain, gritted white teeth bright against his dark skin, and he shook his head. Aaron regarded the man for a moment and then he reached down and with one hand wrenched the bone protruding from the militant’s shattered thigh.

  A wretched, keening scream echoed out across the desert above the rumbling wind and the militant writhed against his restraints as Aaron twisted and shoved the bone. Aaron heard the weeping of the horrified nurses nearby competing with the injured militant’s agonised screams.

  He released the damaged bone and the militant sagged onto the gurney, his chest heaving and sobs of pain spilling like poison from his mouth onto the hot air.

  ‘There are many drugs here,’ Aaron rumbled softly. ‘I can keep you alive for many hours, and if you do not tell me what I need to know, I will have you buried alive in these deserts. It will take the animals a long time to kill you, the birds of prey to peck out your eyes, the rodents to scour the flesh from your face. Likewise, you could also be released without harm and nobody would know any the wiser.’

  The militant stared up helplessly at Aaron through eyes swimming with torment, and he shook his head as beads of sweat spilled to dampen his hair.

  ‘Never,’ he rasped.

  Aaron reached out for the ragged chunk of bone once more, when from behind him one of his men spoke.

  ‘We have them,’ he said. ‘Communications channel intercept, they’re heading for Al Qatif seaport.’

  Aaron saw the grief twisting the militant’s features as he realized that his courage and fortitude had all been for nothing. Aaron smiled down at him.

  ‘Bury him in the desert, far from here,’ he ordered his men.

  ‘Murderer!’ the militant spat at Aaron. ‘This is what you truly are!’

  ‘I’m doing you a favour,’ Aaron replied as he turned to leave. ‘What could you possibly be afraid of, when paradise is awaiting you?’

  ***

  XXII

  Darin Corniche Seaport, Al Qatif

  The diplomatic vehicle slid to a halt alongside a vast jetty that extended out into the pristine waters, the sparkling azure ocean in sharp contrast to the flaring golden sands of Saudi Arabia.

  Doug Jarvis had worked fast, Ethan’s vanquish call sign accessing a DIA safe house used by overseas operatives to eavesdrop on Iranian communications and monitor the flow of Iranian–backed militia moving in and out of Iraq. Ethan and his companions had been spirited out of Damman’s dangerous streets within an hour of their arrival by a tired looking, middle aged agent going by the name of Jones – easy to remember Ethan guessed, and the less real names used, the better.

  ‘You’re going to need to stay off the radar,’ Jones reported as he handed Ethan a series of documents including passports, visas and some currency that had obviously been cobbled together with extreme rapidity. ‘They’re not gonna last long but they should get you through customs and out of the Kingdom, then far enough away before anybody raises the alarm.’

  Ethan took the documents as Jones handed similar papers to Amber, Stanley and Lopez.

  ‘The ship you’re boarding is called Huron and is bound for India,’ Jones added. ‘Your next contact is aboard. The ship is also calling into Abu Dhabi to pick up cargo. Disembark in India and get the hell back to America while you still can.’

  Ethan climbed out of the vehicle, closely followed by Lopez, Stanley and Amber. As soon as they closed their doors the vehicle moved off, swinging sharply around to accelerate away back down the dock. Ethan turned and observed a series of non–descript cargo vessels, none of them particularly large but all laden with the standard shipping containers seen on most major merchant vessels. He spotted across the stern of one particularly dirty–looking ship the name Huron and immediately began walking toward it.

  ‘I need to talk to Doug again,’ Ethan said to Lopez as they walked. ‘Getting us here must have cost him dearly, given his non official status with the DIA.’

  ‘It’s the least he can do,’ Lopez said. ‘He’s not the one dodging bullets again.’

  ‘Amber seems to think that Huck Seavers might be willing to strike a deal with her father,’ Ethan suggested.

  ‘They’re not compatible,’ Lopez pointed out. ‘Stanley is the philanthropist, Huck the capitalist businessman. Any alliance they tried to form would be broken within days as soon as the cost of development is measured up against the lack of profit that Stanley’s aiming for.’

  Ethan looked up at the Huron, the ship’s hull stained and dirty, pockets of ugly brown rust around the anchor chain stays and railings.

  ‘Looks like the DIA’s budget has been severely cut,’ Lopez observed dryly.

  ‘If it gets us out of Saudi Arabia unobserved, it’s good enough for me,’ Ethan replied as he walked to the boarding ramp and began climbing toward the deck. ‘Let’s hope they’re planning to set sail this morning.’

  As Ethan reached the deck an angry looking man with skin as dark as obsidian and wearing a set of grey overalls confronted him.

  ‘Warner?’ he asked, as though it was an accusation. ‘Captain Youssef Alem.’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you too,’ Ethan replied as he stepped aboard.

  There was no handshake, no welcome from the captain as he gestured with a lazy jab of his thumb over his shoulder toward the bridge at the stern.

  ‘Your quarters are back there, B deck, port side. I’d appreciate it if you all stay out of the way, we have work to do.’

  Ethan glanced across the deck to see various deckhands engaged in their duties, checking braces on the shipping containers and preparing to winch in the enormous anchor chains and jetty ties keeping the ship in place.

  Lopez, Amber and Stanley joined him on the deck and watched the captain suspiciously before another man appeared from the bridge and hurried forward. Dressed in overalls not dissimilar to the captain’s, he extended his hand to Ethan.

  ‘Mike Willis, DIA,’ he announced himself with a smile, all bright eyed enthusiasm.

  Ethan raised an eyebrow as he shook Willis’s hand. ‘You’re posted here?’

  ‘We have a small presence using trade vessels as a platform for discrete intelligence gathering. The ship’s crew’s appreciate the extra revenue in return for allowing us to come along for the ride.’

  Ethan glanced at Captain Alem, who had returned to his work with his crew and showed very little interest at all in the new arrivals.

  ‘Call me clairvoyant, but I sense a reluctance,’ Ethan said.

  ‘They fear retaliation by Iran should signals equipment be detected and the ship boarded, although they are careful to stay inside international waters as instructed. Of course, their fear is easily surmounted by cash. I’ll show you to your quarters, such as they are.’

  Ethan followed Willis along with Lopez and the others as they descended into the bowels of the ship, the vessel’s hull now shuddering and reverberating as the engines were started and the ship moved away slowly from the dock.

  ‘It’s not exactly the Hilton, but it will do for tonight until we can get you out of Abu Dhabi in the morning.’

  The interior of the ship smelled of grease and metal and looked as though it hadn’t been swabbed down in at least fifty years. The cabins that Willis presented to them were little more than prison cells with open doors, thin mattresses and a tiny port hole along with a sink.

  ‘The latrine is down the end of the hall and best used as little as possible,’ Willis admitted.

  ‘It’ll do,’ Ethan said as he tossed his satchel into one of the cabins. ‘I don’t plan on getting much sleeping done anyway.’

  He intercepted a look of reluctance from Lopez and Amber as they ambled slowly into their respective cabins.

  ‘Do you have a direct line to the DIA, to Jarvis? Something that doesn’t use commercial satellites
?’

  ‘I don’t have any names I’m afraid,’ Willis admitted. ‘I got a direct call from director Nellis himself and was ordered to set you up at short order. Is Jarvis your handler?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Ethan replied as he reached into his satchel and grabbed the satellite phone. ‘I can’t use this now because the Saudis will have identified it and will track its movements if I turn it on. I need to make a call.’

  ‘Come this way,’ Willis said in reply.

  Ethan hurried in pursuit of Willis as he led him to the radio room of the ship, situated on the deck below the bridge. Little more than an old storage cupboard, a makeshift desk had been created using a piece of shelving bolted to the wall, and before it sat an uncomfortable looking wooden chair.

  On the shelf was an old metal box that was bolted in place to the wall. Willis opened the box and retrieved from it a very modern looking radio set, glossy black and with a digital interface. He switched the device on and then reached around the back and attached a cable to a receptor concealed in the wall. Immediately, the radio display identified itself and became active, Ethan guessing that a direct satellite link had been established via a receiver mounted somewhere externally on the ship.

  ‘Five layers of encryption,’ Willis reported with satisfaction. ‘A direct line to Virginia courtesy of the top brass. It’s on a shortwave, modulating frequency that even the Saudis won’t be able to monitor for more than a split second before it changes, and they’ve never been able to detect it before.’

  ‘Variable receivers?’ Ethan asked.

  ‘Pretty much anything you want to tap into,’ Willis said with a smile. ‘I use it to talk to my wife from time to time. Nobody complains as long as you’re discreet and don’t take too long.’

  Ethan sat down on the uncomfortable chair as Willis left the room, pulling the door behind him to give Ethan some privacy as he punched a number into the keypad attached to one side of the radio box. A whirring sound was issued from the headset he donned as he pulled the microphone down to his mouth and waited. The whirring sounds were replaced with a warble, and then the more familiar sound of a ring tone.