Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers)

by Tanenbaum, Robert K.

  “Nobody put it together until Stewbie saw that photograph, which Leonard submitted as part of a strategy in case they went for an insanity defense. Apparently, there is something about that photograph that set Maplethorpe off.”

  Katz looked sideways at Karp. “The Water Pitcher Incident?”

  “The same,” Karp agreed.

  “You old fox! Are you going to bait Maplethorpe by getting the photograph admitted now?”

  Karp grinned. “The thought’s crossed my mind. But there’s more to it than just trying to get under Maplethorpe’s skin.”

  “The role-playing.”

  “You got it. And I think Stewbie did, too. His last official act in this case was to ask Judge Rosenmayer for a search warrant on Maplethorpe’s apartment. His request was very narrow; he said he would be looking for ‘leather pants, leather chaps.’ And that was it.”

  “So what’s the next step?”

  “I want to talk to Hilario Gianneschi. And I’m taking the photograph.”

  27

  “I THINK I’M GOING TO BE SICK.”

  Tran peered over at Jojola in the dim lighting beneath the tarpaulin covering the lifeboat where they’d holed up three days earlier. They were hungry—having eaten only a partial loaf of stale bread and a can of sardines Tran had managed to swipe from the ship’s kitchen late the second night. There’d been plenty to drink with the rainwater that seeped in under the cover during frequent squalls, but the rain also made them cold.

  The worst part, however, had been the cramped quarters of the lifeboat. At least that was the worst part for Tran.

  The seasickness was what was getting to Jojola. Even in the partial illumination of a deck light several yards away, the Indian’s usual bronze-hued face had a greenish cast to it. “Don’t even think about it,” Tran warned. “It already stinks in here from the last time…. I thought you Native Americans were supposed to be tough. You get seasick like some child.”

  “You might recall,” Jojola groaned, “if your senior dementia hasn’t robbed you of all your faculties, that my people live in an arid climate. The biggest body of water we had until whitey showed up and started putting up reservoirs in the desert were rivers you could throw rocks across. And the land didn’t go up and down under your feet like a fat man’s belly. We’re not doing much good here, either, so Jaxon can show up any moment as far as I’m concerned. I wonder when the cavalry’s going to arrive.”

  “Me, too,” Tran agreed. Ever since they’d come aboard, they’d done little more than hide. The reefer wasn’t a large craft, nor did she seem to have a very large crew from what little Tran and Jojola had been able to gather by sneaking around after dark. There weren’t that many unsecured places they could hide, and the crew was certain to notice any strangers among them.

  Perhaps, as a Trojan horse, they’d be of use when Jaxon and the U.S. Navy caught up to the ship. But right now the only thing they could do was stay out of sight.

  Tran guessed that somewhere beyond the horizon or in the skies overhead, they were being tracked by U.S. Navy vessels and aircraft. “They’re probably waiting for Malovo and Abdullah to tip their hand as to what they intend, or possibly setting a trap for other conspirators,” he said.

  “Well, then I wish they’d all—bad guys and good guys—hurry up,” Jojola replied. “I don’t have anything left in my stomach, or I’d already have lost it. But one more set of swells like that last one, and I’m going to puke my guts up through my nose.”

  “Nice imagery,” Tran said, disgusted. “And I think medically impossible.”

  As if to further Jojola’s torment, the ship’s engines, which had been turning over at a dull roar since leaving Trinidad, suddenly shuddered and labored at a much slower pace. The ship began to wallow.

  “That does it,” Jojola complained, “I’m giving myself up so they can put me out of my misery.”

  “They’ll put us both out of our misery, now hush,” Tran said, and held still as he listened. After a moment, he nodded. “We’ve definitely slowed, which is why the ship is rocking more.”

  “I’d rather have my fingernails pulled out.”

  “That can be arranged when we get back home. Right now, something’s up.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We’re in the middle of the ocean, not even close to land judging by the direction and size of the swells, but we’re slowing down on purpose,” Tran replied.

  Jojola didn’t question how he figured this out. Tran knew his way around ships. First as a “boat person” fleeing Vietnam after the triumphant North Vietnamese began purging former Viet Cong guerrillas from the country. And later as a “successful businessman in the import-export trade” with his own fleet of ships.

  “Maybe this is what their plan is all about,” Tran said. “I’m going to go check it out.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Jojola said. “I can use the fresh air.”

  The two men slipped out from under the tarp. But Jojola wobbled and then sat down heavily on the steel deck.

  Tran knelt next to him. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Do you still have your knife?”

  Jojola nodded. They’d been prevented from carrying guns in Trinidad, as they were only supposed to be there as observers assisting the national security agency’s antiterrorism teams. But the Indian had keep his long, razor-sharp fighting knife tucked in a sheath behind his broad back.

  “Good. Then wait here. Get some air, but stay out of sight.”

  With that, the Vietnamese gangster stood and disappeared. He worked his way forward from the stern, where the lifeboat was stowed, and over to the port side, where he saw crew members hurrying about in the dark.

  Whatever they were preparing for, they were hampered by heavy seas and a light rain. He noticed that they kept staring out over the waves. But if they could see something, he couldn’t make it out from farther back in the shadows of the superstructure.

  Suddenly, Tran found himself bathed in a dazzling bright light that blazed out of the night. At the same time, lights from the reefer illuminated the massive shape that rode on the waves thirty yards away.

  Tran actually jumped back as the sudden materializing of the supertanker made it appear that the small cargo ship was about to be squashed like a bug. But he quickly realized that the tanker was running parallel to the smaller reefer and maintaining a constant distance. Instead of a collision course, it was more like a mother elephant running alongside her calf. It was not until he saw the mother’s “trunk” reaching out of the dark that he started to catch on to what was happening.

  We’re refueling? he wondered. But we just left Trinidad.

  For a moment a swell lifted the reefer up to where he got a better view of the behemoth across the water. He saw the four dome-like structures jutting out of the main deck of the bigger ship and his mind made the next leap. It’s an LNG tanker. We’re taking on liquefied natural gas. I’ve got to find a way to let Jaxon—

  Tran’s thoughts were interrupted by the feel of steel pressed to the back of his head and a woman’s voice.

  “We meet again, Azahari Mujahid, or whatever your real name is,” Malovo sneered. “Now put your hands on the wall while my man frisks you.”

  Standing outside on the flying bridge, Ariadne Stupenagel gazed in amazement at the LNG supertanker as it plunged up and down through the heavy seas in tandem with the smaller ship. She stumbled a little and her guard, a young Sudanese man named Ebenezer, reached out to steady her. She was still wearing her Gucci heels, having complained to her captors that “if I have to die, a girl wants to go well dressed.”

  “Thank you, Eb,” she said with a shy smile. He started to smile in return but then remembered his duty as a jihadi, and frowned as he stepped back and lifted the nose of the MAC-10 submachine gun.

  “So what’s a good-looking holy warrior like you doing in a place like this?” she asked.

  Ebenezer backed farther away. “Do not speak to me, woman,” he de
manded, though his teenage voice lacked authority.

  They both turned to look when the hatch opened from the main bridge below. The scarred, bearded face of Omar Abdullah appeared, followed by the rest of his body, as soon as he saw the coast was clear.

  “Couldn’t resist another look, big boy?” Stupenagel said in her best Mae West impersonation.

  Abdullah scowled and spoke to Ebenezer. “Leave us.”

  “Uh, don’t I have any say in this?” Stupenagel continued. “I was sort of getting attached to Eb. You know how I like younger men.”

  Abdullah’s eyes blazed. “You’re a witch and a whore. But soon you will answer to Allah for your sins.”

  “What about yours? The last I remember, you were comparing my fine white ass to the moon over the Caribbean on a warm summer night.” She winked at Ebenezer, who’d stopped to listen to the exchange with his mouth hanging open. “Bet you didn’t know the Big O here was such a poet, did ya, Eb? Yep, he tended to wax rather enthusiastically when he was boinkin’ this fine little piece of infidel booty.”

  “I said go below!” Abdullah yelled at the young man, who jumped and ran for the hatch. He then turned to the journalist. “You bewitched me once before, but never again.”

  “Bewitched, my ass,” Stupenagel scoffed. “You were just as horny as I was. And you know what, Omar? What we had there, for a little while, was pretty good. Of course, that was back when you laughed and enjoyed life, even with the Soviets breathing down your neck. Back then you believed in something other than the deaths of innocent women and children.”

  “I believed in Allah then as I do now.”

  “Bullshit! You believed in Allah and the rightness of a cause to keep a small country from falling into the hands of a totalitarian regime. I remember how you used to talk about returning to Trinidad someday and running for parliament. You said you’d had enough of war and wanted to create a Muslim state through peaceful means.”

  “The world changed.”

  “Really? Or was it you who changed? Don’t you remember watching the moon rise over the Panjshir Valley, wrapped in our little sheepskin blankets?”

  Abdullah’s eyes softened for a moment, but then they hardened, even angrier than before. “Silence! Yes, I’ve changed. That man you knew was filled with evil desires and had lost the way of Allah. The Soviets taught me in their torture chamber that I needed to purify myself and understand that women only weaken the resolve of a mujahedeen. And so I see you as you really are now…a demon in the body of a woman sent to distract me from my true calling. But Allah has sent you to me again so that you can join me on my final voyage, and we will both be cleansed in the holy fire of Allah.”

  “What?” Stupenagel exclaimed. “I thought this was one of those Caribbean booze cruises. It’s a Muslim crew? No wonder I can’t get a drink.”

  “Enough with the stupid jokes!” Abdullah snarled and motioned to the hatch. “Go below. We’ve caught your associate and it’s time the two of you were reunited.”

  Tran fell painfully to his knees, unable to catch himself because his wrists were bound behind him, when his guards shoved him through the door and onto the bridge. He got back up on his own and was then shoved against a bulkhead, where he watched the crew and officers who were occupied with the delicate operation of fueling at sea. He noted that while most of the crew and even officers of the ship appeared to be Middle Eastern or black, the man at the helm was a Caucasian.

  Stepping onto the bridge, Malovo saw his glance and explained. “Allow me to introduce Sasha Sukarov, an officer in the navy of the once glorious Soviet Union. He was executive officer of a fuel tanker and an expert at this sort of procedure. His counterpart on board the tanker is also former Soviet navy. They make more money now, eh, Sasha?”

  Sukarov grinned at Malovo. “Da, lot more money,” he said before returning his attention to business.

  Malovo stepped in front of Tran and slapped him hard across the face. “That’s for ruining my plans and nearly getting me killed last September,” she said. During the attack on the New York Stock Exchange, she had been in charge of destroying the NYSE backup computer in a high-security building in Brooklyn. However, she’d been thwarted at the last minute by Tran—who’d been posing as the terrorist named Azahari Mujahid—Jojola, and her former lover-turned-archenemy Ivgeny Karchovski.

  “Pleasure to have been of service,” Tran replied, spitting out the blood he tasted in his mouth.

  Malovo stepped closer until her face was just a few inches from Tran’s. “So what are you, Chinese?”

  “Don’t be insulting,” Tran replied. “I’m Vietnamese.”

  Malovo laughed. “Excuse me, Vietnamese. But then you subhuman Asians all look alike to me. Speaking of subhuman, where’s your friend, Abu Samar?” she asked, referring to Jojola’s alias during the NYSE incident.

  Tran shrugged. “He’s not so good with ships; he gets seasick. I left him in Trinidad.”

  “I take it he’s not Vietnamese,” Malovo said. “What was he? Pakistani? Indonesian?”

  “American Indian.”

  Malovo looked surprised. “You mean like in cowboy movies? I love cowboy movies, especially Indians on the warpath.” She patted her mouth and mimicked a war dance. “Woo-woo-woo-woo!”

  “Yeah, that kind of Indian,” Tran said. “And the next time you two meet, he told me he’s going to take your scalp with that wicked long knife of his. Just like in the movies…. Hey, do you think it might hurt?”

  Malovo’s smile twitched and her eyes wavered, but just for a moment and then she scoffed. “The Americans must be getting desperate recruiting old Chinamen and fat Indians to fight terrorism.”

  “No, they just didn’t figure you were worth wasting the time of their best agents.” Tran shrugged apologetically. “So they sent me. Sorry, that has to be bad for the ego.”

  “Ha, that is a good one.” Malovo laughed. “And the woman…Stupid-neegel…who pretends to be a journalist!”

  “She is a journalist.”

  Malovo sneered. “She’s an American spy just like you. We know all about the two of you sneaking on board. In fact, here she is now.”

  Tran turned in the direction Malovo pointed and saw Ariadne coming down the ladder from the flying bridge. He thought quickly. The two of us? They must not know about Jojola.

  Tran shrugged. “Hello, partner,” he said pointedly to Stupenagel. “I guess they’ve got us.” He turned back to Malovo. “You do realize that our people know where we are, and you might as well give up. Make this easy and we’ll put in a good word for you with the executioner to make it quick.”

  Malovo smirked. “Did I forget to tell you?” she said. “Your message to your boss never got sent. The man you asked to relay the information actually works for a man in the Russian embassy, who happens to be employed by the people I work with. We didn’t realize you were on board because we’ve been maintaining radio silence. However, the message was passed to us from our friends on the tanker, telling us to watch for two spies. That’s how I knew to look for you. We already captured the first spy when this stupid woman pretended to be a journalist to get on board.”

  Tran quickly put out of his mind the image of what he would do to the traitor Salim. If I live that long. He hoped that Jojola would manage to stay away from the searchers, buoyed by the fact that Malovo and her men believed that they already had the “two spies” mentioned in the message.

  “So now that you have us, how about letting us in on what you’re up to,” Stupenagel said. “I’d like to quote you in my story before some fed puts a bullet in your brain.”

  Malovo chuckled and shook her head. “I’m glad we found you,” she said. “It will make the next few days more enjoyable to listen to your jokes. But sure, you’re not going anywhere, so I’ll tell you what to expect.”

  The original plan, she said, had been to arrive in New York harbor the day after Thanksgiving. “It’s called Black Friday, no?” she said as she took out a pack o
f cigarettes and shook one out. “Biggest shopping day of the year. Lots of traffic on bridges and roads.”

  Malovo placed the cigarette in her mouth and dug a lighter out of a pants pocket. “You may have noticed that we are taking on liquefied natural gas, very dangerous, this stuff. Now imagine a bomb the size of this ship, floating up the East River. Suddenly, there is a rupture in the hull and liquid escapes and turns into a gas cloud surrounding the ship…. It’s very important that the rupture does not ignite the gas until a cloud forms, otherwise it’s just a big blowtorch as gas escapes. But when the cloud is ignited at the exact right moment”—Malovo lit her cigarette and took a deep drag—“whoosh, it’s a giant fireball—hot as the sun—burns everything for a mile. Now it would be Blackened Friday…good joke, no?”

  The main obstacle for the plan, Malovo said, had been getting the right ship. The use of LNG supertankers as weapons of mass destruction had been on intelligence agencies’ radar long before the attack on the World Trade Center. But 9-11 had caused security precautions to increase even more until getting a tanker close enough to a population center was “nearly impossible…though someday I expect it will be accomplished.”

  “But for now, we needed a ship that would not draw such attention,” Malovo continued. “No one suspects a small reefer designed to transport milk, no? At most, a cursory check by the Coast Guard, especially if the right hands are greased to look the other way.”

  “A milk ship can’t haul LNG,” Stupenagel said. “The refrigeration system can’t get cold enough.”

  “You are correct,” Malovo answered. “The gas must be transported at minus 163 degrees centigrade, or minus 260 degrees Fahrenheit, to keep it in liquid form, which also reduces its volume by six hundred times.”

  Malovo patted the bulkhead. “But this is no ordinary milk ship. She is very special and has been converted into a mini-LNG tanker at a shipyard in Saudi Arabia owned by our friend Amir al-Sistani.”