Hostage

by Don Brown

  When Kemp gave Cameron a thumbs-up, Cameron flipped a switch, activating the chopper's loudspeaker system. "Attention, Spanish vessel. This is the United States Navy. Be advised we intend to board your vessel. Do not resist, or you will be fired upon."

  The helo's powerful speakers amplified Cameron's voice above the deafening roar of the engines, causing a thunder like echo from the surface. Cameron repeated the message, a bit more deliberately, and then gave Kemp a thumbs-up.

  Kemp stepped out into open space, dangling from the chopper like a spider on a single thread.

  Radio communications center

  USS Harry S. Truman

  Western Mediterranean

  What's taking them so long?" Captain Constangy mumbled, checking his watch again.

  "Truman, Seahawk."

  Constangy lunged at the radio. "Whaddya got, Seahawk?"

  "Captain," Cameron said, "SEAL team has boarded with no resistance. Vessel is now halted in the water."

  "Yes!" The Truman's skipper punched his fist in the air. "Report, Mr.Cameron. I wanna know what's going on down there."

  "Stand by, Skipper. Lieutenant Kemp is radioing a report right now."

  "They must be running low on fuel," the intelligence officer said.

  "He can switch to his emergency tank, but it's getting close," the air boss said.

  "Launch another chopper, now," the captain ordered.

  "Aye, sir."

  "Truman, Seahawk."

  "Go, Seahawk."

  "Captain, Lieutenant Kemp reports three men aboard Spanish vessel. The captain has a Spanish passport. Two crew members have Saudi passports."

  Captain Constangy locked eyes with his intelligence officer. "Repeat passport information."

  Static. "Roger that. One Spanish. Two Saudi."

  "Two Saudis," Constangy mumbled away from the microphone. "I don't like the smell of it." He picked up the microphone again. "Any weapons on board?"

  "Stand by, sir. SEALS report two nine-millimeter handguns. No other weapons. Also sixty-five thousand U.S. dollars found in a leather attache case."

  "I don't like it." Constangy looked at his JAG officer. "What can we do about this, Dewey?"

  Rouse chewed on his lower lip. "Captain, I agree with your instincts, sir. But I'm not sure that we have the right, under international law, to detain the vessel."

  The captain bristled. "I need a recommendation, Commander. My chopper's running low on gas out there."

  Rouse raised an eyebrow. "Have the SEALS ask them about the money."

  "Seahawk, Truman. Ask them why so much cash is on board."

  "Roger that, Truman. Stand by."

  "Come on. Come on." The captain glanced at his watch.

  A burst of static. "Truman, Seahawk. The Spanish captain says the two Saudis are purchasing the craft, and the cash is a down payment. Also, the SEALs asked them about the broadcast. The captain says they were doing a radio check."

  "Bull." Captain Constangy looked at his JAG officer. "Commander, I need a reason to commandeer that boat. How about the fact that we've got a bunch of foreigners in possession of United States currency?"

  "Skipper, I'm not aware of any law that prohibits foreigners from owning U.S. dollars. In fact, it happens all the time. That's part of the reason our currency fluctuates. We've got no probable cause to believe that money was illegally obtained. While the circumstances are suspicious, the vessel has every right to navigation on the high seas, a principle this country has defended for over two hundred years. There's no evidence that the vessel took hostile action against any U.S. warships."

  "So what are you saying, Commander?"

  "What I'm saying, sir, is that in my judgment, the vessel has not violated international law, or the law of the sea, or U.S. law. Because it has taken no overt hostile act against our forces, we do not have the right, under international law, to take any defensive measures. You're the captain, but I would very respectfully invite you to consider the fact that the Spanish are NATO members and that the Saudis are also, officially at least, our allies."

  "Like a horse's rear the Saudis are our allies!" The captain slammed his fist on the table. "They kiss up to us in front of TV cameras, then fund murders in Israel and then send their kids to indoctrination camps, filling them with hate for this country." He shook his head. "As far as I'm concerned, they're all a bunch of animals."

  "I agree, Captain. But all that aside, I don't think you've got enough here to provoke an international incident." Constangy met Rouse's gaze as the JAG officer continued. "Sir, as your senior JAG officer, it's my duty to give you the best advice I can. What would happen here if either the Spanish or the Saudis filed a protest over our actions in commandeering this vessel? You would most likely lose your command."

  Constangy worked his jaw in anger.

  "If we had solid evidence, it would be different. But we don't. Not even close. Even boarding the vessel was questionable, Captain."

  Constangy grunted. "Your recommendation, Commander?"

  "Have the SEALS photograph every inch of that boat, the cash, the crew. Then let's get the heck out of Dodge."

  As much as the recommendation went against every fiber of Bill Constangy's being, he knew his JAG officer was right. "Seahawk, Truman. Relay message to SEAL commander. Photograph crew, money, and all quarters of Spanish vessel. Then retreat, at which point vessel is free to proceed."

  "Truman, Seahawk. Roger that."

  CHAPTER 18

  Outside Hilton Wilmington Riverside

  301 North Water Street

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  It was barely dawn when Ahmed Sadat parked his Aerostar minivan in front of the hotel. He smiled as he lifted his binoculars and studied the entrance.

  He followed her last night all the way from Washington.

  Did she really think she could just rent a car, drive from the nation's capital down to some obscure southern port city in North Carolina, and rent a hotel in the middle of the night without him following her?

  Did she take him for a fool? Because his shot killed the wrong infidel the first time? The irresistibly gorgeous Lieutenant Colcernian, now without Lieutenant Knight-in-Shining-Armor Brewer at her side, sorely underestimated him.

  Maybe she and Brewer had a lover's quarrel. That thought made him smile more widely. Maybe deep down, she liked Arab men. That thought gave him a nicotine craving.

  Ahmed chucked the binoculars into the backseat. At this short distance from the entrance, he really did not need them anyway. No point in raising unwarranted suspicion. Ahmed reached into his front pocket, fidgeting for a cigarette. Igniting his Zippo, he sucked in through the filter, bringing a bright glow to the nicotine-saturated tobacco. Ah, the smell of fresh smoke filling his car was invigorating.

  It was Allah's divine will that he missed. This he now understood, fully. Allah, the all-knowing, foreknew that Islamic Glory was imminent. Her assassination was not yet in Allah's timing.

  But what of the dead girl?

  A deep, satisfying draw from the cigarette.

  So what if the bullet had struck her by accident? She was but an infidel anyway. The prophet himself -- Peace be upon him -- taught that death was the proper punishment for those who either rejected or refused to submit to Islam. She got what she deserved. Allah himself willed that his bullet crush her skull. Allah had dumbfounded the American law enforcement authorities searching for him. How could they be so shallow in their understanding? Did they really believe they could apprehend a man carrying out Allah's will on earth? Fools!

  Praise be to Allah! Blessed be the prophet Mohammed -- peace be upon him!

  Feeling triumphant, he flicked a clump of ashes out the window.

  The stunning image of Diane Colcernian was impressed upon his mind, and he smiled with pleasure. It was an image of this alluring maiden in her white uniform, her shapely, tanned legs visible below the hemline of her white skirt.

  He had spent months studying photographs o
f her. His dossier was complete with photos, going all the way back to her days as a model in Virginia.

  Such an oxymoronic blend of feminine militarism. Authoritative. Intelligent. Beautiful. Perhaps Allah delayed her death as a personal reward to him. His marching orders, at least as far as Colcernian was concerned, had changed as a result of Islamic Glory. He would be rewarded by the Council, by al-Akhma himself, no matter how he dealt with her, as long as he dealt with her. The next few days would prove most interesting, a turning point in world history.

  He flicked the still-lit cigarette stub out onto Water Street and fired up another.

  Surely Allah's promise of maidens was not for the afterlife only.

  Another puff. Another smile.

  He would kill her, chain her alluring legs to cinderblocks, and dump her body into the Cape Fear River. By the time she was found, he would be across the Mexican border.

  Room 442

  Hilton Wilmington Riverside

  301 North Water Street

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  The warm Jacuzzi water, swirling around her back and over her arms, was the most luxuriating tonic she had experienced in days. Maybe she would just lie here, enjoy the steam, and skip the task ahead.

  No. She had come this far. She would go through with it. With a sigh, she pulled herself up out of the water, toweled off, and slipped into a terrycloth bathrobe.

  It would be a morning service, according to the obituary in the Wilmington Star News. Eleven o'clock, to be precise, followed by a twelve-thirty burial. Driving by the location last night, which was within walking distance of the hotel, she discovered that it was a large, old-looking sanctuary. To avoid being seen, she planned to slip in the back at the last minute, wearing a black suit and dark shades, with her hair hidden under a black hat.

  As she reached for the blow dryer, her purse and cell phone fell off the vanity and onto the marble floor.

  With a frown, she reached over to pick up the items. A black line ran through the green screen on her cell phone, like Moses parting the Red Sea. She tried powering it off and then back on again. Same result.

  She checked her watch. The service started in one hour. Time to get ready.

  CHAPTER 19

  251 Andropov Ulitza

  Krugloye

  Mogilev region

  Republic of Belarus

  Just before six o'clock, under the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling of the two-room apartment, a family of six gathered around the table for an evening meal of borsch, radishes, and water. A rapid knock at the flimsy front door cut short Alexander's prayer.

  He met his wife's eyes and scratched his long black beard.

  Who could be at the door at this hour? Who would wish to visit a poor Belarusian Jewish family? Possibly the KGB? No one ever knocked on his door at the dinner hour. All good Jews would be at home with their families, thanking God for his benevolence and serving whatever food they could scrounge from their garden or the market.

  The fall of the Soviet Union and the rise of the Belarusian Republic had ushered in a period of greater religious "tolerance." But in this poor country sandwiched between Poland and Mother Russia, the most horrific atrocities against Jews in the history of humankind had occurred. Alexander was only too aware that the respite from oppression could end at any time.

  Surely nothing good could come from this. He had heard that if Jewish emigration papers fell into the wrong bureaucrat's hands, the consequences could be staggering. Rumors abounded of false criminal charges, of eviction notices from government-issued houses.

  On the other hand, he had heard that a few Christians were now working in the emigration offices and that Jewish immigration papers falling into their hands were being processed very quietly, without trouble. How ironic, Alexander thought, Jews relying on Christians, of all people, to help them return to the Promised Land. Alexander had taken a gamble and submitted his paperwork. Now, with another round of furious rapping at his door, he wished he had not.

  "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," he said to himself in Russian, quoting the psalmist, "I will fear no evil."

  He stood from the table, exchanging worried looks with his wife and four children, two girls and two boys whose ages ranged from three to nine. "For thou art with me." He turned and stepped toward the door."Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."

  He opened the door to the sight of two stone-faced young officials, maybe in their late twenties, official looking in black suits, dark glasses, and crew cuts.

  "Etta Alexander Kweskin doma?" the one on the left demanded.

  "Dah." Alexander nodded, trying to mask the trembling in his voice.

  "Vwee Alexander Kweskin?" the one on the right said.

  "Dah." Please, God. Protect Yael and the children.

  "Etta dla vas, Guspadyeen Kweskin." The one on the right thrust a sealed envelope, probably an arrest warrant, at him.

  "Ahtcreetay." Open.

  Alexander opened the envelope, then dropped to his knees.

  Outside St. Mary's Catholic Church

  412 Ann Street

  Wilmington, North Carolina

  Diane stepped through the revolving door of the hotel and onto the sidewalk. The bright colors and sweet aroma of azaleas that greeted her solidified her decision. Parking, she figured, would be a problem this morning, and she doubted she could get any closer if she tried. So she headed by foot to the large stone church, located in Wilmington's historic district.

  She slipped on a pair of dark glasses, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply, enjoying a prolonged sense of the blended fragrance of azaleas, dogwoods, and roses before turning left along North Water Street. In the hotel she had read a promotional brochure promoting Wilmington as the "port city" of North Carolina and, moreover, as the "Azalea capital of the world."

  She tried dwelling on this pleasant thought as a means to combat the awful lump in her throat and the ache in her heart as she tried to suppress her tears. This way, she could say her earthly good-byes to a young woman she never knew. With the sweet fragrance of blooming azaleas along the way, and with her eyes focused on the black hearse that came into view just in front of the church, she barely noticed a black Aerostar minivan parked near the walkway.

  She hoped Maggie Jefferies was a Christian. And if she was a believer, Diane knew that the sight now before Maggie Jefferies' eyes was far more wonderful than even the beautiful mounds of pink and white azaleas, drenched in the morning Carolina sunshine and blooming in clusters along the dogwood-lined streets of Wilmington's historic district.

  Diane's vision blurred. Tears became impossible to contain as she stepped across Ann Street and walked toward the front door of St. Mary's.

  Ahmed smiled, popped another cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then opened the driver's side door of the Aerostar and stepped out. He fell in about thirty yards behind the woman.

  He could take a shot from here and definitely pick her off. But too many others were around, all headed inside the infidel church to observe the body of the infidel named Maggie Jefferies.

  Maybe he would wait outside, hide behind one of the many large magnolia trees across from the church, and shoot her through the leaves with a high-powered rifle. Better yet, he thought, he could crack the top of the tinted glass window from his van, squeeze the barrel through it, and just pick her off from the side of the street.

  Of course, all that would take the fun out of the chase. And he did have more discretion now in how he decided to deal with her. He smiled, put on his sunglasses, and followed her with his eyes as she stepped up the stairs and disappeared through the front door.

  251 Andropov Ulitza

  Krugloye

  Mogilev Region

  Republic of Belarus

  Forgive me," Alexander said, still on his knees and now weeping profusely, his head bowed almost at the feet of the two black-suited young men, who had now stepped inside the door.

  "Alexander. Alex
ander! Sto etta?" He heard the worried voice of Yael, his wife of seventeen years, a slightly heavy woman but still lovely in his eyes. And when he felt her soft hand on his shoulder, he looked up, then took her hand in his.

  "Oh, my dear one" -- he covered his eyes with his left hand -- "there is news of our fate."

  "What is it, my love?" She looked at him, concern in her sparkling black eyes.

  "Dear one, these two bring us news of our future."

  "I do not understand." She threw up her arms in exasperation. "How have these gentlemen upset you so?"

  He stood and wrapped his arms around her, then saw the children, like frozen mannequins, staring at them from the small wooden table. "My dear, we are leaving."

  "Leaving?"

  "May I read this to my wife?" He glanced at the bureaucrat on the right.

  "By all means, Guspadyeen."

  "Harasho, moi droog." He stepped back from Yael and unfolded the paper.

  "This, my family, is a letter from the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews. It was written last Wednesday." Alexander handled it reverently, then slowly began reading in a voice trembling with emotion.

  Dear Guspadyeen Kweskin,

  On behalf of the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews, I am very pleased to announce your emigration request to Israel has been approved by the government of the Republic of Belarus. I am enclosing a copy of the approval letter from the Belarusian Emigration Office, which was forwarded to us, as your agent in handling this request.