Dead End Fix (15 page)

The black Mercedes-Benz AMG-S pulled to a stop behind three Cadillac SUVs parked in front of a weathered seaside warehouse. Any fishermen still using these ramshackle piers had left hours ago. The setting sun painted purple and red stripes across a darkening sky. The Gulf of Aden responded, shifting its color from electric blue to a deep shade of navy.

“Who are they?” Abu Al Fared straightened the knot in his silk tie. Allie noted the gesture and wondered if this man—who supplied the richest and most privileged Arab citizens, including various members of the royal families, with vices their religion would never allow—was nervous. “I do not like surprises.”

Allie thought Al Fared's accent suited him well. It was a musical blend available only to those highborn Semites fortunate enough to have been schooled entirely in the finest private schools England had to offer. Every word he uttered conveyed barely contained boredom wrapped in the casual confidence of someone who knew he was superior to everyone he wasn't related to. He was a man who understood the concept of need only in the abstract, and even then only as a tool he could use to control others. He had been blessed not only with limitless wealth but also with rugged good looks, and he held himself like a man well aware of the effect he had on women.

“This is not a surprise, Abu.” Allie reached across the backseat of the luxury sedan and laid a gentle hand on his. “This is how I show respect to my most valued customers, which I trust you will soon be. In a category all your own, of course.” She nodded toward the trio of SUVs. “Those cars hold my highest-ranking men. I want them to meet you. I want them to know the man who deserves their respect and gratitude.”

“You needn't treat me like I'm one of your Russian Neanderthals, Allie. I don't thump my chest and grunt. I'm a businessman. Interested only in product and service. So long as I can be assured the goods you offer are of the highest quality and that I needn't be bothered with the details of local laws, I'll be satisfied. Your men needn't dust my slippers for me.”

No,
Allie thought.
You have staff to do that for you.

“Perhaps you'll indulge me, then. As you might imagine, those chest-thumping grunters, as you so aptly described the Russians I've inherited, are unaccustomed to taking orders from a woman. If they could see me satisfying someone as powerful as you, they'd know how capable I am.”

Abu Al Fared tipped his head to the two men in the front seat, then raised an eyebrow to Allie.

“Don't worry about Rick and Johnny.” Allie accented her smile with a seductive stare. “They're English. They appreciate an opportunity on its merits.”

“Tha's right, mate,” Johnny called out from the driver's seat. “Me and Rick-O 'ere ain't carin' one whit 'bout 'oos the boss. Ain't 'at right, Ricky?”

The dark-haired man with the pocked face grunted his agreement from the passenger seat.

“Tha's the ticket, ain't it?” Johnny asked. “Man, woman, black, white, Jew, or Papist. They're all the same to old Rick and me. We're equal-opportunity employees, we are. You pay us, we do the job. Don't care 'bout much else.” Johnny looked into the rearview mirror, focusing his attention on Al Fared. “Besides, me and Rick-O 'ere got better stuff to beat than our chests. Ain't tha' right, Ricky?”

Rick stared straight ahead, ignoring his friend's prattle.

Abu Al Fared returned his attention to Allie. “I understand your position. I come from a culture that fails to appreciate the full capabilities of a woman. Still, who are we to stand against thousands of years of custom?”

I don't care much about who you are,
Allie thought.
But if custom and culture conspire to keep me from what I want, I'm exactly the person to stand against it. A thousand years of practice be damned.

“Come with me, Abu.” Slowly Allie traced a circle over the back of his hand. “Let's have a bit of a game while I show you what I'm capable of providing.”

Al Fared fixed his chestnut eyes on hers. She saw his craving, watching him as his gaze lowered, tracing the deep neckline of her dove gray silk blouse, then lowering still to linger on the outline of her hips, snugly covered in a silver satin skirt. She'd chosen her outfit to elicit just such a reaction from her prospective client. Allie shifted her position slightly, allowing her knees to part and her breasts to strain against the delicate fabric.

“You're a beautiful woman.” His voice was thick with desire. “Perhaps your men are distracted by that.”

“Perhaps.”

“A man could think of a woman like you in many positions.”

“And you, Abu? How do you see me?”

He leaned forward, his lips close enough that her blond hair shifted in the breeze of his breath. “Don't ask that again unless you're ready to deal with my answer.”

Allie leaned back, a curling tease on her lips. “I'm an American, Abu. You've heard of our ethic. Work first, then play. Come. Let me show you what I can do for you.”

She straightened her spine and sharpened her tone. “Johnny, signal the men. We're heading in.”

Johnny flashed the headlights. Doors opened on the three SUVs. Ten men exited, each group standing in front of their own car. Some looked out to the sea, others glanced toward Allie's Mercedes. All took the opportunity to pull out cigarettes and light up.

“You ready, then?” Johnny asked.

“Wait.” Allie's eyes were trained on the nearest Land Rover. The one with a rear side door still open. Several long seconds later Fyodor Ratchikov emerged. Allie watched him wave toward the men. She could see he was calling out to them, but the distance and the Mercedes' excellent sound neutralizer prevented her from knowing what he said.

You passive-aggressive bastard. You're making me wait for you. Still fighting my control.

Allie slowly counted to twenty. She offered Abu Al Fared a smile dripping with seductive promise. Then she turned to Johnny.

“I'm ready.”

Johnny and Rick exited the sedan and opened the rear doors.

“Wait!” Abu Al Fared must have heard the fear in his own voice. When he spoke again his tone was lower, his words measured and controlled. “On your assurance I left my men back at the dock. You're certain of this place?”

Allie shifted her own voice to maternal reassurance. “I would never put you in danger, Abu.”

“This is Yemen. These people are warriors. There are bands of extremists everywhere. Oman is a few miles away. It offers a more civilized environment for your demonstration.”

“Your yacht is anchored in Yemeni waters. Did you have any problems?”

“No. But the open sea is often more hospitable in this region.” She could hear him struggle to keep anxiety out of his voice. Once again she reached for his hand, this time bringing it up and holding it against her breast.

“Feel my heart, Abu.” She shifted her blouse to touch his palm to her skin. “Feel its steady beat. I have no fear. Nor should you.”

Allie watched the skirmish between fight and flight play out on the man's face. His lips trembled. He opened his mouth. But before Allie could learn whether he'd chosen to stay or run, an explosion of machine-gun fire caused them both to jerk back into their seats. Johnny and Rick slammed the rear doors shut before diving back inside the Mercedes.

“What the fuck is this, now?” Johnny roared. Before he could reach for the ignition, a jeep roared up beside them. Three men in green army fatigues, each armed with an automatic rifle, leaped from the vehicle, yelling in Arabic. Motioning with their rifles for them to leave the car with their hands raised.

“This is exactly what I was afraid of,” Al Fared hissed as he climbed out of the backseat. Allie left the car, her hands raised waist high, fingers splayed and palms exposed. She ignored the blathering of her guest and focused on her men. She counted seven jeeps in all. Each held three or four men. Each soldier appeared to be as heavily armed as the three who surrounded her Mercedes. They made short work of corralling Allie's men into a tight group. At least a dozen soldiers circled around the Russians, rifles at the ready, while three separate pairs of soldiers went man to man. One soldier pointed his automatic rifle at the throat of Allie's man while his partner frisked and disarmed him. Then the pair would move on to the next man.

The soldier to her right screamed at them in Arabic.

“What is he saying?” she asked Al Fared.

“He's saying we must join the others.” Al Fared turned to the soldier standing closest to him, speaking in rapid-fire Arabic. Allie was certain her handsome customer was informing the soldier who he was…perhaps even dropping the names of powerful people who would be upset should any harm come to him. The soldier stepped back. Then he looked at his two colleagues, as if searching for direction.

Five seconds later the three soldiers burst into laughter and used their weapons to point their four hostages toward the rest of the men.

Allie made her way to Fyodor Ratchikov, squinting against the bright glare of jeep-mounted floodlights trained on the group.

“Stay calm, Fyodor,” she whispered in Russian.

“You have murdered us.” Her lieutenant spit on the ground and turned his back.

“My sons!” Allie raised her voice and addressed her men in their mother tongue. “Protect your queen and she will protect you!”

A soldier rushed toward her, stopping inches away. He screamed at her in Arabic.

Allie shook her head and pointed toward her ear, hoping the man would understand. “I do not speak your language,” she said slowly in English.

Ratchikov whipped around, addressing her in Russian. “Are you insane? If he thinks for one moment he's captured himself an American, this becomes much more than a simple arrest.”

As if on cue, the soldier pointed to her and spoke the one word known in any language. “American?” He lifted his head and scanned the entire group. “American?” he called out. “American?”

Allie's men riveted their attention on her. But two dozen assault rifles rendered them impotent.

“Protect your queen!” Allie roared again in Russian. “She will protect you!”

Another soldier, this one with gold braid on his uniform's sleeve, trotted toward her. “Are you an American?” he asked. His English was heavily accented, but he seemed to have a full and easy grasp of the grammar. “Why are you speaking Russian?”

Allie stole a glance toward Ratchikov. Her lieutenant's eyes radiated undiluted disgust.

She turned back to the English-speaking soldier and said nothing.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Who is in charge? Are you their whore?”

That's an interesting question,
she thought.
Their queen or their whore? Is there really a difference?

She didn't answer him. Instead she turned to search for Abu Al Fared. She found him. He was circling one particular soldier. Around and around, the fingers of his hands interlocked and resting atop his perfectly coiffed hair, pleading in Arabic with a man clearly ignoring him.

“Everyone into the warehouse!” The English-speaking soldier was obviously in command. When the Russians didn't respond, his troops herded everyone forward.

The lights were on inside the weather-beaten space. Allie herself had dictated how her demonstration was to be staged. There was a long table, draped in purple satin and lit from both ends with floor lamps. On the table were ten kilos of cocaine. There should have been five beautiful women, all European, each immaculately groomed and dressed in chic Parisian evening wear, standing behind it. These were to be her gifts to Abu Al Fared. A taste of what she could offer him and his customers. An entry into his multibillion-dollar Arabic market.

The drugs were on full display. But the women had scattered, probably at the first burst of the machine guns. Two were in corners. One was behind a long stone table meant for cleaning fish. Allie saw the remaining two behind a decaying wooden boat on the far side of the building. Each woman crouched as low as tight minidresses allowed. Allie was impressed none of them screamed or cried.

These women are used to difficulty,
she thought.
Only women accustomed to being used for their beauty by the cruelest of men would agree to be employed in the way I offered.

The commanding officer walked slowly toward the purple table. He lifted two bricks of cocaine, bringing them to his nose and sniffing.

“These are drugs,” he called out in English. “Drugs are illegal in Yemen. The laws are very strict.” He set the bricks down and turned to face the group. “These drugs are an abomination!” He let his words hang in the silent warehouse. Allie knew most of her men didn't understand him.

But they understood the guns pointed at them and kept silent.

“Who is in charge?” the commander called out.

The crowd said nothing.

“Protect your queen and she will protect you.” Allie spoke in the language of her men, using her speaking voice this time. There was no need to yell in this small space.

The officer stared at her. A slight smile curled his lips. He nodded to her before speaking in Russian.

“Who is in charge here?”

This time Allie's men began to shuffle. They looked to one another, as if for direction.

“What is talk ‘protecting queen'?” The officer's Russian wasn't fluent, but it was effective. Allie heard her men murmur.

The officer spread his arms wide and stepped around in a circle in front of the drug-laden table. “Many women here are. But one is queen?”

He waited.

“Who is in charge?” His Russian was sufficient to master this easy question. “Answer for going free!”

The murmuring among her men grew louder. Allie looked over to Ratchikov, only to see him standing alone and silent, staring at the ground.