Liberty (14 page)
Authors: Stephen Coonts
And he had done it! He felt the rush of victory as the breeze began blowing from ahead of him as the ship gained way. He scanned with the binoculars. A few fishing boats, a harbor fuel boat, a Pakistani customs boat ⦠none of them attempted to approach the ship or turned to an interception course.
Zuair turned his binoculars to the bridge. He saw Dutch Vandervelt there with the pilot beside the wheel. One other man on the bridge, one of the crewmen apparently.
Beyond the breakwater were several ships on their way into or out of the harbor. They made no attempt to approach
Olympic Voyager.
The ship was an hour outside the harbor, with the lights of Karachi making a smudge upon the horizon, when the pilot boat loomed alongside.
Olympic Voyager.
The ship was an hour outside the harbor, with the lights of Karachi making a smudge upon the horizon, when the pilot boat loomed alongside.
Zuair looked it over as it came against the rope ladder. He knew the man at the wheel of the boat, and he was alone. Not another boat in sight.
The Egyptian retrieved his rocket launcher and walked back to the rope ladder amidships, almost under the bridge. He motioned to the men who had come aboard with him. There were three of them, all armed. They joined him at the rail, then followed the pilot down the ladder. The little boat pitched and rolled and bobbed in the swells, its single-cylinder diesel engine thudding lazily
and spewing noxious fumes. Bracing themselves against the gyrations of the boat, the men with weapons went forward and hunkered down to stay out of the bow spray. Frouq al-Zuair was the last man down the ladder. When he was aboard the boatman paused, timing the swell, then spun the helm and gunned the engine. The pilot boat veered smartly away from the freighter's rusty hull.
and spewing noxious fumes. Bracing themselves against the gyrations of the boat, the men with weapons went forward and hunkered down to stay out of the bow spray. Frouq al-Zuair was the last man down the ladder. When he was aboard the boatman paused, timing the swell, then spun the helm and gunned the engine. The pilot boat veered smartly away from the freighter's rusty hull.
Up on the bridge, Dutch Vandervelt breathed a sigh of relief and rang up ahead two-thirds on the engine telegraph. He glanced at the four containers on the deck, then turned his back and lit a cigar. Later tonight, after he was relieved by Lee, he would stop by the radio room and tell the man in America that the weapons were aboard and the ship was under way. Months ago they had agreed on a simple, unbreakable codeâten nonsense words, one for every possible contingency, launched into the ether on a pre-agreed frequency. He ran through the list in his head again, reciting the words silently.
Well, they were pulling it off. A man would come aboard when the ship docked in Marseilles and pay the rest of the money owed to Vandervelt, the captain, and the crew. The man from Cairo who recruited him for this job had originally proposed half in advance, half when the job was done, but Vandervelt balked. The risk of getting stiffed was too great, and who was he going to complain to?
He demanded eighty percent in advance. The man from Cairo was smooth, a true fanatic. He reminded Vandervelt of a snake he once saw in a zoo staring at a mouse. When the haggling began Vandervelt settled for seventy-five. Two days later a man brought the money, $750,000 American, in a cheap, hard suitcase, the kind one rarely sees anymore.
Vandervelt had paid the captain a hundred grand and shared a hundred with the crew, promising more. He didn't intend to pay it, of course. He intended to collect the additional quarter million and vanish as quickly as he could. Although Lee and the captain didn't know it, Vandervelt's
maritime career was ending in Marseilles.
maritime career was ending in Marseilles.
He already had a false passport, Dutch no less. It belonged to a sailor who had been lost at sea one stormy night a year ago. Vandervelt took it to a man he knew in Amsterdam, who had substituted his picture for the one of the dead man, for a price, of course.
Smuggling bombs. The truth of it was that if he hadn't agreed to do the job, someone else would have. It was that kind of world.
Standing on the deck of the pilot boat, Frouq al-Zuair watched
Olympic Voyager
gain way. She grew smaller and smaller, shrinking in the darkness as the pilot boat hammered through the swells back toward the lights of Karachi. Soon the freighter's lights disappeared into the sea haze and she was lost in the vastness of the night.
Olympic Voyager
gain way. She grew smaller and smaller, shrinking in the darkness as the pilot boat hammered through the swells back toward the lights of Karachi. Soon the freighter's lights disappeared into the sea haze and she was lost in the vastness of the night.
At midnight Lee, the second mate of
Olympic Voyager
, came to the bridge and relieved Dutch Vandervelt.
Olympic Voyager
, came to the bridge and relieved Dutch Vandervelt.
“Where's the old man?” Vandervelt asked.
“He was drunk when I saw him an hour before we sailed. He went to his stateroom, I think, and hasn't been out since. Passed out in there, probably.”
Vandervelt discussed the ship's location, speed, and course, pointed out other ships on the radar and plot, then lingered for a moment as Lee surveyed the horizon with his binoculars.
“This is my last voyage on this ship,” Lee said matter-of-factly. “You and I have stood port and starboard every minute when we're at sea since the day you arrived. With Pappadopoulus drunk all the time, it's not going to get any better. No one has suggested a pay raise. And I guarantee you, if there is a problem, we'll lose our licenses.”
Vandervelt grunted. The statement was true. The owners should put Pappadopoulus on the beach and hire a new captain. “Maybe after this trip the captain will ask to go. We're all going to make some serious money.”
“Yeah,” Lee said, unenthusiastically. He brushed the money away.
Vandervelt left the bridge in a thoughtful mood.
He stopped in front of the one-guest stateroom, the socalled owner's cabin, and knocked once. The man who
opened the door and admitted him was of medium height and dark, in his early forties, apparently. Vandervelt didn't know his name. Didn't want to know it. He was of Middle Eastern origin, Syrian or Palestinian or, perhaps, Iraqiâsomewhere in there. Vandervelt didn't want to know his nationality either.
opened the door and admitted him was of medium height and dark, in his early forties, apparently. Vandervelt didn't know his name. Didn't want to know it. He was of Middle Eastern origin, Syrian or Palestinian or, perhaps, Iraqiâsomewhere in there. Vandervelt didn't want to know his nationality either.
When Vandervelt was inside the cabin with the door closed, the man said in English, “Are they aboard?” He spoke those words with very little accentâVandervelt thought the man had spent a good many years in some English-speaking university, probably British, but it could have been American.
“Yes. No hitches.”
“Shall we examine the patients?”
The wind was over the port rail, a good stiff sea breeze that was putting up four- or five-foot swells. The brisk wind and motion of
Olympic Voyager
in the seaway meant that both men needed to hold on to something on the weather deck. No one was topside that the mate could see. Of course Lee was on the bridge watching, but he had been paid.
Olympic Voyager
in the seaway meant that both men needed to hold on to something on the weather deck. No one was topside that the mate could see. Of course Lee was on the bridge watching, but he had been paid.
Vandervelt wondered if Lee had told anyone about this adventure.
Dutch Vandervelt opened the padlock on the first container and helped the passenger open the doors.
The bomb was strapped to a pallet. Under it was a sheet of lead. Bolts went through the pallet into the lead.
The passenger inspected it carefully and fully with a flashlight. As he bent over looking, the container door banged as the ship rolled.
“So what do you think?” Dutch asked. “Can you do it?”
The passenger flicked off the flashlight. From the darkness his voice came, “This weapon was not designed to withstand this salty environment. The contacts are already beginning to corrode. I'd say after five or six weeks it will become unreliable.”
“What's that mean?”
“It may be a dud.”
“Not my problem,” Vandervelt said. “You need any help working on these things?”
“No.”
Dutch handed him the keys to all four containers. “Work during the night. You have four nights.”
“I can be done in two.”
“The crew has been told to leave you alone. Let me know if anyone keeps track of your activities or asks questions.”
After Vandervelt left, the man went to another container and opened it. He used a flashlight to select a toolbox and carried it back to the bomb. After two more trips carrying items he wanted, he put a temporary latch on the container door. The latch was cunningly made of pot metal. Satisfied it would hold the door closed against curious eyes, he turned on a battery-powered lantern and began unpacking his tools.
Dutch Vandervelt had been correct about the man's educationâhe held a Ph.D. in engineering from MITâbut wrong about his nationality. Dr. Hamid Salami Mabruk was Egyptian, a colleague of Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri, a medical doctor, the longtime leader of Egyptian Islamic Jihad. They had spent years trying to topple the secular regime that ruled Egypt by murdering government ministers and tourists with bombs and gunfire. They left the country only when the government fought back ruthlessly, making it impossible to operate there. Interrogated and tortured until they told everything they knew, the militants of Egyptian Jihad were then imprisoned or secretly hanged, every one that the authorities could lay hands on.
When Dr. Zawahiri fled to Afghanistan and joined Osama bin Laden, Mabruk returned to America and secured a teaching position. Just now he was on sick leave. He escaped Egypt just in time, for now the authorities there knew his nameânot his real name, his name in the movementâand would hang him if they ever caught him. He had no intention of returning to Egypt until the movement was
triumphant. As Zawahiri and bin Laden had argued so eloquently, Egypt's ally America would have to fall before that day would come.
triumphant. As Zawahiri and bin Laden had argued so eloquently, Egypt's ally America would have to fall before that day would come.
Hamid Salami Mabruk was going to help make it happen. He arranged the lantern just so and began cleaning corrosion from the warhead's detonator contacts.
Jake Grafton had big plans for Tommy Carmellini. Although he hadn't yet laid them out, Carmellini thought he knew what was coming when he sat in a staff meeting with the brain trust, Jake, Toad, Gil Pascal, and senior people from each of the federal agencies.
First the admiral wanted to know the status of each agency's hunt for the missing bombs. The National Security Agency, NSA, was monitoringâeavesdropping uponâradio and telephone communications throughout the Middle East, trying to intercept conversations that might be referring to the bombs. So far they had come up dry.
The FBI was investigating the disappearance of Richard Doyle. The list of negatives that FBI Special Agent Harry Estep recited from his notes was impressive. Doyle had not returned home, or called his wife or his supervisor. He had not made an airline reservation or purchased a ticket, written a check, used a credit card, made a cash withdrawal from a bank machine, or used his passport since the evening of his disappearance. Every police agency in the Western world was looking for him; so far there had been four false sightings, but no credible ones.
“Could he have been kidnapped?” This possibility was not as bizarre as one might think. The KGB/SVR had a long history of kidnapping people, usually Russians, whom they didn't want talking to Western governments.
“We've checked every airport up and down the East Coast, with negative results. Of course he could have been stuffed into a van or the trunk of a car and driven to Canada or Mexico. On the other hand, it is difficult to see
how he could have been removed from the country by air.” Estep discussed what the bureau was doing to check out charter and corporate flights the evening of Doyle's disappearance. “He's dropped off the face of the earth,” Estep concluded.
how he could have been removed from the country by air.” Estep discussed what the bureau was doing to check out charter and corporate flights the evening of Doyle's disappearance. “He's dropped off the face of the earth,” Estep concluded.
“Or been buried under it,” Grafton shot back.
“It looks that way,” Estep admitted.
“A professional hit.”
“At this point, that appears to be a strong possibility.”
The CIA had also been busy. Coke Twilley was the officer who presented Jake with a dossier on General Petrov and the base he commanded. Jake flipped through it while Twilley talked. The file looked, he thought, as if it had been put together with newspaper clippings and photocopies of pages in reference books.
The dossier did contain, however, the intelligence summaries from the former Soviet republics and the countries on the Indian Ocean rim. “What about this shootout in Karachi the other day?” Jake asked as he perused the summaries. “What was that all about?”
“Rival gangs, we think,” Coke said. “Our contacts there are talking to Pakistani intelligence, but so far we know only that a shootout took place in which all the parties were armed with Soviet-bloc weapons. Four dead, as I recall, and no arrests.”
The national imagery system had seen nothing of consequence.
Finally, the admiral got around to it. “Zelda Hudson and Zipper Vance will arrive tomorrow,” Jake said. “Gil, are the arrangements made?”
“Coming together, sir. The new identity documents are coming over this afternoon from the Federal Witness Protection Program. Sarah Houston and Matt Cooper. Carmellini has rented them an apartment under those names. If they don't want to live together, I figured they could sort out their own arrangements. I have informed security, and we'll get them badges and stuff when they arrive.”
“Fine. Tommy, they will work directly for you. I will
brief them tomorrow afternoon when they arrive. I want you to sit through the brief.”
brief them tomorrow afternoon when they arrive. I want you to sit through the brief.”
He paused and automatically Carmellini said, “Yes, sir,” which surprised him after it slipped out. He tried to avoid sirring the brass on the theory that few of them deserved it. On the other hand, Jake Grafton was the kind of guy who rated a “sir.”
“Okay,” Jake said, “that's it. Coke, stay for a moment, will you?”
Twilley remained in his seat as the other people filed out of the room. When the door closed, leaving him alone with Grafton, he said, “I think you're running some damn dangerous risks, Grafton.”
“That's true,” Jake Grafton acknowledged, eyeing Twilley without warmth.
“Are you sure you want me on your team?”
Grafton let that question hang for a moment before he answered. “I didn't ask for this job.”
“I know that.”
“A few days ago I was working for you. Now the roles are reversed. Are you uncomfortable with that?”
Twilley shrugged. “A little, I guess.”
Grafton's lips formed a straight line across his face, and his gray eyes showed no warmth as he examined Twilley's face. “You're a professional. I expect you to do a professional job. This is our country. If you can't do that, say so now, and I'll ask DeGarmo to replace you.”
This course of action would not look good on Twilley's record, and both men knew that. Twilley backpedaled. “No need for that, unless you want someone else.”
Grafton began gathering his notes.
“But I want to say I find the request that Sonny Tran and I take polygraphs demeaning.”
Grafton glanced up again. “Everyone who knew about Doyle, including me, is taking polygraphs. Hell, I already had one.”
Twilley threw up his hands. “A waste of time.”
“Perhaps.” Grafton stood. “I want you to send Tran to
Corrigan Engineering in Boston to look at these new radiation sensors. I want a report on what they will do, when we get them, how big they are, how much power they take, our deployment options, all of it. Get him on the road as soon as he gets through with the polygraph people. Toad Tarkington and one of the Coasties will go with him.”
Corrigan Engineering in Boston to look at these new radiation sensors. I want a report on what they will do, when we get them, how big they are, how much power they take, our deployment options, all of it. Get him on the road as soon as he gets through with the polygraph people. Toad Tarkington and one of the Coasties will go with him.”
“Why Tran?”
“Man, I only have so many people.”
“What about deploying some of these new Corrigan sensors overseas?” Twilley asked. “A terrorist might conclude that an attack against one of those cities would rock a major American ally and leave the U.S. isolated diplomatically.”
“The big kahunas will make those decisions.”
“London and Paris would be good places to start.”
“Indeed, they would,” Jake agreed. “But we'll need sensors. Send Tran to Boston.”
“Sonny Tran, Boston,” Coke Twilley said, and rose from his chair.
After Twilley left, Jake found Tommy Carmellini waiting in the corridor. “I'd appreciate a few minutes of your time, Admiral.”
Jake glanced at his watch, then led the way back into the conference room. Carmellini sat one seat away from Jake.
“What's on your mind?”
Carmellini scratched his face. “This is a little embarrassing. Truthfully, I'm going to put you in a bad position, but I think I owe you the truth.”
“Okay,” Jake said, scrutinizing Carmellini's face. He had piercing gray eyes, Carmellini suddenly noticed.
“Last week someone bugged my apartment. The bugs are still there. I think it was two guys from the CIA, Archie Foster and Norv Lalouette. I couldn't figure out why in the world anyone would bug my apartment, then Arch asked me to come down to his office. Norv was there. They showed me a videotape taken several years ago by
a tourist at the University of Colorado in Boulder on the day that someone assassinated Professor Olaf Svenson.”
a tourist at the University of Colorado in Boulder on the day that someone assassinated Professor Olaf Svenson.”
Jake's brows knitted. “Svenson? The microbiologist that Justice thought developed a polio virus weapon for Castro?”
“That's the guy. The FBI couldn't get enough evidence to prosecute.”
“I remember.”
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