Liberty (19 page)

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Authors: Stephen Coonts

BOOK: Liberty
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After another glance at the empty bridge wing, Zuair braced himself and carefully picked up one of the bombs—which weighed about sixty pounds each. The boat rocked dangerously. Trying not to capsize, he passed the bomb over the stern to the diver, who let the weight push him under.
Less than a minute later a hand rose above the water. A thumb in the air signaled success.
Zuair sculled the boat another hundred feet aft, then tugged on the line again.
When Anna Modin entered the restaurant she saw Janos Ilin sitting at a table at the back of the room. He looked exactly as she remembered him. He stood as she approached and helped her with her chair.
They chatted for several minutes as if they were old acquaintances. Ilin led the conversation along innocuous lines. After dinner they left the restaurant together.
Walking the streets of Zurich, he strolled briskly and kept a wary eye peeled to ensure they weren't being followed. As he walked he talked. “That CD you brought from Cairo is full of Walney's Bank records. They show how the money flowed to Frouq al-Zuair for the purchase of those four warheads. It's a long, convoluted trail.”
She nodded.
“I want you to take it to a man in America. His name is Jake Grafton.” He gave her Jake's address in Washington.
“When?”
“Now. In the morning on the first flight. The weapons were put aboard a freighter,
Olympic Voyager,
in Karachi nine days ago. He needs to know that, too.”
“Don't you have any other way of getting him this information?”
“No.” He said the word abruptly. “I'm operating on my own. There are factions in the SVR and Russian government that would call what I'm doing treason. I faked up a reason to go to America several weeks ago, but I cannot go again now. I do not have a plausible reason in position. Perhaps I should have, but I don't. If I go to America, the people in Moscow will suspect treason and everything I have worked for all my life will collapse.”
“I guess I always knew you were on your own,” she admitted. “That's the only reason I did as you suggested, went where you wanted me to go.”
Ilin nodded, his lips a thin line. “Perhaps we're both fools.” He gestured irritably. “I'm asking you to risk your life. Abdul Abn Saad and his friends will suspect you
betrayed them. They'll come after you. The fact that you've already told what you knew won't matter—they'll want revenge. Tell Jake Grafton that and he will try to protect you.”
“I saw the bombs.”
“I know you did. Grafton will believe you. That is why I'm asking you to do this. Abdul Abn Saad is one of the most dangerous men alive—he's up to his eyeballs in this mess. The Americans must be told.”
He stopped and faced her. “You understand, if those weapons explode, the world that we know will cease to exist. The world will enter a new dark age. Billions of people will starve. I don't know what your politics are, and I don't care, but that outcome must be prevented.”
“When I don't return to Cairo Saad will look in the bank for an accomplice. He'll find your agent.”
Ilin made a gesture of helplessness. “Perhaps he won't find her. If he does, she knows nothing that will help him. She, too, is a soldier—she must take her chances.”
“No,” said Anna Modin, shaking her head. “I must return to Cairo and get her. I shall take her with me.”
“Too dangerous.
I forbid it
. They may capture you both, which is an unacceptable risk. You know too much.
You know me!
They'll torture you until you tell them everything. If the woman in Cairo dies, we've lost a soldier. If I die, we've lost the army and the war. There will be no one between us and them.”
Janos Ilin cocked his head and examined her eyes.
“Do you understand?”
“I
do
understand. Years ago you bet your life on your ability to find people with integrity to help you. If you made a single error you would forfeit your life. As a person who grew up in communist Russia I appreciate the magnitude of the risk you chose to run and your courage. You are either the greatest man who ever lived or the biggest fool. That question remains to be decided.”
Anna Modin paused and touched Ilin's arm. “I do not question your assessment of the risk. On the other hand, if we abandon this woman we will be no better than Abdul
Abn Saad or Frouq al-Zuair or General Petrov. They are the evil I am fighting against.”
His eyes looked as hard as the steel in a rifle barrel. “No.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I will not abandon that woman. There is no other way, unless you go to America yourself. Give me the CD and tell me her name. She and I shall go to America together.”
Ilin had no choice. He didn't like it, but he gave her the name and the disk.
Dutch Vandervelt made a decision as the containers were being off-loaded to the quay. He decided he would send a message telling about the bombs in the clear on the international distress frequency as soon as the ship was out of Egyptian waters. Every ship in the eastern Med would copy the message, and they would relay it to governments around the world …
He had grabbed for the gold ring and knew now that it had been a horrible mistake. Oh, Christ, what had he done? Even that sot Pappadopoulus had seen the evil of it.
He stared at his hands. They would put him in prison, probably. Being human, he thought about that.
When the last container from
Olympic Voyager
'
s
deck was on the quay, the pilot came up the ladder with a port official. They climbed to the bridge. Dutch Vandervelt had never met the pilot, who had little to say. The port official was overly friendly, unctuous.
“Your friends suggested that you wanted no written record of your port call, for private reasons, all legitimate of course, and we wish to help you in any way we can …”
After negotiation, five hundred dollars American was agreed upon. Vandervelt removed a wad of bills from his pocket and peeled off ten fifties.
Dutch Vandervelt surveyed the horizon. The brisk wind
off the desert carried a load of dust, restricting visibility. Five or six miles, Dutch thought idly, trying to get his mind off bombs and fanatics and his own stupidity. He was looking with unseeing eyes at the gulls wheeling and soaring about the bridge when the radio operator ran onto the bridge.
“The com gear is ruin! Someone smash the radios!”
“What?”
“Someone hammer on the radios—probably before we dock. Smash the radios all to hell.”
One of the crew? Naw! It couldn't have been the pilot—he never left the bridge. The port official went ashore immediately after he got his bribe.
That fucking nuclear engineer! He must have done it just before he went ashore! But why?
Then he knew: They didn't want anyone on
Olympic Voyager
sending messages.
He looked about desperately. There were people on the quay, men of course—Arabs—everywhere. The port official was walking across the deck, heading for the top of the ladder that would take him down to the quay.
My God, they must intend to sink the ship, to kill everyone aboard!
Suddenly his legs would no longer support his weight. He grabbed for the rail to keep from falling.
Of course, they can't leave a shipload of sailors to tell who, what, where, and how after … afterward.
What in the name of Christ have I done?
“What I do, sir?”
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
“What to do, sir?” It was the radio operator, speaking to him.
Maybe they wouldn't kill him.
“Here,” Dutch said, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the wad of bills and thrust them at the man. “Take this, get off the ship. They're going to kill us all, I think. Go down the ladder—right now—and walk away. Don't look back.”
The man stared at him.
“For God's sake, you fool, take the money and go!” He wrapped the man's hand around the money and pushed him away.
A moment later Dutch saw the radio operator crossing the deck. He paused at the top of the starboard ladder, looked back at him, then disappeared down it behind the port official.
Vandervelt waved feebly to Lee, the second mate, on the deck. Ten minutes later the ship was moving away from the dock under its own power.
The pilot boat was waiting outside the harbor, as usual.
Vandervelt signaled all stop on the engine telegraph. He had no money for the pilot, and told him so. The pilot was horrified.
“You must pay me!”
“Write a letter to the company, you wop bastard. Now get the fuck off this ship.”
“That no way to talk. Talk respectly. I a pilot. Highly skilled.”
“Get off this ship. Now! Get down there.”
After a last look at Dutch's face, the pilot stepped back several paces, then turned and made for the ladder to the main deck.
As the ship slowed, the little pilot boat moved in toward the starboard ladder. The pilot waited at the top with the mate, talking volubly and gesturing grandly at the bridge.
Lee looked at Vandervelt, who stood impassively.
The truth was there was nothing he could do—he had realized that standing on the bridge when the ship was at the dock. If he left the ship, they would kill him. If they intended to sink the ship, they probably would. He and the crew had no weapons aboard—they were completely defenseless.
He was mulling all this, trying to see a way out, when he realized with a start that Lee was signaling to him, waving his arms … and four men carrying weapons topped the ladder. Backpacks hung from their shoulders.
In less than a minute they were on the bridge, pushing Lee in front of them with a gun in his back.
“Get under way,” Frouq al-Zuair snapped, and pointed a submachine gun at Vandervelt's midriff.
Lee stared at him, his eyes big as saucers, as if to say, See, this is where our greed has taken us.
“We had a deal,” Vandervelt managed.
The burst hit him in the stomach and hammered him against the engine telegraph pedestal. Dutch Vandervelt felt everything inside coming loose. With his hands on his stomach, he slid toward the floor, unable to stay erect.
As his blood pressure fell, Dutch heard the jingle of the telegraph, heard Zuair say something to Lee. The last thing he saw was the dirty green tile on the deck, then he lost consciousness. Sixty seconds later his heart stopped.
Zuair and his holy warriors were merciless. As the ship worked up to fifteen knots, they went methodically through the ship killing the crewmen, shooting them where they stood. Lee they left alive, on the bridge conning the ship, with a man standing behind him with a submachine gun against his back.
As the afternoon wore on Zuair set charges of plastique explosive that he and his men had carried aboard in their backpacks. It was possible, he knew, that the charges on the port side of the ship, below the waterline, might be torn off by the sea. He had to allow for that possibility.
He planted charges around the pipes that fed oil to the boilers and the water intakes from the sea. Just to make sure, he set incendiary charges with delay fuses on the ladders leading up from the engine room.
At sunset, with the charges set, he climbed the ladder to the bridge. From the wings of the bridge he used binoculars to survey the surface of the ocean. One ship in sight, on an opposite course, apparently heading for Port Said. Several miles behind
Olympic Voyager
and offset from her wake was a cabin cruiser on a parallel course.
Satisfied, he walked back across the bridge. As he walked he pulled a pistol from his waistband. When he passed behind Lee, he shot the second mate in the back of the head.
“Put them in there,” he said to his man, and nodded toward the hatchway to the radar shack. “Lock the door. We don't want bodies floating.”
The sun sank into the sea and black night enveloped them. An hour later a large container ship appeared from the haze behind them, overtaking. It was a bit to port. He watched the lights of the ship through his binoculars, then turned the helm and let the ship's head come starboard twenty degrees. Then he recentered the rudder.
It took almost two hours before the other ship's lights were fading into the haze again.
He consulted the radar display. He didn't know how to operate it or the scale of the presentation, but he saw no blips close by. That would have to do.
With his man tending the helm, trying to hold a steady course, Frouq al-Zuair climbed down the ladder and went along the deck to the ladder leading below. Once in the lower deck passageway, he made his way to the ladder well that led down to the engine room.

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