The Aden Effect (26 page)

“You could have stayed there.”

“I wanted to do something more than . . . than . . . just being there. I really want to do this humanitarian operation, Connor.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? That's not what I expected to hear.”

“I'll save the security objections for Golzari. I'm not going to fight you, C. J. If this is what you think should be done, we'll figure out how to do it.”

She hugged his arm. “Thanks.”

“Will you give me some flexibility?”

“With what?”

“I spoke with my friend.”

“The mystery friend.”

“His name's Mutahar. One of his brothers is head of the Yemeni Navy.”

“Oh.”

“An uncle is the foreign minister you've been trying to get an appointment with.”

“Wait, the foreign minister's nephew is the president of Yemen. That would make your friend one of the president's brothers.” She leaned away and sized him up. “My, my, you do have friends in high places,” she said, finally recognizing the extent of Connor's influence with the Yemenis. She finished her second drink and poured the next one herself. “Should I ask how you know him?”

Stark realized he was already one drink behind C. J. Nothing ever changed. He had lost count of the Capitol Hill bars they had closed together. “It was over two years ago. I was here commanding the
Kirkwall
. We were off the west coast of Socotra when we heard a distress call. Two skiffs were closing in on a dhow
when we intercepted them. They had already done a lot of damage. The dhow was sinking. We took out one of the skiffs. The other one escaped. A couple of us were hit. We took the three survivors of the dhow aboard, including its captain—who was Mutahar's older son.”

“So that's how it is.”

“It's as simple as that. Mutahar and the family were grateful. They took me in as one of their own. We enjoyed one another's company and became friends. They trust me. I can work through them, but I need to know what I'm authorized to do and say. I'd take you along, but . . .”

“ . . . but they don't even let female family members eat with them. I know.” She paused to reassess her strategy. C. J. couldn't waste words with the Yemenis. Whatever Stark said, the request had to be simple, direct, and achievable.

“Their boats have to come out of the port, just to make a small show of force. I want the pirates to think twice, and I want other governments to think we're finally making inroads here. And I want a meeting to discuss an agreement about the oil.”

“I'll see what I can do. It may not be the way you would do it.”

The last time Stark had said that, Quebec terrorists had died and he had been court-martialed, though C. J. and the others involved had been saved from the consequences.

“Why have you always been such a rebel?” she sighed.

“I never was until I met you.”

Chet Baker played a trumpet solo.

“Is that my problem with men?”

“Why is that a problem?”

C. J.'s Blackberry buzzed on the kitchen counter. She ignored it. “Because it's not right to be a rebel. That's why there are rules.”

“Caroline Jaha, sometimes you have to be a rebel to do what's right. Sometimes you have to make things happen. Sometimes you have to be Fate instead of letting Fate control you.” That sentiment had resulted in his court-martial, he realized. Had he just doomed her to something similar?

She sighed in resignation. This had to be done. It was why she was here. She hoped that Stark could pull it off this time. She had already expended her one silver bullet for him. Even now, with her rank in the State Department, she might not have the power to save him from the consequences again.

“Just get them to help. I trust you. I'm tired of this uphill battle against them and Washington and the terrorists and pirates. I'm tired of doing this alone.”

“You're not alone anymore. But you're the boss, C. J. You have the authority, and you have the assets here to do it—not as many as you'd like, but we have to conduct operations with the assets we have at our disposal, not the ones we'd like to have. You know how to take command. You have the ideas and know what needs to be done. You took charge in the office with me and Golzari.”

She moved to nestle her head against his thick shoulder. “Only after you punched him . . .”

“Why did you let things escalate to that point?”

“You needed to get it out of your system, and he crossed the line with you. Plus, he needed to realize that you're his equal. He's arrogant, and he's pretty full of himself after stopping that attack. Once you calmed down and he shut up, the situation improved.”

She was right
, he thought. “I'll help you.”

“No rebelling?”

He chuckled. “No rebelling. I'll do whatever you want.” Connor put his empty glass down on a side table and cupped her cheek as his thumb caressed it. She moved closer to him.

“We'll succeed?” she asked.

“We'll do what has to be done,” he said quietly.

“Regardless of the cost or the consequences?”

Chet Baker finished his last song and the room went quiet. The only sound C. J. heard and felt was the adagio tempo of his heartbeat. She tapped her forefinger on his bicep to its constant rhythm—the human metronome she needed to pace herself on this path. She tilted her head up toward his and closed her eyes.

Connor lifted his chin at the last moment and lightly kissed her forehead. “So how are the Washington Nationals doing this year?” he whispered.

She dropped her head back against the sofa and laughed.

“G
entlemen,” Sumner said to the two men who stood in front of her desk. “Commander Stark has requested permission to leave the embassy compound for two days. I've granted it. Agent Golzari, you will accompany him as his protective detail.”

Stark bit off his objection before it passed his lips; he had agreed to do things her way.

“Madam Ambassador, may I remind you that I am still conducting an investigation and that you ordered me yesterday to find Asha,” said Golzari.

“I don't need a reminder,” she responded curtly. “I am not rescinding those instructions, Mr. Golzari, but right now this has a higher priority.”

“Madam Ambassador, I'd like to remind you that this is a critical-threat post and that—”

“Actually, Agent Golzari, I don't need you to remind me of that either. I'm very much aware that this is a critical-threat post.”

“Madam Ambassador, I really must protest . . .”

C. J. held up a piece of paper and said, “This fax arrived overnight from the director of Diplomatic Security approving my request to temporarily assign you here as our RSO. You may protest to a limited extent, but keep in mind that I now own you.”

“Welcome to the club,” Stark whispered to Golzari.

Golzari looked at Stark without changing his expression, then turned back to the ambassador. “May I ask where Commander Stark is going? The last time he went somewhere things went very wrong. I would like time to prepare for any contingency.”

Stark answered him. “We're going to Mar'ib. It's east of Sana'a, about a ninety-minute drive from here.”

“Good luck, gentlemen,” C. J. said briskly. She flicked on the intercom. “Mindy, I need to meet with the gunnery sergeant.” She looked up. “Gentlemen, you're dismissed.”

Golzari tossed his overnight bag in the back seat of the SUV next to his larger go-bag. Stark arrived a few minutes later wearing a white cotton shirt and khaki pants similar to those Golzari—and most foreigners in Yemen—wore. Stark carried two bags as well, including one that appeared to be a go-bag. He donned a pair of Oakleys to shade his eyes from the bright midmorning sun.

“What's in that?”

“Probably the same thing as in yours.”

“I doubt that. What the hell's in the bag?”

“Emergency kit, a 9-mm, and a few clips.”

Golzari snorted. “That popgun will do you a lot of good. Here. I picked up an extra rifle,” he said, handing one to Stark. “Ever handle one of these before on a ship?”

“This? On a ship? No.”

“Well try to figure it out, Stark, and don't point it toward me. If the shit goes down, I won't be able to help you.”

“Golly gee. And I thought you were assigned to protect me. Let's see,” Stark said as he held up the weapon. “Hmm, M4A1 carbine. I'm glad you didn't bring the semiautomatic-only option like the M4. Full-auto option is a waste of good ammunition, but it's good to have just in case. Six pounds empty. Shorter stock than the M16 variant. I'd prefer the M16 since the M4 is shit beyond three hundred yards, but I don't expect we'll have to worry about that kind of distance if we're in a firefight, now will we, you presumptuous
prick
?”

Stark punctuated the last word by chambering a round.

Gritting his teeth, Golzari merely uttered, “Get in. I'm driving.”

Neither occupant said anything until they saw the signs that told them they were approaching Mar'ib.

“You ever been here before?” Stark asked.

“Mar'ib? No. It's always been on my list of places to visit. Mar'ib is one of the region's oldest cities. It was the capital of the Sabaean Kingdom. Legend says
it was founded by one of Noah's sons. Some of the ruins go back three thousand years. There's a temple here. What the hell was name of it? Oh, yeah, Bar'an.” Golzari was speaking more to himself than to Stark.

“This is where the Queen of Sheba ruled,” Stark commented while gazing out the side window.

“A Greek historian wrote about the Roman prefect in Egypt who was lured here to his death,” Golzari added, refusing to be topped.

“Strabo.”

“What?”

“Strabo. That was the Greek historian who wrote about that campaign. It was led by Aelius Gallus. He was betrayed by a local guide. The Romans had their asses handed to them. You never know who you can trust,” Stark explained.

If Golzari was surprised by Stark's familiarity with a weapon no naval officer should know—except a SEAL—he was downright shocked that the man he had dismissed as a barbarian knew about a relatively obscure historian, much less the name of an even more obscure Roman leader. This made two unexpected revelations in less than an hour.

“How the hell do you know that?” Golzari asked.

Stark raised his eyebrows. “I read.”

“Where exactly are we going?” Golzari asked in mounting frustration.

“A friend's.”

“Does this friend have a name?”

“Mutahar.”

“And what does this friend do for a living?”

“He's a businessman.”

“Why are you going to meet with him?”

“He invited me.”

“What kind of businessman?” asked Golzari.

“How about we stop playing twenty questions?” Stark shot back.

“I'm supposed to protect you. I need information to do that properly.”

“I didn't ask for your protection, Golzari. That was an order from higher up. But if you have to know, Mutahar owns a shipping company and he's involved in some other businesses. Some I know about, some I don't.” Stark wiped sweat from his forehead. A year in Scotland had made him more susceptible to the Yemeni heat.

“How long have you known him?”

“A few years. Look, Golzari, he's a friend. He's not a terrorist. I'll be safe at his place.”

“There are no safe places in Yemen, Stark.”

They were silent again until Stark pointed out the final turn. “His estate is just up the road.”

“His estate?” Golzari said sardonically. “How awfully grand. How rich is this Mutahar?”