Dangerous Alliance, page 20
The PA system announced passengers arriving from Nairobi would exit the building in a few minutes. People inched forward, creating a thin opening for arrivals to squeeze through.
Among the local arrivals pushing their way out of the building, a muscle-laden foreigner with close-cropped brown hair bulldozed his way toward Fergus. A massive green backpack was strapped to his back.
A bit shorter than Fergus at five-feet-eleven-inches tall, William Campbell’s hazel eyes sparkled as he approached. “You must be Fergus. I’m Willie.”
The men shook hands. “Sorry for the delay. After I cleared customs in Nairobi, the airlines insisted my bag be transferred to the hold. No problem on my first two flights, but the last plane was tiny and my duffle came off last.”
They stood in line waiting for a taxi. Once their turn came, they deferred to the couple standing behind them and took the next cab. After providing the name of their hotel, Willie and Fergus remained quiet, shrugging off questions from the driver.
Fergus paid for the trip when they reached the hotel, giving a small tip. The man glanced at the money. “Cheapskate.” His tires screeched as he departed.
“I gave him the going rate for a tip according to a police sergeant we met.” Fergus shrugged as they went through the doors.
“The guy must have figured we would overtip like most foreigners.” Willie glanced around the lobby as they strode to the elevators. “So, this is how the other half lives.”
“Wait until you see the penthouse—outstanding view, plenty of space. I might become accustomed to this.”
When they entered the penthouse, Fergus introduced Willie to the others. They filed onto the terrace.
“Well, shut my mouth. Fergus didn’t exaggerate about y’all’s view. Your boss must have deep pockets to spring for this. I can’t imagine Admiral Blakely reimbursing us for a suite like this.”
“We haven’t explained to Sir Alex about our accommodations. We took the last room available with visual access to the city.” Trevor smiled. “It’ll be a battle with the accountants, I’m sure.”
Fergus handed everyone a Tusker Lager as they sat.
Trevor took a swig of the cold beer before setting the bottle on a coaster. “Right. Business. Willie, you and Fergus will be heading to HMS Snapdragon. Her crew is working with a Greek frigate to locate the oil tanker we’re interested in, now called the Zebu.”
He turned to Fergus. “While you were picking up Willie, a new signal came in from Topaz. Rather than a couple of days for Willie to overcome jetlag, two Typhoon FGR-4 aircraft will pick you up in fifteen hours at the airport and take you to Diego Garcia.”
“How will we transfer to the Snapdragon?” Willie smothered a yawn with a ham-sized hand.
“They didn’t specify, so perhaps it’s still being worked out. Nate and I will take a commercial flight to Mahe Island, Seychelles. We’ll leave for the airport in about four hours, so Nate and I need to call it an evening. We’ll all meet again at 05:30.”
***
At the appointed time, the four men met again. Trevor checked for any last-minute updates from Topaz. Nothing.
Nate and Trevor said their farewells and headed for the airport. They checked in and followed other travelers to the boarding lounge. At 08:10, their flight departed for Nairobi where they would change planes for their connection to the Seychelles.
Fergus lounged around the penthouse throughout the morning and paid a visit to Sergeant Jomo while Willie caught up on his sleep. When Fergus returned, Willie's bag sat on the floor in a heap, the contents strewn across the dining table.
“Willie, what’s all this?”
“Never know when these ‘toys’ might come in handy on our mission. Our technical whiz made them before I left to join you. When we get to Diego, I’ll demonstrate.”
A knock on the door interrupted their preparations. Fergus crept to the peephole while Willie ducked around a corner.
Knuckles rapped on the door, more urgent and louder. Weapon drawn, Fergus glanced outside. A foreigner, dressed in a flight suit, prepared to knock a third time when Fergus yanked the door open.
“Sorry, I’m early. There’s a bit of a ruckus at the airport and the pilots want to get airborne.”
“Two minutes and we’ll be ready.” Fergus nodded to the bar area. “Grab a drink while we finish.”
While the man poured himself a soft drink, Fergus and Willie finished packing and dragged their bags to the door.
Their escort tried to pick up Willie’s bag, but let it tumble to the floor. “What’s in this thing? Bricks?”
“Naw, jest a few things which might make the mission a bit easier.”
They hauled everything into the elevator. While Fergus checked them out, the others carried the luggage to a small battered Jeep with Kenyan military plates.
“How’d ya nab this vehicle?”
“I work with the Kenyan military. They’re the ones who provided the vehicle and arranged landing permission for the planes.”
Fergus joined them and the driver merged into traffic, blowing the horn as a bus tried to overtake. “Crazy drivers—can’t wait to finish my posting and return to London.”
As they approached the airport, traffic slowed.
The Jeep’s driver squeezed through the congestion, and sped toward a private gate into the airport.
After showing his identification to the guards, they opened the gate and the Jeep shot through, careening around airport vehicles until he reached a cordoned area. Two Typhoon jets sat side by side, the pilots going over their planes before departure.
Fergus and Willie jumped out of the Jeep, grabbed their bags, and waved farewell. They walked over to the aircraft where the pilots joined them.
“White and Rebel. Glad you made it. Seems to be a bit of a hubbub brewing.” Both pilots were tall and thin, with one sporting a sparse brown mustache. “Two minutes and we’ll get you loaded up and we’ll be off. I want to depart before the crowd does something stupid.”
“What do y’all think is going on?” Willie glanced at the people hanging on the perimeter fence shouting and throwing objects onto the tarmac.
“The locals have been stressed over higher taxes and loss of jobs. They use the airport to protest their frustration with the government. Rebel, I’m the flight leader and you’re with me. Let’s climb aboard.”
Given permission to taxi by the control tower, the jets moved forward.
Whoomph. Whoomph.
“Flight leader this is two. Incoming!”
“Full throttle. Now!”
The sudden acceleration forced the men deeper into their seats. They sped along the runway and rotated upward as additional rocket-propelled grenades peppered the area.
“British military aircraft. What are you doing?” An unknown voice from the control tower squeaked at them in anger. “No permission to go. Return at once.”
“Sorry, Control. Your transmission is garbled.” The flight leader grinned. “Thank you and have a good day.”
Grenades burst around a jet fuel bunker, rupturing the metal container. A thunderous explosion followed, the ensuing fireball billowing skyward, flames and thick, black smoke encompassed the airport.
“Holy crap! Rebel, did you and White have something to do with this?”
“Not us, Flight Lieutenant.” Willie laughed. “Scout’s honor.” Not this time, anyway.
The pilot shook his head. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Next stop—Diego Garcia, compliments of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sihanoukville, Cambodia
Merchant Ship Krumen
Dacar and Sahid stood with the captain of the merchant ship Krumen as he gave instructions to cast off from the dock. Normal procedures required a local pilot to remain with every foreign craft until they cleared the port. A small craft followed the Krumen, waiting to collect the pilot.
“Captain, when he returns to the port, I’m going with him.” Dacar waved a hand at the Cambodian pilot. “I must take care of some personal business. Sahid will remain onboard with you.”
“No problem. Don’t forget the fee. If not pa—”
“What fee?” Dacar glared at the greedy captain. “The North Koreans paid you to deliver their cargo to the Seychelles.”
“The price has increased. I want twenty-five thousand dollars to offload. There’ll be expenses and bribes to pay.”
Dacar bristled at the attempted price increase. He pursed his lips and let out a huge sigh. “Very well. I’ll meet the ship when you arrive at the destination and provide the money, okay?”
“Cash.” The captain grinned as he rubbed his thumb and index finger together.
“Yes, cash.”
“Captain.” The local pilot approached, holding out a hand. “I ordered the ship to slow. We’ve reached the point where your pilot may continue without me.”
The captain glared at the interruption but remained silent. He reached into a back pocket and removed a smudged envelope. “Here is your fee. Until the next time.”
The Cambodian tipped an imaginary hat. “I enjoy doing business with you—always punctual with your payments.”
“Remember, the extra is for keeping your mouth quiet. Go now.” The captain pointed at Dacar. “Take him with you. Seems he wants to remain longer in Cambodia.”
After the two men transferred to the local craft, the Krumen’s single screw churned the water before the ship moved forward. The pilot and Dacar jumped onto the small boat, colliding with each other when they fell and rolled across the deck.
Climbing to his feet as the boat headed back to port, Dacar scratched his chin and smirked. “Who says ships can’t be fun?”
“We must discuss what fun means.” The pilot rubbed a banged knee as he stood upright. “I think of being with my wife, having a splendid meal, and laughing with friends as fun. Jumping from a ship to a small boat? Not so much.”
“Ha! You’re spoiled by your easy life. Never mind—I require your assistance.”
The pilot’s eyes gleamed. “Will it involve ships? Will I make money?”
“Yes, to both. In the not too distant future, a ship will pull into port. Before departing, I want some new artwork—change the name, homeport, and ship’s logo. A new flag, too.”
“Those things might be arranged—if someone has connections with the right people. For you, I will make contact, but it will cost.”
Dacar watched the man’s face flush with excitement. “How much?”
“Twenty thous—”
Dacar’s nostrils flared. He crossed his arms and glared at the smaller man.
“No. I mean fifteen thousand. Dollars.”
“Twelve thousand dollars—in cash and we are agreed.”
They shook hands before they staggered to the seats while the boat bounced on rippling waves. A horn blew when another freighter headed out of the port. The pilot waved before turning back to Dacar. “Would you like a cold beer?”
“No thanks—I don’t drink alcohol. If you have a cold Coke or Dr. Pepper, I’ll join you in celebrating our arrangement.”
***
The following morning, a man in a light gray suit with a white shirt and red-striped tie stepped out of the inexpensive G’Day Mate Guest House. In his right hand, Dacar held a black attaché case. He glanced both directions before strolling along Ekareach Street to the ANZ Royal Bank.
Inside the building, Dacar stood behind several people waiting for a teller. When his turn came, he stepped forward. “I wish to make a hefty money transfer.”
“Yes, sir.” An elderly Cambodian woman motioned to a waist-high railing with a swinging gate. “Step over there and someone will assist you.”
A tall, slender man with thinning black hair met Dacar at the rail. “Come this way, sir.” He held the gate open for Dacar, pointing to a nearby desk. “Would you like tea or coffee? Perhaps some water?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“How may I help you?”
Dacar opened his case and removed a single sheet of paper and a forged American passport. “I would like to transfer one hundred thousand dollars from my account at the Freedom Bank in Malta. The number is DK90123.”
The clerk scanned the document and compared Dacar with the photograph in the passport. “Everything appears to be in order. Is the money to be transferred here?”
“Yes. I want sixty-two thousand in mixed denominations. Non-sequential bills in pristine condition. The balance will remain on deposit in your bank.”
The clerk’s eyes gleamed and he grinned. “I’ll be able to take care of this transaction for you within fifteen minutes.”
Dacar fidgeted while the minutes ticked by on a wall clock.
Fifteen minutes later, the clerk reappeared, a frown etched across his face. He sat, reread a note he brought with him, and cleared his throat. “Mr. Khadaafi, the Freedom Bank is unable to initiate the transfer.”
“Why?”
“They’re willing to make the transfer. However, someone froze the account. You are unable to make deposits or withdrawals until you visit the bank in person.”
Hmmm. Can’t go to Malta. The Maltese Police Force want me. “Suggestions?”
“There isn’t anything I can recommend.” He glared at Dacar. “Should you be able to sort out your, ah, difficulty, I shall be happy to assist with your transfer request.”
Two security guards approached, taking up station on either side of Dacar’s chair.
“These men will escort you out of the bank. Good day.”
The guards each grabbed an arm and pulled Dacar toward the exit. They let him leave the building without a scene.
“Wallahi! (I swear to God!)” Dacar fumed at the indignant behavior of the bank clerk. How dare he! He straightened his ruffled clothing, rolled his shoulders and marched away from the bank.
He pushed his way through the crowds on Ekareach Street until he reached the guesthouse. In response to a polite greeting from the desk clerk, Dacar slammed the empty attaché case on the counter. “I’m checking out. Arrange a taxi to take me to the airport.”
“Is there something I might do to help?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do. I must leave.” Dacar rushed to his room, threw his meager belongings into a worn and battered leather suitcase, and returned to the desk. He tossed money on the counter and raced to a waiting cab.
“Airport—hurry!”
***
The taxi skidded to a halt in front of the terminal. Dacar dropped a handful of bills over the front seat and dashed inside. He raced to an Air Asia ticketing desk. Chest heaving, he tried to calm himself. Relax. Things will work out.
“May I help you, sir?”
Dacar took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yes. I want to travel the quickest way possible to Djibouti.”
The ticket agent pointed at a small row of red plastic chairs. “Please take a seat. This will take several minutes.”
Dacar tried to make himself comfortable in one of the chairs. He propped his feet on his suitcase and shut his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, the clerk tapped him on the shoulder. “Sir, you fell asleep. I have your tickets arranged. There will be three flights and it will take over forty-eight hours. You depart in ninety minutes.”
***
Three days later, dressed in the same clothes he wore when departing Sihanoukville, a bedraggled Dacar stepped out of Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport. He raised a hand to his forehead, blocking out the intense rays.
Jostled by others leaving the terminal, Dacar scanned the waiting throng for his contact. Hope he received the message. Dacar’s eyes roamed over the crowd. He’s not here.
Dacar grinned as he recognized a familiar figure approach from the edge of the crowd. Rooble!
They clasped hands and gave each other a hug. “Sorry, I’m late.” Rooble raised his right hand and pointed over the crowd. “The next stage is prepared. One of our boats is waiting in the harbor.”
“Let’s go, my friend. I’m seething over the shame from Sihanoukville.” If only I could kill someone—anyone—who stands in my way.
Rooble pushed his way to the exit, Dacar following. They weaved their way through narrow, dusty streets. Everyday life existed here—children played, goats wandered about, chewing on pieces of discarded paper as older children herded them. Adults laughed and shouted, adding to the din. A slight breeze brought salt air, cooking aromas, and the smell of dung.
A few minutes later, Rooble blew a whistle and waved both hands in the air. A small, blue and white boat coasted up to the dock and banged against tires hung over the edge to prevent damage.
Dacar and Rooble climbed aboard. After a round of handshakes and hugs, the boat pushed away and headed out of the harbor.
“How was the trip?” Rooble’s eyes gleamed as he handed Dacar a long dagger. “Did you check the weapons?”
“Good and bad. I inspected them before the Krumen departed. Sahid is still on the ship.” Dacar heaved a sigh. “I tried to transfer money from Malta, but someone froze the account.” He clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white. “I’ll find out what happened and deal with whoever caused me inconvenience and embarrassment.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” He ran a finger along the dagger’s blade, a thin line of blood forming where he nicked himself. “A wise suggestion to hold some of the Napoli’s crew until I transfer the funds, even though Tahliil wanted them released.”
Dacar wiped the smear on his trousers. “Since I’m unable to access the money, Engineer Smith will pay.”
***
The boat skirted the coastline, heading toward the pirate compound near Ras Hafun. The pilot entered a narrow bay and continued to a small, rickety pier. After dropping off Dacar and Rooble, the boat turned and left the bay.
A one-armed man met them as they plodded through a dusty street to a two-story house surrounded by a whitewashed stone wall. The wooden gate opened and they squeezed past a sentry wielding an AK-47.
