Halim Subandrio, seated in the back, didn’t notice any of that. He was lost in thought on how best to approach the Americans. He needed to convince them of the truth of his story so that he could negotiate for a reward, while at the same time keep himself out of trouble.
It had taken him three days to convince the Libyans that he’d been hijacked and his ship sunk out from under him, but it hadn’t seemed to him that they really cared very much. They were more interested in the exact spot where his ship went down than a description of the hijackers, or how he’d been stopped and boarded, and why he’d not had a chance to send a Mayday.
The Libyan doctor had treated him for a mild case of hypothermia and dehydration, and the police had even allowed him to telephone Athens to speak to Hristos Lapides, the owner of the Distal Volente, who had not been the least surprised by the news.
“Well, we made good profits from her!” he’d shouted over the phone. “I’ll contact our insurance agents, so we’ll make even more, eh?”
“I need a temporary passport and some money,” Subandrio had told the Greek.
“Yes, of course. I’ll send that by FedEx this morning. You should have it by tomorrow. But how about another ship? Will you be staying in Tripoli?”
“No, as soon as they release me I’m going back to Tunis,” Subandrio said. “But listen to me, Mr. Lapides, I don’t know who the hijackers were, they all wore balaclavas. They murdered my crew.”
“Bastards,” Lapides said, but without much feeling. “How is it that you managed to escape?”
“I saw what was happening and I jumped overboard.”
“And the Libyan navy rescued you?” Lapides asked, but Subandrio had never mentioned who’d rescued him.
It suddenly came to him that he had been manipulated. The deal to use the Distal Volente to bring Graham and his crew out to meet the Libyan submarine had only been one part of an arrangement with Lapides and Macedonia Shipping. The entire deal had been to hijack the ship, kill him and his crew, as well as the Libyan crew, and sink it.
Lapides knew everything. Now Subandrio was a loose end that would have to be taken care of. But away from Libya, so that no blame could be attached to them. It wasn’t a ship that would be waiting for him on the waterfront in Tunis. It would be a bullet.
“Yes, and now they’re interested in the exact position where my ship went to the bottom.”
“Did you tell them?” Lapides asked, his voice guarded.
“Yes, of course,” Subandrio lied. “I cooperated completely.”
“That was the correct decision, Captain,” Lapides said. “When you get to Tunis, telephone me, and I will make arrangements for another ship for you.” He laughed. “We are not finished doing business, my old friend. You’ll see.”
Subandrio looked up from his thoughts as they approached the sprawling twenty-one-acre complex of buildings, gardens, and fountains that had been built a few years ago, reputedly at a cost of more than forty-two million U.S. dollars. He’d gotten to Tunis by bus late last night, and checked into his hotel, but he had not telephoned Lapides, nor would he.
So far as he could figure, he had two options. He could retire right now with the money he had salted away in a Swiss bank account. It was enough to live well, though not in luxury. Or he could go to the Americans and try to sell his story.
And exact his revenge.
The cabbie turned down a side street that connected with La Goulette Road and pulled up at the main entrance. A pair of U.S. Marines stood just inside the front gate, which was guarded from the street by four concrete dolphins meant to protect the compound from a car bombing. The American flag flew from a staff above the main entrance of the embassy building that was fronted by a large fountain in the middle of well-tended gardens and olive groves. The place managed to look very modern and yet somehow traditionally Arabic.
Subandrio paid off the driver and made his way across the broad sidewalk, between the squat concrete posts. He’d purchased a Western-style business suit and shoes this morning, so that he would look presentable here, but the jacket and especially the silly tie were uncomfortable in this hot climate.
“Good morning,” he said to the marine. “I’m here to see the military attaché, on a matter of some importance.”
The very tall marine gave him the once-over. “May I see your identification, sir?”
Subandrio handed over his temporary passport. “My ship went down four days ago, so my papers are new.”
A second marine came over and searched Subandrio’s body with an electronic wand as the other marine stepped back to a call box just inside the gate and telephoned someone.
A few moments later he hung up, returned, and handed Subandrio’s passport back. “The receptionist at the counter will help you, sir.”
Subandrio felt the eyes of the two young soldiers on him as he passed through the gate and walked down a broad path between the trees to the main building. He had passed his first, and possibly most important, hurdle. They could just as well have denied him entry to the building.
The embassy was busy this morning, with many people coming and going. A youngish female receptionist was seated behind a low counter in the middle of a soaring atrium entrance, a computer monitor and a multiline telephone set in front of her. Two dozen people were queued down a corridor to the left, obviously applying for visas to travel to the United States.
“May I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked.
“I wish to speak to your military attaché.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. He is currently out of the country.” She smiled. “In any event, you would need to first set up an appointment, in writing.”
Subandrio returned her smile. “I understand,” he said pleasantly. He leaned closer so that she would be certain to hear his next words. “But you see, al-Quaida has gotten its hands on a submarine. Just four days ago. And I have the details.”
The woman didn’t blink. “Yes, sir. May I have your name?”
“I am Merchant Marine Captain Halim Subandrio. A citizen of Indonesia.”
She picked up a telephone with an odd-looking handset and began talking. Although Subandrio was only one meter away from her he could not hear her voice. It was oddly disconcerting. He’d just stepped from one age into another, and he was no longer very sure of his decision to come here.
The receptionist hung up the phone. “It will be just a moment, sir.”
A man in his mid-thirties, short, slender, mild-looking, came down the stairs from the second floor. “I’m Walt Hopper, the assistant military attaché,” he said, shaking Subandrio’s hand. “Why don’t you come with me, and we can talk.”
“Very well,” Subandrio said. He followed the American back upstairs, down a short corridor, and into a room with no windows. It was furnished only with a small conference table on which was a telephone.
“You say that you have some information about an al-Quaida plot to steal a submarine, or something like that,” Hopper said nonchalantly, but it was obvious that he was interested.
“I’ve come to sell you the information,” Subandrio corrected the man. “And they’re not trying to steal a submarine, they already have it. A Russian Foxtrot, I think, and crew. But what might be most interesting to you is the captain.”
Hopper’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know this?”
“Because I delivered the captain and some of the crew to a rendezvous with the submarine aboard my ship the Distal Volente four days ago.”