Brent’s breath froze at the sight. He picked her up and carried her to his bed, struggling out of his clothes as he went. She lay on her back, knees spread apart and watched him kick off his boxers. He stumbled slightly and felt his knees go a little wobbly but tried to shrug it off. He looked at her there on the bed, so eager for him, so extraordinarily beautiful.
“I hope we can make love all night,” she murmured.
Brent nodded in agreement. He moved to the bed and took her in his arms. He felt the most amazing desire but also an immense weight that swept in like a storm cloud and seemed to press in from behind his eyes. No matter how he tried to resist, it seemed to pull his head down, force his eyes closed. In another instant he tumbled like a man falling off a cliff, downward into a dark pool of sleep.
FOURTEEN
OYSTER BAY, LONG ISLAND, JUNE 25
ABU SAYEED NOTED THE CHANGE in pitch as the engines throttled back and the bow settled in the water. For several seconds the yacht seemed suspended in time, and he raised his eyes to the stars overhead. They were anemic in this part of the world, pale as sick children. In the desert he could lie on his back and almost touch their laser brightness. There the face of God was so much closer, he thought.
He had rolled back one of the sliding glass doors and was squatting in the opening where the yacht’s darkened salon led onto the aft deck. It was probably unwise to expose himself like this, but he detested the ship’s confinement and the sea’s constant smell of putrefaction. He craved the sensation of wide-open space. He believed Allah would not deny him this moment.
Suddenly, he heard a familiar thump and whoosh, the unmistakable sound of a heavy mortar being fired. It came from someplace to his right. He reacted instantly, dropping to his belly, bracing for the explosion that would follow, while he heard Naif and Mohammed inside the salon do the same. Only, when the explosion came, there was no destruction, only a huge blossom of colored sparks in the sky overhead.
All three men crawled to the salon windows on the port side and squatted with their eyes pressed to small slits in the Venetian blinds as the line of fireworks barges sent rocket after rocket into the air. It was beautiful, Abu Sayeed thought, even though the sound of the explosions churned his stomach.
A moment later as they approached the dock, they could see the shoreline and Biddle’s mansion and a crowd of guests in a large tent. Servers dressed in dark pants and white shirts scurried like worker ants, carrying trays to and from a nearby preparation tent.
Abu Sayeed let out a tense breath. So far, the execution had been flawless. The container had been floating at almost the exact intended coordinates, the beacon had worked perfectly, and they’d picked up Mohammed and the missiles at around two that afternoon. Now, all three of them were dressed like the servers. It was a clever way to bring everything to shore.
The hundred-foot Hatteras reversed engines, the bow thrusters engaged, and they bumped gently against padded pilings. The mate and captain were the same two men who had delivered the cases of Coke in Penn Station and served as Biddle’s bodyguards in Paris. Abu Sayeed had taken pains to keep them separated from his men. When they were all in the same small space for even a short time, he could feel a fog of inchoate violence start to gather.
He heard one of Biddle’s men jump onto to the dock where he secured the lines and fixed the gangplank. The other one shut down the engines, and Abu Sayeed tensed as he awaited their signal.
Several minutes passed. Finally, footsteps came up the gangplank. It was the red-haired guard. “Follow me!” he snapped. As Abu Sayeed came off the yacht, he spotted Biddle’s other man far ahead on the shore, positioned where he would be able to turn back curious guests.
At Abu Sayeed’s soft whistle, Naif and Mohammed brought one of the two missile crates off the yacht. Abu Sayeed walked ahead of them with a tablecloth folded over his arm, his silenced Heckler & Koch MP5A3 sub-machine gun beneath. Anyone who noticed them would assume they were carrying party supplies.
The ground lights near the dock had been turned off, and when they entered the pool of shadow, Biddle’s men led them away from the party. They passed through a narrow opening in a tall hedge and came into a brick courtyard between a garage and a stone cottage with heavy slate roof.
Biddle’s man unlocked the cottage, handed Abu Sayeed the key, and the three Arabs hurried inside. They put the crate in the small living room. Abu Sayeed re-locked the door before they returned for the second crate and the heavy duffel that held their extra weapons and ammunition.
When they finished unloading, the larger of Biddle’s men loomed in the cottage doorway. “Keep the curtains closed and the noise down,” he ordered. “Stay inside until morning. Even then don’t go beyond the hedges. Mr. Biddle has private security, and they mustn’t know you’re here.” He pointed to a walkie-talkie on the dining table. “We’ll call before we come. Otherwise, don’t answer the door.”
Abu Sayeed felt a cold rage in his stomach at the man’s tone. He glanced around, saw calm in Naif’s eyes but blind hatred in Mohammed’s. He put his hand on Mohammed’s arm and squeezed until a level of self-control began to return.
The bodyguard observed the exchange. He gave a little smirk then closed the door.
FIFTEEN
NEW YORK, JUNE 25
ANNELIËS KUEPER LAY IN THE dark and listened to Brent’s breathing. A hallway chandelier threw enough light into the bedroom for her to see his silhouette as he settled into deeper sleep. Biddle had assured her the drug would take an elephant down.
She spoke his name one time, and then again, louder. When he didn’t stir, she lifted his arm off her chest and sat up. She waited another minute on the side of the mattress, the air-conditioning raising goose bumps on her flesh.
Brent seemed nice enough, certainly a competent lover if he weren’t zonked on the Ecstasy she’d added to his third glass of wine and then the tranquilizer she’d added to his ice water. She almost regretted it, and she cracked a wry smile in the darkness, wondering if it meant she still had a heart someplace inside the scar tissue. Finally, she stood, went into the living room, found her purse, and removed the small plastic case Biddle had given her and shown her how to install.
Movement helped her focus because it reminded her of the danger and the opportunity. If she played this right, it could mean a new life. If she played it wrong, she’d be dead. Either way, things had to change. She was finished letting people like Sayeed think they owned her—fucking her, making her fuck their friends or people they were trying to set up. She shuddered, refusing to think about what was going to happen to Brent. She thought about herself, instead.
Her life had been building toward this since last January when Abu Sayeed brought Biddle into the private London casino where she worked. It had been her third consecutive evening with a Kuwaiti sheik, who smelled like a pig and made love like a savage but paid fifteen hundred pounds a night for the privilege. Abu Sayeed had already told her what the proposal would be and given her Biddle’s picture, so she recognized him instantly.
She watched him for a time, noting that he didn’t gamble, drank only water, and when her Kuwaiti finally went to the bathroom, she approached him and started a conversation. Biddle was handsome, outwardly aloof, and sophisticated. He offered her two thousand pounds to discuss his business proposition, and they left the casino before the Kuwaiti returned from the restroom. In their initial meeting there was nothing in his manner to suggest that he found her attractive or even that he liked women. Only later, once she worked her way inside his defenses, did he start to change, becoming awkward, even diffident.