He was one of the last to step down to the ground, and he did so with feelings of strong misgiving. The immediate area was encircled by a half-dozen uniformed officers, each holding an American M16 rifle. A man wearing the chevrons of a police sergeant went to the male passengers, speaking to them while ignoring the women. The men produced papers that he examined carefully and individually before moving on to the next person. Mike knew this was bad news. He had no papers and could not speak the language, which would lead the boss cop into assuming he was a refugee from Afghanistan. The fact he was traveling made it appear as if he had made an unauthorized departure from his assigned camp. When the civil war across the border broke out, the Pakistanis had welcomed the unfortunate people who had been forced to flee for their lives across the international border. Camps were set up for the miserable refugees where food and shelter were furnished to them. But the situation soon grew uncomfortable for Pakistan when these heavily armed foreigners began competing for jobs and bringing about an alarming state of inflation. Clashes between the refugees and the native population led the Pakistani government to severely curtail the visitors' ability to move around the country.
Mike stood passively as the sergeant made his way down the line. The SEAL decided it was imperative that he not reveal his nationality. One more trip back to the American Embassy in Islamabad, and the effectiveness of Operation Deep Thrust would be seriously diminished. A full three quarters of an hour passed before the policeman reached him. The cop barked orders that Mike could only respond to with shrugs to show his inability to understand. After about three of these gestures of incomprehension, the sergeant signaled for a couple of men. Mike was unceremoniously grabbed, his hands tied behind his back, and he was frog-marched to a waiting van.
This was one type of vehicle he was beginning to hate with a vengeance.
.
THE police station was a rural setup with one room used as an office across from the cell on the other side of the building. The place was old, dilapidated, and dirty. It was obvious Mike was going to be held here for a spell, then possibly passed up to higher headquarters at the next opportunity. They pushed and pummeled him into the main office from the van, then untied him before locking him up in the cell. The wandering SEAL was relieved to discover he wasn't going to be punched around during this confinement.
These cops evidently weren't all that pissed off at him.
Mike still had the knife under his chador, and he was happy these members of the local gendarmerie were sloppy and ill-trained enough not to give him a thorough search. He looked out the bars at his captors, who were now filling out a report on his detainment. He studied the cell door, glancing down at the lock. Using skills acquired in his recent CIA training, Mike could see it was a worn ancient variety. The hole into which the bolt slid was enlarged through usage, and the bolt itself was badly worn. He reached down and pushed against the lock, shaking it. The policemen snapped their heads his way, and the sergeant growled something at him.
Mike smiled apologetically and stepped back. He walked to the rear of the cell and took off the chador, folded it neatly, and put it on the floor. He settled onto its softness, grinning inwardly to himself. The tumblers in the lock had rattled loosely when they were shaken. The lock had been used countless times over decades, and should have been replaced long before.
.
2010 HOURS LOCAL
MIKE Assad was given a cup of tepid water and a piece of bread made from unleavened wheat flour. He ate slowly to make the sparse meal last longer, then took the water in tiny sips. After the sun went down, a very corpulent policeman came on duty. The others took their leave while the new custodian lit a lantern. He walked up to the cell door and peered in at the prisoner. After a scowl of warning, he went back to the desk in the front and sat down.
.
2330 HOURS LOCAL
THE fat cop was asleep at the desk, his head down on his folded arms. His snoring was the blubbery sort common to fat people with sinus conditions. It made so much noise that Mike was amazed the guy could sleep at all. There was a marked advantage to it as far as the prisoner was concerned; it would mask any noise he might make.
Mike waited until it was obvious the fellow was deep in Morpheus's arms. Then he got slowly to his feet and pulled the chador around his shoulders after getting the knife from the lining. He tiptoed over to the cell door and carefully stuck the blade into the bolt hole. He applied some gentle pressure, working the blade deeper, then pried upward. The bolt moved hesitantly but steadily in the loose confinement, then came out. Now Mike put the blade between the end of the bolt and the bolt hole and pried yet again. It slid with a slight scraping sound until the door swung open on its own.
Mike stepped out of the cell and headed for the back door, but something caught his eye. A pistol harness complete with belt, shoulder straps, holster, weapon, ammo pouch, and two canteens hung next to the desk where Fatso snoozed in such deep contentment. Mike walked slowly over to the prize. He froze when the cop snorted loudly; but the guy drifted back to sleep after a couple of nasal whimpers.
The escapee took the belt and harness, then went to the door and looked out. The night was calm and empty, and he moved into the darkness, slipping his new treasure on under the chador.
.
GREEN EMERALD RESORT AND SPA
SINGAPORE
6 OCTOBER
1530 HOURS LOCAL
THE Philippine naval officer wore civilian clothing as he stood on Harry Turpin's veranda sipping a glass of Tetley's Bitter. The brew had been drawn by the houseboy from a keg behind the bar that had been sent directly from the English brewery to Turpin's home through a permanent arrangement. The Filipino would have preferred it cold, but the Brit Turpin, though far from his native shores for many decades, drank his beers and ales warm as he would have in a London pub.
Aguilando turned at the sound of footsteps as Turpin came out to join him. The Englishman's gaze was direct, betraying his curiosity. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Turpin. 'Arry Turpin."
"I am Ferdinand Aguilando," the visitor said. "I am the captain of the patrol boat once commanded by Carlos Batanza."
"What's 'appened to that bloke Batanza?" Turpin asked, though he knew the exact circumstances of the killing.
"He had an accident," Aguilando said. "A fatal one, unfortunately. I have been assigned to take over his boat."
"Right. So wot can I do for you, Captain?"
"I am taking up where Commander Batanza left off."
"Right. And?"
"I shall have more arms for sale quite soon," Aguilando said. "I would like to continue the same arrangement you had with Batanza."
"I 'ope there ain't no more officers who know about this," Turpin said uneasily. "I always prefer to deal with one bloke at a time as I did with the late Mr. Batanza."
"I assure you that you will see only me," Aguilando said. "We will rendezvous with your people for the transfer of the cargo, but I shall be alone when we meet to discuss business and make the sales."
"Right," Turpin said. " 'Ow soon will you 'ave a delivery?"
"Within a week or so," Aguilando said. "I have some recently acquired arms stowed in a safe place for the time being. I shall contact you when I have an exact date and time."
"I'll be 'ere," Turpin promised.
Aguilando finished his beer, shook hands with his host, and went outside for the golf cart ride back to the hotel building. Turpin walked to the window and watched the officer leave. When the Filipino disappeared from view, the Englishman turned. "You can come out now, Mr. Sabah."