"Fool!" Abu-Bakir barked. "Why don't you watch where you're going!" Fighting the urge to strike the smaller man, he strode away.
Nimble Driss hopped up from the deck plates, chased Abu-Bakir, caught and held him to the sleeve. "He wants you."
"Who?"
Driss snorted. "You know who."
Abu-Bakir knew who, all right, but he was in no mood to be trifled with, not even by the operation's leader. "Tell your master I'm too busy to chat. I have to go blow up a Zionist oil dump."
"You think he doesn't know that?" Driss let go of Abu-Bakir's sleeve. Without another word, he turned and walked away.
After a pause for second thoughts, Abu-Bakir raced after him. "Wait! Where are you going?"
"To tell Mokhtar you refuse his summons."
"Don't be so hasty. Of course I will see him. Where is he?"
"Follow me," the slave commanded.
Abu-Bakir obeyed. Driss led him up a steep metal stairway into the ship's upper works, along a starboard gangway, around a corner, through a dark corridor, around another corner into blinding daylight, down a narrow aisle, around yet another blind corner, and into an alcove roofed over by a green-striped deck awning.
There stood Mokhtar, sudden, unexpected. Abu-Bakir stopped short to keep from stumbling into the man.
Mokhtar made a sign to his slave. Driss vanished.
Mokhtar was balding, wide-faced, with a black mustache and goatee. His age was indeterminate. He could have been a dissipated forty or a vigorous sixty. He wore a rumpled brown pin-striped Western business suit and brown wing-tip shoes. A long-sleeved gray shirt was buttoned up to the collar. He wore no tie.
Stuffed butt-forward in the top of his trousers was a revolver, a Spanish copy of a Smith & Wesson.38. He preferred a rifle, with which he was a championship marksman, but handguns were a necessary evil. Especially when working in close quarters, as for example on board the Melina.
Knives were necessary too. He wore a flat-bladed throwing knife sheathed between his shoulder blades, out of sight but within easy reach.
Immune to the midday heat, his taut flesh was dry as dust. So was his voice as he said, "You recall our little talk, Abu-Bakir?"
"Yes."
Abu-Bakir recalled it all too well. The dolphin incident occurred on the first day out from port, before the volatile cargo put an end to shipboard horseplay. During the fracas, Solano got his hands on Abu-Bakir's AK-47, his trusty Kalashnikov automatic rifle. Before returning it, Solano removed the weapon's magazine and tossed it overboard.
Mokhtar had intercepted the Palestinian while he was hunting high and low for a loaded clip to empty into Solano. "The Italian is needed for now. Do him harm, and you must answer to my master."
"I answer to no man!" Abu-Bakir had declared. "My master is Allah alone!"
"My master is Reguiba."
That had unnerved Abu-Bakir. "R-Reguiba?"
Mokhtar had permitted himself a thin smile at the other's evident distress. "You know that name — Reguiba? You have heard of the man who bears that name?"
"I… yes. I have heard of him."
"Then a word to the wise will suffice. And that word is Reguiba," Mokhtar had concluded, dismissing him.
Abu-Bakir had heard and obeyed. That was the sole reason why Solano was still alive.
But now, under the green-striped awning, Mokhtar took a different tack. "We must have another little talk. I have given much thought to a certain matter."
"Yes?"
"When your mission is done — and only then — it would be well if the man Solano was no more."
Abu-Bakir was cautious. "This is Reguiba's wish?"
"Reguiba does not concern himself with such trifles. He demands only that your raid succeed. This is my wish. And, no doubt, your fond desire."
"To be sure." Exulting, Abu-Bakir nodded his head rapidly. "A thousand thanks, Mokhtar!" An idea struck him. "And what of the other two unbelievers, the giant and the Swiss?"
"What of them? As you say, they are only unbelievers. Do what you will, but I remind you that one can escape the hunters more easily than three. Is that not so?"
"Indeed!"
Mokhtar raised a hand in ritual benediction. "Now go forth and kill, Bassam Abu-Bakir! And may the blessings of the Prophet be upon you."
"As you command." Abu-Bakir salaamed as he withdrew from Mokhtar's presence, visions of murder dancing brightly in his head.
Two
The accommodation ladder stood at the ship's starboard quarter. Specially installed for the mission, its bright yellow metal scaffolding contrasted with the black, rusted hull like a brand-new fire escape slapped on a condemned building. At its base bobbed a floating platform dock. Moored to the dock were twin powerboats, sleekly streamlined high-performance jobs.
The boats had made the trip riding piggyback on the ship. When the Melina dropped anchor off Tel Aviv, they were hoisted out of their afterdeck berths and lowered into the sea, a nerve-racking job for crane operator and crew alike, considering the cargo's vulnerability to sudden shocks.
Now the boats were in the water, ready to go. One was reserved for the Rocket Attack Squad. The other was the getaway boat, slated for use when the crew abandoned ship. It didn't take a genius to see that the launch lacked the capacity to carry off all the members of the ship's skeleton crew, but everybody figured that it was the other guy who'd get it in the neck when the time came.
Gorgias, the first mate, bossed a pair of sailors who did all the work of getting the boats squared away.
When the quartet of rocketeers assembled on the platform dock, Gorgias sidled over to them. Casting a twisted glance toward the ship's upper works, he hissed, "What's Captain Farmingdale up to now?"
"The last I saw of him, he was on the bridge, busy minding his own business," Solano replied. "The captain doesn't care to be associated with the likes of us."
"That's good for you. It's not safe to be near him."
"Why not?"
"His bad luck can rub off on you. You are well rid of him. I cannot wait until I am."
Solano chuckled. "Still holding to your pet theory?"
"It's no theory; it's a fact. I know!" Gorgias was a dark, squat, strong man laid low by obsessive fear. Fear not of the cargo, but of the captain. The first mate looked ill, with clammy gray flesh and black circles ringing his haunted eyes.
"Ask any sailor who's ever shipped out with him, and they'll tell you the same — the ones who came back to port, that is. Captain Farmingdale is a jinx. A Jonah!"
Insurance companies are well aware of the phenomenon of persons labeled "accident prones," luckless individuals who through no fault of their own are dogged by catastrophe. Seamen call such persons "Jonahs," after the biblical prophet, the original hard-luck mariner.
A crewman stood at the top of the ladder, shouting down. "Hey, Gorgias! The captain wants to see you!"
Muttering darkly, the first mate threw up his hands in despair — or perhaps resignation — and hurried to the bridge.
Vernex snickered. "Jonahs and jinxes — what utter tripe! Trust a sailor to swallow such imbecilic drivel! Even so, let's be off. Why stay here any longer than necessary?"
The four men clambered aboard one of the boats. A pair of stylish bucket seats faced the control console. Solano took the wheel and Vernex sat beside him. Elias and Abu-Bakir sat aft, facing one another. Heavy-duty weapons wrapped in waterproof bags were piled between them on the bottom of the boat.
Abu-Bakir enjoyed the strategic advantage of being behind Solano's back. He delighted in having his fully loaded AK-47 slung across his shoulder. But he hated giving up the solidity of the ship for the insecurity of this comparatively tiny craft bobbing on the big blue sea. By steadily staring at his feet and nowhere else, he stabilized his nausea.