“What if I had refused to help her?”
“My dear doctor, you weren’t chosen at random, I assure you. Neither of you were. Did you seriously question whether to help her or not? Of course you didn’t. You would have no more refused her than you would push an old lady into a crosswalk. Your dependability is one of your greatest assets.”
“Jesus,” Mercer muttered, raking his fingers through his thick hair. He’d been played for a sucker the entire time, blithely following the trail of crumbs Ahmad had doled out. He’d called it dependability. Mercer saw it as predictability. “So what the hell happened at the village?” His tone was accusatory. “You let Dayce and Feines slaughter those poor people.”
A shadow of guilt and remorse crossed Ahmad’s face. “After all the planning we put into this, would you believe something as stupid as a flat tire? We were delayed on the road up from Kivu when we were following you, and only arrived after it was all over.”
“And what about poor Serena Ballard,” Cali said. “Have a flat in New Jersey too?”
“Miss Ballard spent a frightened day being watched over at a hotel in Philadelphia so Poli could get no information out of her. The scene at her house was staged using blood drawn from my men. She’s back home now, more than a little confused I’m sure, but I needed some way to warn you Poli Feines was aware you had gone to Atlantic City. I didn’t realize he’d get to your hotel so quickly.”
Mercer and Cali shared a relieved glance. Both had liked Serena and had taken her senseless death especially hard because they’d believed her last moments on earth being tortured by Feines had been excruciating.
A truck raced up the mine’s access road, a newer model of the UAZ four-wheel drives Poli Feines had brought to loot the old weapons depot. Young Devrin was behind the wheel. No sooner had he braked next to where Mercer and Cali had been talking with Ibriham, than he threw open the door and spoke quickly to his teacher in Turkish. He brandished a satellite phone, and judging by his ashen pallor and the restrained anger in his voice the news wasn’t good.
“What? What is it?” Mercer asked, his guts suddenly tight.
“We’re too late.”
Novorossiysk, Russia
Originally founded as a colony of the Italian city-state Genoa in the thirteenth century, Novorossiysk was later an Ottoman fortress town, until its capture by Russia in 1808. Since the disintegration of the Soviet Union, when many Black Sea ports were handed over to Ukraine and Georgia, Novorossiysk had become Russia’s largest warm-water export center, with visits by more than a thousand tankers, container ships, and freighters each year. Half of Russia’s grain exports left through Novorossiysk and one third of her oil. Surrounded on three sides by the Caucasus Mountains, the city of a quarter million sat nestled on the northern part of a deep-water bay that bore its name.
Ships weighing more than two thousand tons were required to report to the harbor master several days before entering the port, and a pilot was compulsory. With tankers of up to three hundred thousand dwt regularly visiting the oil terminal on the eastern side of the city, ocean-borne traffic was tightly monitored. This was why the eighty-foot commercial fisherman easing into the inner harbor just after dawn went unmolested by the maritime authorities. Only a few gulls paid it any attention at all, wheeling and diving above her stern deck, drawn to the smell of fish oil and scale but unable to find a meal.
The three men aboard the stolen fishing boat had trained on it for only as long as it took to get the vessel from Albania, through the Bosporus, and across the Black Sea, where the professional hijackers had taken their money and returned to their native country. The oldest of the three was a twenty-three-year-old Saudi, and while he headed the mission, a Syrian teen named Hasan was more adept at the controls.
They would have been incapable of taking the ship back out the Bosporus and around Turkey to the port of Ceyhan, as Al-Salibi had told Grigori Popov to convince him to help secure the plutonium. As it was they had a hard enough time covering the thirty miles across the sheltered bay of Novorossiysk.
Hasan’s thin, almost feminine, hands looked too delicate on the rough wheel, and he peered out on the world from behind long, curling lashes. His two comrades stood behind him in the cramped wheelhouse. One clutched a small Koran while the other’s fingers danced with the set of worry beads he’d been given by the leader of the madrassa religious school in Pakistan where he’d been recruited for this mission.
They’d been told that their martyrdom today would guarantee their place in heaven, where a har’em of virgins awaited them. Hasan had been especially teased about that because of his girlish good looks. They were also told they were striking such a blow against the crusaders that their names would be remembered forever and all the Muslim world would unite in a brotherhood of jihad against America.
Hasan had never met an American but he’d been taught to hate them with a consuming passion he could barely understand. His teachers and friends and the imams at the mosques all said that America wanted to destroy Islam, that they had caused the tsunami in Indonesia that killed hundreds of thousands of his brothers and sisters, that they had tried to spread diseases in Muslim countries in Africa, that they themselves had destroyed the World Trade Center as an excuse to attack the Arab world.
He was a bright boy, had done well in school, and yet he never questioned anything he’d been told about the United States, because none of his friends did and he didn’t want to be ridiculed. In fact they would often boast among themselves, creating ever grander lies in an attempt to show off how much they hated America. Most of what they said was puerile and ribald — Americans have sex with animals or they eat their own excrement — but it served to fuel their ardor until Hasan volunteered to help put a stop to America’s offenses against God. In a sense, he had been peer-pressured into blowing himself up.
As they sailed deeper into the harbor, they could see the massive oil tankers at their moorings. Some were more than a thousand feet long, more resembling steel islands than vessels meant to cross the oceans. Next to them was a container port with a spidery gantry crane for unloading the ships. In the yard behind it, the brightly colored boxes resembled a child’s set of building blocks stacked in neat ranks. Even at this early hour workers were loading containers onto the vessel from flatbed trucks that were lined along the quay.
Their orders had been specific. They were to bring the fishing boat as close as they could to the tanker terminal before detonating the five hundred tons of fuel oil and fertilizer crammed in her holds. The special barrels brought to them the night before by the one-eyed man were sitting on the deck.
Hasan tried to clear his mind as they approached the tanker facility’s outer buoy. When that failed he tried to picture paradise, but all he kept seeing was the tears on his little sister’s face when he left Damascus to join the Pakistani madrassa where he’d been recruited by the great Saudi caliph, Mohammad bin Al-Salidi. He recalled his father staring at him stonily, not understanding why his son would rather die than take over the family hardware store. His mother had wailed inconsolably that morning and locked herself in her bedroom.
The cell’s leader, the acne-scarred Saudi named Abdullah, spotted the trouble first and hit Hasan’s shoulder. A sleek harbor patrol craft had rounded the tall bow of a tanker awaiting its turn to be filled with crude piped to the facility from Kazakhstan.
So wrapped in his own memories and feeling the weight of dread in his stomach, Hasan was startled as soon as he saw the patrol boat. Its lights weren’t on and they had yet to cross the boundary reserved for the supertankers, but he panicked nevertheless. He rammed the throttles to their stops and spun the wheel to its starboard lock so fast the spindles blurred.