When he heard his last man’s ascending steps, he walked forward, climbed into the sunlight, and surrendered.
Olivia gulped from her latte and then plopped the cup onto her desk. Although the Specter’s latching of the Goliath had allowed her a modest night of sleep, nightmares of indictments, imprisonment, and public ridicule had tormented her.
But with the new day, her nightmare evaporated.
“Thank God.”
She reread Renard’s text stating that the Omanis had grounded the stolen ship in Pakistan, ending her anguish.
Her ordeal’s terminus quieted the inner girl, but her inner beast pondered ways to profit. An unknown team of hijackers had brokered some sort of backdoor deal with the Iranians, and she wanted to exploit this new lead.
She stood and paced in front of her desk, sorting thoughts and quelling emotions in hopes of clearing her mind. Stopping at her window, she closed the blinds to prevent the low December sun from hurting her eyes. Having indulged in Ciroc vodka to unwind from yesterday’s terror, she endured a mild hangover.
Recommencing her walk, she pursed her lips and tasted the disappointment of failed potential. For a moment, she wished Renard had transformed the Goliath into a Trojan Horse, somehow staffing it with an assault force to surprise the Persian players that appeared to be helping the hijackers.
But she recalled the crippling fear of having watched the powerful vessel slipping away, and she judged using the Goliath as bait unacceptable. Knowing she couldn’t catch the Persians off their guard, she committed to following her new leads.
It started with the prisoners.
Renard had conveyed their Pakistani origins, but she suspected they operated outside official channels.
The Frenchman’s longtime friend and retired naval officer, Admiral Khan, had arranged for his country’s support of the Goliath’s retrieval. Khan also networked with enough flag officers to know if anyone had authorized the theft, but he assured Renard that the Pakistani military was uninvolved.
Olivia decided to explore angles of a covert military operation or an independent group.
She needed more information and called the Frenchman.
When he answered, he sounded angry. “Yes, hello.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve just been threatened.”
“By the prisoners?”
“The apparent leader says he placed small explosives throughout the Goliath that will start exploding within the hour. He insists that I let his team go free in exchange for telling me the explosives’ locations.”
The prisoners were her only link to an unknown Persian plot. “You can’t do that.”
“Easy for you to say. It’s not your ship.”
“You’re in shallow waters. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“I would incur hefty expenses of raising the Goliath, welding it tight again, and replacing every piece of exposed electronics.”
“It’s just money, and it could be a bluff. Don’t let them go.”
“If it’s not a bluff, would you incur the costs for me, in exchange for delivering you the prisoners for questioning?”
“Who said they’re my prisoners? Don’t you want them, too?”
“Hold please.”
The line went silent, but the call remained connected. “That French jackass just put me on hold.”
When she heard his voice again, he sounded enthusiastic. “I do hire brilliant men. Terry’s solved the problem.”
“He found the explosives?”
“No, that’s impossible with an acre of hull insulation to search. But he’s going to run the Goliath aground on the beach to prevent its flooding. If the prisoner’s threat proves true, my costs of repairs will be small.”
“Okay, that’s great. To be clear, you’re not letting my prisoners go?”
“Your prisoners? Now we come it. No, I will make sure they remain in Omani custody until you say otherwise. Half of them are on one patrol craft, half on the other.”
Since she’d never caught him lying to her, she trusted him. “Thank you, Pierre.”
“Yes, of course. My pleasure. And now that I know which hijacker was in charge, I’ll get you a photograph for facial recognition. I’ll send you photographs of the rest, but I assumed you’d start with the leader.”
“Yeah, send it. Get me fingerprints, too, but send me the photo first.”
“Of course.”
Minutes later, a picture appeared on her phone. She found the man handsome with sharp features and hard eyes, and he appeared to be forty years old.
She scanned her contacts for the in-house laboratory and dialed. A technician answered.
“Hello, forensic lab.”
“This is Olivia McDonald. Can I get a facial match on a subject, pronto?”
“Miss McDonald? Yes, of course. Do you know our email address?”
“Yes.”
“Send it, and I’ll stay on the line and confirm receipt if you’d like.”
“Hold on.”
She lowered her phone and forwarded the picture. “Sent. If it helps your search, I think he’s Pakistani.”
“I got it. Give me a few minutes, ma’am.”
After returning to her seat, she watched photographs of the hijackers and their fingerprints arrive. As the last image arrived, she forwarded them to the lab, and then the Frenchman called her. “Yeah, Pierre?”
“Did you receive the photographs and fingerprints?”
“I just got them. I’ve sent them to the lab.”
“May I assume you wish to transfer these prisoners?”
“I do. I want them sent to the Pakistani CIA Station Chief.”
“Is he ready to receive them?”
Olivia knew the Chief would agree when she had the chance to contact him. “He will be. Get them ready for transporting to Islamabad, and I’ll have a team ready to take them into custody.”
“That’s a lot of ground to cover in their home country. What if they have local supporters who might attempt a rescue?”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” Her phone chimed, and she extended it to inspect the caller’s identity. When she saw it was the lab, she took pleasure in pausing her conversation with the Frenchman. “Your turn to hold.” She answered the lab.
“Miss McDonald?”
“Go ahead.”
“Your guy is Lieutenant Colonel Imtiaz Raja, Pakistani Army, Special Service Group. Active duty. He’s stationed with—”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. It was an easy match. I’ll verify with fingerprints, but it’s just a formality.”
“Verify it, and get started on the identities of the others.” She switched back to the Frenchman. “The leader’s a Pakistani lieutenant colonel in their army’s special forces.”
“Merde! I will speak to Admiral Khan immediately.”
“How immediately? This effects who’s taking custody of the prisoners.”
“He’s here on the ship with me, in the brig at the moment, helping the Omanis with the questioning.”
“Get him!”
“Please forward me the information, and I will have him investigate through his channels who might be behind this.” His confidence calmed her. His decades’ long relationship with the Pakistani admiral would bring her information faster than her channels.
“Okay, Pierre. Hurry.” After hanging up and sending the hijacker’s identity to Renard, she bid her time pondering speculative scenarios, latching onto the possibility of taking credit for her fleet having ferreted out Pakistani traitors. Perhaps she could create an unseen benefit from the crisis.