Reza tried to stay calm, comforted by the fact that Walid had let him keep his gun. Still, the roaring engine, the smell of the river, the humid air, and his jet lag all combined to keep his head in a fog. He stared at Walid’s spare frame, outlined by the soft glow of the dashboard lights, and offered a silent prayer that Bilal’s influence extended to South America.
The speedboat slowed, making a sweeping turn into a small cove. Walid cut the engine and let the craft coast the last thirty feet toward the dock. When he was close, he tossed a rope to a waiting man. He leaped from the boat to the dock, calling in Spanish to the man. “Bring our guest to the house, Pablo.”
Reza waited until Pablo had secured the speedboat before he stood. When Pablo reached down a hand to help him up to the dock, Reza’s grip was lost in the man’s huge mitts, and he felt himself almost lifted bodily out of the boat. Pablo was a short, stocky man with the features of a Paraguayan native and arms like Popeye. He grunted as he looked up into Reza’s face, and jerked his head toward the end of the dock. Reza took a deep breath and followed him.
The unlit trail wound up the small hill to a low, modern-style ranch house. Pablo nodded to the man guarding the front door, whose eyes flicked over Reza, locking on the handgun behind his back. Reza’s eyes fell to the submachine gun the guard was carrying.
The interior of the house was clean and modern, with well-lit rooms and tasteful paintings on the walls. Pablo pointed to the rug when he entered. Reza wiped his feet carefully, eliciting a satisfied grunt from the stocky man. Pablo deposited him in a living room, where a small fleet of leather armchairs were arranged around a massive low table that looked like a cross section of a tree trunk.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Walid said from behind him. He had changed into a fresh shirt and loose-fitting trousers, and his feet were bare. “It’s from a mahogany tree. It reminds me of a map.” The irregular shape did look like a map of a continent. Walid handed him a cup of tea in a clear glass mug. Reza nodded his thanks. He could feel his strength ebbing away, the jet lag taking over.
Walid flopped into one of the chairs and crossed his legs. “Now, tell me why my cousin would send an Iranian intelligence agent all the way to South America, where you are so clearly out of your element, and give you one of our most secret personal codes.”
Reza sat on the edge of a seat across from Walid, separated by the massive expanse of the tree trunk. He set the tea down on the table. Walid tossed him a coaster, which he placed under the hot mug.
“I am looking for this man.” Reza pushed a picture of Rafiq across the table.
Walid’s eyebrows shot up. “Rafiq? Why do you want him?”
“You know him?”
Walid laughed. “Everyone knows of Rafiq, very few know him. He owns one of the largest estancias in the area. He married into wealth and inherited everything when his father-in-law died.”
Reza sucked in a breath. “You know where I can find him?”
“Depends on why you want him.”
Reza licked his lips. “Rafiq was sent here under false pretenses. He is working for his half brother, an Iranian. He needs to be stopped.”
Walid leaned forward in his seat. “You’re asking for my help to raid one of my own? Why?”
Reza took a deep breath, and told him.
Walid leaned back in his chair when Reza had finished speaking. A ridge of muscle sharpened his jawline. “Rafiq is well protected on his ranch. Getting to him will not be easy. You’ll need a team of at least a dozen men.”
“How many men do you have here?”
Walid’s face split into a wolfish grin. “A dozen.”
CHAPTER 49
Brendan watched the sky pinken over the western coast of Australia. Port, finally.
The last ten weeks at sea had given him new respect for his surface warfare classmates from the Academy. Putting this many people in this small of an area for that long defined a whole new level of stress for Brendan. It seemed like even the smallest issue — watch schedules, dinner menu, cleaning rotations — blew up into a big deal. As skipper, it was his job to solve it, and he was tired of it.
Well, that’s what leave is for. A few days and he’d be back in Minnesota and as far away from an ocean as one could get on the continental United States.
Still, the last mission to Iran proved to him that he belonged here, onboard his ship, not back with the SEALs. He knew he was a step behind his spec ops buddies now, not up to the task of jumping out of helos or assaulting targets. But here, here he was making a difference. Their trip from the Arabian Gulf down to Australia had been another success for the program. Who knew the Indonesians were using Russian-made Rezonans-N long-range air search radar? Dot guessed they’d installed it after the loss of Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 in March 2014. Thanks to the crew of the Arrogant, that piece of data was now in the hands of the intelligence guys to figure how and why it had happened.
Gabby poked her head up from the cabin. “Coffee, skipper?”
Brendan nodded. He checked the sails, which were tight under a brisk morning breeze. At this rate, they’d be in Perth before lunchtime.
Gabby handed him a steaming mug and took a seat next to him on the bench. Her dark curls were tousled and her eyes still puffy with sleep. A gull rode the wind overhead. She half-rose to see if anyone else was awake, then huddled deeper into her sweatshirt.
“I’m going to put in for a transfer while we’re in refit,” she said in a low voice.
Brendan kept his face still and stayed silent.
“I think it’s best — for both of us,” she continued.
That part was true, at least. He closed his eyes, hoping she wasn’t going to bring up the Maldives again.
The situation with Gabby had come to a head during a port visit in the Maldives.
To bolster their party boat image, they had all dined together in an expensive restaurant out on the town. The food was wonderful, a blend of French with an Indian flair, served on a platform that cantilevered out over the crystal-clear water. When the sun went down and the water darkened, the restaurant turned on underwater lights that attracted the local sea life.
The combination of the soft sea breeze, the wine, the fabulous food, and good company made for an evening to remember. It was Dot who suggested they go dancing. Brendan shrugged. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but if the rest of them wanted to go, he was happy to play the host.
The nightclub was called “The Wave,” and he slipped a fifty-dollar bill to the doorman to get them a table overlooking the dance floor. Someone ordered champagne, and a silver bucket appeared at their table. Like magic, it was empty and another replaced it, although he scarcely remembered drinking any of the first one.
The pumping music made for difficult conversation, unless you leaned into the person and almost shouted directly into their ear. So Brendan drank, and watched while the rest of the crew hit the dance floor.
Except Gabby.
She was wearing a short skirt and some kind of glittery gold top that stretched tight across her breasts, but left her back bare. She slid across the leather sofa until she was right next to him and said something.
“What?” He knew perfectly well that she’d asked him to dance, but he was searching for a way out of it. Sure, they had a cover to keep, but as a naval officer he had lines he couldn’t cross, and sleeping with a crew member was the biggest, brightest line he could think of.