Текст книги "The Storm"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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“Clear,” he said.

“Clear on this side,” Joe said. “Now what?”

Kurt tossed the gun over the edge and drew the rope out from beneath his shirt. He passed it through his hands until he had the length he needed.

With one hand on each end of the rope he let out a half loop approximately four feet in length. With a flip of the wrist and an extension of his arms he sent a wave of energy through the rope. The middle sailed out away from him in a big U shape and dropped over the top of one A-frame neat as could be.

Kurt slid it taut and pulled it downward so it wouldn’t ride up the metal bars.

Making sure not to twist, he passed one end of the rope back to Joe. “Hold on to that with both hands and hold on tight.”

Kurt pulled his section taut and wrapped a loop under his arm, around his triceps and then around his hand twice. Joe followed suit.

“You holding that rope tight?”

“Like it’s a winning lottery ticket,” Joe said.

“Good,” Kurt replied, “because you know what’s going to happen once we give our poor legs a rest, right?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Like everything else connected with you, it’s going to be painful.”

“No pain, no gain,” Kurt said. “This time the gain is our freedom. Ready?”

“Ready.”

Kurt tensed his arms, locking them in place.

“Three … two … one … go!”

At almost the same instant both men pulled on the rope and relaxed their legs and abs. The rope snapped taut around the A-frame. The tire fell from between them and they swung forward, slamming into the wall and dangling there a few feet below the top.

The tire hit bottom with a noisy clunk, but Kurt and Joe held on tight high above it.

“We have to do this part at the same time,” Kurt said, “otherwise someone’s going back down.”

They pulled themselves up side by side, arm over arm, until they were able to grasp the metal of the A-frame. It burned their hands as it had Kurt’s earlier, but they held on, pulled themselves up and clambered over the low wall.

Kurt hit the sand face-first and was damn glad of it. Joe crashed down beside him.

Breathing hard and resting for a moment, Kurt could feel his legs shaking. It seemed like they’d been in that well for days. He looked to his wrist. His watch was still with the guard in Malé.

He held a hand toward the setting sun.

“What are you doing?” Joe asked.

“Trying to make a sundial.” He gave up. “What time do you have?”

“Six forty-five,” Joe announced. “It must be a new record. Left for dead and back to the action in less than an hour.”

Another jet approaching began to whistle across the desert as they sat there, catching their breath. It came in on the same path, dropping closer and growing louder as it neared.

Out of natural fugitive instinct, both men hunkered down and pressed themselves against the low wall of the well.

They needn’t have bothered. A jet aircraft on final approach at one hundred and fifty knots required the pilot’s eyes to be well ahead of the plane and focused on the landing zone. The chances of a pilot allowing his attention to be drawn to irrelevant objects on the ground was slim to none.

Then again, there was no accounting for passengers.

The jet roared over the top of them just as the first one had, a little higher this time. Kurt noticed the same odd features: a weirdly shaped underbelly, two big engines set high above the fuselage near the tail, a thick boxy wing section. It looked something like a DC-9 or a Super 80 or a Gulfstream G5 on steroids and put together with the wrong instruction booklet and a bunch of extra parts.

“Same type,” Kurt said. “Looks Russian to me.”

“It does,” Joe agreed. “Might even be the same plane making another pass.”

The gray-and-white jet dropped lower and lower, sinking toward the ground as if it were headed in for a landing. They lost it behind a sand dune before they heard it touch down.

The sound of its engines faded for a moment and then a deep howl rose up, booming across the desert for fifteen seconds or so before dissipating.

“Sound like thrust reversers to you?”

“Yep,” Joe said. “I guess the eagle has landed.”

“I think we just found our escape route,” Kurt said.

Joe looked at him sideways.

“None of the satellite photos showed any aircraft parked out here,” Kurt explained, “which means that plane isn’t going to sit around baking in the desert sun all day. It’s going to drop off whatever cargo it’s bringing in and then turn and burn at some point before sunup.”

“Sure,” Joe said. “But that’s not Terminal One at Dulles over there. We can’t just walk up to the counter and buy a ticket.”

“No,” Kurt said, “but we can sneak in under cover of darkness. They can’t possibly be expecting us.”

“That’s because we’d be crazy to attempt what you’re suggesting.”

“We have no water,” Kurt said. “No GPS. And no idea how to find the VV without it. So unless you want to go wandering through the desert trusting in dumb luck, we have to go back into the lion’s den.”

Joe appeared conflicted, though he seemed to be coming around. “You’re confusing me with these animal metaphors,” he said. “I thought it was a rabbit hole?”

“It changed when we got caught,” Kurt said. “These guys are a lot tougher than any rabbit.”

“Except for the one in that Monty Python movie,” Joe said.

“Monty Python and the Holy Grail.”

“That’s the one.”

“Right,” Kurt said, remembering the movie and trying not to laugh since it hurt his ribs and parched throat.

“The way I see it, we have a choice,” he said. “We can either run awaylike Sir Robin. Or we can sneak back into their base and tuck ourselves into a hidden corner on one of those jets and depart this land before we dehydrate to nothing more than dust and bone.”

Joe cleared his throat. “I amkind of thirsty.”

“So am I,” Kurt said.

Joe took a deep breath. He reached over, plucked the gun out of the sand and handed it to Kurt. “Lead on, Sir Knight,” he said. “Doubt we’re going to find the Holy Grail down there, but I’ll settle for a way out of here, or at least a well-stocked beverage stand.”

CHAPTER 30

PAUL SAT BESIDE MARCHETTI, GATHERING HIS STRENGTH for the moment. The mental and physical toll of fighting the fire had drained him. The stinging smoke, the sickly odor of fuel and the broiling heat left over from the blaze assaulted his senses. But even with all that, his only real concern centered on the flashing lights and chirping alarms connected to their breathing gear.

“How much time do we have?”

“Ten minutes,” Marchetti said. “Give or take.”

A sweeter voice came over the speakers in his headgear. “Paul, can you hear me?”

“I hear you Gamay,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“The fire’s out,” he said. “The Halon did its job. But we’re low on air. How soon can you open the doors?”

“Hold on,” she said.

A few seconds of silence lingered and then she came back. “Chief says you guys dumped enough water down there to keep the temps reasonable. We’ll be safely below reignition temp in about seven minutes.”

“That’s good news,” Paul said. He helped Marchetti up. “Let’s go find your crewman.”

“This way,” Marchetti said, moving stiffly toward the rear of the huge room.

They began to make their way back through the debris field. The series of explosions had destroyed half the engine room. They picked their way past ruined machinery and across the metal deck. Steam rose from it in ghostly boiling sheets as the water they’d used to fight the fire evaporated. The smell of fuel was everywhere.

“Here,” Marchetti said, moving to a sealed door.

It wasn’t a watertight bulkhead, but the scorched steel door was formidable looking, and the edges appeared to be tight. Hope rose in Paul’s heart.

“It’s designed as a shelter,” Marchetti said, “though I wasn’t sure it would survive something like this.” He grabbed the locking bar and then pulled back.

“A little hot?” Paul asked.

Marchetti nodded, got himself ready and grabbed it again. He grunted, trying to force the bar down. It wouldn’t budge and he let go again.

“The heat might have expanded the door,” Marchetti said.

“Let me help,” Paul said. He moved into position, and together the two of them grabbed the bar and put all their weight on it. It snapped downward. Paul shouldered the door and it swung open. He let go of the bar instantly, though his hands felt as if they’d been burned through the Nomex gloves.

Air from the compartment streamed out, mixing with the steam and smoke in the engine room. It was pitch-black in the control room. The only illumination came from the lights on their masks and the flashing strobes on their gear.

They split up. Near the back wall, Paul spotted a man in mechanic’s coveralls lying on the ground. “Over here.”

UP IN THE COMMAND CENTER, all eyes were on the central monitor and the flashing red number indicating the temperature in the engine room. It was slowly dropping, winding down until eventually it changed from red to yellow.

“Almost there,” the chief said. “I’m going to arm the doors.”

Gamay liked the sound of that. She checked the clock. Six minutes had elapsed since Paul’s and Marchetti’s oxygen supply warnings had gone off. For once it felt like they had a margin of error, but she wouldn’t feel safe until her husband was out of that room and back in her arms.

The chief pressed a couple of switches and then checked his board. Whatever he saw aggravated him. He cycled the switches and began flipping a toggle back and forth.

“What’s wrong?”

“The doors aren’t responding,” he said. “I just armed them to open, but they’re remaining in lock-down mode.”

“Could the fire have damaged them?”

“Doubt it,” he said. “They’re designed for this.”

He fiddled with the switches a few more times and then checked something else. “It’s the computer. It’s blocking the directive.”

“Why?”

To her right, Gamay saw Leilani stand. “I know why,” she said. “Otero messed with it.”

“Otero is in the brig,” the chief said.

“Marchetti told me he was a genius with computers,” she said. “He could have planted something ahead of time in case he was caught, in case he needed to cause some trouble and keep Marchetti off balance. Just like he did with the robots.”

The chief continued to try to bypass whatever was blocking him. “It’s definitely the computer,” he said. “Everything else is operating correctly.”

Gamay felt as if she was spinning. How this guy could reach out from the brig and torment them, she didn’t know.

“We need to go down there and force him to deactivate whatever he’s done,” Leilani said. “Put a gun to his head if we have to.”

Gamay’s mind raced. Her balance and convictions against coercion were suddenly fading when she thought of her husband trapped in an engine room filled with toxic fumes and running out of air.

“Gamay,” Leilani pleaded. “I’ve already lost someone to these people. You don’t have to.”

On the monitor, the temperature gauge dropped into the green and the clock ticked into the seventh minute. Paul had three minutes of air.

“Fine,” Gamay said. “But no guns.”

The chief turned to one of his men. “Rocco, take over, I’m going with them.”

Leilani grabbed the door and opened it. Gamay went through, headed for the elevator and the brig with no idea what she was going to do when she got there.

DOWN IN THE ENGINE ROOM, Paul had reached the missing crewman. He crouched beside the man and rolled him over. The man didn’t respond. Paul removed his gloves and checked for a pulse as Marchetti arrived at his side.

“Anything?”

Paul held his hand in place, hoping to sense something he’d missed. “I’m sorry.”

“Damn,” Marchetti said. “All this for nothing.”

Paul felt the same. And then in the flashing of his strobe he noticed something on the side of the man’s neck. He rolled the crewman a half turn and brushed his dark brown hair out of the way.

“Not totally for nothing,” Paul said, aiming his light at a dark bruise on the back of the man’s neck. He felt for the vertebrae, there was no rigidity.

“What’s wrong?”

Paul reached over and switched Marchetti’s radio off and then did the same to his own. Marchetti seemed confused.

With no one else listening Paul felt he could speak freely. He was not normally given to such leaps, preferring to be the calm, rational one while others shouted conspiracy theories and insisted the sky was falling, but he could see no other reason for all that had happened.

He looked Marchetti in the eyes and spoke loud enough for him to hear through the masks. “This man didn’t die from smoke inhalation or the heat. His neck’s broken.”

“Broken?”

Paul nodded. “This man was murdered, Mr. Marchetti. You have a saboteur on board.”

Marchetti looked stunned.

“It’s the only explanation for the fire and systems failures. Since you’re in here with me, I’m assuming it’s not you. But it could be anyone else. One of the skeleton crew or even a stowaway. Probably someone with hidden ties to Otero or Matson. I suggest we keep it to ourselves until we can figure out who it might be.”

Marchetti looked at the dead crewman and then back at Paul. He nodded.

Paul switched his radio on and scooped up the dead man. Marchetti turned his own radio back on. “We’re headed for the main door,” he said, informing the bridge.

DOWN ON THE LOWER DECK, Gamay, Leilani and the chief made it to the brig. The chief used his keys to unlock the cell door. Gamay stepped in. Otero looked up at her from his seat. His sullen eyes were dark.

“We know you’ve messed up the computer system,” she said. “My husband is trapped in the engine room after fighting a fire. You need to enable the doors so he can get out.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because if he dies, it’s murder, and that’s a lot worse for you than what you’ve already done.”

Otero’s head bobbed slightly back and forth as if he were weighing the pros and cons of her request.

“Damn you!” Gamay shouted, stepping forward and slapping him. “There are people here who would kill you for what you’ve already done. I told them it wasn’t necessary, it wasn’t right.”

She grabbed a Wi-Fi-enabled laptop from the chief and shoved it toward him.

Otero looked at it but did nothing.

“I told you he was worthless,” Leilani said.

Looking angry, the chief stepped past Leilani and moved up beside Gamay. “You’ve tried it your way, now I’ll try mine.”

He loomed over Otero. “Open the damn doors or I’ll beat you until you can’t remember your name.”

Otero pulled back a bit, but he seemed less afraid to Gamay than he should have, considering the build of Marchetti’s chief. It took a second to realize why.

The unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking came from behind them, and Gamay’s heart froze.

“No one’s going to get beaten today,” Leilani said from behind them.

Cautiously Gamay turned. Leilani held another gun, different than the one Kurt had taken from her.

“Thanks for moving past me,” she said. “I was wondering how to get the drop on both of you at the same time.”

PAUL and MARCHETTI waited at the main door in the engine room. Time was running out.

“Thirty seconds,” Marchetti said. “Give or take.”

Paul tried to control his breathing. No doubt he’d sucked a lot of oxygen while fighting the fire, he hoped remaining calm at this point would counteract that.

“Anytime now,” Marchetti said loudly.

It concerned Paul that they hadn’t heard from the bridge in several minutes. His last few breaths had been awfully stale. His instincts urged him to take off the mask as if it was smothering him. He knew better of course, the toxic fumes from the fire were far worse than stale air. But any second that air would become no air at all.

“Are you guys out there?” Marchetti shouted. He began banging on the door.

“Save your air,” Paul warned.

“Something’s wrong,” Marchetti said. He pounded on the door with his fist until the warning light on the side panel went from red to yellow. Around them the sound of fans spooling up and the bang of exhaust vents flipping from closed to open rang out.

“Or maybe not,” Marchetti said, looking pleased.

The smoke and steam and fumes began to drift upward, sucked out of the compartment by the system, and the indicator beside the door turned green.

An instant later the door handle spun and the hatch cracked open with a hiss as the heated air from the engine room forced its way out.

An instant of exaltation was followed by a blow of crushing defeat. Outside the door, Gamay and seven of the crewmen, including the chief, were down on their knees with their hands behind their heads. Just beyond them, holding a mix of rifles and short-barreled machine guns that looked like Uzis, were two other crewmen, along with Otero, Matson and, of all people, Leilani Tanner.

“I guess we know who the saboteur is,” Paul said. “You’re not Kimo’s sister, are you?”

“My name is Zarrina,” she said. “Do as I order and I won’t have to kill you.”

CHAPTER 31

LYING FLAT IN THE SAND ONCE AGAIN, KURT PEERED through the gathering dusk to a dry lake bed on the desert floor. A half mile from them sat the two odd-looking jets that had flown over them and a third aircraft of the same type, which they hadn’t seen approach. All three sat quietly up against the right side of what passed as the runway.

From a breast pocket he pulled the compact set of binoculars he’d liberated from Jinn’s dead guard at the bottom of the well. Brushing sand from the lenses, he lifted them to his eyes.

“You were right,” he said. “Not exactly JFK. More like Edwards Air Force Base out in California.”

“Dry lake bed for a runway,” Joe replied, “but what on earth are they doing down there?”

Kurt watched as Jinn’s men poured from holes in the ground like angry ants. They scurried around the three aircraft in a haphazard way. Nearby, a set of trucks idled with black diesel smoke drifting from their exhaust stacks. A trio of forklifts seemed to be staging huge loads of equipment, and a tanker truck was easing out of a tunnel in the rock wall, moving at a snail’s pace.

Joe’s concept of an ant farm seemed more accurate every minute.

“They must have ramps and tunnels everywhere,” Kurt said, watching as men appeared from out of nowhere and then disappeared just as quickly.

“Can you see what they’re bringing in?” Joe asked.

Kurt saw wide cargo doors at the tail ends of the aircraft opening up, but nothing was coming out.

“They’re not here to drop off,” Kurt said. “They’re picking up. Pilots are talking with some sort of loadmaster.”

“So this is moving day.”

“Or D-day,” Kurt said.

“Can you catch the tail numbers off the jets?” Joe asked. “That might help us down the road.”

With the sun down and the light fading fast, Kurt zoomed in on the closest aircraft and squinted.

“White tails,” he said. “No markings of any kind. But I’m pretty sure they’re Russian-built.”

“Can you make out the type?”

“They look modified to me. They have the six-wheeled main landing gear of an An-70, a large tail ramp like a C-130 or other military transport but the shape of something else, they almost look like …”

It hit Kurt all of a sudden. He’d seen the odd-shaped plane two summers ago, fighting fires in Portugal. “They’re modified Altairs,” he said. “Beriev Be-200s. They’re jet-powered flying boats. They land on the water, scoop up a thousand gallons of the stuff, fly off and dump it out over a blaze.”

Joe seemed all the more baffled by this news. “What would Jinn want with a firefighting plane that lands on water? There’s not a lot out here that can catch on fire, and there isn’t much water to scoop up and fight fires with if there was.”

As Kurt watched the tanker truck sidle up to the first of the jets, he thought he understood. “This is how they’re getting the microbots to the sea,” he said.

“In the water reservoirs,” Joe said.

Kurt nodded. “There’s a tanker truck hooked up to one of the jets right now, but unless someone put the fuel port in the wrong place it’s not Jet A or JP-4 they’re pumping.”

“So they’re not washing down from here or escaping,” Joe said. “What about the model of the dam?”

He handed the binoculars to Joe. “Take a look beside that line of trucks.”

Joe put the binoculars to his face. “I see yellow drums on pallets,” he said.

“Look familiar?”

Joe nodded. He scanned back toward the aircraft. “I don’t see any of those going onto the planes. Looks like they’re loading weapons and ammunition onto the closest one, and I think I see a couple of ribbed Zodiacs like the SEAL teams use set up in the staging area.”

“Sounds like our friends are headed somewhere a little wetter than here,” Kurt said. “Which really isn’t a bad idea.”

Joe handed the binoculars back to Kurt. “See if you can spot a water fountain down there somewhere.”

“Sorry, partner,” Kurt said. “I think we just escaped from the only water fountain in this vicinity. And it’s out of order.”

“Just like in the mall,” Joe said, trying to clear his throat of the dust and sand they’d breathed in. Kurt did his best not to think about the thirst he’d built up or the dry, caked feeling in the back of his own throat.

“I wonder,” Kurt said. “Maybe we’re trying to connect the wrong dots. Maybe the model dam they wrecked has nothing to do with the current diagram you spotted in the drafting room and what’s going on in the Indian Ocean.”

“Two targets?”

Kurt nodded. “Two modes of transportation. Two different ways of carrying those microbots. Maybe they have two distinct operations going here.”

“Have we underestimated our maniacal little friend?”

“We might have,” Kurt replied.

“What do you want to do?”

“My original idea was to catch a flight out of here,” Kurt said, “but now that we appear to have a choice in our mode of transport. What do you suggest, trucks or planes?”

“Trucks,” Joe said.

“Really?” Kurt said, surprised. “Planes are faster. And we both know something about flying.”

“Not those things.”

“They’re all the same,” Kurt insisted.

Joe pursed his lips. “Have you ever calculated how much trouble your endless optimism gets us in?” Joe asked. “They’re NOT all the same. And even if they were, where are you going to go once you have control of the plane? This is the Middle East. Planes crossing borders without permission don’t last long around here. The Saudis, the Israelis, the Seventh Fleet, any one of them might shoot us out of the sky before we could explain why we violated their no-fly zone.”

Kurt hated to admit it but Joe had a point.

“Besides,” Joe added, “those planes might end up in a worse place than this. But trucks have to stay on the beaten path and stick close to civilization. There are only so many roads and so many places a truck can go from here. I say we climb aboard.”

“In the back?” Kurt said. “With ten billion little eating machines?”

Joe took the binoculars from Kurt and trained them on the drums beside the line of covered flatbeds. “From the way Jinn’s men are keeping their distance I’m gonna guess they have some idea what’s in those drums. That plays in our favor. It’ll keep ’em away and reduce the chances of our being discovered and redeposited in that well.”

Kurt remained quiet.

“And,” Joe added, perhaps sensing victory was near, “if we are discovered in the trucks, we can jump and run. Kind of hard to do that from thirty thousand feet.”

Kurt could not remember a time when Joe had made such a forceful argument. “You’ve talked me into it.”

“Really?”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” he said, brushing some dust off his uniform and straightening it. “And in this case you are right on, my friend.”

Joe handed the binoculars back to Kurt, looking very pleased with himself. He tried to make his own uniform look more presentable.

“Shall we?”

Kurt tucked the binoculars into his breast pocket. “We shall.”

As darkness fell and the moonless night spread across the desert, the loading and servicing of the Russian-built jets continued. To provide some light a few temporary spotlights and the high beams of several parked Jeeps and Humvees were moved into place.

The strange setup made it easy for Kurt and Joe to sneak up on the staging area as the men in the lighted zone were all but blind to the darkness of the desert beyond.

Upon reaching the operations area, Kurt and Joe pulled up their kaffiyehs to cover their faces and heads. Aside from looking dirty and scruffy, their uniforms matched those of the men handling the loading.

“Grab something,” Joe whispered, picking up a small crate of equipment. “Everyone looks official if they’re carrying something and walking briskly.”

Kurt followed suit, and the two of them walked right into the main staging area without receiving a second glance. They began to get their bearings, trying not to look conspicuous.

Kurt spotted the row of yellow drums. Only a dozen of perhaps sixty remained.

He pointed, and the two of them moved that way. As they closed in, someone began to shout at them in Arabic.

Kurt turned and saw the bearded man named Sabah standing by the row of trucks. Kurt recognized some of the words, something about lazy workers.

Sabah pointed and shouted again and waved his hands in earnest. He seemed to be indicating an idle forklift.

Kurt raised a hand in acknowledgment and began walking toward it.

“I think he wants us to drive it.”

Joe followed him. “Do you know how to drive one of these things?”

“I’ve seen it done once or twice,” Kurt said. “How hard could it be?”

Joe cringed but followed Kurt to the gray-and-orange forklift. He stood by as Kurt climbed on the four-wheeled machine and tried to familiarize himself with the controls.

Sabah began shouting again.

“You better at least start the engine,” Joe whispered.

Kurt found the key and twisted it, the motor rumbled to life.

“Climb on,” he said.

Joe scrambled up onto the side of the forklift and held fast something like a fireman on the ladder trucks of old.

Kurt found the clutch and the gearshift. The rig had three gears: low, high and reverse. Kurt pressed the clutch down, forced the shift into low and added some gas.

Nothing happened.

“We’re not moving,” Joe whispered.

“I realize that.”

Kurt let out the clutch a little more and pressed the accelerator a little harder. The engine revved, the gears meshed and the big machine lurched forward like a driver’s ed car in the hands of a three-time dropout.

“Easy,” Joe said.

“I thought that was easy,” Kurt replied.

Sabah waved impatiently, pointing them toward the stack of yellow drums, each of which sat on its own pallet.

Kurt turned that way. Up ahead one of the other forklifts was raising a pallet that held one of the yellow drums. As it lifted the load, a second workman lashed it to the apron with a metal cable. Apparently no one wanted to spill the contents of these barrels.

The forklift reversed and headed off with the worker still hanging on to the front.

“That’s your job,” Kurt said.

“Great.”

“You’d better find us a cable.”

Joe discovered one hooked to the forklift’s roof guard. He disconnected it and hopped down to the desert floor.

As Joe edged toward the yellow drums, Kurt struggled to guide the big machine. He lined up and moved forward. He grabbed the fork control and went to lower the forks, but they moved opposite to what he remembered. The forks came up, threatening to puncture the drum.

He slammed on the brake, and the forklift stopped short.

As he lowered the fork, Kurt caught sight of Joe. His eyes were wide. Kurt couldn’t really blame him. When the forks were at the correct height and angle, Kurt inched the rig forward and picked up the pallet.

Joe stepped up and lashed the drum tight and gave Kurt the thumbs-up.

With a great degree of caution, Kurt backed up and turned. Going forward once again, he found the rig far better balanced with Joe and the yellow drum weighing down the nose.

He moved slowly toward the line of trucks, following in the tracks of the other forklift.

There were five trucks in all. They were flatbeds with treated canvas tarps stretched over the top of metal ribs. It looked like the lead truck was filled and being buttoned up. The others were still being loaded.

Sabah pointed toward the last truck in the line, and Kurt moved toward it. He lined up with the rear bumper and raised the forks. When it was even with the bed of the truck, Joe unlashed the drum and eased it forward, sliding the entire pallet onto a set of rollers on the bed of the truck.

Moving it like that, he slid it into place and lashed it down like the other barrels. With the job done, Joe climbed back onto the side of the forklift.

“You realize this could be considered aiding and abetting the enemy,” he said as Kurt turned the forklift back toward the staging area.

“We can leave this off the report,” Kurt said. “A simple omission.”

“Great idea. It could happen to anyone.”

“Exactly,” Kurt said. “When we load the final barrel, you stay in the truck bed. I’ll park this thing and join you when no one’s looking.”

It sounded like a good plan and it seemed to be working. All the way up until they were almost ready to put it into action.

As they waited to grab the last barrel, Jinn and several of his men came out of the tunnel.

Sabah held up a hand like a traffic cop, and all activity stopped as he went to talk with his master.

Kurt cut the engine, hoping to overhear.

Another group of men joined Jinn. The young woman Kurt suspected to be the real Leilani was with them.

“You’re bringing her with us?” Sabah asked.

“I am,” Jinn said. “This complex is no longer secure.”

“I’ll contact Xhou,” Sabah said. “The Chinese are treacherous, but they always prefer to save face. That is why he sent Mustafa. He will redouble his efforts and release more funds. He will not be a problem until the sting of this failure has gone away. And that will be long enough for us to gain full control.”

“I’m not worried about the Chinese,” Jinn said. “That American was right. His government will move aggressively. They no longer care about borders. We’re not safe here.”

“We shall see,” Sabah said.

“I need a new headquarters,” Jinn insisted, “one they will not suspect. And I must do more to ensure our plan goes into effect, efforts I cannot make from here.”

He pointed to the woman. “Keep her out of the way until the loading is done. Then put her in the third plane, away from the men. I don’t want them near her.”

“She should be guarded,” Sabah said.