Hostile Fire (25 page)

Murdock looked at Kat. He touched her shoulder. “Thanks for all of your good work, and take care of Gypsy. We owe her. Stomp all over Stroh here if he gives you any trouble. Stay with Gypsy until the Company gets her a passport and lands her with you in New York.”

“Count on it,” Kat said, staring hard at Stroh.

Two hours later the three SEALs took off from Kuwait City Airport on the Saudi Airlines jetliner. They did a lot of nodding and used simple Arabic words and probably looked like foreigners, but that was no big problem here.

Rafii sat next to Murdock on the two-seat side of the aircraft.

“Maybe eight hundred miles to Amman,” he whispered. “That’s about two hours, depending on the route. We’ll go south some so we don’t overfly Iraq.”

“Be early afternoon when we get on up to Irbid. Let’s hope the airfreight outfits are at the airport. We’ll use a taxi. My big worry is that we’re at least a day behind Fouad, if this is where he went. Stroh and his brain trust could be all wrong on this. President Kamil of Iraq might be going to use that bomb himself.”

“Let’s hope not,” Rafii said. “If he drops it on Israel, they for sure will retaliate with a nuke and the big nuclear war could be started.”

“So this time Stroh and the Company better be right, or the whole damn world could be in big trouble,” Murdock said.

Irbid, Jordan

Rafii took the lead as they left the plane with their carry-on bags and walked outside the airport terminal. He hurried directly to a waiting taxi at the head of the line and talked briefly with the driver. He nodded and the three SEALs climbed into the cab. It turned out to be a short drive around the outside of the airport to a rear gate where the transit aircraft and the two airfreight companies were located.

Rafii told the taxi driver to wait, and the three went straight to the closest firm, Jordan Airfreight. The building was old, needed painting, and crouched beside a large hangar where they could see three twin-engine jet planes and two smaller propjets. Inside they found a counter with a man sitting behind it playing cards. He looked up, then made one more play. He was darkly Jordanian, with a full mustache, no beard, slightly slanted eyes, and a forehead that bulged slightly like he was a cranial genius. He heaved to his feet and Murdock saw that he was at least three hundred pounds. He scowled at them, then asked what they wanted.

“I’m looking for a large, heavy shipment that went out of here last night or this morning. Must have weighed at least a ton. Large wooden crate. Anything like that on one of your planes?”

“Customers’ business is their business,” the clerk said. “We don’t talk about it.” He took a ponderous step to the right and looked over a sheaf of papers on a clipboard.

Rafii took out a wad of bills and began laying Jordanian twenty-dinar notes on the counter. The clerk watched him from dark eyes now hooded with heavy brows. Rafii stopped and the man looked up. Rafii shrugged and put the rest of the bills in his pocket. The large man moved ponderously
toward the money, but Rafii covered it with his hand.

“The information first. If it’s worthwhile, you get the money.”

Heavy shoulders shrugged, and then his hand darted out and caught one of the dinar notes. He stepped back and chuckled.

“No heavy cargo here in two weeks. Boss is angry about it. Saw lots of lights over next door last night. Ask them.” He held the bill up. “Go with Allah.”

Rafii turned with the rest of the bills in his hand, and the three left the office. The outfit next door was a half a block away. They walked as Rafii pushed the bills back in his pocket. The taxi trailed along behind them.

“Money can buy most anything in Jordan,” he said. “Maybe we get lucky on this last stop. If not, we phone Stroh. Maybe they have a new lead.”

On the way to the office of Fast Air Freight, they passed the open hangar door. It was a large building, with two twin jet transport planes inside being serviced. The FAF logo stood out on both planes in a bright red against the white body color.

Inside they found a counter behind which was a young man sitting at a desk with a phone bank. He looked up and smiled.

“How may I help you gentlemen?”

Rafii bristled. “You sent out an illegal shipment last night on one of your charter planes. We need to know who sent it and where it went.”

The young man stood and frowned. He fussed with his hands, and a thin line of sweat popped out on his forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I didn’t work last night.”

“Get your supervisor or your boss. Get him here right now!” Rafii’s voice had risen to a thundering level. No one else was in the office. The young man wiped his forehead, nodded, and hurried through a back door.

“Might never see him again,” Murdock whispered.

“He’ll be back,” Rafii said. “Twenty to one.”

“You’re on for a tenner,” Ching said.

A moment later the rear door opened and an older man, with a full beard, a vigorous walk, and hands that showed
he had done his share of hard work, came in. He wore a New York Yankees baseball cap and a large smile.

“Now, what seems to be the trouble?” the man asked.

“None, if you tell us what we need to know. Who sent the large, heavy crate last night and where did it go?”

“Well now, that is company business. We’re not allowed to give out the names of shippers or where—”

Rafii reached across the counter and grabbed the man by the throat. He pressured both carotid arteries and the supervisor’s eyes went wide and his arms flailed for a moment, then his voice squeaked out.

“Okay, okay.”

Rafii let go of his throat but kept his hand wrapped around the man’s shirt front just under his chin. The man swallowed twice, rubbed his eyes with one hand, then nodded.

“Yes, yes, a heavy shipment. It was listed as farm machinery. Very heavy. Too heavy to be regular farm equipment. But the man paid. He paid extra to get the crate loaded last night and the plane cleared for takeoff.”

“A charter?”

“Yes, the only freight on board. It took an hour to get it placed exactly right in the body of the aircraft so it wouldn’t interfere with the flight characteristics.”

“The manifest,” Rafii demanded, holding out his hand that had come off the shirt front.

“I really shouldn’t.” The supervisor’s eyes went wide and he took a step back as Rafii moved his hand toward the Arab’s chin. “Why not? I didn’t like the man. He was a Saudi, slick and sleek and had to have his way with everything.”

Out of his pocket Murdock pulled a picture that Stroh had supplied.

Rafii handed the picture to the Jordanian. “Is this the man?” Rafii asked.

“Yes, the mustache is the same, but now he has the start of a full beard, maybe two weeks’ growth.”

“Where is the plane going?” Rafii asked.

“The flight plan calls for it to go to Portugal to stop for fuel. The man said he would file a new flight plan there.”

“What kind of plane is it?” Rafii asked.

“It’s a BAC One-Eleven. A Romanian-made plane.”

“Payload and range,” Rafii snapped.

“Range is up to twenty-three hundred miles. Payload is a hundred and eighteen passengers or in the cargo version over twenty-one thousand pounds.”

“Plenty,” Rafii said. “Show me the manifest.”

The man frowned and Rafii reached for him, but he stepped back again and took a file from a nearby desk. He leafed through it a moment and came up with four sheets of paper. Rafii looked at them and nodded. He took out three twenty-dinar notes and pushed them at the man.

“You don’t need to tell anyone that we were here, agreed?”

The man stared at the money a moment, and then nodded. As Rafii and the others left, he grabbed the money and pushed it into his pocket.

Outside, Murdock took over. “We need to find a phone,” he said. Rafii signaled the taxi and it pulled up beside them and stopped.

The driver took them to a pair of phones well away from the roar of jets taking off, and Murdock tried to direct dial the number that Stroh had given him in Kuwait. It didn’t work. Rafii got on the phone and with an operator got through.

“Stroh, Murdock.”

“About time you called. What’s happening?”

Murdock laid out the action for him. “Maybe your people in Lisbon can nail the plane before it takes off?”

“Not likely. But it sounds like we guessed right and we have a tail on the right guy, with the bomb. He has almost twenty-four hours head start. You say the FAF logo is bright red on a white body. That will help. Not a lot of BAC One-Elevens out there. We’ll put out a worldwide watch for it on the Internet and offer a reward. It’s worked in the past.”

“So we go to Lisbon,” Murdock said.

“Yes, but you won’t get a nonstop. We can put one agent on it in Lisbon. Maybe we can find out something. Fouad will have to file a flight plan there. Whether he tells his true next destination could be a problem. Get there as fast as you can. Rafii can do it for you. Probably have to go back to
Amman, then to Athens if you’re lucky and on to Rome or Madrid. You might not make it for twenty-four hours, depending on layovers between flights. You can get out of your Arab clothes anytime you want to. Now, get moving. I’ve got some radio calls to make.”

They had to wait an hour for a flight to Amman, and then Rafii went to work with the ticket people and managed to get flights to Greece and Rome.

“We’ll have to rebook when we get to Rome, but the first plane to Athens leaves in an hour and will take half the night. If we can book out of Athens, we should be in Lisbon by noon tomorrow.”

“Too damn slow,” Murdock brayed. “He could be halfway across the Atlantic by then, or into London. We don’t know where the hell he’s heading.”

“Isn’t Lisbon a jumping off spot for crossing the Atlantic?” Ching asked. “From Lisbon to Nova Scotia. Halifax, I think, is the town.”

“How far is that?” Rafii asked.

Murdock frowned. “As I remember, the Azores islands are about a thousand miles due west of Lisbon. Stop there for fuel if needed and then head on out to Halifax another sixteen hundred.”

“A big jet like the BAC could make it in one hop,” Ching said.

“Enough talk,” Murdock said. “When does the damn plane leave out of here for Athens?”

Lisbon, Portugal

Remedios parked her Volkswagen in front of the Lisbon Air Freight office and hurried inside. She knew one of the men there—that would be a help. Her phone call had come through less than twenty minutes ago with an ultra-urgent note on it. When the Company called, she swung into motion as fast as possible.

Inside the small office she saw Carlos, the man she knew, and waved him over.

“Need a special favor, my friend,” she said. She was wearing a tight white blouse and smiled at the thirty-year-old clerk.

“My pleasure, Remedios,” Carlos said with a grin.

“Not that, at least not now. I’m looking for a flashy airfreight plane. It’s a BAC One-Eleven with large red logos on the side saying ‘FAF.’ Any ideas?”

“Don’t see many BAC planes around here. It’s Romanian. I can ask around. When did it come in?”

“My source said sometime early this morning, maybe before daylight.”

“Only three other airfreight outfits here that it could stop at. It would need fuel and a new flight plan probably. You check with the tower for a flight plan, and I’ll make some calls.”

Remedios called the tower and, after being transferred to three different people, had her answer. No FAF freighter had filed a flight plan within the past twenty-four hours. She went back to Carlos. He shook his head.

“Sorry, nobody has seen a BAC around here today. Of course, if it came in before daylight, it would be hard to spot and the men who worked then have gone home. Wish I could help you. When are we going out to dinner?”

“Soon, Carlos. Soon. Right now I’m in a short-time situation. I’m going to check with the other three freight guys and see what they know. Thanks for your help.” She put on her best smile, then turned and hurried out to her car.

A half hour later she looked for a phone. None of the men at the other three big airfreight outfits had seen a BAC plane, or any other with the red FAF logo. She called her contact and told him. He would pass the word on to Don Stroh.