Black Sunday (11 page)

The patrol boat, approaching from the other side of the ship, could not see him yet. Probably the sight of the freighter hove to had aroused the Coast Guard's curiosity, unless they had been tipped off. Patrol boat. Six in these waters, all 82 feet, twin diesels, 1,600 shaft horsepower, good for 20 knots. Sperry-Rand SPB-5 radar, crew of eight. One .50 caliber machine gun and an 81 mm mortar. In a flash Lander considered setting fire to the freighter, forcing the cutter to stop and render aid. No, the first mate would scream piracy and the hue and cry would go up. Search planes would come, some of them with infrared equipment that would pick up the heat of his engines. Darkness coming. No moon for five hours. Better a chase.

Lander snapped back to the present. His deliberations had taken five seconds.

"Dahlia, rig the reflector." He slammed the throttles open and heeled the big boat over in a foaming curve away from the freighter. He headed toward the land, forty miles away, the engines roaring at full throttle and spray flying back as they smashed through moderate seas. Even heavily laden, the powerful boat was doing close to 19 knots. The cutter had a slight edge in speed. He would keep the freighter between them as long as he could. He yelled down to Fasil in the cockpit. "Monitor 2182 kilocycles." This was the International Radio Telephone Distress frequency and a "calling frequency" used in initial contacts between vessels.

The freighter was well astern now, but as they watched, the cutter appeared, still beyond the freighter but coming hard, throwing a big bow wave. As Lander lodked back over his shoulder he saw the cutter's bow swing slightly until it pointed dead at him.

Fasil scrambled up the ladder until his head was above the level of the flying bridge. "He's ordering us to halt."

"Fuck him. Switch to the Coast Guard frequency. It's marked on the dial. We'll see if he calls for help."

With the running lights off, the boat raced toward the last glow in the west. Behind them, graceful. white bow and bow wave gleaming in the last light, the Coast Guard cutter charged like a terrier.

Dahlia had finished clamping the passive radar reflector to the handrail on the bridge. It was a kiteshaped assembly of metal rods which she had bought in a marine supply store for $12, and it trembled as the boat plunged through the seas.

Lander sent her below to check the lashings. He wanted nothing to come adrift in the pounding the boat would have to take.

She checked the cockpit first and then worked forward to the cabin where Fasil frowned at the radio.

"'Nothing yet," he said in Arabic. "Why the radar reflector?"

"The Coast Guard would have seen us anyway," Dahlia said. She had to yell in his ear to be heard.in the plunging boat. "When the Coast Guard captain sees than the chase will continue into darkness, he will have his radar operator get a fix on us and track us while he can still follow visually---then there will be no problem identifying the blip we make on his screen after the light is gone." Lander had explained all this at tiresome length. "With that reflector, it is a big, fat blip, distinct from interference from the waves. Like the image of a metal boat."

"Is---"

"Listen td me," she said urgently, glancing upward toward the bridge above their heads. "You must not act familiar with me in any way, or touch me, do you understand? You must speak only English in his presence. Never come upstairs in his house. Never surprise him. For the sake of the mission."

Fasil's face was lit from beneath by the radio dials, his eyes glowing in their shadowed sockets. "For the mission, then, Comrade Dahlia. As long as he functions, I will humor him."

Dahlia nodded. "If you don't humor him, you may find out how welt he functions," she said, but the words were lost in the wind as she climbed aft.

It was dark now. There was only the faint light of the binnacle on the bridge, visible to Lander alone. He could seethe red and green running lights of the cutter clearly and its big searchlight boring into the' dark. He estimated that the government vessel had about a half-knot advantage and his lead was about four-and-a-half miles. Fasil climbed up beside him. "He's radioed customs about the
Leticia.
He says he's going to take us himself."

"Tell Dahlia it's almost time."

They were pounding toward the sealanes now. Lander knew that the men in the cutter could not see him, yet the vessel matched every slight course alteration he made. He could almost feel the fingers of the radar on his back. It would be better if there were some ships ...yes! Off the port bow were the white range lights of a ship, and as the minutes passed he raised her running lights. A freighter northbound and plowing along at a good rate. He altered course slightly to pass under her bows as closely as possible. Lander saw in his mind the patrol boat's radar screen, its green light glowing on the face of the operator watching the big image of the freighter and the smaller one of the speedboat converge, the blips glowing bright each time the sweep went around.

"Get ready," he yelled to Dahlia.

"Let's go," she said to Fasil. He did not ask questions. Together they pulled the little platform with the floats clear of the lashed-down explosives. Each float was made of a five gallon drum and each had a pinhole in the top and an ordinary faucet in its underside. Dahlia brought the mast from the cabin and the radar reflector from the bridge. They clamped the reflector to the top of the mast and set the mast in a socket on the platform. With Fasil's help she attached a 6-foot line to the underside of the platform and secured the other end to a heavy lead weight. They looked up from their work to see the lights of the freighter hanging almost over them, its bow like a cliff. In a flash they were past it.

Lander, angling north, looked back over the stern to keep the freighter between him and the patrol boat. Now the radar blips had merged, the greater height of the freighter shielding Lander's boat from the radar impulses.

He estimated the distance back to the cutter. "Half turn on the faucets." A moment later, he cut the engines. "Overboard."

Dahlia and Fasil dropped the floating platform over the side, the mast wagging wildly until the weight hanging down beneath the platform steadied it like a keel, holding the radar reflector high above the water. The device rocked again as Lander rammed the throttles home and headed straight south in the blacked-out boat.

"The radar operator can't be sure if the image of the reflector is us or something new, or if we're running along on the other side of the freighter," Fasil said. "How long will it float?"

"Fifteen minutes with the faucets half open," Dahlia said. "It will be gone when the cutter gets there."

"Then he will follow the ship north to see if we're alongside?"

"Perhaps."

"How much can he see of us now?"

"A wooden boat at this range, not much if anything. Even the paint is not lead-based. There will be some wake interference from the ship. The engine noise from the ship will help too, if he stops to listen. We don't know yet if he's taken the bait."

From the bridge, Lander watched the lights of the patrol boat. He could see the two high white range lights and the red portside running light. If she turned toward him, he would see the green starboard light come around.

Dahlia was beside him now and together they watched the cutter's lights. They saw only red, and then as the distance increased they could make out only the white range lights, then nothing but an occasional beam of the searchlight, raised by a wave, probing the empty dark.

Lander was aware of a third presence on the bridge.

"A nice piece of work," Muhammad Fasil said. Lander did not answer him.

Chapter 7

Major Kabakov's eyes were red and he was irritable. The clerks in the New York office of the Immigration and Naturalization Service had learned to walk softly around him as he sat, day after day, studying mug shots of Arab aliens living in the United States.

The ledger-sized books piled on either side of him at the long table contained, in all, 137,000 photos and descriptions. He was determined to look at every one. If the woman was on a mission in this country, she would have established a cover first, he was convinced of it. The "suspicious Arab" file maintained sub rosa by Immigration had contained few women, and none of them resembled the woman in Hafez Najeer's bedroom. Immigration and Naturalization estimated there were some 85,000 Arabs on the Eastern Seaboard who had entered the country illegally over the years and appeared in nobody's file. Most of them worked quietly at inconspicuous jobs, bothered no one and rarely came to the attention of the authorities. The possibility plagued him that the woman might be one of these.

Wearily, he turned another page. Here's a woman. Katherine Ghalib. Working with retarded children in Phoenix. Fifty years old and looks it.

A clerk was at his elbow. "Major, there's a call for you in the office."

"Very well. Don't move these damned books. I'll lose my place."

The caller was Sam Corley in Washington.

"How's it going?"

"Nothing yet. I've got about 80,000 Arabs to go."

"I got a report from the Coast Guard. It may not be anything, but one of their cutters spotted a power boat next to a Libyan freighter off the Jersey coast yesterday afternoon. The boat ran from them when they went to take a look."

"Yesterday?"

"Yeah, they had been busy with a ship fire way out and they were coming back. The freighter was out of Beirut."

"Where's the ship now?"

"Impounded in Brooklyn. Captain's missing. I don't know the details yet."

"What about the boat?"

"Gave them the slip in the dark."

Kabakov swore viciously. "Why did it take them so long to tell us?"

"Damned if I know, but there it is. I'll call Customs up there. They'll give you a rundown."

The
Leticia's
first mate and acting captain, Mustapha Fawzi, talked with customs officers for an hour in his little cabin, waving his arms in air thick with the acrid smoke of his Turkish cigarettes.

Yes, the boat approached his ship, Fawzi told them. The boat was low on petrol and requested assistance. Following the law of the sea, he helped them. His description of the boat and its occupants was vague. This event took place in international waters, he stressed. No, he would not voluntarily permit a search of his vessel. The ship, under international law, was Libyan territory and was his responsibility after the most unfortunate falling overboard of Captain Larlnoso.

Customs did not want an incident with the Libyan government, particularly now with the Middle East inflamed. What the Coast Guard saw would not constitute sufficient probable cause for a search warrant to be issued. Fawzi promised a deposition on Larmoso's accident, and the customs officers left the ship to confer with the departments of justice and State.

Fawzi drank a bottle of the late Captain's beer and fell soundly asleep for the first time in days.

__________

A voice seemed to be calling Fawzi from far away. His name was repeated in a deep voice and something was hurting his eyes. Fawzi awoke and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding flashlight beam.

"Good evening, Mustapha Fawzi," Kabahov said. "Please keep your hands above the sheet."

Sergeant Moshevsky, looming huge behind Kabakov, flicked on the lights. Fawzi sat up in bed and called upon God.

"Freeze," Moshevsky said, holding a knife beneath Fawzi's ear.

Kabakov pulled up a chair and sat down at the bedside. He lit a cigarette. "I would appreciate a quiet conversation now. Will it be quiet?"

Fawzi nodded and Kabakov motioned Moshevsky away. "Now Mustapha Fawzi, I am going to explain to you how you will help me at no risk to yourself. You see, I will not hesitate to kill you if you do not cooperate, but I have no reason to kill you if you are helpful. It's very important that you understand that."

Moshevsky stirred impatiently and delivered his line. "First let me cut---"

"No, no," Kabakov said, raising his hand. "You see, Fawzi, with men less intelligent than yourself it is often necessary to establish, first, that you will suffer terrible pain and mutilation if you displease me and, second, that you will get some marvelous reward if you are useful. We both know what the reward usually is." Kabakov flicked the ash from his cigarette with the tip of his little finger. "Ordinarily, I would let my friend break your arms before we talked. But you see, Fawzi, you have nothing to lose by telling me what has happened here. Your noncooperation with customs is a matter of record. Your cooperation with me will remain our secret." He flipped his Israeli identification onto the bed. "Will you help me?"

Fawzi looked at the card and swallowed hard. He said nothing.

Kabakov rose and sighed. "Sergeant, I am going out for a breath of air. Perhaps Mustapha Fawzi would like some refreshments. Call me when he has finished eating his testicles." He turned toward the cabin door.

"I have relatives in Beirut." Fawzi was having trouble controlling his voice. Kabakov could see the heart pounding in his thin body as he sat half-naked in the bunk.

"Of course you do," Kabakov said. "And they have been threatened, I am sure. Lie to Customs all you like. But don't lie to me, Fawzi. There is no place where you will be safe from me. Not here, not at home, not in any port on earth. I have respect for your relatives. I understand these things and I'll cover for you."

"The Lebanese killed Larmoso in the Azores," Fawzi began.

Moshevsky had no taste for torture. He knew Kabakov hated it as well. It took a conscious effort for Moshevsky to keep from smiling as he searched the cabin. Each time Fawzi's recitation faltered, Moshevsky paused in his work to scowl at him, trying to look disappointed at not getting to carve him up.

"Describe the Lebanese."

"Slender, medium height. He had a cut on his face, scabbed over."

"What was in the bags?"

"I don't know. As Allah is my witness. The Lebanese packed them from the crates in the forward hold. He allowed no one near them."

"How many were in the boat?"

"Two."

"Describe them."

"One tall and thin, the other smaller. They wore masks. I was frightened, I did not look."

"What did they speak?"

"The bigger spoke English with the Lebanese."

"The smaller?"

"The smaller said nothing."

"Could the smaller have been a woman?"

The Arab flushed. He did not want to admit being frightened by a woman. It was unthinkable.

"With the Lebanese holding a gun, with your relatives threatened---it was these thoughts that made you cooperate, Fawzi," Kabakov said gently.

"The smaller could have been a woman," Fawzi said finally.

"You saw her hands on the bags?"

"She wore gloves. But there was a lump at the back of her mask that might have been her hair. And there is the thing of her bottom."

"The thing of her bottom?"

"Rounded, you know. Wider than a man's. Perhaps a shapely boy?"

Moshevsky, rummaging through the refrigerator, helped himself to a bottle of beer. Something was behind the bottle. He pulled it out and handed it to Kabakov.

"Did Captain Larmoso's religion require him to keep religious articles in his refrigerator?" Kabakov asked, holding the knife-scarred figure of the Madonna close to Fawzi's face.

Fawzi looked at it with genuine incomprehension and the distaste a Moslem feels toward religious statuary. Kabakov, deep in thought, smelled the statue and dug into it with his fingernail. Plastic. Larmoso had known what it was, but had not known much about its properties, he reasoned. The captain had thought it safest to keep the thing cold, as cold as the rest of the explosive down in the hold. He needn't have bothered, Kabakov thought. He turned the statue in his hands. If they went to this trouble to disguise the plastic, then they originally had planned to bring it through Customs.

"Get me the ship's books," Kabakov snapped.

Fawzi found the manifest with the bill of lading after a short delay. Mineral water, unrestricted hides, flatware---there it was. Three crates of religious statues. Made in Taiwan. Shipped to Benjamin Muzi.

__________

Muzi watched from Brooklyn Heights as the
Leticia
labored into New York harbor escorted by the Coast Guard cutter. He swore in several languages. What had Larmoso done? Muzi walked to a telephone booth at top speed, approximately two-and-a-half miles per hour. He moved with the dignity of an elephant, and like an elephant he had surprising grace in his extremities and loved orderly progressions. This business was most disorderly.

His size prevented him from entering the booth, but he could reach inside and dial. He called Coast Guard Search and Rescue, identifying himself as a reporter for El Diario-La Prensa. The helpful young man at the Coast Guard communications center told him the details that could be gleaned from radio traffic concerning the
Leticia
and her missing captain and the pursuit of the speedboat.

Muzi drove along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway overlooking the Brooklyn docks. On the pier beside the
Leticia
he could see both Customs and Port Authority police. He was relieved that neither the freighter nor the cutter flew the red swallow-tailed Bravo that means dangerous cargo aboard. Either the authorities had not yet found the explosives or the speedboat had taken the plastic off the ship. If the speedboat had taken the plastic, which was very likely, then he had a little time as far as the law was concerned. It would take days for the authorities to inventory the
Leticia's
cargo and pinpoint the missing shipment. Probably he was not yet hot with the law. But he was hot all right, and he could feel it.

Something was terribly wrong. It did not matter whose fault it was, he would be blamed. He had a quarter of a million dollars of Arab money in a bank in the Netherlands and his employers would accept no excuse. If they took the plastic at sea, then they believed he was ready to betray them, had betrayed them. What had that fool Larmoso done? Whatever it was, Muzi knew he would never get a chance to explain that he was innocent. Black September would kill him at the first opportunity. Clearly he would have to take early retirement.

From his safe deposit box in a lower Manhattan bank, Muzi took a thick wad of banknotes and a number of bankbooks. One of the bankbooks bore the name of the Netherlands' oldest and most prestigious financial house. It showed a balance of $250,000, all deposited at once and available only to him.

Muzi sighed. It would have been so nice to collect the second $250,000 when the plastic was delivered. Now the guerrillas would stake out the bank in Holland for a while, he was sure. Let them. He would transfer the account and pick up the money elsewhere.

The items that worried him most were not in the lockbox. His passports. For years he had kept them in the lockbox, but after his last trip to the Middle East, inexcusably he had left them in his home. He would have to get them. Then he would fly from Newark to Chicago to Seattle and over the Pole to London. Where was it that Farouk had dined in London? Muzi, who greatly admired Farouk's taste and style, determined to find out.

Muzi had no intention of returning to his office. Let them interrogate the Greek. His ignorance would astound them. The odds were very good that the guerrillas were watching his home as well. But. they would not watch long. With the explosives in hand, they would have other things to do. It would be stupid to rush home immediately. Let them think that he had already fled.

He checked into a motel on the West Side, signing the register "Chesterfield Pardue." He iced down 12 bottles of Perrier in the bathroom sink. For a moment he felt a nervous chill. He had a sudden urge to sit in the dry bathtub with the shower curtain closed, but he feared that his wide behind would get stuck in the tub as it had in Atlantic City once.

The chill passed and he lay on the bed, hands folded on his great mound of a stomach, frowning at the ceiling. Fool that he was to get mixed up with those scabby guerrillas. Skinny, oafish fellows, all of them, enjoying nothing but politics. Beirut had been bad news for him before, in the failure of the Intra Bank in 1967. The bank failure had put a dent in his retirement fund. If it had not occurred he would have retired already.

He had been close to recouping when the Arab offer came along. The whopping fee for bringing in the plastic would put him over the top. For that reason, he had decided to take the risk. Well, half the guerrilla money would still do it.