Scorpion Betrayal (15 page)

“What you want to do?” Khmelnitsky said to the Palestinian.

“Pay him now,” the Palestinian said. “I'll give you the money in the men's toilet. After the ship sails, kill him. I'll give you another thousand euros.”

“I kill him,” Khmelnitsky said. “But for only one euro. This is all this
huesos
is worth.”

By late afternoon the big rig arrived carrying the steel drums and ingots. Before they loaded the cargo, the Palestinian inspected the steel drums marked
SPECIAL ORDER
for the hairs from his head he had glued from the tops to the sides. They were unbroken. They hadn't been tampered with. He used his laptop to send the authorization for the bank transfer and waited till Khmelnitsky came back after checking it out.

“Money
kharasho.
Everything
kharasho.
You see, we do
kharasho
good business,” the Russian said, clapping the Palestinian on the shoulder.

“Da svidaniya,”
the Palestinian replied, shaking Khmelnitsky's hand. The Russian was smiling so broadly, he thought, you could almost forget he was called “Kolbasa.”

The Palestinian walked up the gangplank onto the ship, pulling his carry-on behind him. A Turkish crewman pointed him to the bridge, where he showed his papers to a man named Chernovetsky, a bearded Ukrainian in a soiled white captain's cap. The papers identified him as a Moroccan seaman named Hassan Lababi. The captain squinted closely at the photograph on his papers then handed them back.

“New crewman takes midnight watch,” Chernovetsky said in a heavily accented English.

“Oui,
Capitaine,” the Palestinian replied, using French to reinforce his Moroccan nationality.

The Palestinian went below and stowed his gear in the crew's quarters, then went out on deck. He watched the crewmen toss the hawsers and felt the shudder of the engines as the ship left its berth. The
Zaina
cleared the breakwater and began an easy pitching as it headed out into the deeper water of the Black Sea. The ship was bound through the Bosphorus and the Dardenelles for its next port, Marseilles, where the steel drums were to be unloaded. The Palestinian leaned on the rail and smoked a cigarette and watched the sun as it set behind the western hills of Odessa, the sky a vivid purple and red. As the lights of the city receded in the darkness, he smiled in the knowledge that the
Zaina
would never reach Marseilles.

CHAPTER NINE

Amsterdam, Netherlands

“N
ow that you have me, what are you going to do with me?” she asked. They were sitting in a brown bar just off the Prinsengracht, not far from the Anne Frank House.

“Why were you following me?” he said, poking at a
fritte mayonnaise.

“I told you, I'm following a story,” she said, putting down her
witte
beer and lighting a cigarette. It gave her a chance to study his face. It was a strong face, with dark tousled hair and shadows under gray eyes that gave nothing away. There was a scar over one of his eyes that she suspected wasn't a sports injury. His hands looked strong enough that she knew if he wanted to, he could tear her apart, and it made something shiver inside her.

“You're doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“Lying when you don't have to. Whatever you were following me for, it wasn't for the TV news.”

“How do you know?”

“You're Najla Kafoury, a one-name talking head on TV. You're national in Deutschland. You don't do local breaking-and-entering stories, and nobody stakes out a mosque at night on the off chance the alarm'll go off. Why were you there and why did you follow me?”

She exhaled cigarette smoke at him and didn't say anything.

“Last chance,” he said.

“Or else what? What'll you do if I don't say? Tie me up? Spank me?”

“I wish I could. Sounds like fun,” he said, sipping his
pils
beer.

“What will you do?” she said, suddenly serious.

“Introduce you to people less willing to let you lie than I am. Trust me, you won't like it.”

“I believe you,” she said. She exhaled a stream of smoke and looked around the bar. It was dark, crowded, and noisy, and a number of football fans were arguing loudly about the upcoming match between the leading Dutch rivals, Ajax and Feyenoord. “I could make a scene.”

“Not a good idea.”

She looked into his gray eyes, and whatever she saw made her go cold inside.

“You're right,” she said. “It wasn't a story. Islamic extremism is my enemy. You know that. You were at the demonstration, weren't you?”

He nodded.

“I thought I had seen you,” she said. “There was something going on at the mosque. For weeks I'd been getting hints, e-mails, tweets, Muslims not from Hamburg coming and going. Something was about to happen. I could feel it. I was thinking maybe a
terroristischen
attack. Then tonight the alarm went off and you came out and I decided to follow. I thought you were a terrorist. When you first grabbed me, I thought you were going to kill me. Maybe you still are,” she added softly.

“Ja
—and if Ajax loses Suarez as striker?! Then what?” a red-faced Dutchman at the bar wearing the Ajax team colors, red and white, demanded loudly.

“That call I made before,” Scorpion said, referring to a cell phone call he had made earlier, while they were still driving to Amsterdam. “I'm waiting to hear.”

“You'll let me go?”

“I don't know. We'll have to see.”

“You could let me go right now. You could let me just stand up and walk out the door and no harm. You could do it,” she said, her hand resting on her handbag as if she were getting ready to leave.

“Drink your beer. Don't do anything stupid,” he said.

“You're scaring me. I thought you liked me.”

“Flirting too. You're putting on quite a show. Too bad we both know this isn't personal,” he said. “What were you doing outside the Islamisches Masjid in the middle of the night—and please don't tell me again you were waiting for a story to drop into your lap. We're past the Girl Journalist Makes Good phase.”

“I told you. They're up to something. I thought you were one of them. I'm beginning to think you really are.”

“Let's go,” he said, standing.

She looked up. “Where are we going?”

“To get a room,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her close.

“Is that what this is?” she asked, looking into his eyes.

“I need to sleep. So do you. By morning we'll know more,” he said, helping her into her Burberry.

Holding her by the arm, they left the bar. He hailed a taxi and told the driver to take them to the Rosseburt; the Red Light District. The driver dropped them off on a walking street with thinning groups of men and a few lingering tourists viewing the rows of red-lit windows filled with women in sexy lingerie and stockings. The windows cast a neon-red glow into the street. It was late. The night was cool and smelled of beer and hashish. Street hustlers selling drugs approached them and Scorpion shook them off.

“You already have me. How many women do you need?” Najla said as they walked by the windows where young women posed and beckoned male passersby.

“For the moment, none. You're a complication, not an asset,” he said, pulling her into a sex shop. They went to the S&M section, where he picked out handcuffs, restraints, a leather gag, and a roll of duct tape.

“You are getting stranger by the minute.” She looked around at the leather restraints, masks, and whips. “In case you're wondering, I'm not into this,” she said.

“Well, we don't know what kind of a girl you really are, do we?” he said, paying for what he had picked out and then grabbing a taxi that took them to an inexpensive hotel near the Dam Square parking structure where he'd left the BMW. He checked them in using a Canadian passport that identified him as an engineer from Toronto named John Crane.

“Is that what I call you? Herr Crane?” she said as they stepped into the small hotel room smelling faintly of disinfectant. “Or maybe John. Like I am the prostitute and you are the john, ja?”

“Take off your clothes. Down to your underthings,” he ordered, tossing the sex paraphernalia on the bed.

“Why?” She stood in the middle of the room, her raincoat open, looking trapped.

“Because you don't want your clothes wrinkled. You don't have a change,” he said, taking off his jacket.

“You see. We play our roles. You are the john and I … Who am I in this little
schauspiel?
I am not Frau Crane, am I?” she said, tossing her raincoat on the chair before unzipping and taking off her dress and shoes, till she was down to panties and bra. “Now I look like one of those girls in the windows. Is this what you wanted?” she asked, striking a provocative pose.

In spite of himself, Scorpion felt his body respond. She was petite and lovely and she didn't have to pose in order to look incredibly sexy. “Turn around,” he said, and pulling her hands behind her, put the handcuffs on.

“Bitte,
you don't have to do this,” she told him, turning her head.

“I can't trust you,” he said. He put the leather gag in her mouth and secured it. “And I need the sleep.”

He helped her into the bed and under the covers, then took off his clothes down to his undershorts, got in next to her and turned out the light. The room was dark, except for light coming in the window from a streetlight outside. He could feel the warmth of her next to him, and it was difficult not to think about sex. It was going to be hard to fall asleep. He was about to close his eyes when he felt her moving against him. At first he wasn't sure what was happening, and then he understood and turned and looked at her. Her eyes above the gag were wide and luminous from the light reflected from the window. He removed the gag.

“Are you sure you want this?” he whispered.

“God yes. Don't you see me? Don't you have any idea what you're doing to me?”

He grabbed her face in his hand.

“Can I trust you enough to untie you?” he said.

“You don't have to untie me. I'm helpless. You can do anything you want with me,” she whispered, moving her pelvis against his thigh. He touched her breasts, so smooth and silky to the touch, and felt her lips on his neck and down to his chest and belly. He pulled off his shorts and felt her mouth on him, making him crazy and rock hard, and he wasn't sure he could hold it. When he could barely stand it, she pulled away.

“Take off my panties. Do you have something?” she gasped.

“A minute,” he said, and got the condom. A minute later he was inside her, going at her like he could never get enough.

“Gott!”
she cried, and it came blindingly fast and was over.

They lay beside each other, catching their breath.

“I'm sorry it was so fast,” he said.

“Next time, you will take your time,” she replied, burying her lips against his neck. She kissed him, and then he felt her working her way down his body with her lips, taking him in her mouth, and for a moment he was stabbed with doubt at putting himself into such a vulnerable position with her, and then, incredibly, he was hard as a rock again.

He turned her over and came at her, this time taking his time and going on and on till she was moving her hips and moaning into the pillow, and this time when it came, she was pushing back against him as hard as he was pushing into her. He turned her around and kissed her, their tongues seeking each other, her lips so soft. Then he pulled away, because he knew he was losing control; the effect she had on him was unbelievable.

Just before falling asleep the thought came to him that with her hands tied behind her, it was as close to rape as he had ever come.

“S
it down. Don't turn on the light,” Scorpion said, showing him the gun. The dwarf, Hassan Tassouni aka Ali, started for the door, but stopped when he heard Scorpion cock the hammer of the HK pistol he had bought in Germany.