The Skorpion Directive (40 page)

“That wouldn’t bring this place down,” said Fyke. “It might scorch the front porch a bit. Look at it. It’s bigger than Saint Peter’s. You couldn’t bring that structure down with anything short of an air strike.”

“I know. So they’ve got something else in mind. Maybe you can figure out what it is. Mandy and I will go over to the docklands, see what we can do about the
Blue Nile
.”

“Works for me,” said Fyke. “Keep your cells on. We’ll be in touch. Let’s go, Dobri.”

Levka, a worried expression on his face, looked like a man eyeing possible exits and not finding any.

“Okay. Boss, if you can, save my boat, okay?”

“I’ll do my best, Dobri.”

 

 

 

IT
was about a mile, going east along the causeway, to the docklands. Mandy and Dalton covered it like strolling tourists, passing unnoticed through the milling crowds around the mosque, mainly hairy and pointless young men.
Loitering with intent,
thought Dalton. They watched Mandy as she passed by them with a mixture of hunger and scorn. Mandy felt it must be very difficult to be a Muslim man. There were just so damned many things to find both deeply offensive and achingly desirable. How
did
they manage it?

The docklands, when they got there, were like any other port in the world. Freighters lined up at the moles, derricks ready to work. Although not this evening, Friday, and the closing for the Muslim holy day. A lot of tankers and barges were moored out along the roads, waiting for workers to come back again in the morning. A pall of smoke and haze was hanging over it all, set aglow by rows of harsh-blue floodlights lighting up the train tracks and the container yards.

There was a guardhouse at the gate. The gate was open and the house was closed. They strolled through unchallenged and walked down a set of concrete steps to the dockside deck. The corrugated-tin shelters that Dalton had noticed from five thousand feet up ran for a hundred yards along the eastern mole.

When they reached the entrance and looked inside, they saw several hundred small boats—private cruisers, some sailboats, a couple of houseboats—all of them tied up along a battered dock. They were protected from the elements by the roof of the shed but were bobbing in the ebb tide, gently bumping into one another, their bows rising and falling like horses feeding in a stable.

They went inside, walked along about fifty feet, and were just in time to hear the growling mutter of a boat engine and see the
Blue Nile
backing out of her slip a hundred feet away. A heavyset man on the bow was coiling a line, and someone was inside the cabin, a large round-headed shadow, apelike in silhouette, with a troll-like slope to the skull.
Vukov!
Visible in the dim light of the pilot cabin.

The
Nile
’s navy blue hull was streaked and filthy, her white superstructure coated in dust and grime. A tattered American flag was hanging limply from her sternpost.

Mandy got on the cell as Dalton began to jog along the wharfside, revolver out, looking for a way to jump onto the bow. He saw a fishing boat, tarped, rocking in the boiling wake of the
Nile
as she backed out, ripples flaring away, white water churning at her stern. Forty feet away, thirty, Dalton in a dead run. The man on the bow coiling the rope looked up and saw a blond man racing toward the boat, his pale blue eyes fixed on it. The crewman dropped the rope, shouted something to Vukov, who hit the throttle, widening the gap of greasy black water between wharf and bow, beginning to turn seaward. Dalton got to the bow and vaulted up onto the tarp. The tarp was slick and oily, and he slipped and went down. The man on the bow of the
Blue Nile
opened up on him with an automatic weapon, the muzzle a flare of fire, the noise deafening under the corrugated-tin roof. Rounds chewed up the wood near Dalton’s head. He rolled back and away, off the fishing boat and onto the wharf. Three more rounds, and he felt something hum past his cheek. Then the shooting stopped abruptly.

The
Blue Nile
had her bow around and pointed toward the open sea. Vukov shoved the throttles down, and the stern buried itself in white water, the engines rumbling and growling. Dalton got to his feet just in time to watch her powering out of the shed, water curling away from her sharp destroyer bow, the brass letters on her stern dull, tarnished, but still readable:

 

 

INSIDE
the mosque, which Fyke and Levka entered through the base of the tower, everything was aglow. A golden light, muted, seeming to come from everywhere, filling the great open spaces under the towering onion-shaped arches. Each archway defined a separate space topped by a coffered ceiling supported by elegant square columns of sandstone, their bases covered in green mosaics. Each archway lined up with the following one—nine great arches in all—leading the eye down the length of the mosque into a soft amber infinity, the air hazy with incense, all the way to the far end, which opened onto the Atlantic.

Every surface gleamed with green and gold in intricate patterns covering the interiors of the great arches or glimmering in the dimness of side chambers and hallways, the entire space humming with the murmur of voices, a rhythmic rumbling sound that made the entire mosque vibrate like a hive of bees.

In the entrance, a space had been set aside, large and orderly, where men could leave their shoes and walk in paper sandals provided for the purpose across the shining inlaid floor to the prayer halls.

Fyke, his mind busy with Mandy’s news—
Whatever’s happening, it’s happening right now
—did the same, putting on the paper slippers, Levka even bowing to the nut-brown little man behind the desk and saying
Salaam alaikum
while leaving a euro on the tray. They headed back out into the hushed but amiable atmospherics of the mosque, a more relaxed and informal environment now that the hour for
Salah
, for prayer, was over.

Although Dalton was right that Fyke and Levka never could have passed for Muslims here—there were thirty distinct errors in the performance of the
Salat
that were specifically forbidden by the Prophet Himself, such as counting your
tasbeeh
, your ritual prayer beads, with your left hand—as a pair of visitors they attracted little attention as they moved through the echoing interior.

Levka was trying not to gawk. And Fyke, the onetime first mate on a tanker and therefore responsible for its safety and security, was looking around the great hall, seeing it as a vessel and not a building, trying to see how the engineering laid out.

“One thing, Dobri,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “They don’t have any sprinkler piping up there.” He pointed to the ceiling vaults. “Must have another kind of system, a Micro Mist or Halon.”

They walked into a smaller side chamber. It looked like an anteroom where the faithful might meet about the business of the mosque. They passed through this room into another anteroom, and soon they found themselves in a narrow hallway. From an open door could be heard the sound of running water, and there was a sign in several languages, including French and English, that indicated the presence of
Facilities
, as it was so delicately expressed.

Fyke, a seasoned campaigner, never passed up a chance to hit the head, and Levka followed him into the huge white-tiled area, harshly lit by a bank of fluorescent tubes. One wall, also tiled, tilted slightly back, and water flowed down it in a cascading sheet, where Fyke stood and delivered, looking around him at the mosaic-covered tiles as he did so. Levka, wandering a bit, came across a storeroom at the rear of the facility, opened it, and found himself looking at a floor plan of the entire mosque.

“Ray, come see.”

Fyke, at the sinks, tidied up and came over. Running a stubby fingertip over the plan, he tapped a section marked off in red.

“That’s their maintenance hub. Heating, cooling, electrics, water systems. On this side of the structure, if I’m not turned around, should be a flight of stairs or an elevator—” They heard footfalls and the soft murmur of voices. Levka closed the door, and they both crossed back to the sinks, watching in the mirrors as two small bearded men in the clothing of imams and another man came into the room.

They bowed slightly to Fyke and Levka, who returned the greeting,
Salaam alaikum
. The two imams went into stalls at the back, the other man, youngish, without a beard, dressed in expensive Western clothing, with fine gold-rimmed glasses and clear green eyes, paused on his way to the water wall, looking at Levka.

He came over, a look of concern on his face, his eyes narrowing. He said something to Levka in a language neither Fyke nor Levka understood, smiled, lifted a hand, indicated Levka’s black eye. It was no longer black but, rather, a lovely apple green with purple highlights.

“I am . . . a doctor,” the man said in accented English. “This eye is not so good. Have you seen an ophthalmologist? There may be some bleeding. Do you experience darkness, my son?”

Levka, steadying, smiled and said yes, he did have some darkness. The man blinked at him, stepped away.

“There is a clinic in the mosque. If you wish, we can have that looked at now. But I must ask, you are not of Islam, are you?”

“No,” said Fyke from the sinks. “But we meant no offense.”

“Perhaps not. It was your trousers, sir. It is forbidden to attend prayer with trouser cuffs flopping about below your ankles. No devout Muslim would do such a thing. But I do not think you mean to give offense. However, this is a holy place, and this is the evening for prayers and not meant for unbelievers. Tours are available during certain hours.

“So,” he said, smiling, light glinting off his lenses as he nodded toward the doors, “you will please go?”

“Yes,” said Levka. “No offendings, please. And for my eye, I will go see an . . .”

“Ophthalmologist,” he said, bowing. “I would advise it.”

He turned away to attend to his business. The two imams came back into the main room, talking between themselves. They bowed again, politely, to Fyke and Levka, said something in Arabic to the young doctor and swept out, footfalls whispering into silence.

“Sir,” said Fyke as the young doctor was walking toward the water wall. “May I ask you something?”

The man stopped, looked at Fyke, his expression open but not unfriendly. The mosque was magnificent. Sometimes curiosity got the better of people. “Yes?” he said in his soft, French-tinged voice.

“You say there is a clinic in the mosque, sir. Are you associated with it?”

“I attend there, several nights during the month. For the poor. They do not eat well. Their vision suffers.”

“You’re on the staff, then?”

“Yes,” he said, a shorter answer.

“Then you have heard about the threat against the mosque?”

The doctor blinked at Fyke, his expression altering. He reached into his clothing and took out a small silver pistol, holding it in his hand but loosely, not aiming it at anyone . . . yet.

“We are all armed this evening,” he said. “All of the staff, the imams as well, and of course there is added security. As a result of this silly rumor. We are told the Israelis played at some . . . Hebrew game.”

“Sir, my name is Raymond Fyke. I’m a British soldier, a member of the Special Air Service. I’m a Christian, not an Israeli. I give you my word of honor, as a British soldier, that the threat is real, that my friend and I are actively trying to prevent an attack on this mosque, and that this attack is happening right now.”

The young doctor stepped back, leveled the pistol at Fyke, putting his other hand in a pocket.

Pressing a silent alarm,
thought Fyke.

“What sort of threat?”

Fyke shook his shaggy head, his green eyes bright in the hard-blue glare. “I don’t know. We believe it has to do with fire.”

“Fire? This building is impervious to fire. I am aware of the emergency plan. All imams are instructed in it. Every modern—”

They heard the sounds of boots on stone, a rumble of voices, and two large men in tan uniforms and red berets walked into the room, weapons out, their faces hard and angry.

“Father,” said the older man, a dark-skinned, beak-nosed hard case with wary black eyes and a British regimental mustache, “there is trouble?”

“These two Christians, Hamid,” said the doctor-imam in a calm tone, “believe the mosque is in danger.”

Hamid turned his gunsight glare on Fyke.

“Explain,” he barked, his voice echoing off the tiles.

“Your fire system?” asked Fyke, cutting through the bluster in a flat, icy tone. “Was it installed by Arc Light Engineering?”

This took Hamid aback, a visible ripple.

“No. But Arc Light is the general-construction firm. How—”

“Have you heard of Cobalt Hydraulic Systems?”

“Yes,” he said, his face losing some of its aggression. “They installed and maintain our fire-suppression systems.”