Operation Sea Ghost (35 page)

They finally gave up trying to find an empty cab. They would have to go down to the harbor on foot, though they’d be slowed by Twitch’s lack of mobility. He’d hastily fashioned a temporary prosthetic out of the umbrella stem and shoelaces and it worked surprisingly well. But he could not move fast with it.

In the end it didn’t matter. For the entire trip down to the harbor side, they kept hearing the same distinctive and tremendous roar; Batman and Twitch had been hearing it since they’d arrived in Monte Carlo, always on the periphery of everything else that was happening in the glittering city.

Mechanical, powerful, and very loud. It was not a race car; it had nothing to do with Formula One. It was a gas turbine engine, not too unlike those used in jet fighters. Two gas turbines, in fact.

Power plants attached to a pair of the fastest yachts in the world.

Two yachts that were racing each other to New York City.

*   *   *

THE POWERFUL RACING yachts were gone by the time they reached the waterfront.

Unlike the beginning of the Grand Prix, there was no crowd on hand, no fanfare for the start of the waterborne high-speed race.

The two vessels had to leave on the tide—and the tide had started going out at 5:00
A.M.

Batman, Twitch and Murphy began walking down the pier nevertheless, heading to where the two yachts had been housed. Murphy still had his cell phone out, was still furiously dialing his people; it was crucial they knew where he was and what he was up to. But he just couldn’t connect.

He was getting frantic … until suddenly he slapped himself upside the head.

He stopped Batman and Twitch in their tracks.

“Are you guys still carrying those platinum cards my girl gave you?” he asked them.

Twitch meekly took out his card. Batman showed his too—with the dent made by the terrorist’s bullet.

“A lot of good they did us,” Twitch said. Then he looked at Batman’s, and added: “Except for saving his ass.”

Murphy took both cards and immediately tossed them in the water.

“Those are EIDs,” he said as Batman and Twitch watched them sink into the harbor. “Electronic interference devices. You guys haven’t been able to make phone calls, use ATMs and so on? Those things were the reason why. It was all part of our plan to isolate you. Sorry…”

Twitch just looked at Batman and shrugged. “
Now
he tells us?”

By that point they had reached the support shack for one of the two racing yachts, the vessel dubbed
Numero Two.

The building was actually a substantial structure about the size of a one-story house, built onto the dock itself. Its support crew was sitting outside, relaxing after a hectic few days. There were six of them—mechanics, electricians, computer techs. They were drinking mimosas under a string of party lights.

Murphy struck up a conversation with them, as Batman and Twitch, ever aware of their prostheses, hung back. The support crew were all Italian; their yacht had been designed in Pisa and built in Milan. This would be its first race across the Atlantic.

At Murphy’s folksy prompting, the support crew explained they’d spent the last forty-eight hours getting all the provisions onto the
Numero Two
in time, making sure it was mechanically in tune and getting its drivers ready for the trans-Atlantic contest. Each turbine-powered racing yacht had a two-man crew, a pilot and an engineer, though either man could pilot the boat if necessary. Ninety-nine percent of the work was done by computer anyway, with all of the steering done by GPS.

Their own particular launch had gone off like clockwork, the pit crew said. No problems. No drama. Now that their work was done, they could relax and enjoy Monte Carlo for a change.

“And how did the other entry get off?” Murphy asked them, nonchalantly.

The Italians shrugged as one. “
Chiedere loro
,” one said. “Go ask them, if they can still speak…”

By Murphy’s expression, they knew he didn’t understand.

“Even before the race begin, they have drug dealers and hooker on a visit to them,” one man explained. “Must have been big party, premature.”

Murphy bade the support crew good luck. Then on his cue, the three of them continued strolling down the pier to the support shack for the second racing yacht.

“Drug dealers and a hooker?” Twitch said, once they were out of earshot. “That’s an odd way to say ‘bon voyage.’”

The second vessel was named
Smoke-Lar.
A twist on the Dutch word for “Smuggler,” it was built at the famous shipyard at Oss, Holland. Its support shack was located at the end of the isolated dock, away from just about everything else.

But there was no partying pit crew here. It was all very quiet; the shack and its dock seemed deserted.

“
No one
is around?” Batman said. “That’s a bit suspicious.”

“If the Jihad Brothers stole this yacht,” Murphy said. “Then they would have had to whack the support crew and the guys on the boat.”

“Well, we know they’re not averse to whacking people,” Batman said.

The door to the support shack was locked. Murphy used a small knife to pick the lock and they piled inside.

The interior looked like a typical suburban house garage. Lots of tools, fuel cans, electric cables running everywhere. Technically, it was a wet dock, meaning one section of the base had no floor. This allowed the yacht to float in and get serviced while staying in the water.

“No drug dealers, no hooker,” Twitch announced after a quick look around. “No party…”

He was right. Nothing was out of the ordinary inside the building. The place looked so normal, it was more likely that the support crew had simply gone into town after their yacht departed.

But then Murphy spotted something. Floating in the water of the wet dock was a handful of small brass-colored items; they looked like thimbles. Murphy reached down and scooped them up.

They were shell casings that had failed to sink.

Batman examined one and said, “They might be from an Uzi. Maybe recently fired.”

Then Twitch found something even better. He pointed to the shack’s fiberglass ceiling. Each corner had a tiny security camera hanging from it.

They found the small operations room in back and Twitch was soon pulling up the video feeds of the last few hours. At first they saw the yacht’s crew hurrying through some last-minute work on the bullet-shaped racing vessel. But then, about 4:30
A.M.
, two dark-skinned men entered the support shack, guns drawn.

“Are those our ‘drug dealers?’” Murphy asked.

The video was blurry at this point as the yacht’s power plant was turned on and massive vibrations from its turbine engine were shaking everything inside the structure, including the cameras. But the tape was clear enough to show the intruders murdering the support crew, one at a time, and then putting their bodies on the boat.

The video went a little crazy at that point. It almost looked like a third person was suddenly with the terrorists, forced into the boat but not killed. It looked like a woman, though she had a coat pulled over her head.

“And could that be our ‘hooker?’” Batman asked

The video showed the vessel then leaving the wet dock. The vibrations calmed down and the camera went back to simply recording the static scene.

“So they killed the crew here,” Murphy said after the video ended. “And obviously the racket from that freaking engine was enough to mask the sound of the gunshots.”

“And they’ll probably dump the bodies at sea, once they’re under way,” Twitch added. “I mean, that’s what I’d do.”

“The question is, what do
we
do now?” Batman asked.

“Call the Monte Carlo police?” Twitch offered. “Or the Monaco military? Does Monaco even have a military?”

Batman shook his head. “If not, we can call the French military, I guess?”

But Murphy vigorously disagreed. “You want to
call
someone and
lose
everything?”

“But
someone’s
got to stop that yacht,” Twitch said.

“I agree,” Murphy said. “But if we call in the French military now—or any military for that matter, this thing will blow sky high. God, especially involving the Frogs, it will be headlines inside the hour. Remember, this isn’t just a WMD that might be heading to the US. This is a WMD designed and built for the CIA for God’s sake. If it goes off, that whole ‘9/11 was an inside job thing’ will erupt again and that could tear the country apart.”

He paused a moment, then added, “Besides, didn’t Audette tell you guys that you couldn’t ask for any help from anyone in this thing?”

“But that was before we know what the freaking box was,” Batman replied harshly. “Those mooks stole that yacht for two reasons: It was a way to get out of Monte Carlo with no one looking and it was a way to get to the U.S. again without anyone being the wiser, at least until they got there.

“So the box
must
be in the U.S.—I mean, if the key is going there, then the box has to be there, too. And the way that yacht can travel, it’s already a hundred miles away from here by now and once it gets out in the open ocean, it could really go anywhere, Florida to Maine. The way I see, we got no choice but to call for help.”

But Murphy was still shaking his head no.

“What do you propose we do, then?” Batman asked him.

“How about this?” he replied. “What if
we
were able to sink that yacht somehow? And the key went down with it? That would be almost as good as sending the box to the bottom of the Java Trench, right? If that thing works the way we think it works and you need the key, then eliminate the key and you eliminate the immediate threat. Then we can tell the Agency what we know about the Z-box—after they pay us, that is. Then they can track down everyone else who was at that card game, waterboard them and go find it. Make sense?”

Twitch said, “What do you mean ‘pay
us
?’”

“I mean will you cut me in for a percentage if this works out?” Murphy replied.

Twitch rolled his eyes. “I knew it,” he said. “It’s
always
about the money with you. Stealing it. Conning it. A half hour ago, you said you didn’t care about the money.”

“I said it was farther down on my list.” Murphy corrected him calmly. “But my goal had always been to continue the work my group and I started right after 9/11. To do that, we need money, and this will be a way to make a tidy sum, courtesy of the Agency, and get rid of this horrible thing.”

Twitch started to protest again, but Batman stopped him short. The little man was making sense.

“How much?” he asked Murphy.

He thought a moment. “Well, you guys won the key, but you lost a substantial amount of money doing it. Plus, you figured out the Jihad Brothers would be taking the yacht for their escape.

“Plus, we suffered mental distress,” Twitch added. “You know, in the penthouse, and then suddenly
not
in the penthouse…”

“Thirty percent,” Murphy said.

“Plus you return our ten million you stole,” Batman told him.

Murphy thought a moment, but then nodded.

Batman looked at Twitch. “Instead of a hundred million, we get seventy, plus our ten back,” he said. “Plus, Murphy here does all the heavy lifting.”

Twitch thought a moment then just shrugged. “OK, deal…” he said.

They all shook hands, but it was very quick and perfunctory.

Then Twitch asked, “Now, how are you going to get that boat sunk? It’s already been thirty minutes since it left, and the goddamn thing is moving at eighty miles an hour.”

Murphy just smiled.

He pulled out his phone—and finally got a dial tone.

“Leave that to me,” he said.

25

Off the coast of France

FAHD FAHIM SHABAZZ had grown up on a yacht.

For more than thirty years, his father was the chief maritime engineer who oversaw the upkeep and repair of a fleet of yachts owned by members of the Saudi Royal Family.

That fleet contained more than two dozen yachts and involved so much work, around the clock, over the years, that the Fahim family lived on the fleet tender, which, in fact, was an old yacht converted to carry tools, spare equipment and replacement parts. Fahim Shabazz was two years old before he’d set foot on dry ground. Until he turned twenty-one, he’d spend the majority of his life on that old yacht tender, with only the water rolling beneath his feet.

Now he was at the controls of the
Smoke-Lar,
one of the most fantastic yachts ever built and going almost eighty mph. It was fifty-six feet long, constructed mostly of lightweight composites, with a gas turbine that was powerful enough that, with a few tweaks, it could produce enough electricity to light a small city.

The yacht was shaped like a bullet that had melded with a knife. Everything in its design was about aerodynamics; every ounce of weight, every contour, even the special glass in its sleek cockpit was made to let the air slip past it in the most efficient way.

When all this was working together, Fahim Shabazz could get the yacht moving at
more than
eighty miles an hour and nothing on the ocean’s surface could catch him—with the exception of the yacht currently following him, of course.

*   *   *

FAHIM SHABAZZ WAS also on a suicide mission—and he couldn’t have been more excited about it.

He was a soldier of al Qaeda, by way of the Jihad Brotherhood, and he’d been hoping for just such a mission ever since being sent to Somalia to stir up trouble there. Because of his nautical background, he’d been imbedded with local Somali pirate groups, such as the Shaka, and had gone on several raids with them, all in hopes that a suitable opportunity, like this one, would arise. So, in a way, he was a bit of a pirate himself.

When word came down from the al Qaeda leadership that a powerful weapon needed for a retaliatory operation against the Americans would soon be in place and all that was required was for an activation key to be smuggled into the United States, possibly by boat, Fahim Shabazz jumped at the chance to serve.