Pirate (34 page)

HARRY BROCK WAS WAITING FOR HAWKE OUTSIDE THE
dusty little cantina in the coastal village of Ras al Hadd. The squat, unpainted tourist café had two large windows on a second floor overlooking the sea. The drive south along the coast road from Muscat had taken almost three brutal hours. According to his handheld GPS, it continued in much the same fashion for another thousand kilometers or so, south along the coast to the town of Salalah.

Of course, he couldn’t confirm that on any map. Maps were forbidden in Oman. It was intended to confuse the sultan’s enemies but it worked pretty well for his friends, too.

Hawke parked the brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser they’d given him under a dusty pomegranate tree. It was the only tree he’d seen in the last hour. He drained the last of the water they’d provided and stuck his face right into the stream of icy air coming out of the center console. As he reluctantly switched off the ignition and opened the door on the blast furnace that was Oman in summer, Harry Brock strolled around the corner of the building.

Despite the intense heat and dust, Brock appeared fresh and cheerful. He wore the beginnings of a new beard, a clean white T-shirt, a pair of worn khakis, and a brown felt hat that had seen better days tilted back on his head. Hawke kept expecting him to say “Aw, shucks,” or something similar, but he never did.

“Welcome to Oman,” Brock said, shaking Hawke’s hand as he climbed out of the Toyota.

“Is that yours?” Hawke said, eyeing the Royal Enfield motorcycle parked by the side of the building. It was a Bullet 350, black, a legendary bike among the cognoscenti.

“Yeah,” Brock said, “I just picked it up yesterday in Muscat. With these so-called roads, I thought maybe a bike was a good idea.”

Whatever else could be said about Harry Brock, he had excellent taste in motorcycles.

“Nice place,” Hawke told Brock, looking around at the bleak and sunblistered location. The restaurant, which for some mysterious reason was named the Al-Kous Whisper, was surrounded by a low garden wall of rough-hewn stone. There was a carved wooden portal through which you entered this little Shangri-la in the desert.

“Isn’t it? Ras al Hadd is considered one of Oman’s garden spots.”

“Because it’s got a tree,” Hawke said.

“Bingo.”

So far, from what Alex had seen of the benighted countryside, Oman didn’t have a lot of garden spots. It looked like Mars in the off-season. Reddish, stony ground, baked dry. Desolate riverbeds, cracked and empty. Abandoned villages hanging from the terraced mountainsides. Dead scenery, he thought, driving through the unremittingly hostile environment.

The unprepossing Al-Kous Whisper was clearly reserved for tourists. Omanis weren’t allowed to drink alcohol, and he wasn’t even sure whether they were allowed to eat. No hootch, no maps. It was a very strict country. The sultan ran a tight ship. The Al-Kous had a flat roof and was built of concrete block. There were a few houses scattered nearby, looking abandoned and empty. These were older buildings constructed of wood and palm thatch.

Omanis clearly didn’t believe in renovation or gentrification. When a town got old, they simply packed up and left. En masse. The townspeople moved further into the mountains or the desert and built a new town.

They passed through the portal into the withered garden. There was an old well just outside the restaurant and someone had left a noisy goat tied to it. Harry patted the dehydrated creature on the head as they walked past it up the path of crushed stone.

“Four stars in the
Zagat,”
Brock said to Hawke, swatting at the buzzing flies and sidestepping dogshit. “Amazing wine cellar. They’ve apparently got a specialty dish the chef prepares, sautéed lightly in a sort of pine nut sauce, that is out of this world. Fresh goat, so they say. Isn’t that right, little fella?”

“Is it always this bloody hot?” Hawke said, mounting the mercifully covered steps and ignoring both Brock and the goat. He was tired and thirsty. He hated dry heat and he felt as if he were being roasted alive in the sun. The white linen shirt he was wearing was plastered to his skin. He was tempted to have his meeting with Brock in the Toyota with the AC blasting. Would have, in fact, but he was hungry, too.

“Oman is actually the hottest place on earth,” Brock said. “No lie. Pretty mild right now, though. At eight this morning it was 120 in the shade.”

“But there is no shade.”

“Bingo.”

Harry followed Hawke through the open door. It was dark and cool inside, comparatively speaking. It was also empty, which was good. He was sure Brock had scoped the place out pretty well before suggesting it as a rendezvous. The two men mounted the narrow stairway and took an empty table by one of the open windows on the second floor. Brock ordered two cold beers. It was a local brew called Gulf and it was nonalcoholic. According to Harry it was liquid and it was cold and that was good enough.

A timid, giggling girl in a black chador delivered the beer. There were only two employees, the girl waiting tables and an old man behind the bar. The man was more sensibly dressed in the manner of most of the male population. Loose white garments and a turban. Like most Omanis Hawke had seen since touching down at Seeb International, he was on his cell phone.

The fact that Brock seemed unconcerned about this meant the proprietor was probably already on Harry’s payroll. Boots on the ground, the CIA called it.

Brock rocked his chair back on two legs and smiled at Hawke. “You look like shit,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head.

“Thanks,” Hawke replied, studying the flimsy mimeographed menu. He opened his bottle and took a swig of beer. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Believed what?”

“Oh, come on.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about, Brock?”

Hawke didn’t bother to hide his irritation. He knew Brock would bring up the incident as soon as they met. He supposed he’d have to tell him about it sometime, but not now. His aching and bruised body had been jammed into a cramped cockpit all day and every bone in his body ached. If the sadist who designed the F-16 seat were ever allowed to design prison furniture for Camp X-Ray at Guantanamo, the hue and cry from the world media would be deafening.

What Hawke did not need at the moment was an American with a sense of humor. But Brock wouldn’t let go.

“Your little mishap on the
Lincoln
?”

“You mean the
incident,”
Hawke said, and cut his angry eyes to the window.

“Yeah.”

“It could have been worse.”

“How’s that?”

Hawke said, “Old pilots say it’s better to die than to look bad, but it is possible to do both.”

Brock thought about that a second, saw the hard cast of Hawke’s eyes, and decided to shut up.

Neither man said anything else for a few minutes. They sat and sipped their pseudobeer in silence, both of them looking out the window. Hawke imagined Brock was probably having the same misgivings about this mission that he was. These things were all about team. This team had been thrown together without their knowledge or consent. They’d been asked, told, to conduct a critically important operation. Like most hostage rescue ops, it promised to be very dangerous. And they were going in blind. Neither man knew what to make of the other. Hawke knew why he’d been chosen. He was pretty good at this stuff.

What he still didn’t know was why the hell Kelly had chosen Harry Brock.

Hawke sipped his beer and stared morosely out the window, trying to adjust to his new environment. A bloody wasteland. A school bus went by, jouncing along the rocky road, a cloud of dust trailing behind it. There were curtains in all the windows and they were tightly drawn. So the little boys outside couldn’t see the little girls inside. Or vice-versa. He was sure someone could offer a good explanation for this bizarre custom, but to Hawke it just seemed unnatural and cruel.

I am definitely the stranger in the strange land, he thought, suspiciously eyeing the goat tied to the well. He’d never eaten goat. He wasn’t about to start now. Goats were bad luck. There was a reason why when things in the military went to hell they called it a goat-fuck. The shy girl in the black chador returned for their order. Brock ordered lamb kebobs. He ordered the fish and rice. The nondescript CIA briefing book lay on the table unopened. Hawke didn’t have the energy to break the seal.

“Somebody’s meeting us here in about twenty minutes,” Brock finally said. He opened the brief and started flipping through the pages.

“Yeah? Who might that be?”

“A friend of the family. Name’s Ahmed. Great guy. You’ll like him.”

“A friend of whose family? Yours?”

“The sultan’s.”

“Two more boots on the ground.”

“Bingo.”

“That’s convenient,” Hawke said, trying to be pleasant, “Where’d you bump into him?”

“Let’s just say we’ve done business before. He’s the one who found me the Enfield. Name’s Ahmed Badur. He is wired in this country, I gotta tell you.”

“Is he the one who’s going to help us find the sultan and his family?”

“Bingo,” Brock said.

“If you say that word again, I’m going to kill you,” Hawke told him.

At that moment, hot, exhausted, and miserable as he was, he almost meant it. Yeah, he’d cracked up a very expensive airplane. Until he was completely cleared of pilot error, there was going to be a little black cloud following him around. But it wasn’t his fault, goddamnit. And he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life taking heat for it. From anybody.

Hawke added, “And guess what, Brock. Because you’re a NOC? I’m going to get away with it.”

“Listen, pal, you might be a big effing whoop in jolly old England, but—”

A loud ah-oogah sound from the street below broke the moment between the two of them. Hawke looked out of the window and was surprised to see a 1927 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost arriving in a billow of dust. On the louvered bonnet behind the famous “Flying Lady” atop the radiator was a small triangular pennant. Orange, white, and green, the national flag of the Kingdom of Oman.

When the dust had finally settled, a nattily dressed man with slicked-back black hair, a full black mustache, and gold aviator sunglasses was revealed, sitting behind the wheel of the open car. He turned and grinned up at Hawke, who was looking at him through the window. He was wearing Western clothing, a white linen suit. He looked, Hawke thought, like a tango instructor.

“I suppose that’s your friend,” Hawke said, watching the man climb out of the old Roller.

“That’s him.”

“Why is everyone in this bloody country named Ahmed?”

“Not everyone. Only about 80 percent.”

“Nice car.”

“The sultan gave it to him. Prince Charles gave it to the sultan after he and Diana paid a state visit. They’re old buddies.”

“I like your chap’s low-key, understated approach to espionage,” Hawke said. “Exactly what’s required in a covert operation like this one.”

“Look, Hawke. Everybody in Oman knows this guy. He was the sultan’s right-hand man for two decades, the go-to guy at the palace. He’s a living legend around here. What would be noticed is if he arrived on a camel or crept up to the back door in full desert camo.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Hawke said as the man entered the upstairs room and approached their table.

“Sit down, Ahmed, and say hello to Alex Hawke,” said Brock.

“A great pleasure,” Ahmed said, his wide smile revealing two gleaming rows of perfectly spaced white teeth. He bowed formally from the waist. “I have heard of you, Lord Hawke. The Prince of Wales speaks most—”

Harry looked up. “Wait.
Lord
Hawke? Is that what he just called you?”

“Drop it, Brock,” Hawke said, “I don’t use the title.”

“Yeah, but still. I had no idea—”

“Mr. Badur,” Alex said, ignoring Brock and motioning to the man in white to sit down. “Thanks for coming. I assume Mr. Brock has already told you why we’re here.”

“He has indeed. Britain and America are old friends of Oman. And of Sultan Aji Abbas as well. You two men are here on a most important mission. Vital to our country.”

Hawke looked at the man and decided that, appearances and conveyances to the contrary, he was a chap who might be trusted. Hawke said, “I am here as a private citizen, Ahmed. But Mr. Brock and I will do whatever it takes to resolve this crisis. Our first order of business is to rescue the sultan’s family.”

“Yes. Please. This, we must do immediately.”

“Who is holding them? Troops?”

“Scum. French mercenaries. In the country illegally. They slipped ashore at night at Masara. A French submarine was spotted off that coast that morning. I have informants on the island who say they are all ex-Legionnaire washouts who do this kind of thing for a living.”

“How many of them?”

“Thirty-some-odd. But not under French command. A Chinese officer arrived here on a diplomatic mission two weeks ago. Along with his military aides-de-camp.”