Sudden Deception (A Jill Oliver Thriller) (8 page)

22:12 Zulu Time—DOHA, QATAR

She couldn’t breathe, her body told her mind, as she was startled awake. Jill tried to fight the strong hand that gripped over her mouth.

“Quiet!” he whispered. It was Zayed. “Someone is coming down the hall. You are in danger.” Jill’s arms pushed hard against his chest and he lifted his weight, releasing her.

“What are you doing? Get the hell off of me,” she hissed.

“We don’t have time,” he said, and without hesitation he handed Jill a gun. In the dark, Jill released the clip of the Glock, squinted to see the rounds, then jammed it back in. She cocked the chamber and flicked off the safety. Zayed was dressed in dark black army fatigues similar to the ones Jill had fallen asleep in. Darkness surrounded them in the small room. Instinctively, they both moved to the door, their bodies tense, and backed against the wall.

With the tinkle of the lock being picked, the door handle quivered ever so slightly. A man emerged from the light in the hallway. Before Jill could move her brain from thought to recognition, Zayed smacked him over the back of the head with the butt of his gun. The man fell hard.

“Grab your things,” Zayed commanded as he looked at the fallen man. “There will be more coming; we have to get out of here now.”

Jill looked at the time: 1:22 a.m. She grabbed her computer, the small leather pouch, and anything else her eyes revealed in the pitch black. She threw them into her carry-on and they fled silently down the dark fire exit stairs and out of the hotel.

Outside, the cool air was a break from the daytime desert heat, but Jill still wore her clothes from the night before and for that she was thankful. Their boots smacked the side street as they ran into the dark. Jill followed Zayed to a large white Land Cruiser.

“Quick, get in!” Before Jill could slam the door shut, Zayed accelerated. He drove frantically through the stream of parked cars. Their bodies lifted as they hit the large speed bumps at high speed. Out onto the dark street, cars blurred as they passed them. Several turns later, when Zayed slowed, Jill was able to unclench the handle above the door.

With no apology, Zayed began to speak. “I know this man. I recognized him

when he walked across the parking lot at the hotel.”

“But how did you get into—”

Before Jill could finish asking how he managed to break into her room undetected, Zayed pulled out a key to her room. Feeling slightly violated, she asked who the man was. “You were watching the hotel? Why?”

“You cannot go back to that hotel. You must stay underground. You are in danger.”

“Who the hell was that guy, Zayed? Tell me! And why do you think I am in danger?”

“He is a rebel from the Chechen Mafia. They are running the Al Qaeda cell here in Doha. Guess I am not the only one who is paying for information about you. The question is: What is their interest in you?”

“What were you doing at my hotel? Who are you, Zayed, and where the hell are we going?”

“I have told you already, I am here to help David. Quiet now, just for a few minutes, I’m thinking.”

“Screw you.” Jill felt the gun inside her pants pocket. She looked at Zayed and when he didn’t return her glare, she stared out the window. They were on a highway now, water on her left and desert on her right—it appeared that they were leaving the city.

Jill scrolled her mind, searching her memory for the briefs she had read about the Chechens. Then, the sting of what she recalled made her mouth drop open slightly. Jill remembered David telling her about one of his colleagues at Time who wrote that Matta had refurbished “broken arrows.” When she went to Sven with this information, he seemed to dismiss it as Matta grandstanding. Jill’s research proved him wrong; Matta had indeed purchased twenty live nukes from the Chechen Mafia. It was confirmed in a US State Department brief and was leaked to the international media. The US media failed to cover the story. Even after pressing Sven further on it, he tried to placate Jill. He told her the CIA were saying that the brief was false. She knew it wasn’t and frankly she didn’t know why Sven would attempt to make such a stupid statement. And if it was true, the Chechen Mafia potentially had more nukes for sale.

Jill’s brain began to tick the boxes. LSA, Afghanistan, and now the Chechens. One hell of a story, David, one hell of a story. Jill decided to tell Zayed what she knew about the Mafia and its connection with Matta. With the adrenaline dissipating as they drove along the gloomy streets, Jill wondered if she could trust Zayed with the new information she had received and her decision not to go to Afghanistan. “Fake ‘till you make it, and never let them see you sweat” was her motto. I'm going to take as much from this guy that I can … for now, anyway

“What do you know about the Chechen Mafia?” Jill asked Zayed.

“They are now a growing movement contributing to the Islamic radicalism. They are a powerful organized crime group—drugs, gun running, and sex slavery. Depending on what David was working on, my guess is that they wanted you as a hostage, or something like that. David must have stumbled upon something good—real good.”

Jill thought she heard a hint of a German accent in his words again, for it was the longest he had spoken to her at one time.

“Have you ever heard of the term LSA?”

Zayed noticeably grimaced. “What is it you think you know, Jill?”

Answering a question with a question really pissed her off. His response made her wonder what he knew about the broken arrows and frankly what he even knew about her. Hadn’t David told him what I do for a living … guess not!

“Well, the Chechens and Matta have one thing in common, you know, that whole terrorism war,” Jill said smugly. “It can’t be a coincidence, Zayed.” She wasn’t going to tell him everything she knew. He didn’t say anything, which gnawed at her intuition.

“With the Chechen Mafia’s involvement, now more than ever, I need to find David. I am going to go to Afghanistan.” She didn’t really have a choice, she had finally decided. Then she said it: —“and I need your help.” She would be better off with someone who spoke Arabic. She only hoped that Karine’s search on Zayed turned out positive.

Without so much as a pause, Zayed said, “You need to get out of Doha unnoticed—and now. They’re a big group, Jill; you cannot go to the airport and Qatar is an island. You cannot drive off of it as it goes into Saudi Arabia. They have their connections there and the border will be watched.” Then, in what seemed to be a bizarre suggestion, he added, “We need to go via boat to a place in the United Arab Emirates. I know of a city that we can get through to unnoticed. Port security is next to nothing … Abu Dhabi. Insha’Allah!” He looked over at Jill and said intently, “God willing.”

“Insha’Allah yourself. I am not going anywhere by boat.”

Jill had heard of Abu Dhabi. The amount of reports she had scoured over the years would be enough to fill her office and more. She had seen pictures of Dubai and its grandstanding architecture, but she had not seen many photos of Abu Dhabi.

They sat in silence while Jill’s intuition began to recede. “Do you know someone with a boat? How long would it take us to get there?” Jill asked. Her left hand held the seatbelt strap for support when they made a fast U-turn.

“It is about an eight-hour trip by sea to Abu Dhabi.”

Thinking of the amount of sleep she would miss made her sigh heavily.

“Grab your abaya and put it on.”

Jill reached over the seat, rummaged through her carry-on, and found the black robe. She unclasped her belt and balanced her body on the console, straining to put on all the pieces. Jill looked over her right shoulder and in her peripherals she noticed Zayed had a full view of her ass, bent over the seat. His face was angled ever so slightly in the direction of her butt. She snatched the black cloth and turned back onto the seat.

There were no mirrors, like in the cramped room the woman had helped her to get dressed in before. Jill, unsure what to do next, fumbled with getting the cotton beanie tied correctly. “You need to tie it at the back under your hair,” Zayed attempted to assist. Her body moved forward slightly as the Land Cruiser slowed down. Jill flipped the robe over herself and told him she needed his help with the black veil. They veered around a narrow street, bounced hard over two more speed bumps, rounded a corner, and stopped directly in the midst of a village on the water. Only the moonlight reflecting off the rippling water brought light to the docks.

He pushed the truck out of gear fast. As Jill jumped down from the SUV, her black robe fell over her fatigues, dusting the ground. Zayed went around the front and stood directly in front of her. Jill could feel the heat of his breath on her forehead as he wrapped the scarf around her head. Without moving he said, “I will need to hide the guns; we cannot travel with them.”

Jill agreed, but it made her uneasy. Her hand tangled under the long gown and she pulled the gun out, and handed it to Zayed. The gun looked small in his over-sized hands.

“Stay close to me and don’t speak,” he said, walking toward the boats. He was taller than her, taller than David. He was muscular in a Rambo sort of way, Jill noticed, admiring him from head to toe in his tight attire. Eye candy. She always appreciated a person, whether male or female, who took care of themselves physically. Reaching into the backseat, she grabbed her carry-on and followed Zayed.

22:57 Zulu Time—DOHA QATAR

Narrow wooden boats were lined up end to end along the docks. Butted up against each other, they did not look like a boat you would see in North America. The long wooden structures looked like miniature pirate ships and their decks were decorated with outdated electronic equipment, black engine parts, and clothing hung to dry. Water slapped their sides, making them rock gently.

Jill was looking at a fishing village. All along the concrete street and adjoining wooden docks were hundreds of fishing nets that resembled wired igloos piled on top of one another.

People scurried around the boats, getting ready for nighttime fishing. Not far away, she could hear a loud engine trying to start. It went out with a loud backfire followed by the sounds of the effort being repeated.

All the boats looked the same. Each had a long pointy nose and a double-wide, two-pronged fork at the back end. A cabin, presumably housing the cockpit, was the only structure on the deck. They were stained in a dark brown, except for the three whitewashed tips, and were all about 100 feet long; they looked substantial enough for an eight-hour journey, solid on the water.

This can’t be the boat Zayed had mentioned to me?

Noticing Jill had stopped keeping pace, Zayed glanced back at her. She could tell by his look that these boats were what he intended to travel on. She gawked at the run-down condition of the vessels, and his firm look answered her question.

“How are we going to get anywhere in this type of boat?” she said pointedly.

Zayed waved his hand and then closed his fingers upwards. Begrudgingly, Jill kept quiet.

Walking along the breakwater, they moved towards the second-to-last dock. The small Indians working on the ships did not glance their way for fear of retribution. It wasn’t polite to stare at a woman in an abaya and even less polite if you were a laborer imported to work.

The moonlight lit a feeble passageway and they sidestepped the shadows down the unsteady plank onto the dock. Passing one boat after another, Jill was thankful that the boat she’d just passed wasn’t the one taking them to Abu Dhabi.

Zayed didn’t seem to notice or care as he stopped directly in front of the last boat on the end of the rickety, cracked dock. An unsettling feeling flittered in Jill’s stomach when he motioned her to stop. Pussyfooting down the long scanty plank alongside the wooden ship, he yelled something Arabic up to the cockpit. An Indian man dressed in navy blue slacks and a pressed white shirt appeared from a compact door. The window on the door reflected a moonbeam as Zayed began to speak slowly to him. After several minutes of discussion, the Indian pulled out a phone from his breast pocket, dialed, and began speaking in a different language. Hindi or Urdu, Jill didn't know for sure, as he glanced over at her. Flipping the phone shut, waggled his head from side to side and said, “No problem boss.”

Zayed turned and looked at Jill, then lightly commanded, “Yalla yalla.”

The dock rocked from side to side as she teetered her way over to Zayed. The ship squeaked as it hit the rubber on the dock. Zayed lunged onto the ship first, then turned and held out his strong hand to help her up over the side. The hull wasn’t that high, but it would be almost impossible to leap up onto it while adorned in her black dress. Jill was thankful the Indian looked away when she lifted her legs over the edge, knowing he would be surprised to see her army boots.

Jill prayed for air conditioning, but once on board it was the least of her problems. She immediately felt uneasy—not from believing she was in danger, but in a seasick kind of way. She didn’t have sea legs and the fear of motion sickness began to penetrate her brain, then her stomach. From a young age she had not fared well even in the back of a car that wasn’t being driven straight. No one knew this about her. On the Colorado River where she volunteered as a pilot on the large rafts she seemed to have no problems. But she had never been on any sort of large body of saltwater. All she could do now was try not to look stupid in front of Zayed.

Zayed followed the Indian to a pint-sized door at the front of the vessel. Looking through the tinted glass as she walked past, Jill could see steps leading up to the cockpit, and a staircase going down into the belly of the craft. The diminutive Indian tour guide did not have to crouch when he descended the wooden staircase. Zayed and Jill ducked their heads and went down into a living area.

The floors were wooden planks that continued up the walls. A large clock hung on a far wall, shaped like an oyster, complete with a pearl that the hands attached to. It read 2:16 a.m. To her left was the galley, a sink, and a mini fridge. The saloon was full of pirate character, like a backdrop from a Johnny Depp movie and was, to Jill’s surprise, clean. To her right were built-in benches with white vinyl seats, giving a feeling of newness. Pinned to the floor with large protruding bolts was a fitted wooden table lined with teak grout. Directly in front of them stood two closed doors like a pair of perfectly spaced short rectangles. The symbol on the left with a picture of a toilet hinted at what was behind door number one.

The Indian signaled them to door number two and it scraped slightly across the floor as it opened. Inside the room were four cots, two on each side, one above each other in bunk bed fashion. They were about three feet wide, just wide enough to fit a fully-grown man comfortably. Although it wasn’t the Shangri-La, the bunks looked fairly clean—almost like what you’d find in an old army hospital.

Zayed motioned the Indian to leave with the familiar hand gesture he gave Jill, and a “khalas.” The Indian smiled, waggled his head from side to side, turned, and left the room.

They were alone. “I know it’s not much, but it will take us out of here safely, Insha’Allah.”

“What does any of this have to do with God?” Jill spat. “I will take this bed,” she added, and plunked her carry-on onto the bottom bunk on the right.

“This is a boat owned by one of my colleagues, for whom I have done some work. Although equipped for fishing, it’s moored only in the harbor for what one might call suspicious activity, as far as Islam is concerned.” Jill thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “He would loan the boat out to friends so they’d have a place to drink forbidden alcohol. And sometimes these men would enjoy hired company.” Jill knew exactly what he meant and averted her gaze down at her bed. She didn’t know how she should feel about the history of her new cot.

Pointing towards the stairs, Zayed said, “He won’t come back in unless he asks me first, as I told him you would be taking off your abaya.” Jill knew the connotations of this. No man is allowed to see another man’s wife’s hair or skin. Tonight, the Muslim religion would be of benefit.

“I will leave you to change and get some rest.” He watched her pull off her cultured attire and added, “I will, however, be resting here.” He tossed his compact pack onto the bed across the narrow aisle from Jill’s. He turned quickly and closed the door. The light at the head of the beds cast a yellow glow on the dark wood walls, giving a sense of a cabin at summer camp. It was just enough light for Jill to pull the sheets back to look for any type of critter that might have found comfort in there. Thankfully, the crisp sheets boasted a newly laundered scent of fresh jasmine.

Jill sat on the bed and decided not to take her boots off until she got in. Her eyes moved to Zayed’s backpack, quickly glanced to the door, then back to the pack. It would take only a minute for her to go through it. She reached over and cautiously lifted it, rolled it over, and saw the clasp. Glancing again at the door and back to her treasure hunt, she was determined to figure out who Zayed was. “What is this?” She hadn’t seen a clasp like this. Open it fast. Her eyes darted from the door to the clasp. The clasp appeared to be a black plastic type of square box. On closer examination, the backpack was made from flak jacket material. “Bulletproof,” she whispered. Her fingers brushed the little black box looking for any sign of a clasp. Then as simple as a child’s bike lock, the lid of the box slid horizontally in a circle revealing a fingerprint receptacle. “Damn it.” Jill hurriedly tried to place the pack in its original spot when she thought she heard noise coming from the other room.

She opened the door slowly and found Zayed sitting and staring at nothing, in deep thought. His black hair draped his shoulders with a bit of a wave, his strong chest pushed against his tight black T-shirt. For a nanosecond, Jill thought she felt something stir deep within herself.

She looked away as he began to meet her gaze, then she turned and reached for the handle of the bathroom door. Jill had always had a bathroom fetish. David would wait at the door of a restaurant until she slipped into the bathroom to determine whether they would stay and enjoy a nice meal—or bolt out of the restaurant thanks to the bathroom’s lack of cleanliness.

This bathroom was much different than the rest of the ship. White fiberglass surrounded her; the floor in front of the toilet was also a makeshift shower with a wood-stained grated rack built above the drain. It was built from a prefabricated mold with a built-in sink and a toilet. Jill lifted the lid of the toilet—it was clean. Relief enveloped her and at that moment she knew she could make the eight-hour journey. Glancing up, she saw a tiny fog-framed mirror on the wall but could not see her whole face. Probably a good thing, she thought to herself, feeling the beads of sweat pucker on her skin in the sweltering room.

When she stepped back into the main room Zayed was no longer there. The door to the bedroom was open, the room was empty. The backpack in the same place she had returned it to. She grabbed her own pack and lugged it back into the saloon and sat down on the white leather sofa. She reached in and grabbed her phone but there was no reception. At least no missed calls meant no news.

Sitting in silence, Jill examined the room. In front of her was a stovetop built into the black countertop. Below it was the fridge and Jill quickly plucked herself up and opened the door; it was stocked with water, juices—and beer. Beer! She chugged down a quarter of a can to quench her thirst while she sat wondering what the night would bring for her, for David—for us.

Sipping the rest of the cool beer, Jill began to relax. She thought about what happened earlier tonight. What does someone from the Chechen Mafia really want with me? And what does this have to do with David?

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the cabin door open. Zayed clunked his way down the stairs.

Jill held up the beer and asked, “Is this okay?” He nodded, but she knew by his dismayed look that he wasn’t pleased. He’s just tolerating me. Jill offered to get him one but he said he didn’t drink; it was against his religion. Although Jill knew Zayed was an Arab, she hadn’t had the impression he was a devoted Muslim. It was a hard thing to picture, a feeling she had.

He looked at Jill intently. “We are leaving port and you need to get some rest. We have a long trip ahead of us to Abu Dhabi.” As he left the room to prepare for sleep, Jill started to ask him about their plan for when they arrived in Abu Dhabi, but he curtly replied, “We can discuss it after we get some rest. Give me five minutes and then you can come in when you want.” He abruptly closed the door.

The bench seat puffed as Jill sat back down. The wave of exhaustion was pushing her past her desire for another beer. Just one, she said to herself, to help her sleep. That always sounded good to her. The roar of the starting engines brought her pleasure when she felt the room temperature drop. Looking around she noticed a tiny vent tucked high on the wall. She stood up and crossed the saloon, waved her hand in front of it, and touched it. Heaven … air conditioning!

Jill opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, cracked it open, and drank half of it. The rolling boat made her slightly stumble as she muddled her way to the bedroom. Tiptoeing in, she could hear a slight purr from Zayed. Was he sleeping already? His back was towards her. Jill sat down on the side of her cot. For a second she held back from taking off her boots and listened, wondering if she should leave them on. After the night’s events she didn’t really know what to do. Then she pulled her feet out of the boots and lifted her tired legs into the bed. She looked across at Zayed, still motionless. His rhythmic breathing was consistent. The beer, the dim light, and the rolling boat combined to lull her senses. Longing for David, she faded.

***

Jill sat up fast, only to be thrown onto the floor.

“Get up,” Zayed ordered. Another jolt, and she was flung in the other direction, slamming her shoulder so hard against the side of the bunk that she winced with pain. Jill realized that she was being tossed around the room like a crumpled piece of paper.

“We must be in rough sea!” Zayed yelled. “Stay put, hold onto something! I’ll see what is happening.”

Her stomach swayed. Unsteadily, Jill made her way from the bedroom to the bench seat and grabbed hold of the table. The light from the galley still on from last night shined brighter than she thought it should. She heard her empty can of beer on the floor, rolling from side to side, dancing to the ship’s chaotic rhythm.

The boat creaked as it rocked. She couldn't see outside and had no idea what time it was. Her stomach started to tap on her esophagus. The bridge door opened, whacking the wall behind it.

“Jill, come up now,” Zayed said, just in time.

“Ouch, shit!” Jill’s hip hit the solid sink hard as she tried to grope her way up the stairs.

She tasted salt as a spray of water hit her tongue. Balancing herself with one hand on the back of Zayed’s thick calf and the other on the side of the cockpit, she lifted her head to get her bearings. The horror of what Jill saw tore a screeching sound out of her lips. She didn’t know she could make such a sound.

The curdling fray of massive white bubbles churned to her right. Surrounded by giant swells in the darkness, the Indian captain was sweating trying to maneuver the creaking boat. They hit a wave and then there was a hard thump and a downward plunge as the boat crested, knocking Jill off her feet. Zayed pulled her up into the cockpit, protected from the heavy spray. She sat down to the left of the pilot on a bench and Zayed sat in between them. Jill could not see the Indian now but she wished she could see his facial expression. It would give her an idea of his competence in piloting this old fishing boat to safety.