“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.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Yes. Major Tony Tang.”
“Does this Major Tang stay in one place? Frequently, hostages are moved about.”
“They have not been moved since they were placed under the protection of the French at the fortress. Don’t worry, your lordship. I know where they are at all times. I have a man in the kitchen, you see.”
“Tell me about the location, please, Ahmed.”
“It is a medieval fort on the island of Masara, sir. The fortress was originally built in the thirteenth century for strategic purposes. It guards the southern approach to the Strait of Hormuz. It is built into a bluff overlooking the sea. It is called Fort Mahoud and it is historic indeed. In late 1940 or so, Field Marshal Rommel himself chose it as his temporary headquarters while he was planning his relief of the Italians in North Africa.”
“Rommel? I had no idea,” Hawke said. He had studied Rommel at war college and found the brilliant and complex man fascinating.
“Yes. He made many modifications to the physical plant, naturally. Implemented much-needed reconstruction and modernization. In 1941, when the Desert Fox left to join his Afrika Korps in Libya, he left behind a great fortress indeed. And, a small Wehrmacht garrison as well. The Nazis remained there on the rock until the Allies finally drove them off near the end of the war.”
“And exactly how did the Allies do that?” Hawke asked. “Drive them off.”
“Bombed the living hell out of them, sir. From the air and sea.”
“That works for me,” Brock said.
“Bomb the living hell out of the sultan’s family?” Hawke asked Brock, his blue eyes unwavering.
“It was the only way to do it, as you will both soon see,” Ahmed said.
“Then what happened?” Hawke asked.
“There was much damage, and after the war, the fort was pretty much forgotten. About twenty years ago, His Highness decided to turn the fortress into a national museum. A showcase for new generations to see the glories of Oman’s past. I am an architect by training. I was chosen by His Highness as the designer and curator. I have with me many sets of plans for the fort. Even those Rommel left behind. And my own plans for the museum I built. It has not changed much since I completed the work some twenty years ago.”
Hawke was encouraged by this access to the plans. “Good. Could be a fairly simple snatch, then. Let’s find a fisherman willing to take us out there and go have a look.”
“Have no false impressions, your lordship,” Ahmed said, rolling the plans out on the table. Brock put beer bottles at two corners to hold them down. “It will not be simple at all.”
“Tell me why,” Hawke said, turning over an old exterior elevation of the fort, being careful not to tear it. “We just have to get the sultan and his wife out. And a few children.”
“You have put your finger on the problem, sir.”
“What problem?”
“The sultan has more than one wife, sir.” “How many? Two? Three?” “Over twenty of them when last I counted, sir.”
Hawke looked at Brock. “Twenty women?”
Brock grinned, looking at Hawke. “Doesn’t sound like a simple snatch to me, your lordship,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Coney Island
LIGHTNING SIZZLED ALL AROUND THE OLD AMUSEMENT park. Every second or two, the bizarre skyline of rocket towers and roller coasters was etched in stark relief against the dark sky. Congreve stood in the blinding rain, bathed in flashing blue lights, wiping the water from his eyes. The English detective looked through the binoculars for the umpteenth time, silently praying that one of these jagged bolts would strike the great whacking tower atop which the Chinaman now clung for dear life.
Most noncivilians present were convinced that as soon as this driving rain and wind let up, the Chinaman would remove his weapon from the haversack on his back and start shooting. From his angle, at the very top of the Parachute Jump, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. He would be able to see almost straight down into the swinging car where Joe Bones cowered. Now, thank God, it was all the assassin could do just to hold on. Congreve knew how he felt. He, too, was holding on, but his frustration was mounting with every added second of uncertainty.
Above his head, the rumble of thunder was preempted by the booming thump-thump-thump of the ATAC and NYPD helicopters hovering over the park. Most had their brilliant bluish white spotlights trained on the swinging car at the top of the Ferris wheel. A single black ATAC Sikorskey chopper under the ground command of Captain Mariucci was now hovering directly above the tower. The chopper trained its beam on the tiny man in white.
Also aboard was a medical retrieval team. And an ATAC sniper who stood braced in the open bay. He had his sniper rifle zeroed on the Chinaman’s heart. His finger was on the trigger but he didn’t dare pull it. He had orders not to.
He couldn’t fire because of the extraordinary political situation on the ground below him. Nor could his brethren in the circling NYPD helicopters. It wasn’t for lack of muzzles aimed in his direction that the man on the tower was still alive. There were plenty of guns trained on him. It was because an impasse had been reached in the raging turf battle between city, state, and federal law enforcement units. So, everyone just stood at the base of the tower and looked up at the Chinaman in the spotlight, clinging to the Parachute Drop.