David Hagberg
Soldier of God
For Lorrel, as always
PART ONE
ONE
No one could help but spot the tall, gangly man with the chocolate brown complexion and ridiculous Hawaiian print shirt at the baggage claim area in Juneau International Airport. Everyone noticed that he retrieved too many leather satchels and overstuffed B4 bags to reasonably carry, and that he wore striped Bermuda shorts when it was in the low forties and drizzling outside. But his broad smile seemed to be genuine and was infectious. He was a man in his mid to late forties, with flashing dark eyes under a sharply defined brow that complimented a sculpted aquiline nose and high cheekbones, who knew that he cut a silly figure but who nevertheless was having a grand time. His laugh was the best of all, a rich deep baritone that boomed across the hall as the last of the luggage off the Air Canada flight from Vancouver came out on the moving carousel.
The man was content to wait his turn with dozens of people, many of them older couples on their way to or from cruise ships up or down the Inside Passage. Everyone was in a holiday mood, and the tall man joked and laughed with the people around him, putting everyone at ease, and making this trip just a little extra special. Characters were rare in these difficult times, and the man’s Caribbean British accent was pleasant as was the mellifluous timbre of his voice.
“Of course I know that I’m not dressed for the cold, madam,” he told a frail; white-haired old woman waiting in line. His smile widened. “In Trinidad it is never cold.”
The woman was puzzled by the man’s answer, as was her husband and others around them.
“Don’t you see, mum? I want to be cold.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It’s a new experience.”
Her husband smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think you’ll like it,” he said.
“Isherwood?” one of the passengers asked, holding up a duffel bag he’d snagged from the carousel.
“Yes, Thomas Isherwood, and that is my bag, my good man.” He retrieved his bag from the passenger, then gathered up his other luggage and with a toothy grin strode across the hall toward the exits, leaving in his wake the scent of Bay Rum cologne and a few good-natured chuckles.
When he was out of sight, he ducked down the corridor that led to the car rental agencies. Alaskan wilderness and wildlife posters adorned its walls. He went into a men’s room, where in a stall he changed into jeans, an oiled wool Irish fisherman’s sweater, a light jacket, and wafflesoled, lightweight nylon hiking shoes.
The man who emerged still traveled as Thomas Isherwood from Port of Spain, Trinidad, but no one from the Vancouver flight would have recognized him; the Caribbean bonhomie was gone, replaced with the matter-of-fact bland indifference of a well-heeled businessman here to catch fish no matter how much effort or money it cost. The face was the same, but the expression was so completely different it was as if he were wearing a mask.
Isherwood walked past the car rental counters and went outside where he loaded his bags in a cab. A steady cold rain fell from a darkly overcast sky. He ordered the driver to take him to Flights over Alaska Air Charters, then sat back and allowed himself to relax for a few minutes. He’d been on the go for three days, since he left Switzerland, maintaining several different personas, and the effort was draining, though if need be he could continue his charade for weeks or months, even years.
This was nothing new for him. Home was just another word that held little or no real meaning, though his wife and children were in Switzerland for the moment, and his many aunts, uncles, cousins, two sisters, and three brothers were scattered across Saudi Arabia. Over the last nine years, ever since he had received the call, he had spent very little time with his own people.
But that was as it should be, insha’allah. Progress was being made, though even if it weren’t he would still move forward if for no other reason than the thrill of the hunt. Osama’s fatwah was as crystal clear as the Qur’an. If the unbelievers cannot be made to see the error of their ways, if they cannot be converted, then either treat them as slaves by taking away their liberties and their properties, or kill them. All the world was to be converted to Dar el Islam, even if it took one thousand years. The hunt was on. It was the grandest game in the universe, and Isherwood was one of its most successful practitioners. He was alive as never before. He had been born for this. From the desert tents of the Bedouin to the towers of Babel in New York, he was in his element.
It was a little late for the normal tourist season, so the reception area in the Flights Over Alaska Air Charters Operations Building was deserted except for the square-shouldered woman who looked up and smiled when Isherwood walked in.
“May I help you, sir?”
“The name is Thomas Isherwood. I believe you were expecting me.” He handed her his passport. Payment for the hundred-mile flight down to Kuiu Island on the Inside Passage had been made with a credit card two weeks earlier.
The woman glanced at the clock. It was coming up on noon. “We weren’t expecting you until later this afternoon.”
“I caught an earlier flight,” Isherwood said. He made it a point to change his schedules whenever it was possible. “Are there an airplane and pilot for me?”
“Of course, sir,” the woman said. She glanced at the passport, then handed it back. She picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit number. “Your three o’clock is here. Can you fly now?” She gave Isherwood a reassuring smile, and nodded. “Thanks, Frank. I’ll bring Mr. Isherwood right over.” She hung up, and came around the counter. “The rain won’t bother you none. Should be a smooth flight.”
“I appreciate it. I’d like to get down there, have a couple of drinks, and then maybe get a couple hours of fishing in before dark.”
“Name’s Mary,” she said. Outside she tossed his heavy bags in the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser as if they were filled with air, then drove him a half mile across the bumpy concrete apron to a large hangar where several Otters, Beavers, and one DeHavilland floatplane were parked. “I have to tell you that I fell in love with your accent when you called to make the reservation.”
Isherwood gave her a warm smile, thinking that killing her would give him a certain pleasure. “I hope my appearance fits your expectations.”
She glanced at him to see if he was going along with her good-natured ribbing; then she nodded, the corners of her eyes crinkled in laughter. “Oh, I guess I was expecting someone older.” She shook her head. “But don’t get me wrong, you’ll do just fine—”
Isherwood threw back his head and laughed from the bottom of his feet. He would crush her windpipe with one blow, and then watch her eyes as her life drained away. He especially enjoyed the moment when the person knew that they were going to die and knew with equal certainty that there was nothing they could do about it.
He patted her hand on the steering wheel. “You’re a gem, Mary. An absolute jewel.”
She blushed openly as no Arab woman would ever dare, but then she didn’t know how close to death she was.
The pilot, Frank Sterling, a gray-haired but rugged-looking outdoors type in his early sixties, was finishing his walk-around as Mary tossed Isherwood’s bags in the back cargo area of the beefy-looking Otter wheeled floatplane. This, the Beaver, and the DeHavilland were Alaska’s workhorses, delivering people, mail, food, and supplies, and doctors to just about every inaccessible spot in the state. And there were a lot of them. The pilots were among the best in the world. They had to be, often operating out of extremely short, muddy fields, or lakes still half-choked with ice, in every weather condition including all-out blizzards. They were generally no-nonsense people who would just as soon haul cargo, or passengers who had the good sense and manners to keep their mouths shut, tourists.