“Spruce four-by-fours,” Grimm prompted.
“Spruce four-by-fours.”
Dark acknowledged that he was keeping up and Chatham continued, “I want you to start at this hotel and take a five-mile radius. Any store that might sell something like that, get their transaction records. Go back three, make it four days. That should cover things. We want someone who purchased one, perhaps two of these. Any more and you can toss it out. I want the full transaction record of any sale, Ian. I want to know what else he might have bought.”
“You know it is Sunday, sir. Any place likely to sell something like this will probably be closed by the time—”
“I don’t care!” Chatham yelled at a volume that might not have needed the phone’s assistance to reach the Yard. “Call in the store manager, call in the owner! If they don’t cooperate, throw them in for obstruction and find the next in line! Get it done now!”
Chatham handed the phone back to Grimm, not remembering to end the call. The Yank in the corner with the funny wand was staring at Chatham, but turned back to his business when the Englishman caught his look. Chatham glared seethingly at the window blind laying on the table. It was key. Key to something. But what?
The night was calm, light winds driving a mild two-foot chop on the southern Mediterranean. This was a blessing, since most of the men on board had never been to sea. Mohammed Al-Quatan could see the lights of Malta to the north, flickering yellow in a distant haze. He thought they were getting too close. Twelve miles was the limit. Colonel Al-Quatan strode purposely toward the boat’s captain, who stood at the helm.
“We must be there,” he insisted.
The captain, a crusty old sort, looked at a GPS receiver mounted above the steering console. He bobbed his head indifferently. “A few more miles.”
Al-Quatan spat, “A few more miles and we are in Italian waters!”
The captain snickered. “I am going to the spot you gave me, and that is fourteen miles off the coast of Malta. If you wish, I can turn around now, but the price is the same.”
A fuming Al-Quatan turned away. His own men would never speak in such a way. But the old beggar had probably spent his life on the high seas battling Mother Nature. He would not be easily cowed. Al-Quatan wished he had a real boat, not this tired old fishing scow. The Libyan Navy had big patrol boats, fast ones with real sailors. Unfortunately, Moustafa Khalif had not permitted it. He wanted the satisfaction of delivering their prize personally to the Great One. They would ask no help.
The first mate, who was standing at the bow, suddenly gave a shout. The captain leaned forward, peering through the salt-encrusted windshield.
“What is it?” Al-Quatan wondered.
“A boat.”
“Is it the one?”
“It is possible,” the captain said with a shrug, “but we must get closer.”
Al-Quatan gave a signal to his men down in the cabin. There were ten altogether, his best men, and they clambered up the stairs with weapons ranging from submachine guns to rocket-propelled grenades. They assembled unsteadily on deck, many still not accustomed to the movement of the sea.
A few minutes later Al-Quatan saw the outline of the boat, a hundred yards off. It was completely dark. “Get close,” he ordered, “and use your light.”
The captain maneuvered alongside the drifting boat. “It’s an old Hatteras 32 or 34,” he announced, “a good craft in its day.”
Al-Quatan didn’t care if it was Noah’s holy Christian Ark. “The light!” he demanded.
The captain obliged, putting his spotlight on the vessel thirty yards to port. There was no sign of anyone aboard.
Al-Quatan wondered where Roth was. He wanted the treacherous Israeli almost as much as what he was selling. The weasel had already squandered away one of the weapons — left it sitting in an English port. Al-Quatan had prayed he’d be more careful with the other. His men spread across the boat and fixed their weapons on the Hatteras, ten gun barrels oscillating against the deck’s rise and fall. Al-Quatan took over the spotlight as the captain edged closer. He illuminated the hatches and portholes, but there was no sign of anyone. In the partially covered wheelhouse, Al-Quatan spotted an object covered by a sheet of plastic. His heart skipped a beat.
“Now!” he shouted. “My men will go now!”
The captain inched closer until the two boats were only a few feet apart. Even with light seas, they rocked incongruously, like two drunks trying to waltz.
“That is all,” the captain said, “I can get no closer.”
One of Al-Quatan’s men jumped over to the smaller boat. Landing in a heap, he lost grip of his AK-47 and it clattered to the deck, unleashing a wild round. Everyone instinctively ducked at the sound of the weapon discharging, and Al-Quatan swore he heard the bullet whiz by his ear. Two more men leapt across uneventfully, but then the fourth mistimed his effort badly. He smacked squarely into the side of the Hatteras, with a hollow clunk, and fell helplessly into the wet chasm between the boats.
“Idiot!” the captain yelled. He gunned his motors into reverse to keep the fool from being crushed. The three men already aboard the Hatteras managed to pull their stunned comrade from the sea, minus his Uzi.
The boarding party quickly collected themselves and disappeared into the bowels of the drifting vessel. A minute later, one man stuck his head out of a hatch and waved an all clear signal.
“Get closer,” Al-Quatan ordered. Waiting for the right moment, he jumped across, two members of the team grabbing his forearms as he landed.
“There is no one below,” one of them announced.
Al-Quatan nodded, then went straight to the wheelhouse and ripped the plastic cover off what he hoped was his prize. What he saw surprised him at first. It was shiny, silver, and not terribly long. He had expected it to be bigger, more sinister looking. But then he smiled. This was it. He knew this was it! Khalif had been right. After so much effort, so many years of suffering defeat and indignity at the hands of the Zionists, they had finally succeeded. Mohammed Al-Quatan was suddenly overwhelmed, realizing the power that lay before him. He felt almost God-like.
Someone whispered a sharp, “Allah akbar!”
Al-Quatan turned and looked at his men. He saw the same amazement and pride in their eyes as they regarded the seed of victory that lay before them. When the Great One saw what they offered, he would provide anything in return. They would live in proper houses, eat proper food. And soon, certainly soon, the Great One would use this gift from Allah to rid Palestine of the infidels once and for all.
“We have done it, my brothers,” Al-Quatan said, offering an unusual moment of fraternity to his underlings. “We have done it!”
Pytor Roth exited the cab by the departures sign at Malta International Airport in Luqa. With no luggage involved, the driver stayed in his seat as Roth paid the fare. It was two minutes after nine in the morning here, but more importantly to Roth, two minutes after nine in Zurich. He went immediately into the small, run-down building that passed for a terminal, and found the lone pay telephone. His call was answered immediately. The Swiss were always so efficient. He spoke in English and, after one switch, was talking to the person he wanted.
“Herr Junger, it’s Pytor Roth.”
Junger’s English was decent, if a little hard on the consonants. “Gut morning, Mr. Roth. You are calling about the new account, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“One moment, I will check.”
He was put on hold for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Junger picked up again, “Ya, Mr. Roth. The funds are on deposit, as we discussed.”