“The suppressors fit?” he asked himself out loud, removing a silencer from his robes and attaching it to the barrel of the gun. He again turned it around and examined it for several moments.
Jordan laughed and tossed the gun to one of his bodyguards, who caught it cleanly in the air and, as everyone watched, examined the gun himself, also breaking out into a smile. Boys and their toys, thought Jordan grimly, as he nimbly pocketed two ammo magazines and stashed them in his robes. One advantage of robes over pants, he thought — far easier to hide things in those inner pockets. Kharitonov glanced over at him as he turned away from the weapons container and motioned to Kareem. Kareem stepped forward and opened the case again. By now, Kharitonov's men had forged a satellite link to a bank account thousands of miles away.
“The executable runs automatically. You give it your routing numbers and account, and the money is transferred. As before, no strings and untraceable. You should be able to see it immediately. Half now, and half on delivery.”
Kharitonov nodded and handed the drive over to the man who set up his connection. He seemed relaxed. Jordan had groomed this man and his organization for four long years, and this was not their first deal. Jordan had been an exemplary customer, never missing a payment or canceling a deal. Kharitonov had grown complacent with him, as much as an international arms dealer could, and Jordan was counting on this. That was why the Russian did not watch Jordan carefully at this moment as he moved slowly along the open crate of weapons. That was also why the Russian did not immediately recognize his peril when his subordinate spoke quickly to him in concerned Russian.
“Yusuf,” Kharitonov said, staring at the screen, “transfer not going through.” Jordan looked at him, unconcerned, his arms behind his back as he stood at attention. The Russian looked down at the screen, and as he did so, Jordan made quick eye contact with his team. “Not understanding. Yusuf — there is problem?” he asked.
Jordan looked at the Russian grimly. “Yes, Mika, there is.”
Several things happened at the same time. Jordan whipped a loaded Uzi out from behind him, a second silencer already attached. He opened fire with several bursts at bodyguards flanking Kharitonov. One dropped immediately as a line of red stains erupted across this chest. The second dove to his right, pulling a weapon out from his belt and aiming toward Jordan. Before he could pull the trigger, his neck snapped back as flesh and blood ripped apart, a barrage of bullets fired by one of Jordan's bodyguards. Simultaneously, the other members of his team pulled out handguns, all with silencers attached, and turned toward the guards behind them. Although the guards held the advantage in firepower, they were too slow to realize what was happening, and Jordan's combat-trained operatives pounced on them like tigers.
The rear members of his team, nearest the guards, had chosen hand-to-hand combat. One had dropped to a push-up position and swung his leg around like a helicopter blade, catching the guard behind the knees and dropping him to the ground. The operative behind him fired four quick shots into the prone man, who did not move again. The second guard found his weapon kicked from his arms as the CIA man drew his right leg in an arc like a mace in front of him. The guard stood there stunned as he watched the man pivot on the foot that had just disarmed him, spinning and turning to bring his left leg like a battering ram straight into his face. A jawbone cracked loudly, and the man went down flat on his back, smacking his head against the boat deck. He did not get up.
Kareem had incapacitated the computer man with several blows, then had frozen Kharitonov by placing a gun to the base of his skull. Kharitonov, who had drawn a weapon and was aiming it toward Jordan, relaxed and dropped his firearm. The four remaining bodyguards, poorly positioned in the crowded region around the boat box, had all been either overpowered or killed by Jordan's team. It was over in a matter of seconds.
Jordan grabbed Kharitonov's computer, placed it in the briefcase, and handed it to Kareem.
“You insane American!” Kharitonov spat as his hands were tied with wire behind him. “What is for? You get nothing from this!”
Jordan put the barrel of his Uzi under Kharitonov's chin. The Russian pulled up his head in pain from the hot cylinder. That seemed to get his attention. “Mika, what I get is my problem. But if you don't do exactly what I say, I can tell you exactly what you're gonna get.” He stared at the Russian coldly. “You understand?” Kharitonov nodded, fear in his eyes. “Right now, that means you make a sound we don't like, I fill you with holes. You try to escape, I, or one of my men, will fill you with holes. And if you don't follow as you are directed, right now, you get filled with holes. Got that?” Mika nodded again, sweat pouring down his face.
“Good.” Jordan turned to his men. “Take his cell phone. Get him to the car, grab several of these guns and clips. Load up. We're likely going to need them.” Jordan strode through the piles of bodies on the ship deck, and his team led Kharitonov at gunpoint down the ramp and to their vehicles. Two drivers were still in the other cars, oblivious in the noisy environment of the dock to the events on deck above them. They were listening to music and reading, one sending text messages to his girlfriend. Before they could do much more than look up, they were knocked unconscious and dragged aside.
“We go in these three cars, to lessen the suspicion.” Jordan designated his two Harvard Men to ditch the rentals. The rest of his team loaded up into the three vehicles of Kharitonov. Jordan sat in the back of one car, his Uzi trained on the Russian as they pulled out.
“Let's pay a visit to a little building in Sharjah,” said Jordan. The eyes of the Russian grew large as he understood.
“You have no place to hide. You never make deal again! We hunt you down, to America. You are dead man, Yusuf.”
Jordan looked out through the window of the speeding car over the bright sands and sighed. “So aren't we all, Mika.” He slapped a new cartridge into the Uzi. “What's important is what you do while it lasts.”
27
Some three thousand miles away, the August night was cool in Algiers. Despite its nearness to the desert, its location within the Tell Atlas Mountains and its proximity to the Mediterranean Sea dominated this coastal city, giving it a temperate climate that even in the hottest months was never too uncomfortable. The day's heat had abated by the predawn hours, and the wind that blew from the mountains dropped the temperature into the high sixties.
The cool night was a welcome relief to the American and his team, especially since they were dressed in bulky Arab clothing over their combat attire. They had ridden into the city late in the evening, disguised as migrant workers, in several trucks provided and driven by their helpful friends of the Ibadi People's Army. Of course, the man laughed to himself; no one had ever heard of the IPA, and they likely never would. But he humored its young and naive founders. They were a ticket through the Arab and Berber landscape in Algiers, a landscape that too easily could become problematic if they ran into any complications. But no one had paid any attention to yet another group of workers trucked into the city to do its heavy lifting.