Numa Files: Ghost Ship Part 7

"Did they open a Club Med there I haven't heard about?"

Kurt shook his head. "I have reason to believe Sienna's alive and being held in Iran. I know someone in Turkey who can get me over the border. I'll figure out the rest from there."

Pitt held steady. "Even for you that has to sound like the longest of long shots."

"It's a start," Kurt said. He opened a drawer. Inside lay his NUMA ID badge and key card. "I'm sorry about what happened today. I honestly didn't mean to fly off the handle. But I'm not myself right now."

Kurt hesitated for a second and then took the badge and card and slid them across the desk. "I know you stood up for me. It means a lot. I don't want to let you down again or do anything else to put NUMA in a bad light, but I'm not going to change my mind."

Pitt took the badge and studied it thoughtfully for a moment. "I didn't come here to talk you out of it, actually."

"Then why are you here?"

"Wondered if you were seeing pink elephants."

Kurt felt pensive and full of self-doubt. He felt like a kid running away from home, leaving a family he'd been part of for ten years. Duty to NUMA had always come first, but that was half the reason he'd lost Sienna in the first place. If she was alive and trapped somewhere, he couldn't put anything before that right now.

"So are you?" Pitt asked.

"I'm not sure," Kurt said. "I've never been less sure of anything in my life. But I can't wait around here hoping to get well. I have memories that make no sense. I have feelings that seem to be at odds with what I know to be facts. I have questions and I need to go find the answers. Until I do, I'm not going to be any good to anyone."

"Have you considered diving the wreck?"

Kurt nodded. "First thought that came to mind, but the South African Coast Guard scanned it with sonar. The yacht broke up on the way to the bottom. She's sitting in three, maybe four major pieces. Chances are anyone inside would have been swept free. So that wouldn't help."

Pitt nodded, giving Kurt the impression he knew this already. Kurt sensed Pitt studying him, evaluating. He'd had enough of that over the last three months. "You think I'm crazy?"

"I think that if someone is aware of the possibility he might be crazy," Pitt began, "then chances are he's not. And I have reason to believe there's a possibility you might be onto something."

Kurt didn't move a muscle as Pitt relayed the information Sandecker had given him. He listened intently, hanging on every word. It didn't prove Sienna was alive, or even make it sound likely, but if the CIA's a.n.a.lysts thought the possibility existed, it made that part of Kurt's quest seem more rational.

"Change your flight," Pitt suggested. "Start in Dubai."

"Why there?"

Pitt slid the photo out of his breast pocket and handed it and the memory stick to Kurt. "This photo was taken in Bandar Abbas, straight across the gulf from Dubai."

Kurt studied the photo. The man looked like a thug, but the woman-was it Sienna? Even he couldn't be sure. "I don't have any contacts in Dubai."

"I do," Pitt replied. "Check into the Excelsior Hotel. A man named Mohammed El Din will find you. You can trust him."

Kurt was momentarily speechless. He'd expected to be fired, or suspended, or raked over the coals. Instead, he'd found support. "Thank you" was all he could come up with.

"Since you're playing spy," Pitt added, "make sure you destroy the photo and the flash drive when you're done studying them."

Kurt nodded and then thought of one more thing. "Tell Joe not to follow me. I don't want to drag him into this. I already got him arrested by the capitol police. They've even banned him from the Air and s.p.a.ce Museum. You know how much he loves that place."

Pitt hesitated. "I'll find something for him to do," he said. "When do you think you'll be back?"

It was a difficult question. Kurt could only answer it by turning it around. "If Loren were out there, or if you'd known Summer was alive all those years, how long would you have looked for them?"

"Until I found them," Pitt said truthfully.

"That's when I'll be home."

Pitt grinned and slid the ID badge back across the desk to Kurt. "Put it in a drawer," he said. "No one quits on my watch."

Kurt did as ordered, and the two friends shook hands, a rock-solid handshake between men cut from the same cloth.

Pitt turned to go but stopped in the doorway. "Be careful, Kurt. You know there is a chance you might not like what you find."

With that, Pitt slipped through the door and disappeared. Five minutes later, Kurt was backing out of the driveway in his black Jeep and heading for the airport. Unknown to him, Dirk Pitt and Loren Smith were watching from their car a hundred yards up the road.

"So he's going off half-c.o.c.ked after all," Loren noted.

"No," Pitt said, "he's fully loaded and gunning for bear." He started the engine and put the car in gear. "But he's not going alone. I'm going to round up Joe and the Trouts. At some point, Kurt is going to need some help. And, officially or not, we're going to be there when he does."

United Arab Emirates Dubai Kurt Austin watched through binoculars as rich dark soil flew from the hooves of a chestnut Thoroughbred that was thundering down the track at Meydan Racecourse. Seven other horses trailed, but most were so far back that it seemed as if the leader was the only horse in the race.

Thousands cheered, others groaned. Kurt noted that the long shots hadn't stood a chance.

"Nothing here is what it seems," someone mentioned. The voice was an aged whisper. It carried wisdom and even a warning in its tone. "That is the first thing you must understand."

Kurt watched the horse cross the finish line. Its jockey stood up in the stirrups and slowly eased back on the reins, allowing the animal to gently run off the speed.

With the show over, Kurt lowered the binoculars and glanced at the man who was speaking.

Mohammed El Din wore a crisp white dishdasha, a s.h.i.+rt that went from the neck to the ankles. A white gutra, or headcloth, covered his hair, kept in place by a checkered band. His face looked small beneath the cloth, his shoulders were slight. Kurt guessed his age to be seventy or more.

Kurt placed the binoculars down on the edge of the table. "Are you referring to the race or something else?"

The man smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled. "Everything," he said, and then pointed toward the track. "This race is not a race but a staged sales pitch. There are buyers down there. The lead horse is the prize. The other jockeys are paid to run slower. It makes the victory seem more impressive than what the stopwatch actually says. Even the soil beneath their hooves is artificial; it's actually a synthetic mix of sand, rubber, and wax. All of it a carefully staged deception, much like the city itself."

Kurt nodded thoughtfully. Trying to distinguish between fiction and reality seemed to be a recurring theme in his life.

"Is it a mirage, then?" Kurt asked.

"In a manner of speaking."

Kurt reached toward a teapot made of handblown gla.s.s and banded with a silver ring in a swirling Arabic motif. "Tea?"

"Please."

He poured two gla.s.ses, one for himself, one for his host.

El Din was now a wealthy businessman but had once been a purveyor of information. Rumor had it, he'd sold information to both the U.S. and Russia back during the Cold War, a fact both countries had known. But he'd never crossed lines, as far as either side could determine. And, at any rate, good information was hard to find, all of which put El Din into the category of the devil you know being better than the devil you don't.

Where El Din and Dirk Pitt met was anyone's guess, but the man had spoken admirably of Pitt and Pitt had said El Din was trustworthy. That was good enough for Kurt.

Placing the carafe down, Kurt looked back out across the racetrack. "So did we meet here to talk about the fickle nature of reality?" he asked. "Or are we here for something more concrete?"

El Din took a sip of the apple-flavored tea. "Dirk said you were eager. Look to the paddock where the winning horse is being brushed down."

Kurt picked up the binoculars again and focused on the far side of the track. He saw several men gathered around the horse. Two were dressed in Arab garb like El Din, the other three were in suits despite the heat.

"Who am I looking at?" Kurt asked.

"The one without a tie," El Din said.

"Who is he?"

"He goes by the name Rene Acosta, but he is neither Portuguese nor Spanish. He speaks pa.s.sable French, but no one knows what his real name is or where he came from."

Kurt recognized the name from the electronic file Pitt had given him. He zoomed in on Acosta. It was the same man in the photo Dirk had shown him. He was broad and short, thick from front to back, with a barrel chest and a tree-stump neck. His nose was flattened like a boxer who'd taken too many punches. A buzzed head of short gray hair covered the sides and back of his skull, though the front and top were smooth and s.h.i.+ny in the hot Middle Eastern sun. Kurt pegged his age at forty.

"Is he a buyer or a seller?" Kurt asked, taking a quick look at the two men behind Acosta. Both were taller, more svelte, though powerfully built. By the way they stood, Kurt guessed they were bodyguards.

"Both," El Din replied. "Acosta likes the finer things in life. He trades less worthy items to get them."

"The barter system?"

"Not exactly," El Din said. "It's a triangle trade. He will deliver the items under his control to a third party if the third party purchases what he desires and delivers it to him. A very complicated, tax-free way of living."

"So he's a smuggler."

"That he is," El Din said. "And he has a new line of business that is rapidly expanding: the smuggling of human cargo, particularly experts in advanced electronics."

"Are you sure of this?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Kurt looked back toward the paddock. "He wants the horse."

"Very badly," El Din said. "That animal will be the odds-on favorite to win the Dubai Cup and a ten-million-dollar purse. If it does that, it will be worth fifty million or more as a stud."

"That's a hefty price. Acosta must have something big to sell."

El Din nodded. "And if it's your missing friend he's offering, you can be sure there are many in the world who would pay handsomely for what she knows."

It was almost more than Kurt could have hoped for. He briefly wondered if Sienna's knowledge could be worth millions to the right person. Then he stopped doubting. Phalanx itself was worth billions to Westgate's company. If she could give the Iranians their own version, they would be secure behind an electronic wall, a goal they'd sought for years. Fifty million was nothing for that kind of security.

"Any chance you can get me into one of his meetings?"

El Din shook his head. "No," he said. "My work makes it impossible."

Kurt knew about El Din's "work" from the CIA files on the memory stick. A sad fact was that much of Dubai's glittering skyline had been built on the backs of modern slaves, foreigners brought from India and the Philippines with promises of wealth. They were not slaves in the literal sense, but they were often paid far less than what they were promised and worked twice as hard. El Din, along with a few others, had been fighting to change that. "You've made enemies trying to emanc.i.p.ate the workers in your country."

"And I'm afraid it makes me too well known to get you access to a man like Acosta."

Kurt admired El Din's stand. "So how do I get at him? He seems to have plenty of security."

"He has a yacht in the harbor," El Din explained. "Its name is the Ma.s.sif. Perhaps a monument to his ego. He will be hosting a party the night after tomorrow for all his prospective buyers and sellers. A slow cruise is planned up and down the coast."

Kurt grinned. "A little sightseeing tour."

El Din nodded. "Yes, exactly. Something tells me a man like you might find a way to slip aboard."

Kurt returned to the Excelsior by way of the harbor. He got a good look at the Ma.s.sif, taking pictures with the zoom lens on his 20-megapixel Canon DSLR.

She was too big for any of the marina slips, so she moored offsh.o.r.e. Her hull was dark blue, her superstructure white. Forward, she had a sharp V-shaped bow with a large slot for a heavy anchor that was currently deployed. Amids.h.i.+ps were the usual pen decks, a high-mounted flybridge, with a helipad on the stern, upon which a sleek helicopter with a red logo sat. Forward of the helipad, waves of heat distorted the air as exhaust from the twin stacks vented. The stacks were angled like the tail fins of some hypersonic fighter plane and painted with the same logo as the helicopter.

"Smuggling business must be pretty good," Kurt muttered to himself.

He sauntered down the waterfront, playing the tourist, taking pictures of other boats, even turning back toward Dubai and getting a few shots of the skyline. When he looked back to the Ma.s.sif, a small launch was pulling up to her side. He took a dozen photos of the launch, catching Acosta boarding along with a blond woman. As she took off her sungla.s.ses to clean one of the lenses, Kurt zoomed in and focused, snapping a clear shot. Even through the lens he couldn't help but notice her dark, smoky eyes. As Kurt watched, Acosta took the mystery woman by the hand and walked toward the bow. Once they moved out of sight, Kurt turned his attention to the security team. Armed guards were easy to see patrolling the decks fore and aft. He saw video cameras in the upper superstructure. From there, he guessed, they could see the entire length of the upper decks and anything approaching from port or starboard. A pair of spotlights and twin radar domes sprouted from the bridge, most likely one for weather, the other for traffic.

All of which meant the s.h.i.+p would be d.a.m.n-near impossible to approach while moving at sea. That left two options: come in from above or up from below. Kurt recalled parachuting onto a moving supertanker some years back. It had been a treacherous operation even though the vessel was the size of several football fields and moving slowly. He didn't fancy the idea of trying the same thing on a yacht one-fifth the size and moving three times as fast.

His mind made up, Kurt left the harbor and continued back to the hotel, traveling on foot and fighting the strange sensation of being watched or followed the entire time. He changed course and stopped a few times, scanning the sea of faces around him, looking for anyone or anything suspicious. At one point, a male wearing a patterned dishdasha looked away and stepped into the crowd with haste.

Kurt stared, but the man didn't reappear.

"Great," he muttered.

Unhappy with the thought that his presence in Dubai might have been compromised, Kurt continued on to the hotel, occasionally checking behind him by looking in the reflections of the gla.s.s-walled stores along the boulevard. He caught glimpses of the man several times but pretended not to notice.

Finally back at the hotel, he crossed the lobby, took the elevator to the seventeenth floor, and waited around the corner.

Sure enough, the other elevator pinged moments later.

He heard the door slide open and someone walking his way. Hoping he wasn't about to mug some tourist, Kurt waited for the man to round the corner and then lunged at him. It was the same man, in the same robe.

Kurt slammed a hand over the man's mouth, shoved him against the wall, and then swung a fist toward the target's solar plexus. To his surprise, the man reacted almost instantly, arching his body and twisting to the side.

Kurt caught him with only a glancing blow, his fist hammering abs that were hardened and ready to take the shot. The man knocked Kurt's hand away and put his own hands up.

"Easy, Kurt. It's me! Joe!"

There was a moment of incoherence as Kurt's mind put two and two together, trying to reconcile his friend's voice with the clothes he saw in front of him and the fact that Joe should have been at least seven thousand miles from there.

As if reading Kurt's mind, Joe pulled off the gray-colored gutra that was covering half his face.

"What are you doing here?" Kurt asked.

"I came to help you."

Kurt didn't know whether to be happy or furious. He led Joe to his room and repeated the question.

"I've been following you," Joe said. "You're hard to track, you know that?"