Hazard (16 page)

At the average rate of twenty-five sections per hour it took a little over twelve hours working nonstop to send down eighteen thousand feet of pipe. Then, according to sonar measurements, they were less than two hundred feet from the bottom.

It was time to take a look.

The television cameras and lights were functioning perfectly. The monitors in the recovery-operations room were receiving clear pictures. The ocean floor at that depth resembled a desert, void of any growth or life. Nothing at all moved and no irregular shapes—only what appeared to be a sandy, level plain.

But the sonar was picking up something to starboard.

The
Sea Finder
rotated in position, slowly so the fixed cameras on the sensor assembly presented a view all around. Turning slowly. Nothing … nothing … and then, there was what they were looking for. No more than six hundred feet away.

In that barren setting with no comparison to help determine size, the long rectangular blocks of concrete looked like tombstones in a disturbed, forgotten graveyard. Or the ruins of an ancient temple. Some of the rectangular blocks lay on their sides, supporting others that projected nearly straight up. Others were scattered around. Just as they'd happened to land after plunging down through three miles of water, dropped over the side by various United States naval vessels.

The
Sea Finder
was maneuvered for a closer look. Close enough to make out the stenciled serial numbers on some of the concrete blocks. Such as
USACC
–
RMA
–3–72–1783–
OD
–5 and
USACC
–
FD
–12–70–B2046–
ABV
–10. How accommodating that the blocks were labeled so clearly, thought the Arabs. Thank you, United States.

They were even more grateful to their version of God. That they had been allowed to learn this precise location out of the thousands of square miles of ocean proved that He favored them and sanctioned their cause. He was showing them the way.

33 degrees 7 minutes west, 27 degrees 5 minutes north.

33:7
W
27:5
N

It was number for number, letter for letter the information they had extracted from Carl, that Carl had believed safe to reveal because the ocean depths seemed an impossible obstacle.

The Arab crew aboard the
Sea Finder
set about to prove Carl wrong.

The sonar system fixed on one of the concrete blocks isolated from the pile. In the recovery-operations room the objective appeared on a monitor that contained an arrangement of concentric circles, like a target with vertical and horizontal crosshairs. At the moment the bright dot representing the object was on the perimeter right and slightly below the third inner circle. The ship maneuvered until the dot matched the intersection of the crosshairs. Then the
Sea Finder
was precisely over its target.

Three more sections of pipe were sent down, and then a final section was lowered more slowly, a foot at a time and then inches. There was no guesswork to it. With the sonar and television cameras it was more like retrieving something from a shallow aquarium rather than from three miles deep.

The huge, wide-spread tongs closed in around the middle of a concrete block. And locked.

The pipe was brought up section by section, dismantled as it came.

Twelve hours later the concrete block emerged from the water in the ship's open well, the red of its stenciled serial numbers standing out, darker wet. It was secured, released from the tongs, and put down on the well deck.

The entire crew assembled there for a triumphant look at it. They congratulated one another, exuberantly, and felt important. In celebration bottles of
ariki
were passed around. But what each man tasted more was the promise of greater victory to come, a time soon when he would be one of the heroes celebrated throughout a fully restored Arab kingdom.

As for now, the men had been working twenty-four hours straight. They took eight hours' rest and put in another twenty-four. After recovering a second of those concrete blocks they headed home.

In Alexandria, time had reduced Captain Copeland to silent exasperation. He'd been furious, demanded his rights as an American citizen; he'd threatened and fumed indignantly, exhibited more of his temper and even attempted to reason. All to no effect. Either the guards did not respond or they only told him to be patient.

Copeland tried to make sense out of it. But it didn't make sense. There was no reasonable explanation for their being detained. Unless maybe a war was on that they didn't know about.

Incongruous was the way they were being treated. Not at all badly. They were provided with excellent food, and were comfortably quartered, no more than two men to a room. When some of the crew complained about the lack of female company—they'd counted on that free night in Alexandria—even that accommodation had been offered. Copeland quickly vetoed that. There'd be none of that.

All things considered, if it hadn't been for the Arab soldiers guarding them they might have been guests at someone's large, slightly run-down but still luxurious home. That's what it was, obviously, a private house. No doubt it was government property, Copeland thought, confiscated and used for such instances as this when they wanted to keep someone incommunicado. They were allowed into the spacious courtyard during the day, but the solid, two-story-high wall prevented them from going anywhere or seeing what was beyond it.

Copeland had, at first, feared that some of the more restless and impetuous of his crew might get fed up with being confined and attempt something. However, he was not entirely pleased when they all settled down and apparently enjoyed having nothing to do but laze around and play poker or blackjack. The scientists also seemed more relaxed than distressed, as though they welcomed the interlude. They sipped tall, cool drinks and took the sun, and at night they sat around and theorized. Copeland felt alone with his concern. He just couldn't be patient, as his Arab keepers advised.

At one o'clock on the morning of the eighteenth day everyone was pulled up from sleep. They were taken out and loaded into two troop carriers. After a half-hour ride they were deposited on the waterfront. The armed escort and troop carriers quickly departed, just left Copeland and his men standing there. It seemed unreal to them, as though the entire episode hadn't happened. There they were on the very same pier as before, number 2, it was the same sort of night with Alexandria twinkling across the way and there was
Sea Finder
moored exactly where they'd last seen her.

They went aboard and found nothing missing, nothing disturbed. If anything, the ship appeared tidier than she had been. All the bunks were made up fresh and clean, the galley was spotless, and so was the wardroom. Also, someone had been thoughtful enough to put on a full supply of water and fuel.

At once Copeland placed a radio call to the corporation's top executive in Washington, a man named Nelson. Nelson was close to the Government, had high connections in all the important branches. He'd proved that by successfully lobbying for the interests of the corporation on several occasions. Nelson, if anyone, should know how to handle this situation.

Nelson came on.

Copeland gave him a complete rundown.

Nelson expressed proper concern and said to rest assured, he'd see that something was done. Copeland was right, Nelson said. An explanation was damn well due. Copeland was to call him again in an hour.

Competent man, Copeland thought, he'd get to the bottom of this thing by taking it to the top.

As agreed, Copeland called Nelson again in an hour.

Nelson sounded different. “Is the ship damaged in any way?”

“No, not that I can see.”

“Is anyone harmed?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that.”

“We were held prisoner for eighteen days,” Copeland reminded him.

“We're filing a formal protest.”

“What should I do on this end?”

“Nothing.”

“But surely—”

“We'll take care of everything,” Nelson said.

“They ought to be made to pay some sort of reparation. Some–”

“Let us worry about that. But remember, Copeland, the bottom line is no harm done. Meanwhile, your orders are to get on with the expedition.”

What Nelson didn't say was that his friends at State weren't inclined to press beyond a mild protest. Things were touchy enough in the Middle East. It wasn't easy to keep balance on the fine line between certain minority votes at home and all that Arab oil over there.

Copeland believed the least he had coming was an official apology, but he finally decided to go along with Nelson. Disgruntled, he said to hell with the archives. They'd search and recover on their own.

The
Sea Finder
put its stern to Alexandria that morning.

9

W
HENEVER ANYONE
asked Hazard to recommend a hotel in London he always said Dukes.

He'd never stayed there, had only heard Dukes favorably mentioned by various amateur poker players—the bored wealthy kind whose known fortunes made them unbelievable when they tried to buy a pot.

That Hazard should be asked anything about London seemed plausible. He gave the impression that he'd been to and knew places, and though he didn't go out of his way to promote the lie, he also didn't deny it. The truth was he'd been to London only once and even that time didn't really count. It was in 1968 when he'd hit a twelve-thousand-dollar superfecta at Roosevelt Raceway and taken a chartered gambling junket to London. All he'd seen of the city was on the ride from and to Heathrow Airport. The forty-eight hours in between he'd spent indoors, losing. Actually that was the first and last time he'd been out of the States, except for Canada and Mexico.

But now he was in London and staying at Dukes. He found that hotel to be everything he'd always heard and said it was. Situated in a quiet cul-de-sac with a grand iron gate and a cobblestone courtyard, it offered elegant comfort without being stiff about it. Hazard arrived without a reservation, dressed casually, and, as usual, tieless. He would surely have been turned away at Claridges or the Connaught. But at Dukes he was so amiably received he didn't doubt when told the hotel's only vacancy was an expensive top floor suite made available by a last-minute cancellation. He signed in, surrendered his passport to the desk, and went up, to be surprised when the floor waiter and chambermaid greeted him by name. They had future tips in their eyes but also promises of immediate good service. Inside the suite he was welcomed by fresh cut flowers, a salver of fruit and that day's
Times.
It was altogether the way to go, Hazard thought. On expenses.

He settled right in, showered, and enjoyed one of the terrycloth robes provided by the house. Then he ordered a double scotch, specifying Dewars and smiling at the idea of pronouncing it correctly. It was quickly brought, along with his passport, returned to him from the desk. He sat in a soft chair near one of the windows and looked out over Green Park, which was really green. The weather was misting, just lightly, typically. He sipped the drink and reminded himself what he was there for. Not a holiday.

From his single piece of luggage, new, bought for the trip, he removed his Llama automatic, special knife, and two other passports. One of the passports was authentically his, another was his under the name George Beech, and the one he'd used to register identified him as Edmund Stevens. Obtaining the false passports had been routine for the
DIA
, though there'd been some resistance to his getting two.

The Llama. He slipped it from its holster, a lightweight shoulder holster that held the automatic inverted for an easier, faster draw. He checked out the Llama, reassured himself it contained a full clip of 32 soft noses, ready to go. Two spare clips were snapped onto the holster's underarm strap. He took up the knife and pressed its release button to make the blade shoot out. He thumbed both edges of the blade, carefully, because they were honed so sharp. He didn't like thinking he'd have to use the knife.

What time was it? The clock in his head didn't agree with his watch, which showed quarter after two London time. Maybe he'd feel better if he took a nap. He lay on the bed and tried, but after a half hour he gave up, got up, and used the phone.

He had one lead. It had brought him to London. He'd gotten it from a cheap, frayed little address book he'd found in Saad's wallet. The book had about twenty telephone numbers, New York numbers for first names such as Vicky, Shawn, Monika, Tammy. Working girls. Except for one name and number that stood out.

Badr Al Nabua, London,
KNI
–7894.

Hazard asked the Dukes' operator to get that number for him. It rang a couple of times before a female voice answered with, “Knightsbridge seven eight nine four.”

Hazard was uncertain about whether he should ask for Al Nabua or omit the Al. “Mr. Nabua, please.”

“Who is calling?”

Good, thought Hazard; his man was probably there. “Mr. Howard,” he said.

“Your number, Mr. Howard?”

“I want to speak to Mr. Nabua.”

“Please give me your number and Mr. Nabua will call you.”

“I'll call back. When do you expect him?”

“This is only a message service, sir. Now if you'll kindly give me—”

“Where are you located?”

“That's irrelevant, sir.”

“All right, what's the name of your service?”

“Why?”

“I need someone to take messages for me.”

That prospect changed her. More amicably now, she told him, “We're the Wickersham Exchange.”

Hazard thanked her and hung up. He consulted the telephone directory and found the address of the Wickersham Exchange. From the desk drawer he got a letter-sized envelope into which he put several sheets of blank paper to make it look fat and important. He sealed the envelope and printed Mr. Badr Al Nabua large on its face. Then he got dressed, harnessed on the Llama under his jacket, slipped the knife in his boot, and went out.