The Aden Effect (11 page)

“The headmaster never knew half of what went on within those walls.”

“And a good thing that was. Now, how about that Indian restaurant? Your treat, of course.”

“Consider it payment for services rendered, courtesy of the petty bureaucrats in Washington.”

The taxi's light indicated that the driver was off-duty. The Chinese man behind the wheel had driven this cab for months, but to date the on-duty light had never been on and he had never carried a fare. He took orders only from his superiors, and those orders so far had involved driving around the city conducting surveillance or accommodating the occasional in-cab meeting. Today his orders were to play host to a Somali.

Asha sat in the passenger seat waiting for the American federal agent to exit the exclusive club in St. James's Square.

“How long has he been in there?” he asked the driver.

“Since fourteen thirty-two hours,” the Chinese driver replied with stoic efficiency.

The taxi was parked in a spot on the south side of the tree-filled commons of St. James's Square with a direct view of the club. Asha ordered the driver to meet him later and climbed out of the cab, walking around to stretch his legs while continuing to watch the entrance. The American agent finally left the building in the company of a tall, well-dressed blond man. Allah had not given him the opportunity to kill the man in Maine. Here in London he would have another chance. He decided that the blond man would die too. Asha could not take action against both of them at the same time, but he could follow them and wait for an opportunity.

The
Bennington
approached a small ship that looked barely capable of floating, much less moving. Ens. Bobby Fisk, on duty as the conning officer, tracked it on radar, noting that it was responding to the
Bennington
's movements, veering away as the American warship moved closer.

“Conn, bring us parallel to that dhow and keep two hundred yards to her starboard,” the OOD said to Bobby.

“Aye, sir.” Bobby checked the course and speed of the dhow, then issued a series of minor course corrections to the helmsman. He ordered increased speed as he felt the top-heavy cruiser's deck shift from the maneuvering. Almost immediately there was a clamoring up the ladder behind the pilothouse door and the helm announced: “Captain on the bridge!”

“What's going on here? OOD, why is the ship shaking?”

“Sir, I ordered a change in course and speed to parallel that ship,” Bobby answered, pointing to the small boat and offering binoculars to the CO.

The captain shoved the binoculars away. “I don't need those. Why?”

“They've been intentionally avoiding us, sir. This is a good target for the VBSS team. They haven't had many chances to board and search.”

“I don't think so,” the captain replied peevishly. “Those people just want to stay out of our way. Any course corrections other than patrolling in our box, you contact me or the XO, you understand? If you can't manage to do that we'll take you off the watch rotation and give you some responsibilities elsewhere.”

Bobby took a deep breath as the captain left the bridge. The OOD ordered a course change away from the foreign ship. As Bobby gave the command he looked through his own binoculars to see several men on the dhow making rude gestures at the departing warship. They were cheering. Bobby and the OOD were not.

Bobby was in a bad spot on this ship, and he knew it. Challenging one's commanding officer was mutiny, but he'd been in the
Bennington
long enough to know that the command structure on the ship wasn't working the way his instructors at the Naval Academy had said it would. He didn't know whether the captain was sick, burnt-out, crazy, or just incompetent, but the
Bennington
was not a functional ship. There had to be another way.

The operations officer (OPS), Bobby, and the weapons officer (WEPS) were smoking cigars after dinner when Air Boss—the pilot in command of
“the Lost Boys,” the ship's helicopter detachment—joined them. OPS had a year's seniority over Air Boss, so the cigar cabal deferred to him.

“You heard what happened on the bridge this afternoon, OPS?” Bobby asked. He wasn't sure whether the sweat trickling down his back was due to the stifling heat or nerves; probably some of both. The extra pounds he had put on since boarding the
Bennington
didn't help.

“I heard,” OPS answered. “This is the first deployment I've ever been on when we've actively avoided the ships we're supposed to inspect.” He shook his head in disgust.

“He won't listen to us,” WEPS complained. “We cruise around and around inside our box. You know damn well some of those dhows are pirates, but we just let them go by. There has to be something we can do about this. What about Fifth Fleet? He has to listen to them.”

“I'll email a buddy there and see if they can issue a directive to provide reports on inspections,” OPS said. “Maybe that'll work.”

“What if it doesn't, sir?” asked Fisk.

OPS looked around the circle. “Gentlemen, clearly we've been neglecting young Ensign Fisk's education. Bobby, there's a book in the wardroom that should have been required reading for you at the Severn River Trade School.”

“Oh? Which one?”

OPS smiled. “
The Caine Mutiny
.”

Asha waited for two hours outside the restaurant. From his spot diagonally across the street he could maintain a direct line of sight on the American agent. Although two tables near the large window had been free, the swarthy American and his dinner companion had taken a table on the far side of the restaurant. Clearly the man had worked in foreign countries before—car bombs detonated on a busy street could shatter windows into a million pieces that could shred the flesh of those nearest the impact. Even though car bombs seemed to be a thing of the past in the United Kingdom, the American was being careful even here. Asha felt a glimmer of professional respect for this American agent; he would enjoy defeating him.

As dusk approached, Asha shifted away from the lamppost he was leaning against and began pacing back and forth on the city block, never letting his gaze wander far from the door of the restaurant. Occasionally he caught site of
the American's blond dinner companion. Asha took a free paper from a newsstand and moved his eyes horizontally from left to right, pretending to read it so as not to be conspicuous. Not that the people on this busy street would notice one more black foreigner as they hurried from Piccadilly Circus toward the restaurants here and the residential areas behind him.

Asha tried to determine the relationship between the two men. Was it personal or professional? He was certain that the American agent had come to England because of the death of Johnny Dunner. That meant his priority would be professional. But an agent with a clandestine service would be unlikely to discuss an investigation in an open environment such as a restaurant. The blond man had, of course, been inside the East India Club for some time before he and the American left for the restaurant. If the man was a British official, the two could have easily discussed the investigation inside the club and then gone to dinner. Did that mean they had both personal and professional relationships? Asha smiled. It didn't matter. Both men would die tonight.

Asha came to attention when he noticed a waiter nod to the American and then carry away a leather notebook that almost certainly contained the tab. His heartbeat quickened. He tucked the newspaper under one arm, walked toward a crosswalk, and began to cross the street. His finely honed killing instincts were sharpening his senses—eyes, ears, nose—readying him for what lay ahead. His heart nearly leapt from his chest when the car horn blared out from the right. Accustomed to American traffic patterns, he hadn't even thought to look in that direction before crossing. He calmed his thundering heart and made his way to the storefront next to the restaurant. If they returned to St. James Square and the East India Club, as he expected them to do, then they'd head in the opposite direction and he could simply follow them, lost among the many other pedestrians going that way.

As he anticipated, the two men emerged from the restaurant and immediately turned their backs to Asha, laughing and talking about some school.
Spoiled Westerners with too much money
, Asha thought with contempt. He slipped the switchblade from his pocket and concealed it beneath the newspaper in his left hand, then moved in closer. Now only a few steps away from them, he kept his head down, focusing on the pattern of their stride in case they changed direction and he needed to do the same. Darkness had fallen over London now. He had never failed in killing a person after dark. He tossed his newspaper aside. The evening breeze separated the pages as it fell to the ground.

“After-dinner drink?”

“Absolutely. My flight isn't until the morning. Where do you suggest, Robert?”

“There's a spot just up here that will do nicely.”

In front of them was a
paifang
, one of the Chinese archways common in the restaurant districts of most cities with a Chinese population. As Robert pointed to a second-floor jazz club, the breeze at their backs freshened. Recognizing a familiar scent, Golzari's senses came to full alert.

“Do you smell that?” he said softly to Robert.

“Yes, bloody awful,” the Briton replied as the scent of Euphoria became more pronounced. “Really, some people have no taste at all.”

Golzari whipped around to locate the source of the scent he had last encountered in Antioch. The man right behind him was forced to stop and look up. Golzari recognized him instantly: Khalid, the police liaison. Golzari heard the metal snap of a switchblade. Khalid whipped it upward, but the Diplomatic Security agent's reflexes were too quick. He brought up his left forearm to stop the knife from reaching his torso. The blade cut through the jacket and sliced his arm.

Asha brought his knee up hard into Golzari's groin. Golzari grunted in pain and doubled over, helpless for the moment. Robert lunged for the attacker but was a step too far away to catch him. Asha began to run across the side street but in his haste again forgot the British traffic pattern. A Mini that had just turned the corner lifted him into the air. Asha nimbly rolled over the hood and landed upright on the far side of the street, where he paused for a moment to glare at the American agent.

Golzari held Asha's eyes as he pulled the gun from his shoulder holster. “Come on, Robert. I'm okay,” he said, struggling to catch his breath and ignore the pain.

The attacker turned and ran down Shaftsbury, and Golzari and Robert followed. The Somali was already half a block ahead of them, dodging past pedestrians and pushing aside those he couldn't avoid. Golzari and Robert did the same, unable to gain any ground on him.

When the Somali reached the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus a few blocks later, he realized that he had erred. Without the dark of a side street to conceal him, he was clearly visible to his two pursuers. He looked carefully to his right, having finally learned his lesson about the traffic pattern, then
darted across the street to the closest Tube station and jumped over the turnstile. When the policeman standing in front of the station tried to stop him, Asha turned around just long enough to stab him. The officer folded his arms across his stomach and fell to his knees.