The Aden Effect (29 page)

The rest of the desk contained little of interest except for the lower right-hand drawer, which held only two items. The first brought his eyebrows up to his hairline. He had seen only one like it before. It was a 5.45-millimeter PRI automatic pistol used by the Spetsialnoye Nazranie, the old Soviet Union's Spetsnaz special forces. How the hell had al-Ghaydah come by such a treasure? Golzari decided to save him from arrest for possessing contraband and slipped it into his bag.

The other item in the drawer was a standard hotel keycard inside a paper envelope with a room number on it. Apparently, big-city-hotel security measures hadn't caught on in Mukalla. Ahmed al-Ghaydah, Golzari reasoned, would live in a house or apartment. Either he needed a hotel where he could whore around, not unusual for an Arab man, or the key belonged to a room where visitors—people like Abdi Mohammed Asha, for instance—could stay. The hotel was only a few blocks from his current location. He'd noticed it during his earlier stroll. Golzari opened the blinds and left the office.

“Yes?”

Golzari saw the peephole darken as an eye peered through it.

“Mutahar sent me. It's very, very important.” The khat-filled al-Ghaydah was in no condition to question how Mutahar would know his current location. He opened the door.

“Peace be upon you, brother,” Golzari said brandishing his Sig-Sauer handgun as he burst into the room.

The drugged Yemeni was still trying to process this intrusion when Golzari slipped an arm around his throat from behind. “Be quiet.” Golzari checked the bathroom and the closet. “Where is Abdi Mohammed Asha?”

“Abdi? Who are you?”

“It doesn't matter who I am, Ahmed al-Ghaydah. Where is he?”

The overmatched boy, his hands raised and eyes bloodshot, responded, “He left for dinner.”

“Where?”

“I . . . I don't know. They didn't tell me.”

“Who are ‘they'?” Golzari asked, reinforcing the question with the barrel of his pistol against the younger man's back.

“One other person. Please, no.”

“Give me a name.”

“No.”

Khat or no khat, Ahmed showed some resolve when it came to naming Asha's companion. His face reflected the terror he felt.

“Whose bag is this? Yours?”

“No, it belongs to a friend.”

“Who? Asha? Or al-Yemeni?”

Al-Ghaydah was too numbed by the khat to pretend he didn't know that name.

Golzari followed up on his advantage, keeping his gun trained on Ahmed as he upended the bag. The cheap, dirty clothing that fell out reeked of diesel fumes and sweat. “Who owns this bag? I will not ask again.”

Al-Ghaydah darted unexpectedly toward the balcony and closed the glass door behind him, then pulled a plastic chair to the edge and tried to reach the balcony on the floor above him. The chair wobbled as he struggled to maintain his balance. Golzari slid the door open and lunged for him. Al-Ghaydah managed one brief look behind him before losing his balance. Golzari reached out
but could do no more than grasp a sleeve as al-Ghaydah slipped away and fell eight stories to the concrete below.

Golzari stared after him for a moment, then gathered the contents of the bag, stuffed them inside, and put it back in its place. He pulled the
mashedda
up to cover his face and left. When he was safely outside the hotel, he strolled casually back to his car and left Mukalla. On the long drive back to Mar'ib he considered the new connections he had uncovered—and the paperwork that would be involved if State found out he had been responsible for a foreigner's death.

S
tark swam laps in Mutahar's Olympic-sized pool early the next morning. Swimming—when it was not for his life—was a favorite pastime long neglected. It stretched out his muscles and gave him time to think. No one willingly swam in the cold waters around Scotland. In fact, the last time he had swum laps was here in this very pool.

He had succeeded at last night's dinner with the first step in his plan—getting the foreign minister to agree to meet with C. J. She had a chance now. Next up was to get those Yemeni ships out to sea to deter the pirates.

He pulled himself over the rim of the pool and sat there for a few moments, breathing deeply, until approaching footsteps drew his attention.

“Uncle Connor,” Ali shouted. “Look who is finally home!”

Stark stood and grabbed a towel before shaking the hand of Mutahar's eldest son. “It's good to see you, Faisal.”

“And you, Connor, in whose debt I remain.”

“You owe me nothing, Faisal. I had the honor of being of service and gained the friendship of your family. I could ask for nothing more.”

“You continue to be a gracious man, Connor,” Faisal said politely.

“You are late,” Mutahar said from the doorway in his slow, deep voice.

Faisal turned at the sound of the voice. “I am sorry, Father.”

“Uncle Connor,” Ali interrupted excitedly. “Watch me, please, and tell me if it is the right way for the butterfly. I have been practicing the stroke just as you showed me”

“Very good, Ali,” his father replied, approaching the pool. “Go ahead. We will all watch.”

Mutahar briefly embraced Faisal and then turned to watch Ali with unconcealed pride. “There is an ancient fable in my land, Connor,” he said without looking away from his youngest son. “A wealthy man died and left two sons but no instructions on which would inherit his wealth. A wise sheikh tested them. One of the sons passed the test. The other did not because he had shamed his father.”

Stark could feel Faisal stiffen beside him, and he sympathized with the young man's hurt and embarrassment. Hearing such a deeply personal remark from father to son made him uncomfortable, whether or not he was considered a member of the family.

“It is good to be home,” Faisal finally said agreeably. “But I see so many surprises. I barely recognized Connor without his beard.”

“Do not tease our friend. He is very upset that the American Navy made him shave it!”

“The Navy?” Faisal smiled at Stark though his eyes remained cold.

“Yes. Connor has been returned to active duty. He is the American embassy's new defense attaché.”

Faisal's eyes widened fractionally. “You are now the military adviser for your ambassador?” He paused for a moment as if seeking words. “You are to be congratulated on gaining such a post, Connor.”

Stark casually patted at the water on his neck and head. “I am the new defense attaché, yes, but my role is more diplomatic than military.”

“Come, my son,” Mutahar said abruptly. “We do not discuss such matters today. We will talk later. For now, our family is together. Go and swim with Ali. Perhaps he can teach you the new stroke Connor has taught him. Connor, the front gate informed me that your driver has arrived.”

“Thank you, Mutahar. I'll get dressed and bring him in.” His peripheral vision caught Faisal's wary stare as he walked away.

“Thank you, I'll escort him from here,” Stark told the guards before walking around to open the passenger door of Golzari's vehicle. He automatically looked at the mileage indicator as he entered and noticed that it was several hundred miles higher than it had been yesterday.

“How was the sightseeing, Golzari?”

“Lovely,” Golzari replied with a wide smile. “I can't remember when I've enjoyed a trip more.”

“Where did you go?”

“I'll tell you later.”

“Don't play Secret Squirrel with me, Golzari. Where did you go? You can do a lot of sightseeing in three hundred miles. You could have gone all the way to the coast and back.” Stark didn't fail to notice Golzari's slight jerk at those words.

“You get a gold star for observation, Stark. I'll tell you when we're headed out of here.”

An attendant took the car keys when Golzari stopped at the main entrance to the house. Golzari took his bags from the backseat and followed Stark into the grand atrium. The multicolored light that passed through the stained-glass medallion high above danced off the marble floor tiles, creating a dazzling display. He thought for a moment that he had entered the treasure cave of Ali Baba's forty thieves. The five-story atrium rose all the way to the top of the tower.

“Business has been good to this man,” observed Golzari.

“He has done very well,” Stark agreed. “He's smart, and he doesn't screw people. He and Maddox are alike in that regard. Shipping isn't Mutahar's only business. He owns a very successful construction firm at well. Hell, he's built some of the towers in Dubai and has worked on upgrading ports in Oman and Djibouti.”

“Impressive. But, as you say, he is a member of the ruling family.”

“Connections only get you so far. At some point you have to prove that you're worthy of the largest projects, especially the ones outside the country. And Mutahar has proven that in the business world.”

“Umm,” Golzari said, taking in the examples of Mutahar's taste and worth that surrounded him. “Nice columns.”

“Yeah, nice colors.”

“They're Connemara marble, Stark. Do you know how expensive and rare that stuff is these days?” Golzari was reminded of the last time he had seen the distinctive Connemara marble pattern—it was lying on a coroner's table in Antioch, Maine. “And he has two Aldo Luongos? Phenomenal,” Golzari said as he moved closer to examine the paintings.

“Aldo who?”

“Aldo Luongo. Argentinean painter. A soccer player turned artist. Wow, these are really fantastic. They aren't on the same level as his work on the tango,
but I can't imagine that a Muslim house would display a portrait of a suggestive dance.”

“Can we get your bags to your room, or are you going to gawk at everything?”

Golzari gave the Visigoth an annoyed look and picked up his bags. The room assigned to him overlooked the stables. “Nice view,” he said sarcastically.

“You're supposed to be my driver. You're lucky you're not staying
in
the stables instead of looking at them. Speaking of driving,” Stark added, “where the hell did you go yesterday?”

“Sorry, old man,” Golzari repeated as he checked the lock on his window. “That has to wait until after we've left this compound. How long are we here for, anyway?”

“Another day, at least. The big dinner this afternoon should give us an idea. It's at two. C'mon, I'll show you around the place. You can look at more art.”

The more he looked, the more impressed Golzari became. He had seen palaces in Saudi Arabia that couldn't match this grandeur. Mutahar had to be one of the wealthiest men in Yemen, if not the entire southern Saudi peninsula.

The tour ended at the stables, where Stark and Golzari found Mutahar and Faisal watching Ali mount his favorite horse, an elegant Arabian stallion. The boy began a slow gallop around the practice ring, his equitation faultless.

Mutahar leaned on the railing and turned to Stark as he approached. “He is good, isn't he, Connor?”

Faisal, meanwhile, eyed Stark's companion. The man's bearing and self-confidence marked him as more than an embassy driver.