Criminal Mischief

45

Stone, Brio, and Henry Wilcox arrived at the airfield to see no one in sight. After a moment, two men dressed in military desert fatigues departed the FBI aircraft and trotted over to their car, as Stone and Brio got out.

“Ness,” one of them said, handing her a folded sheet of paper, “a personal message for you from the director.” She read it and smiled, then handed it to Stone, who read it aloud.

“Congratulations,” Stone said, kissing her on the cheek.

“And my congratulations, too,” Wilcox echoed.

“Forgive me if I blush becomingly,” she said.

“Is our mission complete?” the FBI agent asked.

“As long as our perpetrator has been secured aboard your airplane,” Brio replied.

The agent looked puzzled. “Ma’am?”

“I believe Colonel Said delivered Viktor Zanian to you a few minutes ago.”

The man looked slightly ill. “No, ma’am,” he replied. “We haven’t seen either of them.”

“Did someone arrive here in a Range Rover?” Stone asked.

“Yes, sir,” the man said. “They drove into the big hangar over there, and after a few minutes, they came out in some sort of half-track desert vehicle and drove away.”

Stone and Brio were struck dumb for a moment.

“In which direction?” Stone asked.

The man pointed down the runway. “Thataway.”

“In which direction is Saudi Arabia?” Stone asked.

“That way, to the north,” the man replied.

“Well,” Stone said, “he won’t go there. He wouldn’t get a friendly welcome.” Stone got a map of the country out of his briefcase and flattened it on the back of the other agent as Faith walked up.

“Faith, where is the nearest major airport, south of us?”

Faith looked at the map, then tapped a finger on it. “Dubai,” she said, “right there on the Persian Gulf, to the ESE. Are we thinking of our Gulfstream?”

“I’m thinking more of Zanian’s Gulfstream, and where he might have left it. Maybe we can cut him off there since he’s traveling through the desert.”

The ambassador spoke up. “We’ve no assurance that he’s gone to Dubai,” he said. “We might be better off tracking him on the ground.”

“In what?” Stone asked, looking around at the airport. “There’s only the one Range Rover, the one they left in the hangar.”

“There are no keys in it,” the FBI agent said. “We looked, and none of us knows how to hot-wire a Range Rover.”

“Let me make a call,” Wilcox said, taking out his cell phone and walking a few feet away. He returned shortly. “Ten minutes,” he said. “We might as well get our luggage out of the sultan’s car.” With the help of some FBI agents, they unloaded the car and stacked the luggage beside it. Stone saw his trunk and his valise among them.

“Please keep a close watch on these two pieces,” he said to the FBI man. “Their contents are valuable.”

The man turned to Brio. “Ma’am? Is that all right with you?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “The contents of that trunk belong to the FBI.”

“But not the valise,” Stone said. “Unless we lose it, then it’s all yours.”

The man didn’t seem to understand, but he assigned another agent to watch the luggage.

“There comes our transport,” Wilcox said, pointing to the north.

“That’s big,” Faith said.

“It’s a C-17 Globemaster,” Wilcox said, “and there are two of them, each containing twelve Jeep Grand Cherokees.”

“We’re going to steal the sultan’s Jeeps?” Stone asked. “I understand he removes peoples’ heads for less serious offenses.”

“They are still the property of the United States Government,” Wilcox said, “until I turn them over to the sultan, and I have not yet done so.”

Shortly, the two giant aircrafts were on the ground, and after a conversation with the commander of the flight, the armed military crews — with the help of the FBI agents — began unloading the cars, while the FBI agents moved their luggage, weapons, and many cases of water to the Jeeps.

“They’re dealer-prepped, gassed up,” the commander said, “and ready to go, Ambassador. And they have the GPS map software for this part of the world.”

Finally, they were ready. “I’ve been out here for five years,” Wilcox said, “so I’m generally familiar with the area.” He used Stone’s map, spread on the hood of a Jeep. “Just about here, too small to be on your map, is an oasis called Ben Hur, named after the movie. It’s likely Zanian and Said will head there, since it’s the last stop for fuel and water for a long time. Fortunately, there’s a road, so we don’t have to go over land.” He entered the Ben Hur name in the GPS, and the map popped up. “Here it is, so let’s get going.”

“How fast can that half-track go?” Brio asked.

“Over open territory, they’d have a big advantage, but not on a road,” Wilcox said. “We may be able to outrun them.”

“Let’s find out,” Stone said.

Brio turned to her FBI agent. “Report only to me,” she said, “not to the director. I’ll do that myself.” She got into a Jeep with Stone and Wilcox, who took the shotgun seat, so that he could operate the GPS.

“You’re not keeping the director updated?” Stone asked her.

“No, I want to be an assistant director of the FBI, at least for a little while.” She got on her handheld radio and confirmed that she was communicating with the other Jeeps.

Stone put the car into gear and followed Wilcox’s directions. Shortly, they were on some sort of road, with twenty-three Jeeps, all painted a gleaming white, strung out behind them.