Blood Of The Falcon

Two

The accommodation ladder stood at the ship's starboard quarter. Specially installed for the mission, its bright yellow metal scaffolding contrasted with the black, rusted hull like a brand-new fire escape slapped on a condemned building. At its base bobbed a floating platform dock. Moored to the dock were twin powerboats, sleekly streamlined high-performance jobs.

The boats had made the trip riding piggyback on the ship. When the Melina dropped anchor off Tel Aviv, they were hoisted out of their afterdeck berths and lowered into the sea, a nerve-racking job for crane operator and crew alike, considering the cargo's vulnerability to sudden shocks.

Now the boats were in the water, ready to go. One was reserved for the Rocket Attack Squad. The other was the getaway boat, slated for use when the crew abandoned ship. It didn't take a genius to see that the launch lacked the capacity to carry off all the members of the ship's skeleton crew, but everybody figured that it was the other guy who'd get it in the neck when the time came.

Gorgias, the first mate, bossed a pair of sailors who did all the work of getting the boats squared away.

When the quartet of rocketeers assembled on the platform dock, Gorgias sidled over to them. Casting a twisted glance toward the ship's upper works, he hissed, "What's Captain Farmingdale up to now?"

"The last I saw of him, he was on the bridge, busy minding his own business," Solano replied. "The captain doesn't care to be associated with the likes of us."

"That's good for you. It's not safe to be near him."

"Why not?"

"His bad luck can rub off on you. You are well rid of him. I cannot wait until I am."

Solano chuckled. "Still holding to your pet theory?"

"It's no theory; it's a fact. I know!" Gorgias was a dark, squat, strong man laid low by obsessive fear. Fear not of the cargo, but of the captain. The first mate looked ill, with clammy gray flesh and black circles ringing his haunted eyes.

"Ask any sailor who's ever shipped out with him, and they'll tell you the same — the ones who came back to port, that is. Captain Farmingdale is a jinx. A Jonah!"

Insurance companies are well aware of the phenomenon of persons labeled "accident prones," luckless individuals who through no fault of their own are dogged by catastrophe. Seamen call such persons "Jonahs," after the biblical prophet, the original hard-luck mariner.

A crewman stood at the top of the ladder, shouting down. "Hey, Gorgias! The captain wants to see you!"

Muttering darkly, the first mate threw up his hands in despair — or perhaps resignation — and hurried to the bridge.

Vernex snickered. "Jonahs and jinxes — what utter tripe! Trust a sailor to swallow such imbecilic drivel! Even so, let's be off. Why stay here any longer than necessary?"

The four men clambered aboard one of the boats. A pair of stylish bucket seats faced the control console. Solano took the wheel and Vernex sat beside him. Elias and Abu-Bakir sat aft, facing one another. Heavy-duty weapons wrapped in waterproof bags were piled between them on the bottom of the boat.

Abu-Bakir enjoyed the strategic advantage of being behind Solano's back. He delighted in having his fully loaded AK-47 slung across his shoulder. But he hated giving up the solidity of the ship for the insecurity of this comparatively tiny craft bobbing on the big blue sea. By steadily staring at his feet and nowhere else, he stabilized his nausea.

Solano fired her up. Twin engines turned over like a dream, purring with smooth power. Needles flipped to their marks on the gauges and dials.

"She's a beauty!" Solano said.

The powerboat's advanced design and curvilinear gullwing hull identified her as a Superbo Mark V, a top-of-the-line vessel not so much built as lovingly handcrafted by the world-renowned Genoese boatyards of the Agnelli family. She could make the fastest patrol boat look like the proverbial slow boat to China by comparison.

The mooring lines were untied. The boat shoved off, slowly steering clear of the Melina.

"Look." Elias pointed out a solitary figure standing at the ship's stern rail, silently seeing them off. "Mokhtar."

Vernex waved to him. His fluttering arm trailed off limply as he realized Mokhtar hadn't the slightest intention of returning the farewell salute.

Vernex shrugged and settled into his seat. "A strange sort of fellow."

Abu-Bakir could not resist a little anticipatory gloating. "He is deep… very deep. Deeper than you could ever dream. And his master is deeper still."

"Oh? And who might that be?" Vernex asked. "I think we'd all like to know the identity of the mysterious employer who recruited us for this job."

Had he given away too much? Abu-Bakir wondered. He decided to play it cagey. "Mokhtar's master? Why, none other than God, of course. Allah is the master of all men."

"Deep," Vernex scoffed. "That's very deep."

Steering one-handed, Solano rapped the boat box bolted to the floorboard. "What's inside?"

Vernex flipped open the lid and rummaged through the gear. "Charts… floats… flare pistol… line… first-aid kit… everything one needs for a sea cruise. Our boss is very thorough."

"Whoever he is," Solano said.

"My boss is the People, the masses."

"Yes, yes, anything you say."

The Superbo emerged from the ship's shadow into the dazzling fullness of the noonday sun. Solano slipped on a pair of polarized Porsche sunglasses. He opened up the throttle. The boat zoomed south.

Vernex shouted to be heard over the roaring twin inboard engines. "I don't mind telling you, I'm glad to be off the ship!"

Abu-Bakir seized on this. "You were afraid."

"Of the ship blowing up? Certainly!"

"Hah! I was not afraid." Grinning, Abu-Bakir sat back with an air of superiority, as if he had one-upped Vernex for all time.

Aft, the Melina dwindled in the north. West, the open sea stretched to the curved horizon. To the east lay Tel Aviv's urban sprawl, modern buildings sprouting like crystals from the rocks of that ancient land. The present gave way to the past as the old port city of Jaffa swung into view in the south.

Less than a quarter-hour's forward hurtling motion brought them within reach of their target.

Some miles north of Ashkelon and Ashdod, the shoreline curved outward into the sea, forming a cape. On its tip sat the Shamash petroleum complex, a newly built oil depot containing storage and refining facilities.

The rocketeers' target.

Silence fell as Solano cut the motors, idling the boat far enough out to avoid attracting the attention of the curious.

In the distance, numerous small craft sailed about the man-made harbor. Berthed at the site's quarter-mile-long piers were two transatlantic supertankers unloading their precious cargo. Precious indeed for a nation that imports 100 percent of its fuel.

The massive main complex rose above the harbor like an enchanted city. Huge silvery cylinders and spheres bore the bold blue-and-white sunburst logo of the state-owned Shamash company. These storage tanks were threaded with a delicate web of catwalks, pipes, and support struts. It was a scene of bustling activity.

Vernex licked his lips and broke the silence. "A duck shoot."

"Easier," Solano said. "Ducks don't sit still, waiting for you to blow them away."

"Let's not keep them waiting."

"Break out the launchers!" Elias rumbled.

"Yes, by all means." Vernex made his way aft, where the weapons waited. They were bagged rather than crated to minimize weight, maximizing boat speed.

In effect, the Superbo was a seagoing rocket-launching platform. The rocketeers would zip into the harbor, destroy the complex and any other convenient targets — such as the tanker ships — then race to the rendezvous point.

Vernex, Elias, and Abu-Bakir tore at the fastenings of the bright orange nylon bags. The unveiling of the weapons caught them up in a primal quickening, a kind of sexually intense trance. In the thrill of the moment, Abu-Bakir even forgot his queasiness, though not his intended double cross.

Except that Solano got there first.

"Hey!" Solano said it two more times, loudly, before the others looked up. When they did, they saw the gun in his hand.

It was a chunky, squarish, Soviet-made Tokarev TT-33 pistol, and it was pointing at them.

At that moment, their nausea had nothing to do with seasickness.

Only the gentle swell, slapping the hull, broke the intense stillness.

Finally Vernex said, "What's this, Solano?"

"The end of the line."

Vernex's forced smile crumbled at the edges. "We have much to do, so please don't joke."

He was faking. He knew it was no joke. His eyes narrowed as he calculated his chances. He couldn't believe that he was on the wrong side of a gun.

"Traitor!" Abu-Bakir cried.

"Spy, actually," Solano said. "The party's over, boys."

Solano was over too. In that instant, he ceased to exist. He had never really existed at all, despite the evidence to the contrary. Because "Giacomo Solano" was a man who never was. His was an artificially constructed identity, a «legend» in the jargon of the trade. The trade being espionage, specifically espionage of the AXE variety.

AXE was the ultrasecret action component of the U.S. intelligence community. One of the last real secrets left in an open, democratic society, and quite possibly that society's last bullwark against global anarchy.

The AXE agent who was «Solano» now took off that identity like a suit of clothes. His name, his real name, was Nick Carter.

Code-named N3, Carter was AXE's top Killmaster.