Ghost Ship

ELEVEN

Kurt Austin watched through binoculars as rich dark soil flew from the hooves of a chestnut Thoroughbred that was thundering down the track at Meydan Racecourse. Seven other horses trailed, but most were so far back that it seemed as if the leader was the only horse in the race.

Thousands cheered, others groaned. Kurt noted that the long shots hadn’t stood a chance.

“Nothing here is what it seems,” someone mentioned. The voice was an aged whisper. It carried wisdom and even a warning in its tone. “That is the first thing you must understand.”

Kurt watched the horse cross the finish line. Its jockey stood up in the stirrups and slowly eased back on the reins, allowing the animal to gently run off the speed.

With the show over, Kurt lowered the binoculars and glanced at the man who was speaking.

Mohammed El Din wore a crisp white dishdasha, a shirt that went from the neck to the ankles. A white gutra, or headcloth, covered his hair, kept in place by a checkered band. His face looked small beneath the cloth, his shoulders were slight. Kurt guessed his age to be seventy or more.

Kurt placed the binoculars down on the edge of the table. “Are you referring to the race or something else?”

The man smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Everything,” he said, and then pointed toward the track. “This race is not a race but a staged sales pitch. There are buyers down there. The lead horse is the prize. The other jockeys are paid to run slower. It makes the victory seem more impressive than what the stopwatch actually says. Even the soil beneath their hooves is artificial; it’s actually a synthetic mix of sand, rubber, and wax. All of it a carefully staged deception, much like the city itself.”

Kurt nodded thoughtfully. Trying to distinguish between fiction and reality seemed to be a recurring theme in his life.

“Is it a mirage, then?” Kurt asked.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Kurt reached toward a teapot made of handblown glass and banded with a silver ring in a swirling Arabic motif. “Tea?”

“Please.”

He poured two glasses, one for himself, one for his host.

El Din was now a wealthy businessman but had once been a purveyor of information. Rumor had it, he’d sold information to both the U.S. and Russia back during the Cold War, a fact both countries had known. But he’d never crossed lines, as far as either side could determine. And, at any rate, good information was hard to find, all of which put El Din into the category of the devil you know being better than the devil you don’t.

Where El Din and Dirk Pitt met was anyone’s guess, but the man had spoken admirably of Pitt and Pitt had said El Din was trustworthy. That was good enough for Kurt.

Placing the carafe down, Kurt looked back out across the racetrack. “So did we meet here to talk about the fickle nature of reality?” he asked. “Or are we here for something more concrete?”

El Din took a sip of the apple-flavored tea. “Dirk said you were eager. Look to the paddock where the winning horse is being brushed down.”

Kurt picked up the binoculars again and focused on the far side of the track. He saw several men gathered around the horse. Two were dressed in Arab garb like El Din, the other three were in suits despite the heat.

“Who am I looking at?” Kurt asked.

“The one without a tie,” El Din said.

“Who is he?”

“He goes by the name Rene Acosta, but he is neither Portuguese nor Spanish. He speaks passable French, but no one knows what his real name is or where he came from.”

Kurt recognized the name from the electronic file Pitt had given him. He zoomed in on Acosta. It was the same man in the photo Dirk had shown him. He was broad and short, thick from front to back, with a barrel chest and a tree-stump neck. His nose was flattened like a boxer who’d taken too many punches. A buzzed head of short gray hair covered the sides and back of his skull, though the front and top were smooth and shiny in the hot Middle Eastern sun. Kurt pegged his age at forty.

“Is he a buyer or a seller?” Kurt asked, taking a quick look at the two men behind Acosta. Both were taller, more svelte, though powerfully built. By the way they stood, Kurt guessed they were bodyguards.

“Both,” El Din replied. “Acosta likes the finer things in life. He trades less worthy items to get them.”

“The barter system?”

“Not exactly,” El Din said. “It’s a triangle trade. He will deliver the items under his control to a third party if the third party purchases what he desires and delivers it to him. A very complicated, tax-free way of living.”

“So he’s a smuggler.”

“That he is,” El Din said. “And he has a new line of business that is rapidly expanding: the smuggling of human cargo, particularly experts in advanced electronics.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Kurt looked back toward the paddock. “He wants the horse.”

“Very badly,” El Din said. “That animal will be the odds-on favorite to win the Dubai Cup and a ten-million-dollar purse. If it does that, it will be worth fifty million or more as a stud.”

“That’s a hefty price. Acosta must have something big to sell.”

El Din nodded. “And if it’s your missing friend he’s offering, you can be sure there are many in the world who would pay handsomely for what she knows.”

It was almost more than Kurt could have hoped for. He briefly wondered if Sienna’s knowledge could be worth millions to the right person. Then he stopped doubting. Phalanx itself was worth billions to Westgate’s company. If she could give the Iranians their own version, they would be secure behind an electronic wall, a goal they’d sought for years. Fifty million was nothing for that kind of security.

“Any chance you can get me into one of his meetings?”

El Din shook his head. “No,” he said. “My work makes it impossible.”

Kurt knew about El Din’s “work” from the CIA files on the memory stick. A sad fact was that much of Dubai’s glittering skyline had been built on the backs of modern slaves, foreigners brought from India and the Philippines with promises of wealth. They were not slaves in the literal sense, but they were often paid far less than what they were promised and worked twice as hard. El Din, along with a few others, had been fighting to change that. “You’ve made enemies trying to emancipate the workers in your country.”

“And I’m afraid it makes me too well known to get you access to a man like Acosta.”

Kurt admired El Din’s stand. “So how do I get at him? He seems to have plenty of security.”

“He has a yacht in the harbor,” El Din explained. “Its name is the Massif. Perhaps a monument to his ego. He will be hosting a party the night after tomorrow for all his prospective buyers and sellers. A slow cruise is planned up and down the coast.”

Kurt grinned. “A little sightseeing tour.”

El Din nodded. “Yes, exactly. Something tells me a man like you might find a way to slip aboard.”