On Scope

4

Forks of chain lightning clawed the night, streaking sharp and blue beyond the verandah of the big villa, and bombs of thunder fought behind huge black clouds, as if the heavens were at war. The sea around the island sighed and heaved with waves that crested white and rolled high in the shipping lanes as the storm ravaged the western Mediterranean. Djahid Rebiane was content as he watched the turmoil, satisfied that he was not out in the weather; he and his element of the attack team had safely made the crossing from Spain before the low-pressure front caught up with them. The others had scattered into Italy and France and could be reached for future operations. The 130-mile boat trip had been rough, with the bad weather coming in, but manageable. Now he was stretched out in a comfortable lounger, watching the storm rage while he savored the fruity taste of sangria in the home of the renegade banker Cristobál Jose Bello.

Rebiane had showered and shaved his beard as soon as he arrived, and removed the contact lenses that had turned his sharp blue eyes brown. The thick black hair would be cut and styled tomorrow, and he would wear European clothing. The killer no longer looked anything like the thug who led the attack on the Barcelona consulate. If anyone asked for identification, he carried the passport and press credentials of a freelance writer and magazine photographer, but people seldom asked. Posing as a photojournalist allowed him relatively easy access anywhere he wanted to go. A gust of wind blew through the arches and puffed his new shirt. He was an imposing man, tall and strong through the chest, and at only thirty-one years of age believed himself to be immortal. Death was something he served to others, usually with a smile.

“Do you believe the Americans understood our message?” His father, Yanis, asked the question in Arabic from a nearby chair.

Djahid answered in the same language. “I think so. Our strike was delivered with force and finality.”

“Enough to make them back off?”

“You know those things better than I, Father.” He watched the rain fall. “This is a wicked storm.”

Yanis made a dismissive face and lit another cigarette. “Washington has been taken by surprise and has not responded in any way, other than some rather common anger on television. Nothing has come through on the back channels of the diplomatic world.”

“Give it a little time. We will know soon enough. We killed a diplomat and a lot of other people. They cannot just pretend it did not happen.”

“And they cannot declare war on Spain.” Yasim stopped speaking when a thunderclap seemed to shake the entire island, the largest of the Balearic Islands. “Señor Bello and I will fly to Algiers tomorrow for a meeting of the Group of Six to discuss how to best take advantage of your victory, my son. I believe we are now in a position from which we can impose a deadline on the Madrid government.”

The Group of Six had stepped boldly onto the world stage a year earlier, when the European Banking Risk and Regulation Congress in London was shocked to learn that a special relationship was developing between Spain and a half-dozen investment bankers with Islamic links: a straight-up free-market business offer to the Madrid government as an alternative to the onerous economic rescue terms being presented by the European Central Bank. The five men and one woman identified as the core group represented international assets and credit worth billions of dollars, and contacts across the globe. Yanis Rebiane and Cristobál Jose Bello were two of its members.

Djahid closed his eyes. “Would Spain really do it? Drop out of the Eurozone?”

“The Spanish state is beyond the edge of economic crisis; it is now facing slow suicide if something is not done. We offer salvation and a chance to get out from under the greedy thumbs of the interfering Europeans who are telling them how to run their own country.”

“By offering them thirty pieces of silver and Muslim rule.”

“Yes,” said his father. “The government was already under plenty of pressure to get its economy in order, and then the United States openly stepped in to help the Europeans. Washington abandoned neutrality and snubbed its old friend by coming publicly off the sidelines and getting in the game. That is the reason, as you know, that the Six decided during a meeting in Geneva to give them a stern warning of the consequences for such arrogant interference.”

“You assume that the United States will abandon its opposition to any withdrawal by Spain from the European Union because of our single attack? That is a dangerous assumption, Father.”

“Perhaps,” said the older man. “Perhaps not. They probably will need some further persuasion.”

The Marine bodies had been transferred from the civilian facilities in Barcelona to U.S. military jurisdiction in Rota to be readied for the long journey back to Washington in individual gunmetal gray caskets draped in American flags. Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson, the official escort who signed the necessary papers, stayed to himself, a quiet man on a somber mission, stoic and enduring. Rain and wind pounded the big hangar that protected a mammoth C-5M of the U.S. Air Mobility Command that had been selected to fly the Atlantic with the grim cargo. The Super Galaxy was too much plane for such a small airlift, but was a token of respect. The bodies would be unloaded with utmost honors at Andrews.

Swanson had a quick dinner alone at the NCO club, a bland steak and tasteless vegetables, then locked himself away in the assigned guest quarters and read all of the personnel files again before putting the folders on a table and climbing into bed. The weather around the Med was to clear tomorrow, but it did not really matter, for the Super Galaxy would take off at 0900, storm or no storm. He felt hollow and empty inside, and after the visit with Becky, he had no emotions left for anyone else, particularly none for himself. He tossed in the bed and pounded the pillows in failed attempts to get comfortable enough to trap some sleep, only to awake in the darkness when a drum roll of thunder shook the thin walls of the building. He got out of bed, sat at a table, and stared through the window at blinding slashes of lightning and a sky that churned with clouds, and in the early morning hours, he saw a figure looking back at him while standing easily in a narrow little boat that was immobile in the tempest.

“I was wondering if you would show up,” Swanson said.

The arms and grinning skull-like face were streaked with blood, and the dark robe flapped open in the wind, exposing the yellowed skeleton of the image Swanson’s imagination seemed to always thrust forward when crises neared. He called him the Boatman. “And here I am.”

There were six figures seated in the boat, and Kyle recognized the faces of the dead Marines. “I don’t understand what is happening.”

“You don’t have to understand,” replied the Boatman. “You just have to kill.”

“But who? And why?”

The Boatman gestured easily at the half-dozen bodies. “Here are six good reasons why you must carry out your next mission. I do not have to explain everything to you. I just dropped by to pick up this lifeless cargo.”

Behind the shimmering image, Kyle saw a break in the storm clouds, and through that he glimpsed a distant fiery shore. The foul reek of sulphur came to him. “Are you taking them to hell? They don’t deserve that.”

“No. I am just the ferry service. Others make those Doomsday decisions. Do you want to come along tonight? I see the pistol on the table beside your milk. Were you thinking of it? Plenty of room.”

“I always keep my weapon handy, so, no, I’m not going to commit suicide. Someday I might have to ride with you, but I will not make it easy.”

The shrill laugh painted over the noise of a thunderclap. “Yes. Sooner or later, you must. Everybody does. But now to this vexatious uncertainty about what lies ahead for you. My six souls tonight represent a debt that you have been chosen to repay. It is a serious obligation, and you may not emerge from this experience as the same man you are tonight.”

“I have been through a lot, but I am still here. I follow orders.”

“Just my point,” said the Boatman, showing the upper bridge of rotten teeth. “Suppose you must step beyond that safety point of being under the protective wing of your government? A very thin line separates defending your country from outright murder.”

“Is that what they want me to do?”

The Boatman stirred his long oar, and the skiff began to move away. “Your enemies do not care about murdering innocent people. Do you?” He laughed again. “Of course you don’t. You are my trusted stone killer, and I will be back soon to harvest your new victims.”

“I’m no murderer. Fuck off!”

Continuing to look back at Kyle over his shoulder, the Boatman glided from sight as the storm closed tight, evil laughter trilling behind him.