Whiplash

39

For nearly two thousand years Azerbaijan in the southern Caucasus had been little more than a vassal state, the rump end of kingdoms whose capitals lay hundreds and even thousands of miles away. The high desert and rich hills had seen more than their share of conflict, while the people who lived there had fought countless times to rewin their independence.

The land’s austere beauty was part of the problem. The mountains that marked three of Azerbaijan’s borders seemed to beckon adventurers, and no one who saw the calm sea at its east could withstand the temptations of the mild climate and lush vegetation nearby. At times it seemed as if everyone who came to Azerbaijan wanted to rule it.

With the collapse of the Soviet Union in the 1980s, Azerbaijan had gained independence from its most recent ruler. And with the increased demand for oil and minerals in the years that followed, the country prospered. Its deepwater oil fields offshore were the envy of the world; vast resources lay untapped, making it potentially one of the most important producers in the twenty-first century.

Baku, the capital on the Caspian Sea, had become a boomtown since independence, fueled not just by oil riches, but by the disposable income of Russian oligarchs and mafiya types, who found its mild weather, newly built nightclubs, and relaxed attitude toward wealthy foreigners extremely welcome. Baku had its old, center city, an ancient core bounded by medieval walls that seemed not to have changed in hundreds of years. But much of the city was very new, buffed by flash. There was chrome on everything, cars and buildings, even people. Money flowed freely in new Baku, attracting other money, drawing the good and ill it always draws.

Even so, the man at the marina was dubious when Nuri and Danny arrived to pick up the boat. It was 8:00 P.M., and all of his employees had gone home for the day. The only reason he had stayed was the prospect of receiving twice his normal fee for leasing the craft.

Still, the money wasn’t quite enough to stop him from asking questions.

“Why so late?” he asked as Nuri began counting out the hundred euro bills.

Cash had been his first stipulation.

“It’s not late,” said Danny. He’d slept on the plane from Khartoum to Egypt, but those two hours represented all the rest he’d had in the past two days.

The marina owner took the hint and stopped asking questions. Holding the euros was reassuring. He fanned through them and decided it was none of his business what the two foreigners wanted to do with the boat.

As long as it was back in one piece.

“By Thursday evening, yes?” said Nuri. “To your dock.”

“With a full tank of fuel.”

“Yes. A full tank of fuel.”

“If it fails to return—”

“It’ll be back,” said Danny.

“If it fails to return, you will be responsible for replacing the entire vessel. The credit cards will be charged.”

“Of course.”

The owner fixed Nuri with his gaze. He had pegged the black man as an American — he had the unspoken arrogance all Americans carried — but this one was harder to decipher. His English was not like the other man’s, or like the American who had first contacted him about the possibility of leasing the boat. And he used euros, a European’s first choice of currency. But he was too dark to be an Englishman. He certainly wasn’t French or German.

“If I have to replace the fuel,” said Nuri, “I want to make sure that’s filled up now. To the brim.”

“Of course it’s filled up.”

“Show me.”

“There’s no need.” The boat was not, in fact, filled to the brim, or even three-quarters of the way up. A fact the owner was well aware of, since he had used it just that afternoon. “If there is a discrepancy, we can settle it when you get back. Don’t worry. Take the boat.”

“I want you to come with me and check,” insisted Nuri.

“No, no, go — I’ll take your word. Write it down. I have to see my wife. If I’m not home soon, she’ll call her mother and they will start talking. Then I will have much trouble.”

“How full you figure it is?” Danny asked as soon as he and Nuri were alone on the dock.

“I’d guess somewhere between half and three-quarters,” said Nuri.

It was closer to half than three-quarters, but they had already arranged for more fuel, along with a second boat that was waiting for them about a mile down the coast. Hera and Flash were there as well.

Danny and Nuri sped southward, blowing some of the carbon out of the engines as they went. The boat was a Phantom 21, sporting a massive engine and capable of somewhere around 75 knots — expensive to lease but well worth the price. They touched fifty knots before throttling back to enter the marina at a controlled speed.

Standing on the dockside waiting as they approached, Hera did her best to keep her mouth shut, trying to block the remarks that came into her brain from traveling to her tongue. Danny and the others had been cold to her the whole trip, through Egypt and on the flight here. Even Flash, who talked to everyone and was everyone’s friend, barely spoke to her.

Separation from Whiplash was inevitable. It wasn’t fair, she thought — she had done her job, and done as well as anyone else. But that’s the way it was going to be.

As long they didn’t blame her for McGowan’s death. She knew it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t been anywhere near him and she’d done her job. Getting stuck in the prisoners’ pen wasn’t her fault.

“All right, Whiplash, let’s go,” shouted Danny as he nudged the boat next to the dock. “Hera, you’re with me.”

She tossed down their gear bags and jumped into the boat. Nuri, meanwhile, clambered out and got into the second boat, a Sunseeker with twin Mercruisers. Not quite as fast as the Phantom, but no slacker, either.

“We gonna race?” said Flash, handing down a pair of jerry cans filled with fuel.

“Let’s just get across the Gulf in one piece, all right?” said Danny. “Nuri, we’ll stay in touch.”

“Yeah. What are we going to do if Tarid doesn’t get on that plane?”

“Then we’ll definitely have a race on the way back,” said Danny, gunning the throttle.