The Command полностью

“Salman,” she repeated, more for the cell phone than for the tired-looking woman before her. It was a common name.

She was turning to leave when the woman said, “Wait. I have the number there.”

She tried not to sound eager. “At the boathouse?”

“Do you want me to try and call him?”

“Let’s try. I’ve tried to get up with him on the base, but he’s never there.”

“He works nights now, that’s why,” the woman said. She took a phone off the wall. Punched in the numbers, then handed Aisha the handset.

There was an art, Diehl had told her, to phone calls. The most important thing was not to act too smart. There was, for example, a way to find out who else was in the room you were calling, along with the one actually on the line, which was often useful to know. So she started with, “Hello, who’s this?” “Hello?”

“Hello, can you hear me? Who’s this?”

“This is the Qari. Who’s this?”

“The Qari? Which Qari?”

“The Qari bin Jun’ad. Who else? Who did you think you were calling, woman?”

“I was calling the other one. Is he there?”

The voice grew irritated. “What other one? Who do you want? What do you want?”

She guessed that was enough. “Is Shawki there? Tell him his wife needs him at home.”

But another voice broke in, one she recognized. The woman was on another extension, in the house. She screamed, “Shawki? Shawki? Tell him not to come home. The police are here. They’re looking for him!”

Cursing, Aisha slammed the phone down, ran into the next room. Two of the Bahrainis had come in the back door. As she entered the kitchen they were wrestling the woman to the floor. The phone swung on its cord. Whoever was on the other end could hear them shouting at her. She bent, and clapped it to her ear. Hoping to find out what they wanted, at least. That might tell them what splinter group they belonged to. Accents. Background noises. Anything, because by the time they could trace the number and get out there, they’d be gone.

The line was already dead.

Diehl came in behind the police. He asked if she was all right. She didn’t answer.

She nursed her black mood as the SIS led the handcuffed and screaming woman off, as the police ransacked the house. Wanting to chew them out for charging in while she was on the line with the very people they wanted. But knowing she couldn’t. Till presently Yousif came over and without a word laid a plastic-covered slab the size and shape of a block of cream cheese on the breakfast counter. One end had been sliced open. Inside was a whitish substance.

“What is it?”

“What we’re looking for.”

“Where?”

“In the pantry.”

She picked it up tentatively. Heavier than cheese, but not that much heavier. She pressed her fingers into it. They made dents on the Mylar-covered surface. A demolition block. Probably enough to destroy the house they stood in.

“There’s a lot more than this missing,” Diehl said, dropping it into his pocket.

“Not here,” Yousif said. He looked around the house, now littered and torn apart. The police were ripping up the carpet, to show bare plywood flooring.

She called that number back several times that afternoon and evening, but no one ever answered.

Take in lines one through six.”

“Fo’c’sle, midships, fantail report, all lines taken in.”

“Rudder amidships … All engines back one-third.”

Dan surveyed the receding jetty from the wing. Horn’s repairs were complete, and she had to vacate her berth for another paying customer. The wind had shifted to the north. The sky was turning a menacing saffron. A shamal, one of the infrequent summer sandstorms, was predicted. Yet still they had no orders, and he had no idea when he’d be called on the carpet. They were shifting to a mooring out in the harbor. They’d have to run liberty boats. But all sections had had a couple of days ashore. The first flush had worn off, and most of their disposable income had gone as well.

He’d left Blair at the Regency, saying he’d call when he knew what was going on, and when he could get ashore again.

The first day they’d stayed close to the hotel: investigated the gold souk, visited the Grand Mosque, shopped. They’d bought a rug, bargaining with a gimlet-eyed old Yemeni in Shwarma Alley. Blair had found crystal and rhodium jewelry sold by an Egyptian couple who spoke better English than they did. He bought her a tie-dyed abaya that looked terrific with her blond hair. On the second day they rented a car and drove out of the city to see the Tree of Life and the wildlife park, then to swim at Jazayer Beach.

The Tree was a disappointment — just a dry old mesquite surrounded by miles of nothingness — but he was impressed with the island. It was clean, livable, and the Bahrainis they met seemed to have nothing against foreigners. He told Blair he could see retiring here. She told him it wouldn’t be as pleasant for a woman. At which point it became an argument, but Blair didn’t hold grudges the way his ex-wife did. They knew they didn’t have long. That made every kiss stolen in their rooms or in the car sweeter.

“Engines stop. Left full rudder.”