Corsair

“It has, but there are many who don’t agree with that policy. Our own Justice Minister is one of them. I know for a fact that he has provided aid to Al-Jama in the past.”

“So you’re saying Ghami’s legit?”

“As much as it pains me to say, it is possible. And I have more reason than you to think ill of him. The man took my job and even now lives in my house.”

The intercom on the bridge squawked. Juan stepped through and punched the button. “Anything?”

“Nothing earth-shattering, if that’s what you’re looking for. A quick search shows a couple of Libyans arrested for smuggling heroin into Amsterdam, one killed in a traffic pileup that claimed four other people in Switzerland. A Libyan national living in Hungary was arrested for domestic abuse, and another for attempted murder stemming from a dispute with a shopkeeper just across the border in Tunisia.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Juan turned to the Minister. “Dead end.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know.”

Below them the forty-seat lifeboat was lowered from its davits so the refugees could step through a gate built into the ship’s rail. They would need to overload the boats to get all the people off the Oregon . The boats were fully enclosed and could weather a hurricane because of their self-righting hull design, so at worst the former prisoners would be cramped but not in any real danger.

Juan shook the diplomat’s hand a second time. “Good luck.”

Cabrillo watched until the last of the Libyans was safely aboard. He nodded to Greg Chaffee, who wasn’t happy about being exiled with them. But, then again, Juan wasn’t happy that Alana Shepard had snuck off with Linda and the others behind his back.

He waved to the general operations technician who would command the craft before the man ducked through the Plexiglas hatch and secured it behind him. The winches took up the strain and lowered the boat down the side of the Oregon’s hull. A moment later, the lines were disengaged from inside the boat and its motor fired. It started puttering away from the big freighter.

The second boat, lowered from the port side, met up with the first. The two would stay together throughout the night and hopefully would be back in their cradles in time for breakfast.

Juan took the secret elevator at the back of the pilothouse to the op center and settled into his seat. He still didn’t have a plan for how they were going to make their final approach on the Sidra or how they were going to avoid sinking her after they had rescued the Secretary. One corner of the main view screen showed the radar plot. Because of the Oregon’s vastly superior sensor suite, the Libyans had no idea they were being watched as they cruised only about a mile off the coast, tracking eastward at a lazy eight knots. The only other ship on the plot was a supertanker heading on a parallel track, most likely making for the oil terminal at Az-Zāwiya.

He glanced at his watch. The diplomatic reception at Ali Ghami’s house was scheduled to start in a little over an hour. The guests were probably already en route. Full darkness would follow two hours later. There was a quarter moon tonight that wouldn’t rise until well after midnight, which severely tightened their window of opportunity.

To distract himself, and hopefully free his mind so inspiration would hit, Cabrillo checked the Internet for those police reports concerning Libyans. The car accident had been particularly brutal. Three of the victims were burned beyond recognition and had to be identified though dental records. The Libyan, a student, was IDed because he was driving a rental car.

He scanned a couple more reports, thinking about his conversation moments ago on deck. He called up a photograph of Libya’s Justice Minister, and cringed. He was an ugly man, with a bulbous, misshapen nose, narrow eyes, and a skin condition of some sort that made his face appear pebbled.

On top of that, he’d been injured. Half his lower jaw was missing, and the grafts to cover the hole were taut, shiny cicatrices. The official bio said the wound came from the American bombing of Tripoli in 1986, but a little further digging in a CIA database Cabrillo still had access to told him that the Minister had been beaten to within an inch of his life by a cuckolded husband.

Cabrillo smirked. He compared this information to his impression of the ousted Foreign Minister. Now, that guy was a class act, he thought. He had lost his job, been imprisoned and forced to do hard labor, and yet wouldn’t accuse Ghami of orchestrating the whole thing. He seemed more upset that Ghami was living in his house.

“Must be a hell of a place,” Juan muttered to himself.