Executive Intent

Antonov knew that the Yemeni Fish Company had been investigated in the recent past for being involved in smuggling-this was getting interesting indeed. “And you say he looked military?”

“Very much so.”

“Did you notify the NSO yet?”

“I was going to do it right after inspections.”

“Do it now. Also give the Yemeni Fish Company a call and find out when this demonstration will be. I want to visit this one while he is out of the house.”

“Should I keep this case for now?”

The Russian thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Go ahead and release it,” he said. “I do not want to alert the American yet, if he is not who he claims to be.”

As Wayne Macomber waited near the taxicab stand-a pitiful-looking place surrounded by trash, cigarette butts, and donkey droppings-a newer-looking Range Rover drove up and honked its horn. That, of course, got every local’s attention around the entire airport terminal, something Whack was hoping to avoid.

The driver jumped out. “Mr. Coulter?” he said in pretty good English. “Salam alaykum. Peace be upon you.”

“Wa alaykum as-salam,” Whack responded for the um-hundredth time on this trip. “And upon you peace.”

“Very good Arabic, sir,” the man said. “I am Salam al-Jufri from the Yemeni Fish Company. Al-Hamdu lillah al as-salama. Thank God for your safe arrival.” Whack knew that was a common salutation, even when someone just came across town to visit. “I am here to take you to your house.” He produced a business card, and Whack gave him his in return. “Yes, the robot maker,” al-Jufri said. “Very good.” He looked at the large fiberglass case. “I am sorry, but this must be strapped up.” Whack lifted the case up, and al-Jufri produced three tattered bungee cords and a length of rope. Whack would have felt more comfortable with the case inside and himself on the roof, but after two or three tries, it looked secure enough.

It was easy to see why the case couldn’t go inside: The back of the Range Rover was filled to the brim with every kind of article-fishing gear, miscellaneous items of clothing, spare fuel cans, a bicycle, and sacks of something. There was barely enough room in the backseat for the big duffel bag and backpack. Whack squeezed himself into the front passenger seat and took a few moments to try to roll the seat back, finally giving up.

They departed the airport down a dusty rock and dirt road, then turned east along a two-lane paved highway. Whack knew that his objective was west along the same highway, but certainly asking the driver to turn in the wrong direction would have attracted more attention. The highway twisted toward the Gulf of Aden, and he saw the spectacular blue-green waters and thought of McLanahan’s friend Gia Cazzotta, and of the three navies vying for position out in those peaceful-looking waters.

The highway was on a sandstonelike shelf about a hundred feet above the ocean, with a thirty-foot cliff to their right, so there was little to see except for the ocean. Whack checked behind them every few moments, not only to look for any sign of surveillance but to make sure the fiberglass case hadn’t fallen off the roof.

“You are well, sir?” al-Jufri asked after a few minutes.

“Aiwa, shukran,” Whack replied.

“Your Arabic is very very good,” al-Jufri said, nodding appreciatively, showing a mouthful of stained and rotting teeth. “You build robots, no?”

“Just drive,” Whack growled.

“Mish mushkila, mish mushkila,” al-Jufri said, swallowing nervously and taking a better grip on the steering wheel. “No problem, sir.”

It was only about six miles down the highway until they came to a wide, short peninsula where the cliffs to the right disappeared, so the highway twisted away from the ocean. They turned left down a short dirt road, past a three-or four-foot stone wall with a crumbling wooden gate, then across a yard of dirt and stone and a few scraggly trees to a whitewashed stone building with a flat roof, and another building beside it with what appeared to be a tapering cylindrical lighthouse with four windows on the top floor, crowned with a Muslim crescent. Beyond the lighthouse Whack could see a covered outdoor patio with a fireplace, and beyond that there appeared to be a stable.

“Here we are, sir,” al-Jufri said. He parked the Range Rover beside the lighthouse, then took Whack’s bags to the house. He unlocked a green metal door that had six circles of multicolored glass in it, probably the most colorful thing Whack had seen in all of Yemen except for the Gulf of Aden. “This is the old Turkish lighthouse and its caretaker’s home. It is now my boss’s weekend house. You will enjoy.”

The house was small but remarkably modern, and Whack thought this would be a nice place to vacation. The view of the ocean was spectacular from every room in the house. There was a small patio off the kitchen, and a long flight of stone stairs had been carved into the cliff down to a pink sand beach, with sailboats and fish boats moored alongside a short pier.