A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [76]
The Hawker was already taking off as the security van left the airport, and Khazid said, “It’s good to see you again. They’ve been giving you problems in London, it seems.”
“They always are,” Ali Selim said. “Which is why I try to give them problems.”
Khazid, ever the diplomat, said, “That was a great speech in Hyde Park. Al Jazeera had it on television.”
“Unfortunately, such popularity also brings some inconvenience, which is why I’ve dropped in here incognito. I stopped off in northern Afghanistan with British agents on my tail, intent on killing me. I’m lucky to be here, out of sight while I consider the future.”
“Naturally, I will do everything in my power to assist in this unwelcome situation,” Khazid said. “My police force is small but well trained.”
“And capable of recognizing strangers when they see them, or those asking the wrong sort of questions?”
“Are you suggesting that the British know you are here?”
“They’ll just look everywhere, and the CIA will help them. Tell me, is anything different from the last time I was here? Does Captain Ahmed still command the ship?”
“He likes to think he does, but only when it suits, which is seldom.”
“And Fatima Karim?”
“Is still administrator, which means she runs everything, including Ahmed, who lusts after her helplessly.”
He had breached the hill with the view of the port below, a jumble of white terraces and flat roofs tumbling down to the harbor crowded with boats. Anchored in the center was the Monsoon, a three-masted traditional Arab dhow, lovingly restored by the same Gulf sheikh who owned the Hawker.
“Why have we stopped?” Ali Selim demanded.
“You usually like the view.”
“Damn the view. And as far as Ahmed is concerned, that big oaf may be able to handle a ship in a storm, but it beats me how he can let a woman like Fatima walk all over him.” He sighed. “Just drive.”
At the main jetty, Ali Selim and Ibrahim parted from Khazid and boarded a motorboat crewed by two sailors from the Monsoon. They reached the boat in fifteen minutes and found Captain Ahmed waiting at the rail to greet them. A gaunt and anxious-looking man with an iron-gray beard, he wore traditional robes plus a dark blue naval blazer with brass buttons and a cap with gold braid.
He spoke in Arabic. “Welcome, master, it is good to see you.”
“You look ridiculous,” Ali Selim told him. “Where is Fatima?”
“She waits for you in the owner’s quarters.”
“Then go about your business. When I need you, I’ll send for you. Go with him, Ibrahim. Get something to eat.”
The owner’s quarters were in the stern of the ship and very fine indeed, with polished and restored wooden floors, Persian and Indian carpets everywhere. Shuttered doors stood open in the stateroom, revealing the study behind, beautifully paneled in finest walnut and oak. Fatima Karim stood at the side of a wide Victorian desk.
She wore a black jumpsuit of raw silk and a chador in the same material. She was handsome rather than beautiful, with olive skin and violet eyes that made her extremely attractive. Her degree from the London School of Economics also made her attractive, but for different reasons.
Ali Selim spoke first and used English, reaching for her hands. “It is good to see you.”
She responded warmly, her English faultless. “So good to have you here safely. Things haven’t gone well, from what I heard. Can I serve you coffee? It’s all ready.”
“That would be wonderful.”
A section of paneling opened into a thoroughly modern kitchen, the coffee smell heavy on the air. He sat at a small table, and she served coffee for both of them, sitting opposite. The coffee was Yemeni and excellent.
“I needed that.” He pushed his cup over and she refilled it.
“It was bad, then?”
She was totally