against the wheel and emptied his stomach.
“Two pools of mess to be cleaned up,” said Lampong. “Now, Captain, for every minute you refuse to obey my orders, that will happen to one of your men. Am I clear?”
The Norwegian was escorted to the tiny radio shack behind the bridge, where he selected channel 16, international distress frequency. Lampong produced a written sheet.
“You will not just read this in a calm voice. Captain. When I press TRANSMIT and nod, you will shout this message with panic in your voice. Or your men die, one by one. Are you ready?”
Captain Herrmann nodded. He would not even have to act in order to affect extreme distress.
“Mayday, Mayday Mayday. Java Star, Java Star… catastrophic fire in engine room… I cannot save her… my position…” He knew the position was wrong even as he read it out. It was a hundred miles south into the Celebes Sea. But he was not about to argue. Lampong cut the transmission. He brought the Norwegian at gunpoint back to the bridge. Two of his own seamen had been put to work frenziedly scrubbing up the blood and the vomit on the floor of the bridge. The other eight he could see marshaled in a terrified group out on the hatch covers with six dacoits to watch them. Two more of the hijackers stayed on the bridge. The other four were tossing life rafts, life belts and a pair of inflatable jackets down into one of the speedboats. It was the one with the extra fuel tanks stored amidships. When they were ready, the speedboat left the side of the Java Star and went south. On a calm, tropical sea, at an easy fifteen knots, they would be a hundred miles south in seven hours, and back in their pirate creeks in ten after that.
“A new course. Captain,” said Lampong civilly. His tone was gentle, but the implacable hatred in his eyes gave the lie to any humanity toward the Norwegian. The new course was back toward the northeast, out of the cluster of islands that make up the Sulu Archipelago, and across the national line into Filipino water. The southern province of Mindanao Island is Zamboanga, and parts of it are simply no-go areas for Filipino government forces. This is the terrain of Abu Sayyaf. Here they are safe to recruit, train and bring their booty. The Java Star was certainly booty, albeit unmarketable. Lampong conferred in the local lingo to the senior among the pirates. The man pointed ahead to the entrance to a narrow creek flanked by impenetrable jungle.
What he asked was: “Can your men manage her from here?” The pirate nodded.
Lampong called his orders to the group round the lashkar seamen at the bow. Without even replying, they herded the sailors to the rail and opened fire. The men screamed and toppled into the warm sea. Somewhere below, sharks turned to the blood smell.
Captain Herrmann was so taken by surprise he would have needed two or three seconds to react. He never got them. Lampong’s bullet took him full in the chest, and he, too, toppled back from the fly-bridge into the sea. Half an hour later, towed by two small tugs that had been stolen weeks earlier, and with much screaming and shouting, the Java Star was at her new berth beside a stout teak jetty.
The jungle concealed her from all sides and from above. Also hidden were the two long, low tin-roofed workshops that housed the steel plates, cutters, welders, power generator and paint.
The last, despairing cry from the Java Star on channel 16 had been heard by a dozen vessels, but the nearest to the spot given as her position was a refrigerator ship loaded with fresh and highly perishable fruit for the American market across the Pacific. She was commanded by a Finnish skipper, who diverted at once to the spot. There he found the bobbing life rafts, small tents on the ocean swell that had opened and inflated automatically as designed. He circled once and spotted the life belts and two inflated jackets. All were marked with the name: M V Java Star. According to the law of the sea, which he respected, Captain Raikkonen cut power and lowered a pinnace to look inside the rafts. They were empty, so he ordered them sunk. He had lost several hours and could stay no longer. There was no point. With a heavy heart, he reported by radio that the Java Star was lost with all hands. Far away in London, the news was noted by insurers Lloyd’s International, and at Ipswich, UK, Lloyd’s shipping list logged the loss. For the world, the Java Star had simply ceased to exist.
CHAPTER 12
In fact, the interrogator was gone for a week. Martin remained in his cell with only the Koran for company. He would, he felt, soon be among that revered company who had memorized every one of the 6,666 verses in it. But years in Special Forces had finally given him a rare gift among humans: the ability to remain motionless for exceptionally long periods and defy boredom and the urge to fidget.
So he schooled himself again to adapt to the inner contemplative life that alone can stop a man in solitary confinement from going mad. This talent did not prevent the operations room at Edzell air base from becoming very tense. They had lost their man, and the inquiries from Marek Gumienny in Langley and Steve Hill in London became more pressing. The Predator was double-assigned: to look down on Ras al-Khaimah in case Crowbar appeared again, and to monitor the dhow Rasha when it appeared in the Gulf and docked somewhere in the UAE.
Dr. al-Khattab returned when he had confirmed every aspect of the story as it concerned Guantanamo Bay. It had not been easy. He had not the slightest intention of betraying himself to any of the four British inmates who had been sent home. They had all declared repeatedly that they were not extremists and had been swept up in the American net by accident. Whatever the Americans thought, Al Qaeda could confirm it was all true. To make it harder, Izmat Khan had spent so long in solitary for noncooperation that no other detainee had got to know him well. He admitted he had picked up fragmentary English, but that was from the endless interrogations when he had listened to the CIA man and then the translation by the one Pashto-speaking ‘terp.
From what al-Khattab could discover, his prisoner had not slipped up once. What little could be gleaned from Afghanistan indicated that the breakout from the prison van between Bagram and Pul-i-Charki jail had indeed been genuine. What he could not know was that this episode had been accomplished by the very able head of station of the SIS office inside the British Embassy. Brigadier Yusef had acted out his rage most convincingly, and the agents of the by-now-resurgent Taliban were convinced. And they said so to Al Qaeda inquiries. “Let us go back to your early days in the Tora Bora,” he proposed when the interrogation resumed. “Tell me about your boyhood.” Al- Khattab was a clever man, but he also could not know that, even though the man in front of him was a ringer, Martin knew the mountains of Afghanistan better than he. The Kuwaiti’s six months in the terrorist training camps had been exclusively among fellow Arabs, not Pashtun mountain men. He noted copiously even the names of the fruits in the orchards of Maloko-zai. His hand sped across the legal pad, covering page after page. On the third day of the second session, the narrative had reached the day that proved a crucial hinge in the life of Izmat Khan: August 21, 1998, the day the Tomahawk cruise missiles crashed in the mountains. “Ah, yes, truly tragic,” he murmured. “And strange, for you must be the only Afghan for whom no family member remains alive to vouch for you. It is a remarkable coincidence, and as a scientist I hate coincidences. What was the effect on you?”
In fact, Izmat Khan, at Guantanamo, had refused to talk about why he hated Americans with such a passion. It was information from the other fighters who had survived Qala-i-Jangi and reached Camp Delta that filled the gap. In the Taliban army, Izmat Khan had become an iconic figure, and his story was whispered round the campfires as the man immune to fear. The other survivors had told the interrogators the story of the annihilated family. Al- Khattab paused and gazed at his prisoner. He still had grave reservations, but of one thing he had become certain. The man truly was Izmat Khan; his doubts were over the second question: Had he been “turned” by the Americans? “So you claim you declared a sort of private war? A very personal jihad? And you have never relented? But what did you actually do about it?” “I fought against the Northern Alliance, the allies of the Americans.”
“But not until October and November 2001.” said al-Khattab.
“There were no Americans in Afghanistan until then,” said Martin. “True. So you fought for Afghanistan… and lost. Now you wish to fight for Allah.”
Martin nodded.
“As the sheikh predicted,” he said.
For the first time, Dr. al-Khattab’s urbanity completely forsook him. He stared at the black-bearded face across the table for a full thirty seconds, mouth agape, pen poised but unmoving. Finally, he spoke, in a whisper, “You… have actually met the sheikh?”
In all his weeks in the camp, al-Khattab had never actually met Osama bin Laden. Just once, he had seen a black-windowed Land Cruiser passing by, but it had not stopped. But he would, quite literally, have taken a meat
