“You mean the incident,” Hawke said, and cut his angry eyes to the window.
“Yeah.”
“It could have been worse.”
“How’s that?”
Hawke said, “Old pilots say it’s better to die than to look bad, but it is possible to do both.”
Brock thought about that a second, saw the hard cast of Hawke’s eyes, and decided to shut up.
Neither man said anything else for a few minutes. They sat and sipped their pseudobeer in silence, both of them looking out the window. Hawke imagined Brock was probably having the same misgivings about this mission that he was. These things were all about team. This team had been thrown together without their knowledge or consent. They’d been asked, told, to conduct a critically important operation. Like most hostage rescue ops, it promised to be very dangerous. And they were going in blind. Neither man knew what to make of the other. Hawke knew why he’d been chosen. He was pretty good at this stuff.
What he still didn’t know was why the hell Kelly had chosen Harry Brock.
Hawke sipped his beer and stared morosely out the window, trying to adjust to his new environment. A bloody wasteland. A school bus went by, jouncing along the rocky road, a cloud of dust trailing behind it. There were curtains in all the windows and they were tightly drawn. So the little boys outside couldn’t see the little girls inside. Or vice-versa. He was sure someone could offer a good explanation for this bizarre custom, but to Hawke it just seemed unnatural and cruel.
I am definitely the stranger in the strange land, he thought, suspiciously eyeing the goat tied to the well. He’d never eaten goat. He wasn’t about to start now. Goats were bad luck. There was a reason why when things in the military went to hell they called it a goat-fuck. The shy girl in the black chador returned for their order. Brock ordered lamb kebobs. He ordered the fish and rice. The nondescript CIA briefing book lay on the table unopened. Hawke didn’t have the energy to break the seal.
“Somebody’s meeting us here in about twenty minutes,” Brock finally said. He opened the brief and started flipping through the pages.
“Yeah? Who might that be?”
“A friend of the family. Name’s Ahmed. Great guy. You’ll like him.”
“A friend of whose family? Yours?”
“The sultan’s.”
“Two more boots on the ground.”
“Bingo.”
“That’s convenient,” Hawke said, trying to be pleasant, “Where’d you bump into him?”
“Let’s just say we’ve done business before. He’s the one who found me the Enfield. Name’s Ahmed Badur. He is wired in this country, I gotta tell you.”
“Is he the one who’s going to help us find the sultan and his family?”
“Bingo,” Brock said.
“If you say that word again, I’m going to kill you,” Hawke told him.
At that moment, hot, exhausted, and miserable as he was, he almost meant it. Yeah, he’d cracked up a very expensive airplane. Until he was completely cleared of pilot error, there was going to be a little black cloud following him around. But it wasn’t his fault, goddamnit. And he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life taking heat for it. From anybody.
Hawke added, “And guess what, Brock. Because you’re a NOC? I’m going to get away with it.”
“Listen, pal, you might be a big effing whoop in jolly old England, but—”
A loud ah-oogah sound from the street below broke the moment between the two of them. Hawke looked out of the window and was surprised to see a 1927 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost arriving in a billow of dust. On the louvered bonnet behind the famous “Flying Lady” atop the radiator was a small triangular pennant. Orange, white, and green, the national flag of the Kingdom of Oman.
When the dust had finally settled, a nattily dressed man with slicked-back black hair, a full black mustache, and gold aviator sunglasses was revealed, sitting behind the wheel of the open car. He turned and grinned up at Hawke, who was looking at him through the window. He was wearing Western clothing, a white linen suit. He looked, Hawke thought, like a tango instructor.
“I suppose that’s your friend,” Hawke said, watching the man climb out of the old Roller.
“That’s him.”
“Why is everyone in this bloody country named Ahmed?”
“Not everyone. Only about 80 percent.”
“Nice car.”
“The sultan gave it to him. Prince Charles gave it to the sultan after he and Diana paid a state visit. They’re old buddies.”
“I like your chap’s low-key, understated approach to espionage,” Hawke said. “Exactly what’s required in a covert operation like this one.”
“Look, Hawke. Everybody in Oman knows this guy. He was the sultan’s right-hand man for two decades, the go-to guy at the palace. He’s a living legend around here. What would be noticed is if he arrived on a camel or crept up to the back door in full desert camo.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Hawke said as the man entered the upstairs room and approached their table.
“Sit down, Ahmed, and say hello to Alex Hawke,” said Brock.
“A great pleasure,” Ahmed said, his wide smile revealing two gleaming rows of perfectly spaced white teeth. He bowed formally from the waist. “I have heard of you, Lord Hawke. The Prince of Wales speaks most—”
Harry looked up. “Wait. Lord Hawke? Is that what he just called you?”
“Drop it, Brock,” Hawke said, “I don’t use the title.”
“Yeah, but still. I had no idea—”
“Mr. Badur,” Alex said, ignoring Brock and motioning to the man in white to sit down. “Thanks for coming. I assume Mr. Brock has already told you why we’re here.”
“He has indeed. Britain and America are old friends of Oman. And of Sultan Aji Abbas as well. You two men are here on a most important mission. Vital to our country.”
Hawke looked at the man and decided that, appearances and conveyances to the contrary, he was a chap who might be trusted. Hawke said, “I am here as a private citizen, Ahmed. But Mr. Brock and I will do whatever it takes to resolve this crisis. Our first order of business is to rescue the sultan’s family.”
“Yes. Please. This, we must do immediately.”
“Who is holding them? Troops?”
“Scum. French mercenaries. In the country illegally. They slipped ashore at night at Masara. A French submarine was spotted off that coast that morning. I have informants on the island who say they are all ex- Legionnaire washouts who do this kind of thing for a living.”
“How many of them?”
“Thirty-some-odd. But not under French command. A Chinese officer arrived here on a diplomatic mission two weeks ago. Along with his military aides-de-camp.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Yes. Major Tony Tang.”
“Does this Major Tang stay in one place? Frequently, hostages are moved about.”
“They have not been moved since they were placed under the protection of the French at the fortress. Don’t worry, your lordship. I know where they are at all times. I have a man in the kitchen, you see.”
“Tell me about the location, please, Ahmed.”
“It is a medieval fort on the island of Masara, sir. The fortress was originally built in the thirteenth century for strategic purposes. It guards the southern approach to the Strait of Hormuz. It is built into a bluff overlooking the sea. It is called Fort Mahoud and it is historic indeed. In late 1940 or so, Field Marshal Rommel himself chose it as his temporary headquarters while he was planning his relief of the Italians in North Africa.”
“Rommel? I had no idea,” Hawke said. He had studied Rommel at war college and found the brilliant and complex man fascinating.
“Yes. He made many modifications to the physical plant, naturally. Implemented much-needed reconstruction
