menacing growl. What the hell could make that kind of noise? He kept going until he got to the door and peeked inside.
The kitchen was large and sunny with pretty red-and-white checked curtains on all the windows. He couldn’t see anybody at first, had to step softly around the big wood-burning stove that was blocking his—
Christ. It was the two Arnolds. They were wearing black VDI Security uniforms that bore a frightening resemblance to the old SS outfits Stoke had seen Nazis wearing in the movies.
They hadn’t heard him. Their backs were to him and they were both talking at once, shouting in German, stepping on each other’s lines.
Stoke knew just enough vocabulary to know they’d found the two bodies and they were really pissed off about it. “Tod! Tod!” Dead! Dead! The Arnold on the left had a stubby little automatic. The Arnold on the right had one end of a steel chain leash in his hand. The fabric of his uniform, stretched tight across his big shoulders, was about to rip wide open. He was struggling to control a vicious, snarling animal that looked like it could rip his arm right out of his shoulder socket.
At the other end of Arnold’s shiny leash was a huge black Doberman pinscher, just dying to sink his teeth into Jet, who was on the floor in the corner. Blood was trickling out of her mouth and running down her chin. Otherwise, she looked okay. The Doberman was rearing on his hind legs, straining at the chain, his paws scratching at the air, his head whipping back and forth, loopy white saliva flying from his snapping jaws in all directions. Stoke figured it was high time to put an end to all this melodrama.
“Ah-nold’s in the kitchen with Dinah…”
He sang just that much of his old favorite and the Arnold on the left swung on him, bringing the muzzle of his gun up as he spun.
“Was ist los?” the blond guy said, and Stoke put one in his forehead. He crumpled to the floor, spraying bullets that luckily didn’t hit anyone except some little gnomes up on a shelf.
“Remember me?” he said to the remaining Arnold, who was staring at him with his mouth wide open. “The Valkyrie party?” Stoke added, helpfully. “The big black guy, remember?”
“Was gibt hier?” That was the best the poor guy could do under the circumstances. Stoke raised the Schmeisser. The guy’s eyes went wide. He had no desire to join his fraternal twin pumping blood for a living on the floor. Not to mention his own sidearm was securely snapped inside a leather holster that didn’t allow for the quick- draw approach.
“Here’s the problem, Arnold,” Stoke said. “I shoot you, the dog eats her. See what I’m saying? So maybe I’ll shoot your dog and then shoot you, okay? Sound good?”
Arnold said something that was probably unprintable in German. Stoke ground the Schmeisser’s v-and-blade gunsight into his right ear and said, “Call him off now or you and your dog die.”
“Don’t shoot the dog, Stoke,” Jet said.
“What?”
“Tell him to release the dog.”
“Are you completely nuts?”
“Just do it.”
“Maybe you’re suicidal, but he isn’t going to let this dog go long as I got my gun in his ear.”
“Then take the leash away from him with your other hand, Stoke. Then you’ve got control of the dog and him.”
“Okay. That sounds more like it. You heard her, Arnold. I’m going to take the dog now. You just be cool and nobody gets his head ventilated.”
As a precaution, Stoke ground the gun barrel deeper into the German’s ear canal while he unwound the dog leash from his hand and wrapped it around his own. Instantly, the barking and snarling animal attempted to rip Stoke’s arm from the socket. He was getting jerked around so badly by the lunging Doberman it was hard to keep the Schmeisser aimed at Arnold’s head. It wouldn’t take Arnold long to figure out that now was his chance.
“All right, I got the dog. Now what?”
“Just let him go, Stoke,” Jet said. “It’s okay.”
“Jet, seriously, have you lost your mind?”
“She’s my dog, Stoke.”
“Your dog.”
“Right. Her name is Blondi. She’s just happy to see me, aren’t you, girl?”
“Your funeral,” Stoke said and dropped the chain. He was all out of argument with the woman. The big dog bounded across the floor and, instead of going for her jugular, immediately began lathering Jet’s cheeks and forehead with wet sloppy kisses.
“Good dog, Blondi,” Jet said, patting his head and nuzzling her cheek against the dog’s neck. She put both arms around Blondi’s neck and hugged the big Doberman to her.
“You believe this?” Stoke asked Arnold, the two of them standing there looking down at her.
“Not really,” Arnold said in surprisingly good English.
“Schatzi gave her to me when she was a puppy,” Jet said. “Didn’t he, baby? Right? Who’s my buddy?”
Stoke and Arnold just looked at each other.
“Hey, Arnold,” Stoke said, “You think I could fit in your uniform?”
Arnold looked at him.
“Little tight across the shoulders, maybe?” Stoke said. “What do you think?”
Chapter Forty-one
Gulf of Oman
CACIQUE ROLLED HEAVILY IN THE SIX-FOOT SEAS. THE SIXTY-four-foot trawler, under the command of Captain Ali al-Houri, had seen better days. Her old diesel was moody. Temperamental. But Brock’s new sidekick Ahmed had assured Hawke that she was at least seaworthy enough for their current purposes: a surveillance circumnavigation of the island of Masara and a closeup look at Fort Mahoud itself.
Ahmed had found and chartered the old trawler for them, assuring them that she normally did a milk run along the coast from Ras al Hadd down to Salalah. The theory was that since she’d frequented these waters for years, no one on the island or the mainland would pay her any mind. With a checklist prepared and supplemented by Brock, he’d made sure she was properly provisioned.
Properly, in Brock’s parlance, included weapons, explosives, experimental optical equipment, hi-res digital video and still cameras with telescopic lenses, a dozen SEAL scuba rigs, a bottle of Gosling’s Black Seal for Hawke, and a case of Budweiser for Brock.
Between the wily Ahmed and the well-connected Brock, it seemed, anything on earth was attainable. Watching the supplies arrive on board, Hawke imagined that if he told Ahmed he simply could not proceed with the hostage rescue until he had the original of van Gogh’s Sunflowers under his arm, the framed painting would appear a few hours later.
As it was, a brand-new U.S. Navy SDV minisubmarine was hidden under an old tarp, lashed to blocks on the stern. The SDV, a Swimmer Delivery Vehicle developed by the navy for the SEALs, had been just part of the shipment arriving at Muscat on a Hercules C-130 the night before.
At the moment, Cacique was steering a northeasterly course along the Masara Bank, a good fishing spot lying roughly a mile off the eastern coast of the island of Masara. They were doing a leisurely eight knots in the rough seas. Hawke had been outside at the port rail with his high-powered Zeiss binoculars for the last hour. Finally, he’d grown weary of reconnoitering endless miles of bleak grey rock being pounded by heavy waves and stowed both the Sony video camera and the Zeiss Ikons.
The sun was already dipping below the yardarm of the stubby mast for’ard of the pilothouse. The only thing of interest Hawke had seen all afternoon was a herd of green turtles and a small blue fishing boat chugging along towing a string of white dinghies behind her. He’d counted ten of them bobbing along like baby ducks behind their mother. It was something he’d not seen in any other part of the world.
Hawke and Brock sat inside the pilothouse at a small table strewn with maps, satellite photos, and thermal-
