“I agree wholeheartedly, Chief. Do it. Go.”
An ad hoc change of plans was not unusual in McCoy’s world. Thunder and Lightning as a counterterrorist group was still alive and kicking butt the world over precisely because they weren’t afraid to toss the best-laid plans right out the window. Rainwater disappeared aft, careful to maintain a lethargic pace as he made his way past the wheelhouse. Although blowing the towers wasn’t scheduled to occur until just before egress, it made sense to set the charges now while everybody was so relaxed.
Fitz made his way aft to check on the Frogman. Froggy and his men were doing the unloading. The wooden crates containing the automatic weapons were coming up now. The Frogman, a squat, tough ex–French Foreign Legionnaire, had been with Fitz since the very beginning. He was a founding partner of Thunder and Lightning. He and his sidekick, the Great Bandini, with the help of Abu and Captain Ali, were all stacking crates on the dock and sending them off as fast as they were handed up.
“Froggy?” Fitz said quietly.
“That’s the last of it, Skipper. Shall I bring the boys topside?”
“Not yet.”
Fitz cast his eyes quickly up at the twin towers and around at the docks one last time. The eight commandos, all dressed in Arab kaffiyehs, were more than ready to emerge from the stifling hold. Each man had given a brief, imperceptible nod to Fitz, who’d looked each in the eye one last time before going up on deck. They were bloody ready. But something didn’t look right. One of them was missing.
“Where the hell’s Ahmed? He was here on the dock not two minutes ago!”
Froggy said, “He and Brock went with one of the dockhands to open up the gates and the storehouse.”
“Damn him,” Fitz said, more in shock than anger, “He’s supposed to remain here. Brock, too. Oversee this lot. Deal with contingencies.”
“There was a lot of Arabic going back and forth with Ahmed and Brock and the dock guys,” Froggy said. “Maybe there was a problem.”
“Brock doesn’t speak Arabic.”
“He does now.”
“Arrow?” Fitz said into his lipmike. “Where the hell are you, Chief?”
“Base of the north tower. Charges set, both towers. Front door is wide open. No tangos visible. I’m headed back to the boat to collect Froggy and company,” Rainwater said.
“Belay that. Stay where you are. We’re coming to you. Is Ahmed with you?”
“Negative. He’s inside. Said he and Brock were headed for the storehouse for the rendezvous with Hawke.”
“For fuck’s sake. All right. One minute, mate. Keep your bloody eyes open. I don’t like this.”
“Affirmative. Hold on, Skipper, I think something—”
That’s when the staccato sound of automatic weapons came from inside the fort. The moment when all the lights went on and all the alarms started screaming like Irish banshees announcing that everyone within spitting distance was going to die.
That’s when the real goat-fuck got started; when anything and everything turned to pure, unadulterated shit.
And FitzHugh McCoy realized too late he’d had a man named Judas aboard his boat. I’ve just got no fooking clue which man was the traitor, he thought.
But if he was a betting man, right now he’d be betting heavily on Harry Brock. Hawke said he’d been in a Chinese prison for three months. A lot can happen to a man’s brain in one of those bloody hellholes. They rewire the damn things!
Chapter Fifty-one
Southampton, New York
“WELL! THAT WAS CERTAINLY CHEEKY,” DIANA SAID, TAKING his hand while sipping from a fresh flute of champagne. Not that he was counting, but it was her third. Or fourth. He’d lost track. It was that kind of party. No half-empty glasses. Frantic, but intimate in that odd way truly large parties can be. Since he knew absolutely no one, he could be alone with Diana, two blithe spirits, apart in the midst of the social whirlaway, in an imaginary space of their own making.
“What was certainly cheeky?” Ambrose asked, leading her toward the sand dunes. “Mind your step. There’s a broken board here and there.”
They’d left the raised wooden walkway that stretched out from the lawn and were on the steps leading down to the beach proper now, threading their way through clumps of wild sea oats that dotted the sand dunes. Beyond, the surf was pounding gently, its low rumble a blessed relief from the all-too-familiar strains of “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” and “Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.”
“That man passing the champagne was cheeky,” Diana said. “One of the wait staff. You must have seen him. The one who looked like that wonderful English actor, what’s his name.”
“What is his name?” he said, his eyes bright with happiness. She did look so pale and lovely in the moonlight. She wore an emerald-green dress, satin, with a deep neckline that was positively awe-inspiring, and a simple necklace of diamonds.
“Don’t make fun, Ambrose. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Michael Caine! That’s the one I mean.”
“Ah. Alfie.”
“You did see him then? The waiter? The one with the thick black glasses?”
“No.”
“Well, he winked at me. You must have been looking the other way at some other woman. Winked at me and said something rude. Like ‘bang’ or something like that. I think that’s rather cheeky, don’t you?”
“Bang?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t hear him in the middle of that riot. Bangbang, maybe.”
“It’s damned rude, Diana. Also, given the circumstances, a bit unnerving. Which one is he? I’ll go have a word with him.”
“Oh, don’t go back there. I don’t want to make a fuss. I want to walk along the beach and look at the stars. The moon. It’s a wonderful night. Magic. Let’s forget about it.”
“Very well, Diana. Just point him out when we get back. I’ll say something to Jock. I don’t think he’d find it amusing. At all.”
“Don’t be stuffy. Come on! I’ll race you down to the water! There’s something I want to show you down there. Come along, now…”
“Diana, don’t—”
But she’d flung her shoes off, hiked up her skirts, raced ahead, and disappeared over the dunes. Ambrose was not fond of walking in sand, much less running in the stuff. Still, he sat himself down and began unlacing his shoes and rolling up his trouser cuffs.
“Come on!” she cried, “You must come and see this moon!”
“I’m coming as fast as I can,” he said, getting to his feet and trying to brush the sand from the seat of his trousers. What was the attraction? People seemed to flock to beaches in droves and—
“Ambrose! What are you doing?”
When he caught up with her, Diana was strolling barefoot through the surf, her face turned to the moon, her hair falling in lustrous ribbons on her pale shoulders. He reached out and put a hand on her—
“Oh! You frightened me. I didn’t hear you coming.”
“The strong, silent type.”
“Ambrose, isn’t it beautiful? The waves. The moon on the water. I’m so glad you could come.”
“So am I.”
“Will you hold me for a second? I haven’t been held in the moonlight in a very long time.”
“Well, I—”
