for a minute or so.
'Okay, bring him up.'
He popped to the surface, sputtering.
'Second question,' Stoke said, bending over the rail. 'Ready? Good. Another name that seemed to keep coming up in your electronic correspondence. A Sword of Allah bigwig code-named Scimitar. Tell me who he is and you can come back up.'
'There is no God but God.'
'Wrong answer. This time it's going to be a little tougher, okay, Ozzie?'
'What now?' Harry said. Stoke crossed back to the opposite port rail and untied his end of the line.
'We keelhaul him, that's what. There are two ways to do this. The bad way, and the really bad way.'
'Talk to me.'
'I'm going to pull him all the way under the boat's keel with my end of the line. Slowly. You feed me enough slack so that he just clears the bottom of the boat.'
'And the really bad way?'
'You don't cut him any slack. That way, when I pull, he gets his ass bounced and scraped along about ten or twelve feet of really nasty, razor-sharp barnacles.'
'Sounds unpleasant.'
'Yeah. Do not try this one at home. Do it enough times and Ozzie won't have much skin left. First time, give him slack. We'll see what happens.'
Stoke pulled on his end. The imam went down and disappeared under the boat on Harry's side, Brock feeding Stoke line. Stoke took his time reeling him in, looking at the sweep second hand on his watch, waiting to see the little bastard reappear in the water just below him.
He brought him up, sputtering and cursing.
'I'm going to wait until you finish throwing up all that seawater and ask you again. I don't want to alarm you, but all that splashing you're doing attracts sharks. Ready? Two names. Smith. And Scimitar.'
'There is no God but-' He disappeared beneath the waves before he got it all out.
'Haul him back under, Harry. No slack this time.'
'Fast or slow?'
'What do you think?'
Brock started slowly hauling away, singing a few bars of 'Barnacle Bill, the Sailor.'
FORTY-NINE
THEY HAULED HIM ABOARD AND STRETCHED him out on the teak foredeck. He was pretty bloody and chopped up from the barnacles. And, by the time Stoke reeled him in, the imam had experienced the thrill of ravenous sharks nipping at his heels because of all the blood in the water. Even now the sharks were circling the boat, looking for fresh meat. 'Called keelhauling, Ozzie,' Stoke said, 'predates the Geneva Conventions by four hundred years. It's a bitch, ain't it?'
Stoke now took the freshwater wash-down hose and cleaned him up a little. Then they took him aft and sat him in the big chrome fishing chair. The imam sat there like a dazed and bloodied Neptune on his nautical throne, staring into space, his protruding eyes wide with real terror.
He now realized these two animals were capable of anything. This was not quite true, Stoke thought, but it was definitely the right impression to convey under the circumstances.
Stoke popped a cold Diet Coke snatched from the big cooler full of ice and underhanded Harry a frosty Bud. Both men sat on the gunwales and sipped their drinks, content to watch the dolphins play and let the imam think things over before they went back to work on him. About ten minutes later, having duly considered his situation, Ozzie started singing like a canary on crack.
'Smith,' he croaked, his chin resting on his chest.
'Yeah, what about him?' Stoke said, looking up.
'Englishman. In Afghanistan.'
'Okay, I'll bite. What's this Englishman doing in Afghanistan?'
'Assassination.'
Stoke stood up and pulled a black leather notepad and pencil from his shirt pocket, then walked over and lifted the guy's chin up with his beard.
'Assassination of who?'
'Harry.'
'Harry's not in Afghanistan. Harry's right here.'
'No. Prince Harry. Son of Prince Charles.'
Stoke looked back at Harry Brock who mouthed the words, Ho-ly Shit!
'Harry. That's the son who's serving in the British Army? Right?' Brock asked the prisoner.
'Yes.'
'I thought he was in Iraq.'
'No. Afghanistan.'
'When is the attempt on his life?' Stoke said.
'Most imminent.'
'You telling us the truth? If you're not, you're going right back under the boat. As many times as it takes.'
'Truth. God's truth.'
'Harry, on the off chance the little bastard really is telling the truth, you want to go get on the radio and call this in to Langley? Pentagon? This intel needs to get to the CO of the British Army forces in Afghanistan right now.'
'You're right,' Harry said, leaping to his feet and disappearing inside the wheelhouse.
'Okay, little buddy,' Stoke said, pencil poised, 'one more. Who the hell is this Scimitar I keep seeing?' The imam, who looked like a guy who'd just climbed out of a bathtub full of piranhas, gave Stoke the evil eye.
'He is known in my country as the Lion of the Punjab. His name is Sheik Abu al-Rashad.'
'Sheik Abu al-Rashad. Good boy. I've heard that name. How high up? In the Sword of Allah organization?'
'Most high.'
'High as you can go? Higher than bin Laden?'
'Yes.'
'Where do I find this high and mighty Sheik?'
'Pakistan. Sometimes Afghanistan. Always on the move.'
'Nomad, huh?'
'Precisely so. He travels light. Cave to cave, camp to camp.'
'Where is he now?'
'Islamabad, I think.'
'Where in Islamabad?'
'Hospital.'
'Sick? Injured? Which hospital?'
'Don't know. That is the truth, I swear it.'
Stoke grabbed his beard and lifted his face so that the guy was staring directly into Stoke's deadly serious eyes.
Nada.
'Okay, fine. On your feet. You're going scuba diving again without the scuba. See all those sharks swimming around the boat? They can't wait to see your bloody carcass back in the water.'
'No! No!'
'All right. Take it from the top, one more time. What. Is. The. Name. Of. The. Hospital?'
'Quaid-e-Azam International Hospital.'
'Spell it. Nice and slow,' Stoke said, and copied it down letter for letter.
