“Where are you going?” Pinsard called out.
Hurtubise stopped and turned briefly. “I am going to ask some very pointed questions.”
“Flipper One, this is Four. Over.”
“That’s him!” Pope exclaimed. On the bridge, standing beside Maas, he pressed his hand against his headset. “Four, One here. Go.”
Pfizer’s voice came back, subdued and tentative. “Ah, be advised. We recovered the, uh, item. Over.”
Even on the dimly lit deck, Cohen could see Pope’s eyes close and his lips move.
“One here. RTB, Four.”
“Roger that.” Pfizer went off the air with chilling finality.
Cohen asked, “My God, how’d they find him in the dark?”
“Our PFDs have strobe lights on them. They’re water-activated.”
The SSI men and Maas were still consulting when the last Zodiac pulled alongside. Looking down from the glass-enclosed bridge, Pope felt a dreadful sense of responsibility. Without a word, he walked through the access and headed amidships, where Pfizer was holding position at the accommodation ladder.
When the former SEAL arrived, Phil Green was helping move Don Pace’s body on a wire litter. It was not easy: it took four men to carry the load. Pope placed a hand on Green’s shoulder. “You can take him to the freezer, Phil. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Malten knew Pope’s meaning.
When the litter bearers set down their burden, Green said, “I’ll take it from here.”
Bosco knelt beside the ex-cop. “I’ll be glad to help.”
Green shook his head. “No. He’s my friend.”
When he rose, Bosco gave his colleague a squeeze on the arm.
As Bosco stepped through the access, Green turned his head. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Pope, whatever’s going down, I’m in.”
Bosco silently nodded, then closed the door behind him.
81
“How did they find us?” Hurtubise demanded.
Zikri almost rocked back on his heels. “I do not know,
“They had to have a source on this ship. It’s the only way I can imagine they picked us out of all the ships in this part of the ocean.”
“I agree,” the Libyan replied. “We should talk to Aujali again.”
“Where is he?”
“He came off duty about ninety minutes ago. He must be in his cabin or maybe the galley.”
“Come on,” Hurtubise said. “And bring your cousin.”
Four minutes later, Nuri Aujali landed on his face in a vacant compartment. Shatwan dogged the hatch and leaned against it, arms folded. Zikri stood over the prostrate radioman, ready to translate Hurtubise’s pointed questions while Rene Pinsard applied physical motivation to reply promptly and accurately.
Aujali screamed in pain, yammering in a high, fast voice.
“What’s he say?” Hurtubise demanded. His Arabic had its limits.
Zikri turned to the Frenchman, obviously uncomfortable with the process but unwilling to interfere. “He says, he does not know why you abuse him.”
“Tell him this is an object lesson. We will do far worse if he does not tell us what we want to know.”
The captain translated, immediately gaining a pained, gasping consent from the suspect. “Yes, he will answer. He says the Zionists forced him to do it.”
Hurtubise shook his head in mild confusion. “To do what? I have not even asked him anything.”
Aujali choked out something incomprehensible. “The pain,” Zikri explained. “Your man, he…”
Hurtubise tapped Pinsard on the shoulder. The younger mercenary released the victim and stood up. With one hand Aujali massaged his ears, reddened where Pinsard had applied hard, twisting pressure. His other hand was impaired by a broken finger. The ex-Legionnaire was disgusted: he had suffered worse for much longer in routine training exercises.
After more back and forthing, Zikri summarized. “His mother’s mother’s family have tried for years to leave Israel and join him in exile. They are always denied. He says the Jews keep promising to let them leave after each job he does for them. This time, two were given exit visas with a promise that the others would be released when we reach port.”
Hurtubise nodded to himself.
Zikri shrugged eloquently.
The Frenchman squatted by the young man, speaking English. “You are a radioman. You understand me?”
Aujali nodded. “Yes. Some English…”
“How did you communicate with the Americans?”
The seaman raised himself to a sitting position on the deck. “Not with the Americans. With an Israeli.”
“Who is he?”
“I do not know. He only goes by a code name.”
Hurtubise’s right hand snaked out, hard and fast. He slapped Aujali twice, once on each cheek. “You want to deal with Rene again? Tell me everything when I ask a question!”
Aujali’s dark eyes betrayed all his emotions. For a man of Marcel Hurtubise’s vast experience, they were easily read. Fear and anger. Basic psychology.
“Jacob. Only Jacob.”
“Good. Very good. Now, how long have you been in contact with him? What did you tell him?”
Aujali’s Arabic pride overcame some of the fear. He looked up at Zikri. “I want some water, Captain.”
Zikri motioned to Shatwan, who retrieved a bottle and handed it to his colleague. Before he opened it, Aujali glanced at Pinsard, then began speaking. “I was approached by a Frenchman in Misratah. He called himself Remy LeClerc. He said he worked with Jacob and gave me the frequencies and schedule.”
As Aujali sipped some water, Hurtubise’s eyes narrowed.
“A young man, about my age. Sandy hair, built like a wrestler.”
Hurtubise looked at Pinsard. “That was Deladier. You met him in Marseille, I think.”
Pinsard absorbed that information with typical aplomb. “I don’t suppose I will meet him again.”
“Not this side of hell.”
Hurtubise rose to his feet, regarding the radioman. “We will keep this one for a while. He might be useful later on.” He nodded to Shatwan, who escorted the younger man from the compartment.
Zikri finally found his voice. “What do you intend for Aujali?”
Hurtubise’s eyes were shark-dull. “Do not ask stupid questions.”
82
