Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

“Eventually, when the Americans leave Iraq and Afghanistan, they will focus even more on Pakistan. We will be ready. In the coming years, we are going to have a long road across the top of our country, Sergeant Hafiz. There will be a lot of bridges and tunnels, and each of them will be a sharp fang in a gigantic death trap. Would you want to fight that fight?”

Hafiz shook his head. “No,” he said. “I would not.”

The chief engineer settled back in the big chair. “Neither will they.”

A PRIVATE HAWKER 800XP Execujet with the gold emblem of Excalibur Enterprises gleaming on its white skin descended through a deck of low clouds and kissed the paved 4,500-foot runway of Flores Island, one of the smallest of the Azores, with only a single bump. The elegant aircraft had effortlessly jumped the Atlantic Ocean in just under five hours, cruising the 2,261 miles in a direct flight from Rhode Island and bypassing the air traffic hub in Lisbon. Officials at the small airport expedited the passage of the vice president of the well-known multinational corporation and his friend through the customs procedures and cleared them for immediate departure aboard a waiting helicopter that also was the property of Excalibur. As a courtesy to the minister of defense, the officials respected the couple’s privacy and no names were recorded. The modernization program of the Forças Armadas Portuguesas had forged a very friendly relationship between Excalibur officials and the government of Portugal.

A little more than another hour of comfortable flight in the sleek helicopter put Kyle Swanson and Beth Ledford on approach to a luxurious yacht that was cruising straight toward a brilliant sunset. “That rowboat down there is the Vagabond, ” Swanson said.

“That’s huge. It’s as big as a Coast Guard cutter,” she said, astounded at the obvious richness of it all. She estimated the airplane alone had cost almost four million dollars. The yacht would carry a much higher price tag. “It must be two hundred feet long.”

“Only one-eighty,” Swanson replied. “Twenty-nine feet wide.”

“This all belongs to your family?”

“Take the comfort while you can, Ledford. We won’t be here long.”

He had dodged answering her question, so Beth tried again, much more forcefully. “So just who the hell is your family?”

Kyle looked at her and smiled. “I’m kind of the adopted only child of Pat and Jeff Cornwell, a British couple you’ve probably never heard of.”

Beth gulped, startled. “You gotta be kidding. You are related to Sir Geoffrey and Lady Patricia Cornwell?” She unconsciously touched her hair. “God, and I look a mess. Dammit, Kyle Swanson, I hate you more every day. How did that come about?”

“I don’t talk about my private life.”

“So I have noticed. In fact, you never explain anything, but now you’ve dropped this bomb in my lap, and I need to know some background before you let me make a fool of myself.” How was she supposed to greet a lord and lady? Shake hands? Curtsy? Little-girl fairy tales swam to mind.

“The short version is that Jeff retired out of the SAS and got into weapons development, then started his own company. The Pentagon lent me to him as an expert adviser in developing the Excalibur sniper rifle, and we all hit it off from the very start. I had grown up as an orphan and they had no children, nor any other living relatives. We just sort of found each other.”

“So it’s not a blood relation?”

“Oh no. Much better than that. We actually enjoy each other.”

The helicopter swept in closer and circled the vessel, then approached the helipad on the stern and set down. Crewmen dashed forward and lashed it to the deck as the pilot powered down and the spinning blades slowed. A hatch opened, and the fresh salty air wafted in. A short stairway folded down, and a suntanned man in a white uniform trotted up and inside the chopper. “Welcome aboard, Kyle,” he smiled, extending his hand. “You, too, Ms. Ledford. I’m Michael Berryman, the captain of this barge.”

“Hello, Mike. Good to be back, even if we are just passing through.”

“You always are, mate. Come along now. I’m to fetch the both of you immediately to the main salon.” They all stepped onto the deck, feeling only a gentle roll underfoot as the Vagabond surged through the calm sea. “We’ll have good weather for the next few days. Maybe an overnight squall, but that’s all.”

“How’s the old man?” Kyle asked.

“Irritable. Still thinks he’s the indestructible Special Air Services colonel. The legs give him trouble, but at least he’s no longer wheelchair-bound. It’s a miracle he even survived that terrorist attack on the castle in Scotland, much less that he is walking again.”

“What’s that about?” asked Beth, as they entered the central corridor of polished paneled wood that ran the length of the vessel and looked like the entranceway of a five-star hotel. “What terrorist attack?”

Kyle said, “Jeff and Pat were damn near killed when some tangos blew up a reception they were hosting for the signing of a peace treaty between Israel and Saudi Arabia. The Muslim fanatics did not like that idea, so they tried to kill everyone involved.”

“Of course! I remember that. Can I stop off at a restroom before we go in? I’m a frump.”

Captain Berryman chuckled. “Please be at ease, miss. You look quite exquisite, particularly after such a long journey. Now, here we are.” He tapped on a wooden door, opened it, and stepped away.

A slender, middle-aged woman with traces of silver glistening in her blond hair was on the other side and threw herself on Swanson, burying her face in his shoulder and embracing his neck. He picked her up in a bear hug, spun her around, kissed her cheek, and said, “Hey, Mom. Can I stay here tonight?”

She held him at arm’s length and stared at him, cocking her head to one side. “Maybe. We’ll see.” She turned from him. “You must be Miss Ledford. I’m Patricia Cornwell, but I insist that you call me Pat, and I will call you Beth because… well, just because I want to. Come in, come in, my dear. We are so very happy that you are here.”

Swept up by the woman’s charm, Beth was barely able to speak in a normal voice. “Hello,” she said. “Please pardon my appearance, Pat. I wasn’t expecting this.”

Lady Patricia still had the slight figure of a fashion model and wore an elegant pale green blouse-and-slacks outfit that matched her eyes. She linked her arm through Beth’s and led her into the salon, where Swanson was locked in another hug with an older man who was leaning on a knobbed wooden cane. The man pounded Kyle heartily on the back.

“Beth, let me introduce you to my grouchy old bear of a husband,” Pat said. “Jeff, say hello.”

Sir Geoffrey Cornwell turned from Swanson, bowed, and took Beth’s hand to give it a light kiss. “Welcome aboard, Petty Officer Ledford. Please consider yourself among friends on the Vagabond. You will be safe here, and we can brew up a nice little war.”

SERGEANT HAFIZ JOGGED ALONG in lightweight exercise gear through the tunnels, disguising his inspection as being nothing more than a regular evening workout. His running shoes thumped a steady tempo, and his breathing was easy. During the past few days, the workers, engineers, and technicians had grown used to seeing the big man doing his routine and ignored him as he loped and dodged through the work areas. Some nodded a greeting, but he did not interrupt their work to chat. Hafiz wanted to be regarded as unimportant as he accumulated more knowledge each day, exploring each cavern and cave and tunnel in turn—miles of them, some illuminated only by bare bulbs hanging from a spider’s web of overhead wiring, with idle machinery covered with protective plastic lining the walls. Much of it smelled dry and dusty.