Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“I am alone,” he said, his eyes moving down from her face to take in the full image of the beautiful woman who stood before him.

“Would you like some company?” She smiled and held out her delicate white hand.

A hot desire swept over him. There was something he wanted to do before he left this life, and he intended to do it tonight. The men in the car when Husam al Din left the madrassa so many years before spoke about this very thing, but there had been no opportunity for him until now. Without stopping, the men had taken him from the madrassa and injected him directly into the most rigid part of Muslim fundamentalist society. It was a culture where boys and girls did not date and fall in love. It was a world where marriage was arranged and women kept themselves covered beneath heavy, shapeless burkas with mesh across the eyes, so no men except husband or immediate family could see them. The women were not to look into the eyes of a man to whom they were not married, and it was forbidden for a woman to be intimate before marriage. Honor killing was the accepted penalty for violation of the law.

For the men, none of those rules applied. Men were free to enjoy relationships of any nature with as many women as they desired. The only problem was finding women to accommodate them, but that was solved by travel to regions of the world where there were more lenient cultures. It was something Husam al Din had never done.

“My name is Annette.” Her voice jarred him back from his thoughts.

He looked again into her eyes, and thought they were more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. Like sapphire gemstones, he thought. He took her hand in his and stood up. “I am Stephan,” he lied. “I would enjoy your company tonight.”

In his lifetime, the only travel Husam al Din had done was for the purpose of warfare training in remote and deserted sites. It was never for pleasure. There had been no women. But today he was away from all that, and he intended to release himself into a part of life that was, up until now, denied him.

Afterward , he decided , I will return honor to this girl’s family – I will kill her myself.

At eight o’clock the next morning, according to the arrangements made by al-Qaeda leaders operating in Islamabad, there was a black Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb across the street from the hotel. Husam al Din had been told what to do. He stepped onto the sidewalk, reached in his pocket, pulled out a gold coin and flashed it in the bright sunlight, then transferred it to the opposite pocket. At this signal, the driver climbed out, pushed a button on the key fob and the trunk lid popped open.

Glancing both ways to find a break in traffic, he stepped from the curb and crossed the street. “You have the shipping container ready?” Husam al Din asked in Arabic, skipping any pleasantries of conversation as he stowed his luggage and the trunk lid was closed.

“It is at the warehouse. We are going there now. Are you ready?”

“I am,” Husam al Din replied. Then he climbed into the front passenger seat and slammed the door. “I am ready.”

The Lincoln pulled into traffic and wound its way through the crowded city streets. Husam al Din stared out the window at the seemingly endless wealth of color and commercialism. It made him dizzy, but still he kept his eyes focused out the window, marveling at the garish scenes before him.

Gradually, the high-rise city gave way to lower buildings, then to poor houses, then to an industrial district. Half an hour after leaving the hotel, they were on the outskirts of town near the waterfront, in a derelict industrial area where warehouses constructed of rusting corrugated steel stretched away in the distance. The driver picked up a two-way radio and spoke to someone. A hundred yards ahead, the giant door on one of the buildings started to slide open, and the Lincoln sped ahead and made the turn into the opening.

Dry bearings squealed as two men pushed the door shut again on its crusted steel wheels, and everything went dark. Only a dim light glowed from a distant spot that looked like an enormous box, but from the passenger seat of the car Husam al Din could not tell what it was.

He stepped out of the Lincoln and heard the electric crack of a large power switch being thrown. There was a flicker, then bright bulbs came to life above him, and the warehouse became light.

“There it is,” the driver said, pointing. Then he shouted, “He’s here. Show him what we’ve got.”

The door of an RV travel trailer swung open. A woman wearing khaki coveralls and black work shoes stepped out, and Husam al Din stopped in his tracks. In spite of her workmanlike clothing, she wore long, flowing auburn hair and her eyes were like green fire.

“What is this?” He turned to face the driver with a hint of anger in his voice.

The woman stepped in close, waved a dismissing hand as if swatting at a fly, and the driver turned on his heels and walked back to the car. She was, he guessed, in her mid-thirties, a good ten years his senior. Her stride was long and powerful, and every aspect of her bearing was that of a commander.

“What is this?” Husam al Din repeated, looking around as if suddenly everything had gone wrong.

“What’s the matter,” the woman asked, “haven’t you ever seen a woman before?”

“Of course I have. But…”

“But where you come from, the women keep themselves covered and hide themselves away. Only men do the important work. Is that it?”

“Who are you? What are you doing?” Husam al Din barked, sounding suddenly defiant.

“Listen,” she growled, “where you come from, things are different. But you aren’t there now… you’re here and you’ll deal with me. My name is Alicia Gomez. I run the show in Manila. Do you have a problem with that?”

Husam al Din knew how to handle men, even tough men. But nothing in his experience prepared him to handle a tough woman. “Why was I not told?”

“Because you didn’t need to know,” she said.

“Alicia Gomez?” he asked. “Is that right?”

“Yes. That is my name.”

“Alicia Gomez. I have never heard of you.”

Her eyes flared. “There’s a lot you’ve never heard of, because of where you’ve spent your life. Let me clue you in: it’s a big world and you are a very small piece of a very big puzzle.”

He glared hard at her, grinding his teeth, but said nothing. Suspecting that her hot Filipino attitude might have taken her too far, she stepped back and softened. “I do not mean to disrespect your importance to the cause,” she said. “Your plan is a good one. Your sacrifice will benefit us all.” She held out her hand, “Let me begin again. I am in charge of operations in Manila. It makes sense, does it not? Who would suspect a woman?” She smiled.

He found himself smiling back. “Yes, it does make sense. If the devil actually had horns and carried a pitchfork, no one would fall for his tricks.”

“Okay,” she said, her smile disappearing, “I’m not sure I appreciate the analogy, but your point is well taken. Now that we have that settled, let me show you what we have for you.” She turned and climbed the two steps into the trailer, and he followed.

“This 26-foot travel trailer will conceal you and will give you everything you need to stay alive during the passage to Miami,” Alicia Gomez said. “Before it is placed inside the shipping container, you will be hidden inside this area beneath the floor.” She lifted the carpet and raised a trapdoor. “We removed the wastewater storage tank and replaced it with this compartment to serve as your hiding place. If the port authorities inspect the inside of the container and examine the trailer, inside or out, everything will appear to be normal. After the shipping container is sealed, you will be free to come out of hiding and live comfortably in the trailer.”