Richard Johnson - Deadly Cargo - A Chilling Naval Terrorism Thriller

“Show him in,” al Din commanded. “Then go.”

The old woman wrapped the long shawl around her face once again, untied the tent flap and went out. A hand reached through the opening, then an arm covered by US military desert camouflage clothing. Josh Adams stepped inside and removed his goggles.

“Please,” Husam al Din said, “take a seat over there.” He motioned to a folding chair on the opposite side of the small table. He tied the tent flap and returned to his own chair.

Adams stood, his hands on the chair back, waiting for his host to complete the introductions. Al Din stared at him for a moment, then realised why the soldier was still standing. “Ah, yes,” he said, “western customs. Let me introduce everyone. Staff Sergeant Josh Adams, this is Sorgei Groschenko. Sorgei, Josh Adams,” motioning from one to the other.

The two men each searched the eyes of the other, then reached across the table and shook hands. They bowed ever so slightly as was done in formal company, but their eyes never left the eyes of the other, almost like the beginning of a martial arts battle.

“Mr Groschenko,” Josh said.

“Staff Sergeant Adams,” the Russian said slowly.

“You can call me Josh.”

“Call me Sorgei,” the Russian said without emotion.

Josh turned to look directly at Husam al Din. “But I don’t know you. All I know is that the old woman said she knew someone I should meet. Someone who can help me with a certain personal problem I have.”

“And you trust her?” the Arab asked.

“No reason not to. Not yet anyway,” Josh replied.

“You Americans are such—” he stopped himself in mid-sentence, catching the bitter hatred before it spilled from his lips.

“Such what?” Josh asked.

Husam al Din coughed. “I was just going to say that you Americans are such trusting people.” He forced a cold smile, even though he would rather have drawn the dagger that was in his waistband and plunged it through the American’s heart. He coughed again. “Ach, this dust… it is enough to choke a Saudi lizard.” The comment broke the tension and all three men chuckled politely at the joke. “Now, let us sit.” The Arab motioned to the chairs and the two men took their seats at the table.

Josh did not move. “I will sit at your table only after I know who you are.”

“So perhaps you do not trust the old woman?”

“No reason to,” Josh said. “At least not yet.”

“Very well. I am Husam al Din.” His black eyes stared hard at Josh Adams.

“Sword of the faith,” Josh translated.

“You know the Arabic language,” al Din smiled. “It is one of the reasons we chose you.”

“You chose me?” Josh asked.

“Yes. You are not here by accident, or by mere circumstance. Now, please sit down. We have much to discuss.”

While the sandstorm raged outside, the three men talked and listened and watched each other’s expressions and mannerisms. It was like the first round of a prizefight, when the combatants feel each other out before committing to a personal fighting style. Josh watched the eyes, looking for hints of deception. Both Husam al Din and Sorgei Groschenko studied Josh as if they were examining an expensive item before handing over the cash.

It began slowly, but over the next few hours, each got to know a little bit about the other – at least as much as they were willing to reveal. It was quickly obvious that much was being left unsaid, as each man strained to conceal deep personal motives. It was a dance of lies mixed with truth, but behind each man’s story were secrets that would not be revealed. Some of the secrets, in fact, were hidden even from the men themselves, as is true of everyone. A man knows only what he remembers or has been told, even though there is much more to a personal history than is openly recognized. For Sorgei Groschenko and Husam al Din, pieces of the unseen past had been laid together as paving stones to create a path that led to this desert tent. For Josh Adams, most of his life had been wrapped up in a lie. Between the lies and the truth, destiny had thrown these three together as comrades in an horrific plot against the United States.

Husam al Din began, “Just so we are all clear about who we are, why we are here and what we are going to be doing, I want us to tell each other about ourselves. Sorgei, you go first, please.” He nodded toward the Russian. “We are all in this together and we must be able to…” he looked at Josh and flashed a cold smile, “…to trust each other. Right?”

Late December 1991 – Yakutsk, Siberia

A dim bulb gently swung from a pair of twisted wires that hung from the high ceiling and flickered in the cold room. Outside the frosted window, wind howled and snow flew sideways. The wind was so strong that it shook the building, setting the light bulb into motion. The light flickered again, and Sorgei Groschenko looked up at the bulb, muttered something under his breath and wrapped the woolen blanket more tightly around his shoulders. Then he bent over the table once again and studied the figures he had been calculating.

It’s insane, he thought , that the government expects me to do my best work under these terrible conditions. At least they could have the decency to provide enough heat so he didn’t have to huddle beneath a blanket to work. How did the military expect him to develop a new strain of bacteria when he was freezing to death?

His thought faded away to the time he spent on the beach along the Black Sea two summers ago. Oh, that was pleasant! The sun was warm in Sochi. Even the water was warm enough for swimming. The city was like a garden of subtropical trees and plants, and the sun shone 200 days each year. It was like heaven, to his mind… the closest thing to heaven he could imagine right now. He wanted to be back there, baking under the August sunshine, not holed up in this Siberian no-man’s land, trapped in a frozen hellish exile working on a secret new form of germ warfare.

Of course, if he succeeded, all this misery was worth it. He stared at the lightbulb for a moment, and the dream came alive in his mind. He would be lauded by his peers, praised by the government, and undoubtedly be rewarded with a vacation in Sochi again. Food… good food, lots of food. Women to entertain him. The warmth of the sun. Ah yes, for all that, he worked his heart out in this lonely dungeon in the depths of the frozen wasteland. The dream was strong. It was the dream of every Soviet military scientist. He knew that if he developed the breakthrough, there would be missile warheads named after him. Generations of schoolchildren would learn his name. Maybe even a monument to his honour in Red Square. The thought brought a smile to his face.

His reverie was cut short by the sudden jangle of the telephone. It was an old phone, black and heavy, with a rotary dial and an annoying bell that scared the mice right out of the building, even on a horrid night such as this. The phone rang again before he was able to reach it and pick up the handset.

“Alo?” he half yelled into the mouthpiece. This piece of junk telephone was so bad that he and whoever was on the other end of the call had to shout to be heard.

“Da , this is Sorgei Groschenko. Da . I will bring them and come.” He rested the handset back on the cradle, but his mind was troubled. What now? What could they possibly want with all these papers at this time of night?

He scooped his papers into a ragged satchel, then went to a cabinet and removed all the files. Those, too, were stuffed into the fat satchel. He pulled the blanket from his shoulders, folded it double and tossed it over the back of the chair, struggled into a huge winter coat. Beside the door, he kicked off his shoes and stepped into tall mukluks, blew hot breath into his hands and then pulled on a pair of mittens. He flipped the fur-lined hood over his head, grabbed the satchel and went out the door into the blizzard.