Lethal Cargo



Gulf of Sidra, Libya, North Africa

A motor yacht, seventy feet in length, swung at anchor a few hundred yards from the deserted beach. The gunwales and lower hull of the vessel sparkled a midnight blue, the top sides crisp white, and just a hint of the dark red of the anti-fouling paint could be seen above the waterline. The decks were of unvarnished but immaculately scrubbed teak. Aft of the bridge a canvas canopy extended the full length of the deck and all the way to the outboard railings.

Beyond that, an elevated platform covered the entire after deck, painted in the same deep blue as the hull. A jet helicopter, a Hughes 500, rested squarely on a symmetrical white cross in the middle of the platform. The patriotically colored cruiser flew the Union Jack of Great Britain.

Seated alone at a small table set with fine linen and silver, a man lingered over his breakfast. He pushed his plate aside, took a pack from his shirt pocket and lit a Marlboro with a small silver lighter. He exhaled with a satisfied sigh and watched the motor torpedo boat grow smaller on the horizon as it made its way in the direction of Bengasi.

The door that led from the superstructure of the bridge deck swung open and a man emerged, dressed all in white; blouse, shorts, knee socks, shoes, and a wheel hat with gold embellishments on the black brim. Captain Hawkins' manner and bearing identified him as English even before he spoke.

"Well, I say, that takes care of that. Why the hell you would want to go talk to some Arab cutthroat is beyond me, but the Libyan authorities have cleared the way."

"Please, captain. You are speaking of our friend and benefactor. Besides that, let me remind you that this cutthroat, as you call him, is a prince and we are guests in his adopted country."

This last was spoken in the same crisp English accent used by the captain. "At least, my friend, I must credit you for not calling my host a wog."

The Englishman snorted. "Ha. Not likely. You must know that term went out of usage long ago. But I am glad it's you going out into the desert and not me. David is readying the heli for flight, and you can leave in fifteen minutes."

He offered a casual salute, turned on his heel and returned through the doorfrom which he had come.

Amel Rafsanjian snuffed out his cigarette on his plate and went to the rail. He leaned on it and stared down at the small waves gently lapping on the hull. The reflection from the water caused multi-hued colors to dance on his deeply tanned face. By birth he was Iranian, but always referred to himself as a Persian. Coal black hair, a thin mustache and regular features made him handsome in a cruel sort of way. Courtly manners suggested a man of great charm. Even so, he made people uneasy and uncomfortable without their really knowing why. Something, unformulated in the minds of those who met him, hinted that a quite different man lurked within.

He had come down from Cambridge with honors, spoke perfect English with an upper class British accent, and was fluent in Farsi, French, German and Arabic. He added to that list with basic communicative skills in Russian, Italian and Spanish.

Eschewing the spiral stairwell at the rear he went nimbly backwards down the side ladder to the outboard walkway and entered his cabin two decks below. A few minutes later he emerged dressed in the flowing aba of a desert Arab. His garb was white, in direct contrast to the black robes normally worn by the Bedouin Arabs in the Libyan and Sahara deserts. Two thin cylindrical bands of black cloth circled the burnoose that covered his head, identifying him as an important person. Under one arm he carried a large rectangular folder that resembled an artists portfolio.

***

The helicopter swept across the low fertile region that borders the Mediterranean Sea, headed roughly southwest in the direction of the Oasis of Giofra. The land began to rise gradually and then more sharply, and the landscape grew arid. Before long they flew at an altitude of 500 feet above the scorching sands of the great desert, the temperature changing from moderate maritime to dry and hot. Below, ancient caravan trails spread in what seemed to be a random pattern across the sands, etched by the timeless tracks of legions of desert travelers. The young pilot studied his map and chose one of those to steer by.

Another thirty minutes passed and the tall date palms of a major oasis appeared directlyahead. Several low tents were scattered randomly among the trees. The pilot again referred to notes that he had scrawled on his map, and circled the oasis at a distance of several hundred yards. Once he was east of the lush growth, he slowed his craft and approached carefully to a landing spot, identified by white panels staked out in the desert.

A dozen heavily armed men in black robes emerged from a tent nearby and surrounded the landing pad. As the rotor lazily spun to a stop, Rafsanjian stepped the short distance to the sand, placed his palms together and bowed to the apparent leader. He spoke in Arabic. "God is Great."

The commander of the guard detachment bowed slightly, returned the greeting, and slung his machine pistol over his left shoulder. "Praise Allah. Come with me."

On a gently rising sand hill, close by the flowing spring of the oasis, a group of tall date palms stood apart from the rest. Pitched among them, a large, multi-poled tent with several smaller tents attached at odd angles on each side and at the rear occupied the highest ground.

This was the temporary quarters of Mustafha al-Kahli. Not unfamiliar with the sophisticated watering holes in Europe, he often made extended visits to London, Paris and various coastal resorts. But he always returned to refresh his soul on the sands from which he and his forebears had sprung.