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Baz Al Zahrani walked barefoot in the sand, his white pant legs rolled up. Low waves swept in, washing over his feet. The late morning sun was high and hot, with few clouds to break the glare. The beach ahead was nearly deserted. The air smelled of salt and fish and beach fires from the previous night.
Two men with concealed weapons walked twenty yards behind. He pulled his sat phone from his back pocket when it buzzed. It was his man at the safe house.
“What’s happening?” Baz asked.
“Our men are secure here,” came the reply. “Still no sign of the third.”
“We have to assume he’s in custody.”
“Perhaps he ran, knowing this was a suicide mission.”
Baz thought for a moment. It was possible. “We have to assume he’s in custody and talking. He knows we will take this out on his wife and children. I really don’t think he’s tried to get away.”
“The packages are complete here, ready to go for morning.”
Baz knew he was referring to the explosives assembled by a separate team at the safe house here and nine others around the country.
“You’ll supervise the transfer to the boat,” Baz said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course.”
“How are our two drivers faring?”
“They will be fine. I’ve made it very clear they have no other options.”
“What of the other matter?” Baz asked, referring to the elimination of another threat at the office of the lawyer.
“The girlfriend has been dealt with. There was some collateral damage, but our man is away safely.”
“Good,” Baz replied. “I want a status report from all the other sites within the hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Baz put the phone back in his pocket and stopped to look out over the ocean. A light southwest wind pushed out from shore. The water was a deep blue with low swells reaching out to a gray haze on the far horizon. Otherwise, the skies were clear and would be again in the morning for the attack.
Three long shipping freighters coasted out far to the east on their way into Charleston Harbor. Baz smiled as he watched them slip slowly along. What a shame this beautiful beach and those for miles in both directions will soon be an environmental disaster, he thought.
Glenn Pyke could not keep the sweat from pouring out on his forehead. He dabbed at it repeatedly with a handkerchief he kept pulling for the breast pocket of his sport coat. It was a rare occasion for him to dress in anything other than shorts and sandals, but his meeting with the newspaper editor required a more professional look.
His lawyer had briefed him repeatedly on how to handle this interview. He had rehearsed his responses several times
❖ T he H ar bo r S t or m s ❖
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on the flight up from New Orleans as well as overnight at the hotel here in Manhattan.
Pyke’s stomach was doing flip turns and he hadn’t been able to touch the room service breakfast he had ordered. He looked up in surprise when the conference room door opened, and the editor and a reporter came in. It was the same person from the first interview.
For the next twenty minutes, they both grilled him about financial improprieties at Green. His practiced responses seemed to be working, and his confidence was growing. Then came the next question.
The editor said, “We have a person from your organization who has come forward.”
Pyke felt the churn in his gut again.
“They are willing to testify to significant fraud and embezzlement, at your direction, I might add.”
“You’re bluffing!” Pyke shouted, his composure suddenly gone.
The editor shared the name of the informer, and Pyke blanched. It was the assistant to his Chief Financial Officer. She would know everything. The CFO was deeply involved in all the financial manipulations.
“We’re done here!” Pyke said, standing and reaching for his leather bag.
“Mr. Pyke,” the editor continued, “we’re running with the story this afternoon. I imagine the Justice Department will be the next call you receive.”
Pyke’s airplane was at 2,000 feet and climbing out of LaGuardia Airport. He had just come out of the elegantly appointed bathroom at the front of the plane, where he had vomited repeatedly.
He sat down to collect himself and, when he felt sufficiently recovered, pressed a number on his cell. His CFO answered on the first ring.
“How bad is it?” the man asked.
“It couldn’t be worse!” Pyke said, his anger rising. “That little blonde you brought in and have been banging, by the way, and yes, I know all about that.”
“Glenn...”
“Shut-up! Your young protégé has turned on us. She’s going to testify. She’s already talked to the paper. The story is going to run this afternoon.”
“Oh shit!” came the panicked reply. “What are we going to do?”
“WE are going to execute Plan B and get the hell out of the country. I’m on my way back to New Orleans to pick up a few things and then taking off. You are going with me.”
“I have a wife and kids!”
“You’ll send for them when this blows over.” “And when is that going to be?”
“I have no friggin’ idea!”