MEDITERRANEAN SEA
The acrid oxyacetylene scent lingered in the ship’s relative wind, but Hurtubise ignored the odor and the sparks. Striding from port to starboard, he supervised installation of machine gun mounts on the Tarabulus Pride’s guardrail while René Pinsard and some of his associates degreased the weapons and laid out belted ammunition.
Abu Yusuk Zikri appeared from forward of the superstructure. Hurtubise already recognized the captain’s ambivalence to the modifications, but it mattered little. The Libyan skipper appreciated prompt payment far more than any concerns about quasi-legal alterations to his ship.
“You are nearly finished?” Zikri asked, the hope obvious in his voice.
Pinsard’s welder finished fusing the vertical pipe to the rail, completing the crude weapon mount. Then he snuffed out his torch, turned off the regulator. He raised his visor and nodded to Hurtubise. Then he pulled off his gloves and prepared to move the portable equipment.
“Back here, yes. Now we’ll add two more mounts ahead of the pilothouse.”
“Oh,” Zikri replied, noncommittal as ever. “Is that necessary?”
Hurtubise gave a sly grin. “I hope not.”
“Ahem. Yes, I see your point.” He returned the smile, minus the enthusiasm. “Ah, monsieur, could we speak? In private?”
“Of course.” He walked farther aft, away from Pinsard’s men.
Though clear of the others, Zikri still spoke in a low voice. “I have received a confidential message from our … benefactors. I thought you should see it immediately.”
Hurtubise accepted the message form and read it twice. Then he raised his eyes to Zikri’s. “Who else has seen this?”
“Only the radio operator and me.”
“Is the operator trustworthy?”
“Monsieur, he is my second cousin. We grew up together.”
But can he be trusted? The Frenchman decided against repeating the question aloud. “All right. Just make sure he does not discuss any messages with anyone else, not even my men.”
Zikri nodded animatedly. “He already knows that.”
“What about the others?”
“Which others?”
“You have other radio operators, don’t you? Your cousin, he does not remain on duty twenty-four hours.”
“Oh. Well, anything but routine traffic always comes to me or the first officer, day or night. But my second operator is reliable. His mother’s mother’s family is still in Palestine. They hate the Jews.”
Hurtubise thought for a moment, sorting priorities. “I want to talk to each of your operators, with you present. I want them to know that Pinsard or I are to be told of any such messages, no matter what time of day or night.” He lanced the captain with a predator’s stare. “No exceptions.”
“As you wish, monsieur.”
Hurtubise dismissed the captain with a curt nod. Then he rejoined Pinsard’s men.
“René.”
The mercenary looked up from his work. He had just hefted a pintle-mounted MAG-58 onto one of the welded stanchions. It swiveled reasonably well. With a word to one of the armorers, he joined his former comrade.
“Yes, Marcel?”
Hurtubise handed him the message without comment. When Pinsard finished reading, the concern was visible on his face. “How did they know?”
“I can guess.” Paul, you bastard. I was right to kill you. And I was wrong to regret it. “But that doesn’t matter. Right now, I think we have to assume that we’ll be intercepted rather than consider it a possibility.”
“What’s the source of this information? It doesn’t say.”
“It doesn’t have to. I know who’s involved, and the authenticator is valid. If the source says the Americans and Israelis know we’ve sailed, that’s the end of it.”
Pinsard returned the paper, folded his arms, and regarded his friend. “You think it’ll be the Americans or the Jews?”
Hurtubise arched an eyebrow. “Qui sait? Maybe both. Anyway, we made the right choice by avoiding Suez. Too much chance of being boarded for routine inspection. This way, the captain says we can alter our course and speed, maybe give them the slip. For a while, anyway.”
Pinsard looked outboard, scanning the Middle Sea. “There’s a lot of ships out here. It will not be easy finding us among so many others.”
“No, it won’t be easy. But they will find us. I feel it, here!” He punched himself in the solar plexus.
Pinsard unzipped a confident smile. “Then we’ll just have to give them a warm reception.”
“The best kind, mon ami. The best kind.”