M/V TARABULUS PRIDE
“How did they find us?” Hurtubise demanded.
Zikri almost rocked back on his heels. “I do not know, monsieur. But we…”
“They had to have a source on this ship. It’s the only way I can imagine they picked us out of all the ships in this part of the ocean.”
“I agree,” the Libyan replied. “We should talk to Aujali again.”
“Where is he?”
“He came off duty about ninety minutes ago. He must be in his cabin or maybe the galley.”
“Come on,” Hurtubise said. “And bring your cousin.”
Four minutes later, Nuri Aujali landed on his face in a vacant compartment. Shatwan dogged the hatch and leaned against it, arms folded. Zikri stood over the prostrate radioman, ready to translate Hurtubise’s pointed questions while René Pinsard applied physical motivation to reply promptly and accurately.
Aujali screamed in pain, yammering in a high, fast voice.
“What’s he say?” Hurtubise demanded. His Arabic had its limits.
Zikri turned to the Frenchman, obviously uncomfortable with the process but unwilling to interfere. “He says, he does not know why you abuse him.”
“Tell him this is an object lesson. We will do far worse if he does not tell us what we want to know.”
The captain translated, immediately gaining a pained, gasping consent from the suspect. “Yes, he will answer. He says the Zionists forced him to do it.”
Hurtubise shook his head in mild confusion. “To do what? I have not even asked him anything.”
Aujali choked out something incomprehensible. “The pain,” Zikri explained. “Your man, he…”
Hurtubise tapped Pinsard on the shoulder. The younger mercenary released the victim and stood up. With one hand Aujali massaged his ears, reddened where Pinsard had applied hard, twisting pressure. His other hand was impaired by a broken finger. The ex-Legionnaire was disgusted: he had suffered worse for much longer in routine training exercises.
After more back and forthing, Zikri summarized. “His mother’s mother’s family have tried for years to leave Israel and join him in exile. They are always denied. He says the Jews keep promising to let them leave after each job he does for them. This time, two were given exit visas with a promise that the others would be released when we reach port.”
Hurtubise nodded to himself. So that explains it. “The Jews have been blackmailing him. I wonder how many others there are.”
Zikri shrugged eloquently.
The Frenchman squatted by the young man, speaking English. “You are a radioman. You understand me?”
Aujali nodded. “Yes. Some English…”
“How did you communicate with the Americans?”
The seaman raised himself to a sitting position on the deck. “Not with the Americans. With an Israeli.”
“Who is he?”
“I do not know. He only goes by a code name.”
Hurtubise’s right hand snaked out, hard and fast. He slapped Aujali twice, once on each cheek. “You want to deal with René again? Tell me everything when I ask a question!”
Aujali’s dark eyes betrayed all his emotions. For a man of Marcel Hurtubise’s vast experience, they were easily read. Fear and anger. Basic psychology. Anger is fear expressing itself.
“Jacob. Only Jacob.”
“Good. Very good. Now, how long have you been in contact with him? What did you tell him?”
Aujali’s Arabic pride overcame some of the fear. He looked up at Zikri. “I want some water, Captain.”
Zikri motioned to Shatwan, who retrieved a bottle and handed it to his colleague. Before he opened it, Aujali glanced at Pinsard, then began speaking. “I was approached by a Frenchman in Masratah. He called himself Remy LeClerc. He said he worked with Jacob and gave me the frequencies and schedule.”
As Aujali sipped some water, Hurtubise’s eyes narrowed. Paul, you bastard! Working both sides of the fence! “Describe him.”
“A young man, about my age. Sandy hair, built like a wrestler.”
Hurtubise looked at Pinsard. “That was Deladier. You met him in Marseille, I think.”
Pinsard absorbed that information with typical aplomb. “I don’t suppose I will meet him again.”
“Not this side of hell.”
Hurtubise rose to his feet, regarding the radioman. “We will keep this one for a while. He might be useful later on.” He nodded to Shatwan, who escorted the younger man from the compartment.
Zikri finally found his voice. “What do you intend for Aujali?”
Hurtubise’s eyes were shark-dull. “Do not ask stupid questions.”