Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

The Janissary nodded, then stepped briskly off the bridge. He was mildly surprised to find the driver of the truck was an Arab attired in scruffy peasant clothes and wearing a ragged keffiyeh wrapped around his head. His dark eyes glared with intensity, however, deflecting attention from the long scar on the right side of his jaw, which he had acquired in a knife fight while a teen. The guard duly searched him, then showed him aboard, escorting him to Maria’s large and stylishly appointed cabin.

The Turkish woman sized him up quickly as she offered him a seat, then dismissed the Janissary from her cabin.

“Thank you for coming here to meet me, Zakkar. If that is indeed your name,” she added.

The Arab smiled thinly. “You may call me Zakkar. Or any other name, if it so pleases you.”

“Your talents have come highly recommended.”

“Perhaps that is why so few can afford me,” he replied, removing the dirty keffiyeh and tossing it onto an adjacent chair. Seeing that his hair was trimmed in a neat Western cut, Maria realized that the grubby outfit was simply a disguise. Given a shave and a suit, he could easily pass as a successful businessman, she thought, not knowing that he often did.

“You have the initial payment?” he asked.

Maria rose and retrieved a leather satchel from a cabinet drawer.

“Twenty-five percent of the total, as we agreed. Payment is in euros. The balance will be wired into a Lebanese bank account, according to your instructions.”

She stepped closer to Zakkar but clung to the satchel.

“The security of this operation must be unquestioned,” she said. “No one is to be involved who is less than completely trustworthy.”

“I would not be alive today if conditions were otherwise,” he replied coldly. He pointed at the satchel. “My men are willing to die for the right price.”

“That will not be necessary,” she said, handing him the satchel.

As he peered inside at its contents, Maria stepped to a bureau and retrieved several rolled-up charts.

“Are you familiar with Jerusalem?” she asked, laying the charts across a coffee table.

“I operate in Israel a good portion of the time. It is Jerusalem where I am to transport the explosives?”

“Yes. Twenty-five kilos of HMX.”

Zakkar raised his brow at the mention of the plastic explosives. “Impressive,” he murmured.

“I will require your assistance in placing the explosives,” she said. “There may be some excavation work required.”

“Of course. That is not a problem.”

She unrolled the first chart, an antiquated map labeled, in Turkish, “Underground Water Routes of Ancient Jerusalem.” Placing it aside, she displayed an enlarged satellite photograph of Jerusalem’s walled Old City. She traced a finger across the eastern face of the wall to the hillside beyond, which descended into the Kidron Valley. Her finger froze atop a large Muslim cemetery perched on the hill, its individual white gravestones visible in the photo.

“I will meet you here, at this cemetery, at exactly eleven p.m., two nights from now,” she said.

Zakkar studied the photo, noting the nearby cross streets, which were overlaid on the image. Once they were committed to memory, he looked up at Maria with a quizzical gaze.

“You will be meeting us there?” he asked.

“Yes. The ship will be sailing from here to Haifa.” She paused, then added firmly, “I will be leading the operation.”

The Arab nearly scoffed at the notion of a woman directing him on an assignment, but then he considered the handsome payoff he would receive for the indignity.

“I will be there with the explosives,” he promised.

She moved to her bunk and pulled out a pair of wooden foot-lockers stored underneath. The heavy lockers had metal handles affixed to each end and were stenciled with the words “Medical Supplies,” written in Hebrew.

“Here is the HMX. I will have my guards carry it to the dock.”

She stepped to the Arab mercenary and looked him hard in the eye.