Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

Kurt reached toward a teapot made of handblown glass and banded with a silver ring in a swirling Arabic motif. “Tea?”

“Please.”

He poured two glasses, one for himself, one for his host.

El Din was now a wealthy businessman but had once been a purveyor of information. Rumor had it, he’d sold information to both the U.S. and Russia back during the Cold War, a fact both countries had known. But he’d never crossed lines, as far as either side could determine. And, at any rate, good information was hard to find, all of which put El Din into the category of the devil you know being better than the devil you don’t.

Where El Din and Dirk Pitt met was anyone’s guess, but the man had spoken admirably of Pitt and Pitt had said El Din was trustworthy. That was good enough for Kurt.

Placing the carafe down, Kurt looked back out across the racetrack. “So did we meet here to talk about the fickle nature of reality?” he asked. “Or are we here for something more concrete?”

El Din took a sip of the apple-flavored tea. “Dirk said you were eager. Look to the paddock where the winning horse is being brushed down.”

Kurt picked up the binoculars again and focused on the far side of the track. He saw several men gathered around the horse. Two were dressed in Arab garb like El Din, the other three were in suits despite the heat.

“Who am I looking at?” Kurt asked.

“The one without a tie,” El Din said.

“Who is he?”

“He goes by the name Rene Acosta, but he is neither Portuguese nor Spanish. He speaks passable French, but no one knows what his real name is or where he came from.”

Kurt recognized the name from the electronic file Pitt had given him. He zoomed in on Acosta. It was the same man in the photo Dirk had shown him. He was broad and short, thick from front to back, with a barrel chest and a tree-stump neck. His nose was flattened like a boxer who’d taken too many punches. A buzzed head of short gray hair covered the sides and back of his skull, though the front and top were smooth and shiny in the hot Middle Eastern sun. Kurt pegged his age at forty.

“Is he a buyer or a seller?” Kurt asked, taking a quick look at the two men behind Acosta. Both were taller, more svelte, though powerfully built. By the way they stood, Kurt guessed they were bodyguards.

“Both,” El Din replied. “Acosta likes the finer things in life. He trades less worthy items to get them.”

“The barter system?”

“Not exactly,” El Din said. “It’s a triangle trade. He will deliver the items under his control to a third party if the third party purchases what he desires and delivers it to him. A very complicated, tax-free way of living.”

“So he’s a smuggler.”

“That he is,” El Din said. “And he has a new line of business that is rapidly expanding: the smuggling of human cargo, particularly experts in advanced electronics.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Kurt looked back toward the paddock. “He wants the horse.”

“Very badly,” El Din said. “That animal will be the odds-on favorite to win the Dubai Cup and a ten-million-dollar purse. If it does that, it will be worth fifty million or more as a stud.”

“That’s a hefty price. Acosta must have something big to sell.”

El Din nodded. “And if it’s your missing friend he’s offering, you can be sure there are many in the world who would pay handsomely for what she knows.”

It was almost more than Kurt could have hoped for. He briefly wondered if Sienna’s knowledge could be worth millions to the right person. Then he stopped doubting. Phalanx itself was worth billions to Westgate’s company. If she could give the Iranians their own version, they would be secure behind an electronic wall, a goal they’d sought for years. Fifty million was nothing for that kind of security.

“Any chance you can get me into one of his meetings?”

El Din shook his head. “No,” he said. “My work makes it impossible.”

Kurt knew about El Din’s “work” from the CIA files on the memory stick. A sad fact

was that much of Dubai’s glittering skyline had been built on the backs of modern slaves, foreigners brought from India and the Philippines with promises of wealth. They were not slaves in the literal sense, but they were often paid far less than what they were promised and worked twice as hard. El Din, along with a few others, had been fighting to change that. “You’ve made enemies trying to emancipate the workers in your country.”