Guardian by Erik Williams Page B

Abu?”
    â€œNo time. Let them come. We must find the American. Without him any further actions are impossible.”
    â€œVery well. I will find him right away.”
    â€œDo you have enough information?”
    â€œEnough to start. It should not be too difficult to draw him into the open.”
    â€œKeep me informed.”
    The line died. Mayyat set the phone down and stared out into the clear night. A slight wind rocked palm trees in the distance.
    Enough to start . He reached for the file on the passenger seat and flipped it open. A picture of Michael Caldwell was paper-­clipped to a small stack of pages. The man looked like a common Westerner. Average height. Dark hair. Medium build. No discerning scars or tattoos. The picture showed him at the construction site, arguing with the late Haddad.
    Mayyat lifted the picture. Underneath was a list of names, compiled by Kharija’s informants over the last few weeks. Mayyat was always impressed at the amount of intelligence Kharija was able to assemble. He shouldn’t be, he knew. After all, Kharija had spent many years as an intelligence officer both for the Republican Guard and the order. But still, the fact that he had gathered all of this information on an American CIA agent in only a few weeks had to be admired. It was almost unbelievable.
    Then again, Mayyat did know who Kharija was working for. Nassir, no doubt, had better resources than even Kharija. But could even Nassir discover such a wealth of information in such a short amount of time?
    He sighed, knowing the who and the how were beyond the scope of his duties. No matter how wealthy the information, the bushes still needed to be beaten to flush out the prey now that Kharija had escaped. And that was where he came in.
    Mayyat flipped through the pages underneath the photo of Caldwell. Not many names. But enough.
    Who will it be? Who will pull you from the shadows into the light?
    Mayyat closed the file and set it back on the passenger seat. Then he lifted the cell phone again. He had a flight reservation to make.

 
    Chapter Eight
    T he coxswain maneuvered the small motor boat alongside the stern of the eighty-­eight-­foot yacht with the precision of a surgeon. A crewman on the deck of the yacht lowered a ­couple of fenders between the two hulls and tied up the boat to cleats both forward and aft. The coxswain secured the engine. Kharija took all this in while trying not to vomit his breakfast.
    He had always hated the water. As a youth, his father often fished on the Euphrates. It was as a boy that Kharija discovered the slightest movement on the water, even the smallest ripple rocking the boat, would unleash a torrent of dizziness in him. Little had changed since then. He assumed Nassir knew this and had chosen the meeting place to play on his weakness.
    â€œMr. Fahd is waiting in the main cabin,” the crewman said.
    Kharija nodded and rose slowly, steadying himself as the small boat pitched and yawed in the gentle waters of the Mediterranean. To him, they felt like stormy seas. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and opened them, then moved to the side of the boat. The crewman extended a hand, and Kharija took it and stepped onto the yacht.
    The deck of the yacht was steadier, and right away he found it less demanding to balance himself. Breathing a little easier, Kharija swallowed a mouthful of nervous saliva and avoided any thoughts of his family. He had to be strong for Malika and Rasha, and thinking of them and their safety—­if any safety actually existed—­only added to his growing discomfort.
    â€œFollow me,” the crewman said.
    He led Kharija from the stern deck into an opulent space. Dark polished wood spanned the floors and bulkheads. White leather upholstery covered the sofas and chairs. The sconces and lamps were gold. And it was completely empty of any ­people. Such a large boat and no guests other than him, it would