Strike Force Delta by Mack Maloney Page B

they were. There were no handshakes, though. Murphy simply gave Bingham a signal up on the bridge and the ship’s whistle was blown three times. The dozens of armed men hidden around the upper decks showed themselves and were told to stand easy at their stations. Again, while not friends exactly, the visitors weren’t enemies. Not typical ones, anyway.
    Murphy wordlessly escorted the pair up toward the Captain’s Room. No one who saw him pass liked the look on his face.
    Faster than the speed of light, another rumor went through the ship: These people were here either to stop the rescue mission or to take Murphy away.
    Or both.
    Murphy fought to stay cordial. It was hard to do.
    He led the two men into the Captain’s Room and invited them to sit at the big table. One agent was older, midfifties, red faced, with coal-black eyes, a real veteran of the Agency. The other was midtwenties, moussed hair, wide-rim glasses. An egghead.
    Murphy offered them coffee, beer, or a drink of something stronger. They declined. Taking a beer himself, Murphy settled into a chair across from them. The big room suddenly seemed empty with just the three of them in it.
    The two had a matter of importance to discuss with Murphy, they said. As a preamble, they tossed out various code words and names of high-placed CIA officialsto convince Murphy they were who they said they were. There was no doubt, either, that they were well aware of the Ghost Team and what they had done in the past year. The two men were able to recite details of some of the team’s more famous exploits, spitting out information that only someone deep on the inside would know.
    Still there was tension in the room. Murphy despised the CIA. Didn’t trust them, didn’t respect them. Because of their ineffectiveness and bumbling in the days leading up to the attacks of 9/11, Murphy blamed them almost as much as he blamed Al Qaeda for what happened.
    Furthermore, he was extremely pissed that the Agency found him way out here in the first place. But more out of curiosity than anything, he wanted to hear what they had to say.
    â€œWe know you guys are going after Delta Thunder,” the younger of the two agents began. “And we know that Delta Thunder is being held by guys loyal to the Diamond Prince.”
    Murphy just sipped his beer. “Go on. . . .”
    â€œAnd we see much wisdom in this,” the young agent continued. “But we’ve got another operation going—a parallel mission, if you like, only bigger. Smacking his guys around in Africa is one thing. But we want to go after the Diamond Prince himself. We know there’s no way he’s shacking up in that prison. We can’t imagine him ever dirtying himself by stepping foot for very long on the Dark Continent.
    â€œIn fact, at the moment, he’s in Brussels. And he will soon fly down to the Riviera. From there he is going to Cairo—and then he is going home, back to Saudi Arabia. He’s traveling with a small army of bodyguardsright now—but when he gets back on his own turf, he lets down a bit. It will be a delicate operation. But we think there’s a good chance we can get him when this happens.”
    Murphy was still doing his best to keep his temper in check. He smelled a rat here.
    â€œWell, you boys seem to have all the bases covered,” he said in his thick drawl. “You know where he is. You know where he’s going. You know when he’ll get there. Why did you come all the way out here, in the middle of the night, just to tell me what you’ve been up to?”
    â€œBecause we need your help in corralling this guy,” Agent Mousse Hair said. “Your people can do special things. Things other people can’t or won’t do. We’d like to tap into that expertise.”
    Murphy smiled darkly. “Oh? You want us to bomb his ass?” he asked them. “You want us to go in and tear his palace apart—and