The Navigator by Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos

television monitor and smiled mischievously as he watched the Humvee drive off with Carina and the marines. “From what I heard, she did exactly that.”

    “I survived Saddam and I can survive the Americans,” Ali said with a fierce grin.

    The man shifted his gaze back to the Arab. “I trust your difficulties won’t endanger the matter we were discussing before she interrupted our negotiations.”

    “Not exactly.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “There’s been a glitch.”

    The man moved closer until he loomed over the Iraqi. “What
sort
of glitch?”

    “The
Navigator
has been sold to another buyer.”

    “We ordered its removal from the museum, and paid you in advance. I came to Baghdad to close the deal.”

    “A buyer has come forth with a higher bid. I’ll return your deposit. Perhaps I can persuade the buyer to part with the object, although the price is likely to be greater than the one we discussed.”

    The man’s gaze seemed to drill through Ali’s skull, but he maintained his smile. “You wouldn’t be holding me up for more money?”

    “If you don’t want to make a deal, tough.”

    Ali was still fuming over his confrontation with Carina. His anger had dulled his street smarts; otherwise, he might have sensed the menace in the quiet tone when the man whispered, “I must have the statue.”

    For the first time, Ali noticed the disproportionately large hands that dangled from long, powerful-looking arms.

    “I was just giving you a hard time,” Ali said with a toothy smile. “Blame it on that Italian bitch. I’ll call the warehouse on my hand radio and have the statue sent over.”

    He started toward the sitting area.

    “Wait,” the man said. Ali froze in midstep. The man’s grin grew even wider as he picked up the pocket radio Ali had left on the table. “Is
this
what you’re looking for?”

    Ali lunged toward the seating platform and slipped his hand under a cushion. His fingers closed on the grip of his Beretta and slipped the pistol out from its hiding place.

    The man moved with the swiftness of a hunting cheetah. He tossed the radio aside, grabbed Ali under the chin from behind, and twisted his arm. The pistol dropped from Ali’s hand, his body bent backward like a horseshoe on an anvil.

    “Tell me where to find the
Navigator
and I’ll let you go. If you don’t, I’ll snap your spine.”

    Ali was a tough man but not a particularly courageous one. He needed only a few seconds of exquisite pain to convince him that no piece of art was worth his life. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you,” he gasped. He spit out a location.

    The man stopped twisting his arm. The pain eased up. Ali’s hand drifted down to the dagger in his ankle sheath. As soon as he got free, he’d carve this creep like a pig. He never got the chance. The man’s free hand joined the other under his chin and the fingers began to squeeze. The knee came up at the same time and dug into the small of his back.

    “What are you doing? I thought we had a deal,” Ali said, barely able to get the words out.

    He was almost unconscious when he felt a dull snap. The grip on his chin loosened. Ali’s head lolled on his chest like a rag doll’s and he slumped to the floor. The man stepped over the still-twitching body and pushed aside the hanging rug that hid a back door to the building. Moments later, he disappeared in the maze of alleyways. It took him almost to dawn to make his way back to his hotel. He stood in the window, watching the smoke rise over the wounded city, and made a call on his satellite phone.

    His benefactor’s mellifluous voice came on the phone immediately.

    “I’ve been waiting for your call, Adriano,” he said.

    “Sorry for the delay, sir. There were unexpected difficulties.”

    Adriano described every detail of his encounter with Ali. His benefactor would know if he were lying or shading the truth.

    “I’m very disappointed, Adriano.”

    “I know, sir. I was under orders not