“All right,” Fenton said. “You’ll receive a location, date and time shortly. Plus, radio frequencies, codes, and the latest Intel on the Karun River.”

  “I guess this meeting is over,” Wilkins said, as she stood. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Godspeed.”

  Baxter rose to shake hands.

  Murphy had a petulant look on his face as he turned to follow Wilkins.

  “That guy is a real sweetheart,” Fenton said. “Okay, Commander. You don’t trust them. I get that. But you will trust me, or I will put you on a garbage scow in Antarctica.”

  Baxter grinned. Fenton was growing on him. “Aye, aye, sir. Here’s what I think we should do.”

  The concept was still in the formative stage. But Baxter had a pretty good idea of what would be required. And Fenton promised to get what was needed. Operation Morpheus was underway.

  ***

  Aboard a bus headed for the town of Darra Adam Khel, Pakistan

  It was a crowded bus. Every seat was taken. Chickens clucked in cages. A goat bleated. A Pakistani pop song was thudding over a boom box and a baby was crying.

  It was obvious that Chun Chi’s fellow passengers viewed her as a freak.

  Was that because she was Chinese? Or was it due to the fact that Chi was dressed in fashionable HEF streetwear consisting of a bolero jacket, a baggy top, and skinny jeans? A pair of pink athletic shoes completed the look.

  Most of the women on the bus were wearing firaq partug, which were three-piece outfits that included a chador, or head scarf, a baggy skirt called a firaq, and a lower garment called a partug. The partug was loose and gathered at the ankles.

  But the disguise didn’t end there. Chun Chi was carrying a Malaysian passport, a visa for Pakistan, an ID card that identified her as an employee of The Star newspaper, a wad of Malaysian currency, and a round trip plane ticket from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia to Abu Dhabi. Plus, the kind of purse litter that any woman might have.

  The plan was simple. Chi would identify herself as a journalist who, having heard of the Chinese Rajah in Islamabad, wanted to interview the man who might find a way to restore the Baloch people to power. A pitch aimed straight at Ang’s ego.

  Then, if Chi was granted an audience with the renegade, she would kill him. How remained to be determined. After that Chi would change her appearance, blend in, and depart Darra Adam Khel. Assuming she survived.

  Hours passed. The bus stopped every few miles to let people off and allow others to board. Some stared at Chi and some didn’t.

  Villages came and went. Chi caught glimpses of scenic vistas through dirty windows. The bus crossed a bridge so narrow that oncoming traffic sped past only inches away.

  Shortly thereafter the brakes came on, the driver announced a checkpoint, and ordered the passengers to leave the bus and form a line. A pair of bored soldiers were there to check IDs while a noncom sat on a white bucket and clipped his nails.

  It was a routine affair in which the soldiers eyed Computerized National Identity Cards and asked perfunctory questions.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Why are you so far from home?”

  “Do you have any foreign currency?”

  And so forth. The process went smoothly until they got to Chi. A soldier wearing glasses frowned, eyed her passport, and said, “You’re Chinese?”

  Qwan had practiced what he hoped would pass as a female voice prior to leaving Gwadar. Could he pull it off? His palms were sweaty.

  “I’m sorry,” Chi replied in a high-pitched voice. “Do you speak English?”

  “I do,” the soldier replied. “Are you Chinese?”

  “I’m Malaysian,” Chi answered. “But I’m of Chinese descent.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the village of Darra Adam Khel to interview the man called the ‘Chinese Rajah.’ ”

  At that point the solider called to the noncom. He ambled over, asked the same questions all over again, and inspected the rest of Chi’s documents. Then he looked up. “Darra Adam Khel has been cordoned off. No one can enter.”

  Chi nodded. “I understand that. But I have special permission from District Commander Alvi. Here’s a copy.”

  The order was short, concise, and printed on what appeared to be official stationery. As the noncom scanned it Qwan could practically read his mind.

  Should he accept what appeared to be a legit order? Or get on the radio to his lieutenant? Qwan would be in deep shit if that occurred.

  “You can keep that copy if you need to,” Chi said helpfully. And that did the trick. Now, with a piece of paper to cover his ass, the noncom was willing to let Chi pass.

  “Good,” the noncom said, as he returned Chi’s ID. “You may proceed.”

  Qwan felt a tremendous sense of relief. The first test had been passed.

  Once the passengers were back aboard, the bus driver started the engine and pulled onto the road. The town of Babozi was next. It was located in the same valley as Darra Adam Khel. So, it would be afternoon by the time Chi arrived in the Baloch held town. And that was fine.

  Would Qwan try to get an audience with the renegade immediately? Or put it off until the following morning? I’ll play it by ear, Qwan decided. In the meantime, I’ll take a nap.

  Sleep came easily in spite of all the noise, and when Qwan awoke, he was in Babozi. The driver proclaimed a half hour “comfort” break, which was good because Qwan needed to defecate.

  It wasn’t until Qwan was off the bus that he was forced to confront a problem that should have been obvious from the beginning. There was no such thing as a unisex bathroom in Pakistan.

  Notwithstanding the gradual drift toward modernity, there were numerous situations in which men and women were segregated because of religious strictures and tradition.

  So, like it or not, Chi had to join the line of women waiting to use the single toilet for women. The odor of feces became more oppressive the closer the agent got. And the stench caused Qwan to gag once it was his turn to enter the shed style enclosure.

  Flies buzzed, the toilet seat was filthy, and Qwan found that it was not only strenuous to crouch over the shit-covered seat, but to keep his clothes clean.

  Like most Chinese, Qwan was familiar with the hole-in-the-floor toilets still common in rural China. But they were easy to deal with compared to taking a dump in Babozi.

  Fortunately, Qwan was carrying his own TP, because there wasn’t any in the rusty dispenser, and probably never had been. Why the government bothered to install a roller was a mystery.

  Chi received some resentful looks as she emerged from the toilet shed. Qwan could imagine what the other women were thinking. Why did the Asian bitch have to take so long? And why was she on the bus anyway? Well, to hell with them.

  Street vendors were present to meet the bus and sell their wares to passengers. Qwan bought a bun kebab. The savory snack consisted of a bun filled with a combination of shami kebab, chutney, raita, onion slices and cucumbers. Qwan also purchased an absurdly overpriced bottle of water with which to wash it down.

  Then it was back onto the bus for the one-hour ride to Darra Adam Khel. A trip that would have been completed in half the time if it hadn’t been for the frequent stops.

  All the while the knot of fear in Qwan’s stomach was growing larger. And, by the time the bus arrived in Darra Adam Khel, the assassin had started to sweat. But not as a result of the heat.

  When the bus stopped and the driver called “All out for Darra Adam Khel,” Qwan was the only person who got off. The agent was enveloped in a cloud of blue exhaust as the bus pulled away.

  A squad of Baloch freedom fighters was waiting to greet him. They were dressed in ragtag outfits that were part uniform and part civilian clothing.

  A man sporting a jutting beard eyed Chi with a look of open hostility. His English was surprisingly good. “Who are you? And why are you here?”

  Fortunately, Qwan remembered to pitch his voice high. “My name is Chun Chi. I’m a reporter for the Malaysian Star. I’m here to interview the Chinese Rajah.”

  “Well, my name is Hamza Hayat,” the man replied, as he aimed a pistol at Chi’s head. “And I don’t believe you.”

  ***

  Aboard the Iranian Police Boat 014 on the Karun River, Iran

  Master Chief James Crawford USN was in command of an Iranian police boat, manned by a Saudi crew, and about to enter the Iranian city of Abadan. Why? Because Commander Baxter wanted him to. There hadn’t been a direct order. Just a description of the mission, Baxter’s plan, and how Crawford could help.

  “I can’t send Pawley,” Baxter had explained. “There’s no way Saudi enlisted men are going to take orders from a woman. And I can’t use our sailors, because none of them look Iranian.”

  “And neither do I,” Crawford had replied.

  “True,” Baxter had admitted. “Which is why you, and one of our radio operators, will stay inside the cabin at all times.

  “Assuming you’re willing to go, you and your Saudis will proceed up the Karun River, and board a passenger.

  “Once you’re underway, I’ll follow in one of our Tapper patrol boats, with an American flag flying from the stern.”

  Crawford remembered his response to Baxter’s plan. “You must be shitting me.”

  “Nope,” Baxter had replied. “According to the spooks, the Iranians know we’re going to stage an extraction. So, they’ll focus their attention on the Tapper. And, when things get crazy, we’ll turn and run.

  “Did I mention that you’ll be aboard an Iranian police boat?” Baxter had added. “The Saudis captured three of them. That’s the key. Your boat will be legit, your sailors will be dressed in Iranian police unforms, and every single one will speak Farsi.”

  Crawford thought the plan was batshit crazy. Not only that, he was an old hand, and could smell the CIA stink. That meant Baxter hadn’t told him everything. Couldn’t tell him everything.

  So why did he volunteer to go? Because there’s something about Baxter, Crawford concluded. He’s cranky at times, rebellious more often than not, and a winner. And that, by God, is what I want in a CO. I want to win.

  The bombed-out city of Abadan lay to both the port and starboard. The once thriving city of more than 200 thousand people had been bombed repeatedly until only a few thousand residents remained. One of them was fishing off a dock as the patrol boat motored past. The man waved. A Saudi sailor waved back.

  ***

  Aboard the Swedish Patrol Boat Tenacious, approaching the city of Abadan, Iran

  The seventy-two-foot patrol boat Tenacious was perfect for the job at hand. She had a steel hull, twin diesel engines, and could operate in shallow waters.

  Her armament consisted of two heavy machine guns, a pair of light machine guns, and a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

  At the moment, the Tenacious was plowing up river, fifteen minutes behind the Iranian police boat commanded by Master Chief Crawford.

  The bridge was spacious considering the vessel’s size, and Baxter was perched on a high-rise seat next to the PB’s commander, Lieutenant Liam Nilsson.

  As the Tenacious entered the city of Abadan, Baxter was struck by the amount of damage the city had suffered, and felt sorry for the civilian residents—one of whom was fishing off a pier.

  The Iranian stood as the patrol boat appeared with American and Swedish flags flying. A bow gunner waved and received the universal OK sign in return. A seemingly friendly response.

  But Baxter knew that when the OK sign was delivered in Greece, Turkey, and Iran the gesture was the equivalent of “fuck you.” The gunner continued to wave.

  Who else was watching, Baxter wondered? A drone operator? A forward observer? Possibly both. Which was just fine with Baxter who wanted to provoke a response, fake a pickup, and run like hell.

  But rather than the furious reception that Baxter was expecting, nothing happened. The PB passed through the ruins of Abadan without incident. Farmland appeared. Villages slid past. Fishing boats rocked as the boat’s wake hit them.

  Were the Iranians asleep at the wheel? Were they on the way? Or, was this the possibility Baxter feared most, were they waiting for the Tenacious to enter a trap? One the PB couldn’t escape from?

  After nearly four hours of travel, Baxter gave orders for the Tenacious to pull in next to a public dock in the tiny village of Farsiat-e Bozorg which—judging from the small boats pulled up on the adjacent banks—subsisted on fishing.

  Once there Baxter ordered Nilsson to tie up with the bow out, and keep the engines running. Then, with two armed sailors at his back, he went ashore.

  Locals stared in amazement as the foreigners entered the general store, took the owner into custody, and marched him back to the dock. “Why?” the shopkeeper demanded in heavily accented English. “Why are you doing this to me? I’m innocent!”

  “Yes, you are,” Baxter agreed, as the man was forced onto the patrol boat. “And I apologize for the inconvenience. But don’t worry, you’ll be free soon.”

  “Take him below,” Baxter ordered. “And keep him there.”

  “But why?” the man wailed.

  “Because,” Baxter replied, “we need a passenger. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

  ***

  Ahvaz, Iran

  CIA agent Mike Murphy wasn’t supposed to be in Iran or in the city of Ahvaz. Nor was he supposed to be with Iranian Counter Intel personnel, working to capture an Allied asset. A woman who would be forced to identify the people in her cell.

  But, in order to top off his secret retirement account in Belize, that’s what the American had agreed to do. Such were the ways of the world.

  “There!” Murphy said, as he pointed at the video screen. “They have her!”

  Agent Saman Khan watched as the Shahed 129 drone circled high above the Allied boat, a modest dock, and the village of Farsiat-e Bozorg. The American was right. The boat had been sent to extract the traitor. The bitch was waiting in a store. Now she was boarding the boat. Or was the traitor female? It was hard to tell from above.

  Khan’s heart began to beat faster. This was it! His ticket to the position of Sector Head, from which he could rise even higher.

  Khan turned to a subordinate. “Inform Captain Sadiq that the boat is traveling downriver, and to spring the trap. Warn the helo pilot … Agent Murphy will depart in ten minutes.”

  ***

  Darra Adam Khel, Pakistan

  “My name is Hamza Hayat,” the man replied, as he aimed a pistol at Chi’s head. “And I don’t believe you.”

  Maybe I should take his gun and shove it up his ass, Qwan thought. No, his friends would shoot me. How should Chun Chi react? She’d be scared, but insistent, the assassin decided.

  “Please, don’t aim that thing at me,” Qwan said in a high-pitched voice. “I can prove who I am. And, since I work for a major news outlet, I think Mr. Ang will want to tell the world about his hopes for a reconstituted Balochistan.”

  “We want more than Balochistan,” Hayat replied, as he lowered the pistol. “We plan to rule Pakistan. Show me your proof.”

  The next fifteen minutes were spent showing Hayat the same ID cards and documents that Chi had submitted back in Babozi. And, as before, the deception was successful.

  Hyatt turned to one of his men. “Take her to the operations center, and hold her there. I will inform the Rajah.”

  As the rebels marched Qwan into the labyrinth of narrow streets and shadowy passageways he could hear a metallic symphony as trip hammers pounded metal, lathes screeched, and a muezzin called the faithful to the Asr (afternoon prayer).

  The group was forced to pause as a teenage boy emerged from a shop holding what looked like an M-16 assault rifle. “Don’t worry,” a rebel said, as Qwan backed away. “He’s going to test it.”

  And sure enough, the youngster pointed the weapon up into the air and fired an entire magazine. As brass flew sideways a street urchin hurried to collect the empty casings which her mother would sell to a reloader.

  Since Qwan was an army officer, as well as an agent, he knew that bullets fired up in the air inevitably fall. And if one struck the top of his head, he’d be dead. What a stupid way to die.

  Fortunately, that didn’t happen. And Qwan was escorted to what had once been a stable, judging from the odor. He was invited to sit on a wooden bench backed by a stone wall.

  So, this is their operations center, Qwan mused. I don’t think the government of Pakistan has a whole lot to worry about. They’ll clean house one of these days. Or, if I kill Ang, it’s quite possible that the whole operation will collapse on its own.

  Rebels came and went. People stared at Chi and she stared back. Finally, after an hour passed, Hayat appeared. His demeanor had changed.

  “The Rajah will see you,” the rebel announced importantly. “And asked me to apologize for the wait. The Rajah has many important duties to perform.”

  Like counting his money, Qwan thought cynically.

  “Of course, he’s a busy man,” Chi said in her high squeaky voice. “Thank you for your help.”

  Hayat beamed. “You are most welcome. Please follow me.”

  The journey took Hayat, Qwan, and two bodyguards back into the labyrinth, down a street lined with competing gun dealers, and into a walled compound.

  I can climb it, Qwan decided, as he eyed the eight-foot-tall stone structure. There are plenty of handholds and footholds.

  Heavily armed guards bracketed the gate, and it was second nature for Qwan to inventory their weapons, and make a snap judgement regarding their readiness.

  Qwan rated both rebels as fours on a scale of one to five. And that made sense. Because Ang was a highly trained military officer and agent, he would assign his best men to security.

  I won’t leave through the main gate, Qwan decided. Other options will be available.

  Because the guards were on the ball, they insisted on inspecting Chun’s ID cards themselves, rather than taking Hayat’s word for who the visitor was.

  Then came the procedure that Qwan feared the most. And that was a pat down. Generally speaking, men weren’t allowed to search women in Islamic countries.

  But Ang made his own rules. So, Chun was ordered to hold her arms over her head and spread her legs.