The Final Doctrine

Copyright © 2012 by Ian Murray

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-6778-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6780-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6779-4 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 2/10/2012

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

Epilogue

In remembrance of those we left behind in shallow graves, upon foreign soils

***

It is from history we learn of the future. And although not all stories of clandestine actions from the past can be told, when the tales are enveloped in fiction, we can read between the lines and educate the populace, avoiding the mistakes of the past while creating the future.

—Ian Murray

Individual Muslims may show splendid qualities but the influence of radical Islam paralyses the social development of those who follow it.

—Winston Churchill

The River War, 1899

The most important element of intelligence has to be the understanding of the mind-set and intention of the enemy. The West has been wallowing in a state of ignorance and denial for over thirty years, as Muslim extremists perpetrated evil against innocent victims in the name of Allah.

—Brigitte Gabrial

Anchor of World News for Middle East Television

Duke University, October 15, 2004

The Muslim population is rising ten times faster than the rest of society.

—The Times (UK)

January 30, 2009

We have to take the necessary action to stop Islamic terror from destroying the free world that we know.

—Geert Wilders

Dutch Member of Parliament

New York City, February 23, 2009

There is a growing number of Muslims in America; more than forty percent are African Americans.

—Charles Bierbauer

Senior Washington Correspondent

University of South Carolina, 2002

You ask; what is our aim? I can answer in one word it is victory. Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror. However long or hard the road may be: For without victory there is no survival.

—Winston Churchill

Addressing the House of Commons

1939

America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedom, it will be because we destroyed ourselves from within.

—Abraham Lincoln 1860

Acknowledgments

I cannot fully express my gratitude to my talented wife, Robyn, for her generous and valuable assistance. It was her constant support and input that made this book possible.

And a special thanks to Bonnie Hancock, Jo Brumund, Stephanie Deily, Sam Son and the late Ted Mannell for their time and support.

I would also like to thank all my friends and readers for their constant encouragement. Not a day went by without someone asking, How is the book coming? or When is the sequel? and many more such inquiries that drove us to the goal of completion. To everyone who has been so kind and helpful, I am eternally grateful.

Prologue

MGIMO is the Russian acronym for the state institution of international relations at Moscow University. Commonly referred to as Migmo by the intelligence agencies of the Western world, it is an exclusive institution of higher education attended by the Soviet elite and is Russia’s top school for political studies. It is also the place where KGB officials were selected and trained.

University of Moscow, April 1956

The Islamic year of 1376

Seven Muslim students sat huddled around a wooden table in a tiny off-campus apartment, a small oil stove in the corner of the room providing their only source of heat. Their common rejection among the other students at MGIMO had brought them closer over the past three years, despite the many differences among them. All had been recruited from the Muslim University in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, a Russian state just north of Afghanistan. Yet they came from diverse backgrounds and represented several Muslim sects, including Shiite and Sunni, jihadist and radical, each harboring a completely different interpretation of the Quran.

Having completed their preliminary university education, the students had been placed at MGIMO as a result of advanced intelligence testing implemented on behalf of the KGB. After they received near-perfect scores, local authorities suspected some type of fraud, but additional testing only confirmed that these individuals indeed had superior intellect and extremely high IQs—far above that of their fellow students and the professors themselves.

The Dushanbe Seven, as they would come to be known, were out of place at MGIMO. Ostracized as Churkis by the elitist Russian students, they were completely foreign to Moscow’s way of life. To them the upcoming summer break from school was a much-needed respite that was particularly significant in the summer of 1956. It would be their last holiday before being sent out into the world to test their newly acquired skills.

One of the older students, a stocky, dark-bearded man in his early twenties by the name of Shaikh Mohammed, became their unspoken leader. As the group sat around a small wooden table quietly chatting among themselves, Shaikh abruptly stood up to address them, his demeanor cool and calculating, a menacing, authoritative tone ever-present in his voice.

In a few weeks’ time we will leave for home to see our families. Savor this time with them, for when we return, it will be our final term, and our personal lives will be second to the goals we have set forth. The room fell silent as the students hung on his every word.

The Russians have taught us well their communist ways—but because of our strength and determination, we have not fallen prey to their infidel ways and habits, and we must thank Allah for that. He hesitated for a moment, his ominous gaze slowly making contact with the expectant eyes around the table. We will now begin the most important process of all—raising capital through the infidels’ own evils, for as our education has justly shown us, without the appropriate fuel to support our cause, we will most certainly fail. He took a long breath before continuing.

Our brothers before us have already begun to form a consortium, a method by which to control the infidels’ life line, and the West will now pay us dearly for the very oil they depend on so greatly. He paused, briskly rubbing his hands together in an effort to warm them. Now it is our turn to contribute to this great cause through other sources—among them control of the illicit drugs that the British and others have inflicted upon their innocent victims. A menacing smile gradually crept over his face. I can assure you, the old British poppy fields of Burma will serve us well, and when we return next autumn, we will have identified a way to secure these and other assets as we move ahead with our global plan. By the time we leave this place, the doctrine for the Akhareen Raedobargh will have begun, and within a decade the final doctrine will be complete. Shaikh’s voice suddenly intensified. You, my brothers, represent the prophets sent by Allah to fulfill the demands that will ultimately lead to control of the world. By the beginning of our next century, the influence of Sharia law will have already begun, and its completion will be reached by the year of Islam 1476, when Muslims will rule the world. Until that time you must learn well the ways of the infidels in order to defeat them and to allow the world to become one with Allah.

CHAPTER 1

A lost battle is a battle one thinks is lost.

—Sun Tzu

Chaine Annamitique

At the Laos/Vietnam Border

Late September 1966

A shadowy figure approached the ridgeline, his camouflaged smock blending in with the thick, dense underbrush all around him. His movements were one with the sway of the foliage as the warm humid breeze rose up to the highlands from the China Basin. To the untrained eye he was completely invisible. Stopping to peer down the gentle slope, he raised his right hand, palm out, and then lifted his face veil with the left and studied an encampment perched on the next ridge. Looking across the trees, he watched the smoke rising from Phou Atauat at the borderline of Vietnam as three more camouflaged bodies gradually appeared from beneath the underbrush, all of them lifting their veils of fine netting to reveal blackened faces; sweat stripes slowly streamed down from their temples.

His commander approached him. What’s the story, Jennings? Where are they?

They’re holding up at the bottom of the next ridge, chief, for the night, would be my guess. They’ll make a break for the border at first light.

Or more likely a crew change to Vietnamese before going over, the older member of the crew added.

You could be right on that one, the commander agreed. It would be easier for a Vietnamese to cross over than a Churki or Burmese.

Nah, doubtful, the third man countered before taking a large pack off his back and pulling it in close for support. All those slants look alike—no one’s going to know the bloody difference.

The commander eyed the ground around them.

Let’s set up here for now—this area looks secure enough. I’ll take the first watch. Cameron, you take the second, and Roberts, you’re third. Jennings, you’ve been on point all day, so rest up and take the lead again at first light. The crew acknowledged him with a nod as they began to remove their gear.

I presume it’s cold chow again, chief? Cameron inquired.

The commander frowned. Do you really have to ask?

The four men set up camp for the night, each settling down off the trail ten feet from his fellow crew members and thirty feet from the ridge’s edge. The evening passed by quickly as they took turns resting, exhausted from the day’s activities. The watch changes went as planned with each man staying on duty for a four-hour shift. Then, just before dawn, in the final hours of his watch, Roberts noticed a slight movement on the right flank about two hundred feet out. Silently crawling toward his crew, he swiftly notified each of them of the sighting. They grabbed their weapons and ammo boxes and quickly crawled into position. The commander checked his watch. It was almost 0400 hours. Each man was in position when the first burst of machine-gun fire blasted through the brush, cutting down the foliage and tearing up the terrain all around them, sending dust and debris in all directions.

I’ve got him at sixty-five meters right! yelled one of the men before indiscriminately returning fire to the area of the sighting, causing the machine-gun fire to momentarily cease.

The smell of guncotton quickly permeated the area as smoke moved through the air like mist on the morning breeze. The commander had slowly begun moving forward when the familiar sound of an AK-47 suddenly broke through the silence, stopping him dead in his tracks. The brush around him danced and scattered before exploding up into his face as he simultaneously felt something tug at his arm. Instinctively dropping and rolling to his right, he checked his body for penetration, but his tattered smock showed no signs of blood. Quickly collecting his thoughts, he realized the only pain he felt was the result of overused muscles from the previous day’s trek.

A voice called out from behind him. I have them at seventy meters left!

The sporadic gunfire that followed lasted for several minutes, each side taking turns as they attempted to locate the exact position of their enemy. Gathering his thoughts once more, the commander crawled out to check on his men who were now spread out like a fan, one covering the left flank, one in the center and one covering the right. The man in the center acted as spotter, calling out movements to the crew on each flank. The commander approached him, quietly calling out to let him know he was there.

Jennings, behind ya, he said, pulling up alongside. What are the chances they come up from back there, over that ridge? he said, pointing to the cliff face behind him.

Slim, chief, but I would suggest you take up the rear just in case. We’re good up front—we can hold a bloody battalion from here, and I don’t see them getting much closer, said Jennings, not taking his eyes away from his Lucia modified binoculars as he continually searched the area.

Got it. Then I’m heading back to cover the rear—we need to get a radio message out so we can provide our status and position. I have the feeling we may be here for a while.

I’ll send it, chief, but I’m not sure what good it’ll do us; it’s not our time for a call-in, and those lazy bastards back at base won’t be listening in at this hour. He pulled down his binoculars and looked at the commander. But I suppose it’s worth a try. If you can run me a line back there, I’ll try a sky wave. At this height someone’s bound to pick us up.

Several rounds suddenly came in from both flanks, causing the crew’s adrenaline to take charge as they quickly responded with rapid fire.

Don’t waste your ammo! the commander called out. Every shot counts! He crawled back toward the ridge, dragging the line from the radio set with him as Jennings continually tapped the Morse key, indicating their location. Pulling the line to the trail’s edge and up toward the top of the ridge, the commander climbed up the slope as bursts of intermittent machine-gun fire continued to echo through the forested hills.

What the hell’s going on? Cameron called out in a hushed voice. They’re holding us here, and there’s no forward motion—you suppose they’re going to try and starve us out of here or what?

Jennings felt a sudden wave of apprehension. Yeah, a bit odd really. I’ve noticed they’re just keepin’ us pinned down here. I don’t think these guys are Churkis or even Burmese, for that matter.

Yeah, well, I wou— Jenning’s thought was abruptly interrupted by a loud thud, followed by a low whistle. Moments later, the ground shuddered beneath them.

Cameron’s pulse quickened. What the fuck was that?

Mortars! Jennings shouted as he instinctively buried his face in the ground, throwing his arms over his head for protection.

The first explosion fell short, about thirty feet from the perimeter, showering the men with foliage and muddy debris.

Goddamn it! They’ve been sighting us! Jennings yelled. That’s why—

The second explosion was a direct hit, and a third followed shortly thereafter. When it was over, the encampment area had all but vanished, demolished by the tremendous force of the explosions. All that remained were tattered, broken bodies strewn out among the smoldering dirt and debris, a pair of hands with gnarled fingers rose up from the blackened soil as if reaching up to heaven.

Enfield, England

The wind picked up moments before rain began pelting the walkway. Splendid, just what I needed to round off the day, thought Thomas McStuart as he pulled his collar up around his neck. He quickened his pace toward the house as the rain came down with a striking force and eventually took shelter under the awning above his front door. It was then that he heard the steady ring of the telephone coming from his study. As he struggled with his house key, the continual, monotonous sound made him even more anxious to get inside to answer the call. It was late Saturday afternoon, and he had just returned home from the Tottenham Hotspurs football match. The Spurs’ loss had put him in a foul mood to start with, and now the stormy weather and uncooperative lock and key had provoked him even more. He swore under his breath as the rain cut through the side of the overhead awning, soaking him as he eyed his umbrella sitting just inside the doorway.

Where are you, Nina? he grumbled out loud, knowing perfectly well it was Saturday afternoon and his wife, Nina, was in town doing her weekly shopping. Finally, he heard the familiar click of the dead bolt and quickly flung open the door. Sprinting to the study, he hurriedly picked up the phone’s receiver, leaving the front door wide open.

Hello! Hello! he shouted frantically, but there was no response, just a muffled, crackling noise at the other end of the line. He yelled louder, Trent? Trent, is that you? as if somehow his shouting might demand a response.

Trent McStuart was Thomas Tiggy McStuart’s only son. He’d been a surprise baby to the McStuarts, who had unwittingly become parents for the third time while in their mid-forties. Having two adult sisters, Trent had been raised as an only child, and as the only male, he held sole responsibility of carrying on the family name. He’d been serving in the military overseas for the past year and a half and had recently been scheduled for leave. It had been more than a month since Tiggy had heard from him, and that was unusual because even though telephone conversations were a rarity, Trent would frequently write to let him know where he was and how he was faring. Tiggy was anxious to hear from him, to know he was all right, and he was equally concerned that Trent might show up without notice, and he and Nina would not be properly prepared, somehow making him feel less than welcome.

There was silence on the other end of the line as Tiggy gripped the receiver tightly in his hand. He then heard a series of clicks and breathed a sigh of relief, knowing immediately that it must be an overseas call.

Trent, can you hear me, son?

Mr. McStuart? It was an unfamiliar man’s voice at the other end.

Yes? Tiggy replied apprehensively.

My name is Klaus Schultz, the man said, in a throaty German-accented English. I’m calling from Langley, Virginia, sir, in the United States. I’m an associate of Ewald Klonde and Ted Hayes.

I see, said Tiggy hesitantly, now realizing he was dealing with a member of the CIA and disappointed by the fact that it wasn’t Trent.

I have some information for you, sir …

Now, just hold it right there, laddie, Tiggy interrupted. I’m no longer involved with intel, nor have I been for quite some time now. I’m certain you must have the wrong person.

He was about to hang up when he heard the man calling to him through the receiver. Wait, Captain McStuart! I have news of your son!

Tiggy paused, a rush of fear overcoming him. I beg your pardon? Is he all right? What’s happened?

He’s fine, sir, I assure you. I’ve been asked to pass on information regarding his current location and condition.

Tiggy’s brow creased. You did say you were a friend of Klonde and Hayes, correct?

Yes, sir. My uncle worked closely with them during the war.

And what can you tell me about Trent?

Well, sir, it’s been reported by one of our agents in Da Nang that Commander McStuart was wounded while on assignment. Your son requested that you be notified immediately and informed that he has been treated for minor injuries and released. He is FFS, sir, and presently on his way home.

FFS?

Fit for service, sir.

Tiggy hesitated. I see, he replied, his mind wandering. I remember hearing that term in Dieppe many years ago. You Yanks really do enjoy using acronyms, don’t you? he said, remembering his conscription by the Americans during the First World War.

Excuse me, sir?

Oh, nothing, son, just reminiscing is all. What more can you tell me about Trent? Who’s he working for, and what the hell was he doing in Vietnam in the first place?

Sorry, sir. I’m not privy to that type of information. I’ve been instructed to simply let you know that he’s safe and on his way back to London. I’m doing a favor for a colleague who represents a group we work closely with. They were instrumental in arranging for my family’s escape from Germany, so I’m very much obliged to make this call on their behalf.

I understand your orders, son. Thank you very much for keeping me informed.

Tiggy hesitated as he hung up the phone. He sat quietly for a moment, staring out at the garden, watching the raindrops stream down the window pane. Young Johnson has to be behind this, he thought. What in God’s name has Trent gotten himself into now?

CHAPTER 2

But no self is an island.

—Jean Francis Lyotaco

Southeast Asia

Trent’s eyes were heavy as he peered out the window of the Comet IV. He had just taken off from Singapore on his way to Gan, a tiny island in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Gan was the largest of the group of atolls making up the southern section of the Maldives, a pristine row of tropical islands with sandy white beaches and crystal blue lagoons. The island itself looked like a horseshoe from the air with a local airfield that ran the length of the southern section. It was operated by the Royal Air Force, but used from time to time by the United States for refueling U2s. The entire island population consisted of 200 RAF personnel, a handful of civilian contractors, one female nurse—the only female inhabitant of the island—and two hundred or so Maldivian laborers. It was one hell of a place to be posted. The temperature never went below 90 degrees, day or night, and the local diet consisted mainly of frozen meat and poultry flown in from Singapore or the catch of the day. Sleeping quarters were made up of a series of wooden barracks with corrugated roofs for the enlisted men, commonly referred to as ORs, or ordinary ranks, while the Maldivian labor had open barrack-type huts covered in palm leaves. The officers and civilian contractors where housed in what were referred to as bungalows, even as humble as they were. There was a small officers’ club in which to socialize, and the only other form of recreation was a fleet of sunfish, which were used for sailing inside the vast coral reef. To the uninformed, it looked like a tiny paradise.

Trent would be stationed there for only a couple of days, undergoing the normal debriefing and medical exam before heading back to England. As he closed his eyes, his thoughts wandered to his first visit to Gan, just prior to his last mission. He wondered how anyone stationed there permanently ever managed to maintain their sanity. The two weeks he had spent on Gan on his way out to Singapore had seemed like an eternity. I suppose it’s a peaceful place though, he thought, and certainly better than where I’ve just been. Perhaps this time around, I’ll appreciate some quiet time far away from conflict and destruction. I need to get my strength back and clear my head.

Trent was brought into reality as the plane’s engine shifted from a high-pitched hum to a low drone as the undercarriage lowered. He glanced out the window and spotted the familiar crescent-shaped island; he could make out the glistening white runway and corrugated roof huts as the plane banked around on final approach.

The Comet gently landed on the oil-soaked coral, which seemed to give way as they touched down. The polished white surface was as hard and durable as concrete but had the advantage of reflecting sunlight, unlike many of the earlier-built tarmac roads surrounding the airfield. Trent quickly made his way down the steps. He looked out toward the air station and spotted Scott Peterson, the local dispatch agent, walking toward him, accompanied by a second man. Scott was tall and thin and always looked as if he could use an extra meal or two. His face was prematurely wrinkled as a result of spending too much time in the sun, and he walked with a stoop, partly in habit of having to bend down to communicate. It was difficult to judge Scott’s age, but Trent guessed he was somewhere in his late thirties. As the approaching pair got closer, Trent recognized the second man. It was David Paxton, his controller, his CO. In contrast to Scott, Paxton was a burly man in his late forties who had always seemed much older to Trent—perhaps because he was his commanding officer, perhaps because of his prematurely graying hair, pale complexion, and deep-set eyes. Whatever it was, Trent knew there were extreme hardships somewhere in his past that had likely added years to his actual age. He was shorter than Trent, but heavier-set with a paunch belly that he worked hard at hiding under his carefully chosen attire. On this day, however, with Paxton clad in standard navy blue shorts and a khaki military shirt, it was quite noticeable. Trent thought Paxton’s dark shorts looked rather odd among the typically white sun-bleached khaki island wear that the rest of the inhabitants wore.

Trent smiled broadly as the two men approached. What the heck are you doing all the way out here, Colonel? he asked, happy to see him.

Paxton squinted in the sunlight. Well, son, I had to check on some things in Aden—Khormakser, really—so I hopped the Comet out here to see what was going on. Paxton smiled and extended his hand, his faint Scottish accent barely noticeable. I heard you’d be coming in and thought I’d get my information straight from the horse’s mouth.

Trent inadvertently gazed downward. Yes, I see, he said, shaking his hand. Well, it’s good to see you, sir, and I’m more than happy to provide you with a firsthand account.

Paxton quickly eyed him up and down. Trent’s sun-bronzed skin, bleached-blond hair and sturdy physique apparently hid any notion of the hardship he’d just endured. You certainly don’t appear any worse for wear after your ordeal. How are you holding up, McStuart?

I’m doing okay, sir, but I have to tell you, had it not been for the Yanks, I’m not sure I’d be standing here right now.

Paxton abruptly changed the subject. Let’s talk about all that later this evening. For now, how about we get you over to your billet and then grab a drink at the club? We can discuss everything in detail at the intel office tomorrow morning. Paxton reached down to pick Trent’s bag off the runway.

I’ll get that, sir, Trent insisted, reaching for his gear.

No, no problem, son. I need the exercise, Paxton said, patting his stomach. He turned to the two men. And apparently, I need a bit of sun too! he said, smiling. I look like I’ve been tossed in flour next to you two fellows!

Scott smiled as Trent reluctantly agreed to let the colonel carry his bag. They made their way toward a thatched sunshade at the far side of the runway. The sunshade was an area approximately twenty by forty feet consisting of six twelve-foot poles standing upright. Atop the poles sat an elaborate wooden framework that had been painstakingly constructed by the island’s local inhabitants. An intricate weave of dried palm leaves covered the roof, offering protection from the scorching sun and occasional rain to personnel awaiting the Comet’s arrival and departure.

Parked just to the left of the sunshade was Scott Peterson’s old, dusty, military green Land Rover. Scott walked over and pulled open the two side doors and then reached down and grabbed Trent’s bag from Paxton, quickly tossing it in the backseat. He motioned for Trent to jump in while Paxton made his way over to the passenger side. As soon as Paxton was seated, Scott threw the Rover in gear and sped toward a side road adjacent to the air field, leaving a cloud of dust behind them. He headed toward the other end of the island, to the group of huts that Trent had seen from the air. As they turned onto the tarmac road, Trent leaned forward, placing an arm on each side of front seats.

Looks like nothing much has changed since I left! he yelled over the wind and engine noise in an effort to start a conversation.

Scott looked at him in the rearview mirror I’m afraid this is as civilized as we get out here, McStuart, he said, smiling.

Paxton turned to face him. I didn’t mean to cut you off back there, Trent, but I’d rather not discuss any particulars until we’re in a secure area. I think it best that we keep it social until then.

Trent nodded. Understood, sir. He took in a deep breath of the balmy island air, relieved to be outside after the long plane ride.

And just so you’re aware of some of what’s going on, Paxton continued, we have a new group of Maldivians in here—Indian labor. Paxton placed his left hand on Scott’s shoulder. And Scott, our trusted agent here, overheard two of them speaking Russian the other night.

Scott eyed Trent in the rearview mirror, his green eyes searching and his normally jovial expression appearing somewhat anxious. Yeah, when you left last time, I got a bit suspicious of one of the houseboys paying a little too much notice to where you chaps were heading. I didn’t want to draw attention, so I rotated about twenty of them out of the labor pool, including the houseboy in question. I sent them to one of the other islands as a security measure. Scott pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket as he yelled over the road noise. The only reason I was concerned is that I thought perhaps our contacts—you know, the KGB types—were trying to back-door us. He paused, taking his hands off the wheel for a moment to hastily light a cigarette. What’s interesting, he continued, is the houseboy’s so-called brother showed up with the next batch of workers—could’ve sworn it was the very same bloke, they looked so much alike. But I checked his papers, and it appears he was from mainland India—or, sorry, Pakistan. I swear those fellows all look alike to me. It’s only religion that separates them, you know—India and Pakistan, that is. He took a long drag from his cigarette. Anyway, I kept a close watch on him, and that’s when I overheard him speaking Russian in the mess hall.

Are you quite certain it was Russian? Trent inquired. We hear all kinds of strange dialects out here.

Yeah, I’m sure. Others may not have noticed, but I took a couple of Russian-language courses when I was with MI5, so I managed to pick up a few words here and there.

Trent’s brow creased. So what do you make of it all then?

I’m not sure yet. I went over to check the records, and there was no sign of this bloke on the roster, so I pulled in the rock apes to help me.

Rock apes? Trent questioned.

RAF Military Police—it’s their nickname around here.

Oh, I see, Trent said hesitantly, trying to put the pieces together in his mind.

Scott continued rambling. So anyway, when we decided to bring this fellow in for questioning, he was nowhere to be found. Gone, disappeared, vanished. Scott shrugged his shoulders. I know it seems impossible, but they’ve searched every inch of this bloody island, and nothing.

Paxton turned to Trent. What’s particularly alarming is that this is an island where there’s virtually nowhere to hide, and as you know, the only way off is by sea or air. Presently, the only vessels we have coming in here are the Arab Dows with replacements. All supplies come by air—the fuel ships anchor out and connect to the pipeline—that’s how we control security.

Trent thought for a moment. Jesus … now I understand why you came in, sir. He shook his head. And here I was thinking you were actually concerned about my well-being, he added facetiously.

Paxton grinned. Trust me—one is as important as the other, ole chap, and hopefully, I’m not drawing too much attention to either by showing up here unannounced.

Trent leaned forward in his seat. I’m not sure I follow, sir.

Let’s just say I’m killing two birds with one stone and leave it at that, Paxton replied.

It was clear to Trent that Paxton was trying to make light of the situation, but he could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

As they approached a group of wooden huts, the Land Rover squealed to a stop. Scott turned to Trent. Okay, McStuart, this will be your lovely abode for the time being. You should find everything in perfect order.

Trent nodded. Thank you for the ride, sirs. He grabbed his gear and jumped out of the rover, heading toward the nearest hut.

We’ll pick you up at about six! Paxton yelled from the passenger seat. He glanced down at his watch. It’s just turned three—go take a shower and get your head down for a bit!

Trent waved good-bye as a Maldivian houseboy dressed in a white cotton thobe came down the steps to greet him, his bright smile contrasting against his dark skin.

Welcome, sir! The houseboy grabbed Trent’s bag and turned to go back inside. Everything tikia, sahib—follow me. He trotted up the stairs and pulled the door open. Welcome, welcome, Mr. McStuart.

Trent nodded and followed him up the steps, feeling a bit unsure as to whom he should trust at this point. The discussion on the way over had made him feel more paranoid than he was already, and he reluctantly followed the houseboy inside.

Scott looked over at Paxton as he watched Trent enter the hut. Don’t worry, Pax. He’ll be fine. And I could have handled this myself, you know—you needn’t have traveled all this way.

Scott, me boy, Paxton said, accentuating his words, when your boss says, ‘Handle this one yerself,’ ya dewn’t say no. Paxton’s Scottish accent always became more obvious when he was nervous, and his mind was now racing a mile a minute. It’s not only this last episode I’m concerned with, he thought. It’s whether Trent can handle the next phase. I have an unspoken oath with his father to keep him out of harm’s way. He has to know that’s absolutely impossible in this business, but if anything happens to him—oh hell, by rights I should just send him home. Paxton’s thoughts were interrupted as Scott peeled onto the road, jerking him back in to his seat as they headed toward another group of huts half a mile away.

***

Trent was grateful for the short respite before dinner, and the cool air conditioning in his guest quarters made for a pleasant break from the heavy, humid air outside. He lay down on the crisp cotton bedcovers and watched the ceiling fan slowly swirl above his head. He was physically and mentally drained and yet more comfortable than he’d been in many months. He wished he could stay in that moment forever, the torment of recent events temporarily erased from his mind. He reached down and brushed his hand over his right side, flinching at the sting from several small pieces of metal protruding from his skin. The next thing he knew, the houseboy was gently shaking him, speaking to him in a hushed voice.

Five o’clock, Mr. McStuart.

His eyes slowly opened, and it took him a moment to gain his bearings. Yes, yes, thank you, Trent said wearily. Just give me a minute to come to, he mumbled, trying to gather his wits about him.

Can I get you tea, sahib? Whiskey? Beer?

Trent stared blankly at the ceiling. Uh, no, no, nothing right now, thank you. I just need to get my bearings for a moment. He gazed over at the houseboy, his brow creased. I never did get your name.

Oh, it’s Ali, sir, he said, his broad smile beaming.

Trent smiled back. Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Ali. Thank you for your assistance. I’ll call you if I need anything further.

Tikia saab, Ali replied as he left the room.

Trent took a deep breath. A shower will help, McStuart, he said out loud to himself as he slowly pushed himself up off the bed.

Once he was dressed, he made his way out to the hut’s small living area. The heat and humidity hit him as soon he entered the room, and he quickly walked toward a sofa sitting beneath a palm leaf ceiling fan. Jesus, what’s the point of showering? he said to himself, his crisp, clean shirt quickly sticking to the perspiration forming on his body.

Ali called out from the kitchen area, Everything okay, sahib?

Yeah, fine, Ali—I just forgot how dreadful the humidity is here, that’s all.

What, sahib?

Oh, nothing, don’t worry about it. He flopped down on the sofa. I will take you up on that beer now, though.

Tikia saab, Ali said, smiling. One Carlsberg on its way to you.

Ali promptly brought out a tray carrying a large bottle of lager and a chilled glass. He placed them on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Trent smiled at him. Thank you very much, Ali. He picked up the lager and quickly poured it into the glass and then sat back and sipped the cold, frosty ale as the overhead fan attempted to dry his moist, clammy skin. He looked down and frowned, his once proper shirt now wrinkled up against the sofa. His thoughts drifted to the conversation he’d had with Paxton and Scott earlier that afternoon. He had a thousand questions but knew it was better to let sleeping dogs lie for the moment. His daydream was interrupted by a quick knock on the door, followed by Scott Peterson entering the room.

So how are we doing, Trent? he asked, closing the door behind him. Did you manage to get a nap in this afternoon?

That I did. Trent looked down at his empty bottle. Care for a beer?

Not right now. Let’s head over to the club and have one there. Paxton’s waiting on us.

Fine by me, Trent said, pushing himself off the couch.

Ali called to him from the kitchen, You eat out, sahib?

Yes, Ali—you can head home. I’ll see you in the morning.

***

The officers’ club sat on stilts about four feet off the ground. The sides consisted of a wall about three feet high surrounding the exterior, with an eight-foot opening at the top of a flight of wooden stairs acting as an entryway. The club was completely open from the short wall to the ceiling with the exception of several support joists that held the roof and floor together. Just below the roofline, bamboo blinds were rolled into tight cylinders between the joists, ready to be pulled down in order to protect from the sun and rain. The top of the roof was covered in barty, a thin corrugated metal on which seasonal rains sounded like a freight train running full out down the tracks.

Paxton sat at a table in the far end of the club overlooking the crystal blue Indian Ocean, the warm, salty air gently passing through to provide a constant, soothing breeze. He was a million miles away as his thoughts turned to Trent. How in the world will I persuade him to take on this next assignment after what he’s just been through?

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a commotion at the other end of the bar, and he looked up to see Scott and Trent entering the small lobby.

Over here, gents! he called out. I’ve got a table all set up for us.

Paxton stood up to greet them as a waiter placed three beer mats on a table in the corner of the room and motioned for them to sit down.

The waiter nodded at Paxton as he approached. Okay for now, sir?

Yes, yes, fine thanks, he said, placing his beer on the table. What’s on the dinner menu tonight?

My recommendation, sir, is the fresh Mako—came in just this morning. Other than that, we have the usual chicken and pork dishes. He handed them each a small card menu. I’m afraid nothing arrived on the plane from Singapore today, but we are expecting some fresh goods on its return from Aden. The waiter scurried off and soon returned with a tray of drinks that he neatly placed on each beer mat. Enjoy your cocktails, gentlemen. Dinner will be arriving shortly.

Paxton gazed out across the ocean. Some view, isn’t it? he commented. I know a lot of Brits that would love to be sitting here right now watching the sun go down instead of hording up inside a dark, dingy pub on another cold, rainy night in London. Yet here we are, thinking how rough we have it—quite ironic really, he said, smiling.

You’re probably right, Scott agreed. But I’d still prefer to go down to the local pub and have a pint of real beer instead of the cold, lifeless crap they serve here.

The three men fell silent, mesmerized by the view as the sun slowly set over the horizon. After several minutes, Trent abruptly broke their thoughts.

Hey, chaps, you know those blokes you’ve been looking for? I think I know where they are—or at least where they went.

Paxton nearly choked on his beer, and Scott abruptly placed his drink on the table with a thud, spilling it over the sides onto the beer mat.

CHAPTER 3

Action is the foundation key to success.

—Pablo Picasso

London, England

Tiggy McStuart grabbed the phone’s receiver and quickly dialed. It was a few moments before he heard the soft female voice at the other end.

Mr. Johnson’s office. May I help you?

Kevin Johnson, please, he responded abruptly.

May I say who’s calling?

You certainly may! Tiggy replied, louder than necessary. Tell him he has one very upset Thomas McStuart on the line!

The operator hesitated. Uh … yes, sir, one moment please. The line went dead for a few seconds before she returned. I’m sorry, Mr. McStuart, but Mr. Johnson’s line is busy; may I have him return the call?

Absolutely not! Tiggy barked without hesitation. I’ll hold here all bloody day if I have to!

Yes, I see. I’ll be sure to let him know, Mr. McStuart.

Tiggy tapped his fingers on the desk, impatiently waiting for Kevin Johnson to take his call. Having been unable to reach him over the weekend, he’d waited until Monday morning to contact Kevin’s office, which had only added to his growing frustration. Several minutes went by before he heard a click at the other end of the line followed by the familiar deep voice.

Johnson here, may I help you?

Bloody right you can help me! Tiggy half-shouted.

Well, hello, Captain McStuart, Johnson responded calmly. I thought it might be you. Not many people have my private line these days. So what can I do for you, ole chap?

You know exactly what you can do for me, Kevin! You’re supposed to be watching out for him—not trying to get him killed!

Whoa, wait a minute. Slow down, Tig, Kevin responded in a steady voice. Trent’s doing just fine. You don’t ever have to worry about him taking care of himself—he’s one of our best, you know.

Don’t have to worry? Tiggy said, exasperated. You and I agreed he would fight only homegrown battles. So what the hell was he doing in Vietnam or Laos or the US section anyway?

I’m afraid that’s classified, and now that you’re officially retired …

Are you bloody serious?

Jesus, Tig, take it easy, would you? You sound like a madman. Trent is perfectly safe and on his way back home as we speak.

Well, let this be your official notice, Tiggy snarled, refusing to let up. You’d best send him back here and put him on office duty immediately, or I’ll pull him out for good! He’s done enough of your dirty work crawling around the jungles of the world!

Now, Tig, Kevin said, firmly, you’re not exactly in a position to threaten me anymore, and Trent’s twenty-seven years of age, so I believe he’ll be making his own decisions in that regard.

Tiggy clenched his teeth. Just trust me, Kevin. You do not want to cross me on this.

Look, I understand your position. Really, I do. Kevin paused for a moment. You know, perhaps it’s best if we discuss this entire situation face to face. Why don’t you come down to the office tomorrow morning.

Oh, I’ll be there, Tiggy stated emphatically. Nine o’clock sharp!

Fine then, Kevin responded quietly, attempting to calm him. Do you know where the new office is? It’s just off Glouster Road.

I can damn well find the office, Kevin! Tiggy interrupted. I may be retired, but I’m not without my faculties.

Yes, yes. I am quite aware of that. This was your territory after all, and—

There was an abrupt click at the other end of the line, and Kevin suddenly realized he was speaking to himself. He held the receiver out in front of him and shook his head before placing it back in the cradle. He leaned back in his chair and gazed out his office window.

Bollacks, he said aloud, I was not expecting that. He sat for a moment, staring at the phone, and then hastily picked up the receiver and began dialing.

His Lordship, please; it’s Johnson. Kevin took a deep breath as he waited for the call to connect.

Yes, your honor, it’s Johnson again. We may have a bit of a problem. I just heard from McStuart senior, and he’s a bit perturbed about Trent’s last mission—yes, I know he’s okay, but I also know that things went terribly wrong at one point—it was supposed to be a quick in-and-out deal …

As the conversation continued, Kevin stood up and began pacing back and forth behind his chair, the phone cord nearly pulling the cradle off his desk.

"Paxton’s out there now … Well, if we don’t have any office positions—not that he would take one anyway—maybe it’s time to transfer him and