Chapter 20
Port of Aden, Yemen
Getting over the fence and on the plane had been a lot simpler than Cove imagined.
Much simpler than it probably should have been since it was supposed to be a secure area.
Cristos, Zio Santi’s pilot, taxied the plane over from the hangar at quarter till.
They were aboard and lifting off twenty minutes later.
After laying out a general plan of what to do once they got to Yemen—the Arab Palace first, then the warehouse—they agreed to get some sleep aboard the plane while they could. Four hours of uninterrupted sleep. Half what she was used to, but she would take it.
“Beginning our descent,” Cristos announced over the intercom.
When Cove rose to wake Dillon, she found him already awake and alert, looking out a portal window. “Did you sleep?”
“Sure.”
That sounded a lot like he had not, but the plane’s descent pushed her back into her seat.
Once they’d landed and taxied to the small terminal where Cristos powered down, he emerged from the cockpit, opened the door, then turned to them.
“Ilaria, your zio said to give you these.” He produced rial banknotes, the currency used here in Yemen, and a phone.
“And of course…” He handed a laundered vacuum-sealed plastic packet.
She opened it, finding an abaya to cover herself. She slid it on over her body, then drew the niqab over her head, wondering about the phone that Cristos offered, since Dillon did not like devices. But this one was still in the package.
Dillon eyed the head-to-toe cover she had donned. “Don’t like it, but that works, not only from a cultural standpoint but for our security.” As he took the phone and local money, he nodded to Cristos. “Thanks.”
“There is a car coming to pick you up,” the pilot explained. “It is good idea here, yes?” His pocked face darkened as he looked at Dillon. “You protect her.” Then he poked a finger at Dillon’s temple. “Be smart. Or Cristos find and hurt you. Eh, big guy?”
When she saw Dillon’s jaw and fist tighten, Cove caught his bicep and drew him toward the door. “Sas efcharistó, Cristos,” she said, thanking the pilot. “Sas efcharistó!” She all but pushed Dillon out before he made quick work of the pilot as he had with the men last night.
“What—”
“Just keep moving,” she insisted.
Crossing toward the tarmac, she again noted how much better this place looked than the first time she’d come.
The cream, coral, and gray terminal with blue designs seemed like something straight out of the late seventies/early eighties, even with a new coat of paint.
But the general state of disrepair with cracked, crumbling curbs, grass and weeds flourishing, always made her feel a little sad for an area with so much potential.
“This place looks like there’s been an apocalypse,” Dillon muttered.
“You can thank terrorism. The Houthis are a menace here,” Cove said quietly, eyeing the Yemeni military guard near the terminal. “But this…this is actually an improvement. There was a betterment project to rehabilitate the airport and bring in traffic.”
He headed toward the terminal, away from the tarmac, and past the security barriers with peeling paint.
Keeping pace, she noticed men coming toward her. Not military. Grubbily dressed. “Dillon…”
“I see,” he muttered. “Stay close. How do we find the car?”
She resisted the urge to take his hand—a public display of affection here could get them both in trouble—and walked faster. “I am not sure. I always come with Papà.”
They moved past the two buildings with Arabic script on the upper ledges—likely shops at one time. Now, they were shut up tight and lent credence to the apocalypse feeling. Once through the pointed arches of the terminal, they angled toward the exit. Past that, they scanned right and left.
“Miss Galtieri!” A man held up a hand, motioning to them.
She noted Dillon reaching toward the small of his back, where she had seen him tuck the gun he’d taken from the thug last night.
Alarmed, she swung toward him and exuded as much calm as she could to deescalate his tension.
“His name is Yasser Gadasi,” she explained, anxious for him to not kill the man. “He has been a GIS driver for years.”
Dillon’s tension visibly lowered, and he inclined his head in understanding.
She waved to the driver. “As-salamu alaykum, Yasser.”
“Wa alaikum as-salam, Miss Galtieri.” He opened the Land Cruiser door for her.
They climbed into the armored black SUV. At the soft thump that sealed them, Dillon was looking around, watching their surroundings. “I don’t like this.”
The stuffy warmth of the interior felt heavy. “I do not recall you liking anything so far…”
“I liked last night.”
Buckling in, she stilled at his words.
“Not the thugs,” he clarified, peering back over his shoulder to look out the rear and side windows to check the entire perimeter around the SUV. “The pool…”
“It is not the best pool I have ever seen.”
Dillon gave her a long look for deliberately misunderstanding his meaning. They both knew the real inference was the kiss. Funny that neither of them could say it.
Yasser opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel. Hit the locks, the definitive thunk sounding through the big vehicle.
Dillon leaned forward, catching the front passenger seat, and waved the wad of money Cristos had given them. “A favor, Yasser. Leave the keys. Take a day off. Let us use the SUV.”
Yasser’s wide brown eyes rose to the rearview mirror, where he met Cove’s gaze in question.
She smiled. “It is okay.”
“No trouble?” Yasser asked, his expression concerned.
“No trouble,” Cove reassured, though she hoped she was not lying. “Go enjoy the beach with your wife and kids.”
That made the driver grin and take the money. “Thank you.” And Yasser was gone.
Dillon climbed into the driver’s seat and tore open the phone package.
While he did that, Cove unceremoniously hiked—rather, struggled to make the transition to the front amid the endless length of black fabric shrouding her body.
“I do not know how they tolerate these things,” she complained.
Now that she was up in the seat, the fabric was tangled.
With a few grunts, she partially stood to get the fabric untangled.
“Santo cielo,” she hissed. Finally, she dropped back down and adjusted the eye slit and huffed.
Looked at Dillon, who was sitting, watching her, a smile wavering on his lips. “So help me, if you laugh…”
“Duly warned,” he said, pocketing the phone before he pulled into traffic. “For the record, I prefer the dress from Paris.”
Surprised he remembered that, Cove wondered at how much he was flirting with her now. “Give me my lounge pants and oversized hoodie all day, every day.”
“Like what you had on in the pool,” he said, as if making his point about liking what happened there.
Cove gaped, turning to look at him—a feat beneath the niqab—her face heating.
“By the way, if you’re gaping or blushing, I can’t tell.” He eyed her. “Not entirely fair.”
“Says the man in normal clothes.”
“Fair.” He turned onto 90 and headed toward the Arab Palace Hall.
“Mostro.”
Those dark eyes found her and gave a long look. “That’s amazing—even with the niqab, I can tell you’re glowering at me.”
She smacked his arm for taunting her.
Dillon laughed. “And now, I do not need a visual to know you’re angry.”
“You are a beast. Real women have to live in these things, you know.”
He sobered, his smile not quite leaving that handsome face as he dragged a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “Okay, so… First things first—the spot you followed Enzo to a couple years ago and subsequently saw my dad…”
“Right, yes. That was at the Arab Palace Hall.” Cove peered through the windshield to gauge their surroundings. “The hall is on the way to the GIS warehouses.”
“And you’re sure there won’t be a problem getting into the warehouse?”
“I am certain,” she said. “I simply tell them I am there to do some work and check records. Papà made me communications director last year so I would have access to what I needed in order to prove his innocence.”
“So, hall first, then warehouse. It’ll be darker—less people.”
“True.”
Ten minutes later, he turned left off Main and navigated to a spot across from the Arab Palace Hall. Cars and vans littered the road.
Dillon glanced up and down the cramped street, then homed in on a person exiting the building. “Looks like we can get inside. Any security cameras?”
“Not that I recall. While it is one of the prettier event halls, it is not high-end.”
He gave a curt nod. “To walk me through, do we need to go inside?”
Cove eyed the building, thinking through that night.
“I…I don’t think so.” She looked at him, still feeling that giddy squirt of excitement in her belly at having his gaze so wholly focused on her.
“Nothing happened here, except that I overheard Enzo talking. The hall where the guests were eating got so loud, I ended up with a headache. So I stepped into the outer foyer for peace and quiet. That is when I heard him say ‘Massimo is distracted with the dinner. We can meet at the docks…’” She hunched her shoulders.
“I am unsure what it was that unsettled me, because that did not exactly spell out anything nefarious, but I had this knot in my stomach…so I followed him and overheard the conversation about weapons.”
“It’s called instinct,” Dillon said with an affirming nod. “Clearly, it’s a good thing you followed him, or we wouldn’t have this trail.”