The Arctic Event by James H. Cobb Page A

flashlight, heavy cases of dark, waxed cardboard were being unloaded from the rear of the truck, the cases marked in the Cyrillic alphabet and bearing the international bomb-burst warning symbol for high explosives. Indicating that one case was to be set aside, Kretek flicked open a folding-bladed hunting knife and slashed through the yellow plastic strapping.
    Lifting the lid revealed tightly packed brick-sized blocks wrapped in waxed paper. Opening the wrapper revealed a dense, smooth puttylike material the color of margarine.
    “Military-grade Semtex plastique.” Kretek gestured at it. “Twelve hundred kilograms’ worth, all of it less than three months old and completely stable. Guaranteed to kill Jews and send your dedicated volunteers on to their seventy-two virgins with smiles on their lips.”
    The Arab’s head jerked up, a spark of anger in his dark, expressive eyes. The anger of the fanatic confronted with the shopkeeper. “When you speak of the holy warriors of Muhammad and of the liberators of the Palestinian people, you will speak with respect!”
    The arms runner’s eyes went opaque and cold. “Everyone is liberating something, my friend. As for me, I liberate money. You have your merchandise; now I will have my payment—and Muhammad and the Palestinian people be damned.”
    The Arab started to flare but then noted the circle of grim Slavic faces drawing in around the pool of flashlight. Sullenly he took a fat manila envelope from inside his jacket, tossing it down atop the open case of explosives.
    Kretek caught up the envelope. Opening it, he counted the neat strapped bundles of euros, verifying the denominations. “It is good,” he said finally. “Load it.”
    The ton and a half of high explosives went aboard the transport plane, the Dornier’s crew balancing and tying down the lethal cargo. In a matter of minutes the last case was stowed and the Arab payoff man scrambled after it without a parting word or a look back. The fuselage doors slammed shut, and the plane’s propellers revved to taxiing power, blasting the arms smugglers with its sand-loaded slipstream.
    Again the Dornier raced down the faint flare path. Lifting into the black sky, it executed a climbing turn out over the Adriatic, its engines growing fainter with distance.
    Kretek’s men dispersed once more to collect the glow sticks. In an hour or two, all evidence of the landing would be erased by the incoming tide.
    Kretek and his lieutenant trudged back to the Range Rover.
    “I’m not sure if I like this, Anton,” Mikhail Vlahovitch said, slinging his Agram over his shoulder. Squatter and balder than Kretek, the pan-featured ex–Serbian Army officer was one of a very elite cadre within the Kretek Group permitted to call the arms dealer by his first name. “You play a risky game with these people.”
    Vlahovitch was also one of an even smaller cadre who had the ultimate privilege of questioning one of Anton Kretek’s command decisions without being killed for it.
    “What’s to be concerned about, Mikhail?” Kretek chuckled fatly, slapping his second in command on his free shoulder. “We’ve met their airplane. We’ve delivered the merchandise as we promised. We received the payment agreed upon, and they flew away. We have fulfilled our contract completely. As for what happens afterward? Who can say?”
    “But this will be their second shipment lost. The Arabs are bound to be suspicious!”
    “Pish, pish, pish, the Arabs are always suspicious. They are always certain everyone is out to persecute them. This can be a good thing. We can make use of this.”
    Kretek paused beside the passenger door of the Range Rover. Reaching in through the lowered window, he popped open the glove compartment. “When we negotiate our next series of arms sales to the Jihad, we will simply place the blame where it properly belongs. We will tell them that Israeli Mossad agents are operating in the Balkans and are attempting to interfere