by Bob Graham
“INR?”
“I don’t know how it relates to the intelligence agencies you used to serve, but State does intelligence analysis. After five years as an apprentice I got my break and was given the Saudi Arabian portfolio.”
“So you started looking at us at about the same time I was getting prepared to look at you.”
“And I hope your side was better at it than mine. The compensation for a young officer was adequate by federal government pay standards, but nothing like what I had been used to. I felt like I was economically deprived, entitled but not compensated. And, as I got deeper into the U.S.-Saudi relationship, particularly studying the classified information from the 9/11 investigations, I became suspicious of the Saudi role. I thought this was of such importance, and might be such a feather in my career cap, that I went around my immediate supervisors and took it directly to the secretary of state herself.”
“In my government that would be a very bold move.”
“It was with mine, too. She said I was out of my territory. She was aware of the information I had provided; that it was of the highest national security and classification status, and I was not to discuss it further with anyone. Then two strange things happened.”
“What?”
“Ten days after the encounter with the secretary I received a call from the Saudi embassy. I was asked to come the following day for a briefing by an embassy counselor.”
“Was that an unusual request?”
“Somewhat, but not as strange as the counselor and the subject: the ambassador and my 9/11 suspicions. He made no effort to dissuade me as to the correctness of my speculation; rather, he said it was a matter of great significance to both governments that it remain classified. The ambassador is an unusually suave and persuasive diplomat. He was aware of my financial situation and offered to be of assistance. He indicated there was an organization called the Golden Chain, comprised of distinguished Saudis. He said it was prepared to be helpful, and if I were interested, he would arrange the further details.”
“Uh-huh, I see,” Muhadded nodded, briefly glancing at Brewster. “I have a position at the Ercan corporation, previously held by Omar al-Harbi. Although it has made no requests for my services, the income from Ercan is what supports me and my family. The owner of Ercan is one of those distinguished Saudis.”
Brewster stiffened, silently mulling what Muhadded had just said, then continued: “Ten days after my visit with the ambassador a man called, introducing himself as Roland Jeralewski. He gave a concise résumé, which I didn’t need as he was well known in Washington political and defense circles. He said he was calling at the ambassador’s request. We arranged to meet for dinner at the Metropolitan Club.”
“And he also made you an offer?”
“At dinner Jeralewski said he was there on behalf of his organization—Peninsular Partners—and the Golden Chain ...”
Abdul interrupted, “Jeralewski, Peninsular of Long Beach?”
“That’s their headquarters and he’s the head honcho. Why?”
“That is who my supervisor told me to contact in early July and do what I was asked to do. He said the kingdom was in some sort of a partnership with Peninsular. Even for me it has turned out to be pretty damn violent. But, I do what I’m told.”
“How many people have you killed on this assignment?”
Muhadded looked at his fingers as if counting. “Starting with the old man in Florida, four plus those San Diego cops. Praise be to Allah, each has gone well, at least for me.”
He drove for another ten minutes before he picked up the conversation. “You were talking about your dinner with Jeralewski.”
Brewster was jarred by the ease with which Muhadded moved back from murder to a long-ago conversation in a refined, fraternal setting. It took Brewster several moments to recalibrate. “Well, Jeralewski said both Peninsular and the Golden Chain shared the interest of the secretary of state and the Saudi ambassador in keeping my disclosures from others in the bureau and the government and from the American public. He also remarked on the ambassador’s distress at my fall from economic comfort to mere adequacy and offered to help, the only requirements being keeping silent about what I suspected to be the truth and reporting back to him with information of interest to him and the entities he represented.”
“What kind of help?”
“On the first of each month since that dinner, I have received a check drawn on a numbered bank account for $25,000.”
“Who was it from?”
“I never asked,” Brewster said coyly, “though I assume it was either Peninsular directly or the Golden Chain.”
“You said there were two things that affected you.”
“A colleague, Tony Ramos, had the same status I held, and his portfolio was Afghanistan. Due to some connections with a recently deceased ex-senator, he began poking around in my Saudi sand. I attempted to cut him off every way I could think of, but nothing worked.”
Brewster paused to make sure Muhadded was following the narrative. “Around this time I was introduced to another Peninsular consultant, Laura Billington ...”
“The Laura Billington, the photographer?”
“That’s right. It seems she had some financial issues considerably larger than mine. She tipped off Peninsular about Ramos and the woman from Treasury he was sleeping with, so they were able to set him up as the killer. I thought that would be it for him, but he squirmed out of that one too.”
Muhadded cringed. “That’s the operation I told you about while we were in San Diego. So that’s why you left Washington?”
“Yes, plus the final call from Jeralewski, telling me the monthly retainers would stop. He said Peninsular was under investigation and Golden Chain had informed him that the purpose of a scientific project it supported had been attained. For now, its resources would go to the liberation efforts in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He did offer me a place in San Diego to hang out until the dust settled, and that place turned out to be yours.”
OCTOBER 28
Maui, Hawaii
Laura strained to hear over the prop wash from the Italian Agusta A-109 helicopter.
“Tony, please talk slowly and distinctly. The helicopter that’s taking us out to the Petronius is noisy as hell. Please repeat.”
“I’m on my way back from Islamabad,” Tony yelled into his cell. “The situation there is stabilized, but very iffy. The Pakistani president, our friend from Kuala Lumpur, and a woman, an extremely courageous woman, have—God knows how—gotten the information. When you open the package you received at Gatwick, you will find detailed instructions attached to the electrical box.”
“What’s the purpose of the box?” Laura asked.
“It’s a remote detonation device. It will activate the bomb if you precisely follow the instructions. Paragraph 8 will direct you to insert a code; you will do it twice—which is DA34M701. Again: DA34M701.”
Laura read back the code.
“Laura, I’m headed for Long Beach, where the Petronius is supposed to dock. The secretary’s finally a believer, and she’s given me her plane, so I should be there on Thursday. I’ll meet you at the L.A. Port Authority heliport that afternoon. Do you have any questions? You’ll be on your own from here on out.”
Laura repeated the code one more time, had no questions, hit the END button, and boarded the Agusta to the greetings of Aristotle Stephanous and her three-man crew.
OCTOBER 28
Henderson, Nevada ☆ Los Angeles
After four weeks and 24,200 miles, Muhadded and Brewster were in their second night at the Siesta Motel in Henderson, Nevada. Muhadded received a call on his cell from the Saudi Arabian consultant in Los Angeles.
As he had on numerous occasions, Faroung Barkett, the counselor for political and cultural affairs—the post Hamza al-Dossari had held for four years—was demanding Muhadded come to L.A. for instructions.
They dressed, paid the attendant at the Siesta’s front desk, and started
the trek to Los Angeles in the Ford Focus they had rented from Alamo the day before.
The meeting with Faroung Barkett was short and to the point. As it was their first and Brewster’s recent activities had given him some cachet, Barkett greeted him with civility and apparent respect.
“We are, of course, aware of the service each of you has rendered to our common cause. Your fidelity to that cause has been closely reviewed by our external security agency and confirmed. Mr. Brewster, we are pleased you will be assisting Mr. Muhadded in a critically important assignment.”
Turning to Muhadded, the lean, white-robed and sandaled young man continued, “On Thursday evening or, at the latest, early Friday, the Greek cargo vessel Petronius will arrive at the port of Long Beach. Friends and associates of the kingdom are anxious to ascertain the precise docking space for this ship, along with its positioning. As soon as you have secured this information, reply to me at this number.”
Handing Muhadded an envelope, he asked, “Do you have any questions?”
Brewster considered asking the reason for this portside intelligence, but thought better of it.
“No,” Muhadded replied.
After an hour and a half of mid-afternoon L.A. traffic, Muhadded parked the Ford in front of the Long Beach Port Authority building. Before leaving the consulate he had ascertained that the offices of the Stephanous Shipping Line were on the third floor. He had been given a second envelope with documents.
Behind a mahogany desk a youthful clerk looked up. “May I be of service?”
“We are representatives of the ATR maritime security firm.” Muhadded handed over the materials from the second envelope.
The clerk glanced at the forms, nodded, and again looked Muhadded in the eye.
“Several of our clients have shipments on the Petronius, which we were told will arrive on the evening of the 30th or the morning of the 31st. To facilitate the transfer of the containers, they want to know the pier that has been assigned.”
The clerk squinted at the screen of his Dell desktop. “38A.”
“And the positioning?”
“What do you mean?”
“How will the ship be oriented?”
“That’s a curious question, but since you asked, the stern will be dockside.”
“Thank you. I trust we will see you on Friday.”
“Right,” the clerk replied, then added idly, “Happy Halloween.”
“Thanks. You, too,” Brewster said.
He detected a momentary wave of concern on Muhadded’s face. He thought he understood, though, when his companion spotted that rarity of postmodern America, a pay phone, on the far side of the Port Authority lobby. Brewster figured he didn’t like transmitting vital information, whatever its purpose, wirelessly. He waited while Muhadded called in with the docking instructions.
As he replaced the phone in its cradle, Brewster asked, “What’s the matter? It seemed like when that clerk mentioned Halloween, you suddenly got all funky. You’re so strict you get bent out of shape at the mention of pagan rituals?”
“It is not that,” Muhadded corrected. “It is just that the counselor has asked me to return to his office on Wednesday and to be prepared to report on Thursday and Friday as well. This could mean I will not be able to go trick-or-treating with my daughters. They have put so much effort into their little costumes. It is my favorite American holiday.”
OCTOBER 28–29
The Petronius, Pacific Ocean
For the first three hours of the flight, the Pacific had been as calm as a bathtub. The pilot and copilot stretched the legs of the Agusta to more than eight hundred kilometers. With the last rays of sunlight fading through the black clouds in the west and reflecting off the now rolling seas beneath them, the chopper reached the illuminated helipad on the rear deck of the Petronius.
After four hours of the thud-thud of the Agusta’s twin engines in quarters crammed with crew, passengers, and equipment, Laura was fatigued and politely declined Stephanous’s offer of dinner. By nine she had retired to her cabin.
Laura was disappointed that the clouds of the previous evening had matured into a rainstorm, which drenched the Petronius and slowed the execution of her photographic plan. Drawing on the movie Titanic, the centerpiece shot would be from the bridge, with Stephanous at the tip of the bow, his silver mane of hair blowing in the Pacific wind. She thought that kind of pop-culture connection would appeal to his glaring ego. She would now have to wait another day to commence her work.
The Petronius was a workhorse. It would soon account for almost one percent of all the cargo traffic crossing the Pacific. But it was not without its elegance: the owner, Aristotle Stephanous, occupied a palatial suite above the bridge. Glass swept around three sides, offering a panoramic view of the ocean. With a gracious flourish, Stephanous reextended his invitation to Laura to join him there for dinner.
The final containers of electronics and automobile parts had been lifted on board the Petronius at the Thai port of Laem Chabang. The supership had also taken on a pallet of local fish, food, and spices. It was from this stash that the gingered shrimp-roll salad was prepared as the appetizer for Stephanous and his guest.
Gazing out on this now tranquil scene, Laura said, “Aristotle, I am deeply gratified that you accepted my call. I have told the prime minister of your courtesy, and he joins me in our appreciation.”
Stephanous maintained his focus on the ocean as he took a sip of Cristal champagne. “This engagement is not for me. It has been my practice to concentrate on my love, the business of the seas, and leave the credit and attention to others.”
Moving closer, Laura said, “I am honored that you deviated from your pattern of self-effacement. Why did you give me this unique opportunity?”
He turned to her, his deep voice dropping another half octave. “It is my belief that what I am doing is a fundamental contribution to world order. As the people of the globe become more reliant on the goods and services of others, they are more likely to forgo violence as a means of resolving their inevitable disputes.”
He rambled on about an incident between Argentina and Chile in which trade relations had deflected a war. “I wish this were true elsewhere, India and Pakistan particularly. To me, the Petronius is a symbol of peace.”
“And you feel what we will do tomorrow will contribute to that recognition?”
“Through your sensitivity and talent, yes.”
A staff of five served a dinner the equal of the best restaurants in Paris. They luxuriated over the lemongrass-accented green curry with fresh prawns and sesame oil–marinated pomelo with ginger ice cream and engaged in sophisticated conversation for two hours.
When the last of the cutlery was removed and the parlor returned to its stately ambiance, the two of them were again alone, resting on the exquisite antique Italian sofa. This time Stephanous closed the distance.
In a voice still deep, but now affected by an evening of heavy champagne and wine consumption, he said, “Laura, I have spoken of my dedication to peace and the humble contribution I believe I am making to its realization among nations.”
He paused to drain his glass. “The same is true between humans. Closer contacts are the keys which turn chance meetings into lasting relationships.” With that, he slid his right hand under Laura’s dress.
She pushed away his hand. “Aristotle, I am here for professional business and, more important, assuring that you are introduced to the world as the Periclean leader of men you are. We will both be together soon; there will be time for us to know each other better.”
“Stay and cruise with me to Los Angeles. We still have a day and a half.”
With his hand now resting on her knee, Laura said softly, “Aristotle, sadly we have already lost a day. I must get the photographs we will take tomorrow to the publishers by Friday. We have a chance at being in the Christmas editions, the most widely read of the year. I will meet you with the greeting party when you arrive on Friday, and we w
ill celebrate.”
As Laura returned to her suite, she withdrew the Gatwick box and read the instructions. They were, as Tony suggested, detailed and complex. When she reached paragraph 8, she carefully entered the code.
OCTOBER 29
Long Beach
“Abdul,” Faroung Barkett, the Saudi consular officer, instructed, “when you get to the Long Beach exit, take it to the Hyatt Harborside. You have a room reservation. When you are in the room, call me. Have you followed my directions? Do you understand?”
“Yes and yes,” Muhadded said as he maneuvered the Dodge minivan he had rented at Avis in El Segundo into the right lane. Brewster knew he didn’t like cell phones. “Will I be able to return to San Diego before sundown tomorrow?”
“If you mean in time for Friday prayers, possibly.”
It was after 4:30 when Muhadded turned the van into the hotel parking lot. Following instructions, he and Brewster went to room 2032, overlooking the harbor, and called the consulate.
“Abdul,” the same voice said, “within the hour, DHL will deliver a package to your room. Open the container carefully and follow the instruction meticulously. When you have done so, place your Beretta where it is always accessible to you. Replace the items in the DHL box and store it under the bed. Call me at nine in the morning for further instructions.”
On the last leg of his trip over the Pacific, from Guam to Los Angeles, Tony reviewed the complicated chess match that was nearing its endgame. Laura was by now on the Petronius. Her instructions were to complete the photo shoot by midday, when the ship would still be more than four hundred miles from Los Angeles. She knew what to do from there. If for some reason she was unable to carry out her assignment by noon, the Petronius would then be within blast range of the coast, and any attempt to intercept the cargo carried the risk of an onshore conflagration.
That was the basis of Tony’s plan B. He composed a terse email to Mark Block. The secretary’s 767 was still almost three thousand miles from LAX when Tony received his reply: “Al-Harbi’s current successor is Abdul Muhadded. He is driving a Ford Focus with Nevada license plates LV 2267. The Long Beach and Los Angeles police are on the lookout. Buena suerte, Mark.”
