by Fritz Galt
“Actually it’s relatively easy,” Merle confessed. “You should try it sometime. Send a check to one of these accounts, have their bank issue you a VISA card, and try it out.”
“As a financial officer for the Shanghai Branch,” Sean had reminded Merle, “I’m no stranger to shipping funds in and out of the United States. The new anti-terrorist limitations are the big hassle.”
“Tell me about it. That’s the beauty of my job. I work overseas and ship money from one country to another, circumventing U.S. banks. It’s a piece of cake.”
“But I’ve never established my own off-shore account before,” he had admitted.
Merle reached for his wallet. “I’ve got several accounts that I’m not using any longer.” He pulled out a VISA card. “Here, you can have this one. There’s no name attached to it. It’s only a number.”
And that card still sat in the wallet in Sean’s pocket.
Sure enough, Sean had tried the card out the next day, and it worked. He could legally send whatever amount of money he wanted to the bank, no questions asked.
It worked just as well with large sums of money. He transferred a huge amount from his company’s pension fund, and that worked as well. A minute later, he returned the money to the pension fund.
It was exhilarating.
Next, he took the latest money his company had designated as a political contribution to the president’s reelection campaign. He remembered wagging a finger at the president’s personal account number after he typed it in and it appeared on the computer screen. “That’s not legal, sir.”
Instead of pushing Enter, he changed the account number to read the new account that Merle had so helpfully provided him.
Zap.
Within a nanosecond, the president’s black funds totaling $10,000,000 were his, cloaked forever in the secrecy of the Caymans. And the president could never come griping to him. The chief executive’s only recourse would be to send out enforcers of the waterfront kind, which he highly doubted would happen.
But the president did employ enforcers of the IRS kind. The next day, he had been informed that investigators were on their way to audit his company. They told him to be prepared for “an interview.”
That night he had packed his bags and flown to Sanya, Hainan, leaving his lucrative expatriate package behind.
He took a moment to study that decision. Why in the world did he trade a life of bounty for a life on the run?
It had something to do with the fact that his company and the president were partners in crime, and that their misdeeds had cost his family their lives.
So Sean became a felon of the highest order.
Sanya wasn’t a bad refuge. China had some wonderful travel destinations. And look at him now…steaming on a first-class cruise ship across the Pacific. It was even kind of a party ship. His shipmates were rejoicing at the fact that America was up against the ropes.
He shook his head. At the moment, he wouldn’t mind talking with the IRS and telling them everything he knew. In fact, they could come and get him. He’d surrender peacefully.
He looked out the portholes, searching for some recognizable landmass, any land. But all he saw was the vast blue horizon, and their steady wake as they plowed ahead at full speed.
Where the hell were they going so fast?
“I saw you with that guy yesterday,” Merle Stevens said.
“Oh him,” Sandi said dismissively as she reclined on the poolside lounge chair. She wasn’t going to let the ghost of Sean Cooper stand in the way of a little hedonism.
“How well did you know him?”
“He’s a very nice man,” she said. It was good policy to expect the best of her suitors.
“I’m sure he was,” he said, emphasizing the past tense. “What happened to him?”
“Oh, gone home to his family, I suppose,” she said, flipping through the paper with no idea of what was on the pages.
He gave a short laugh, more of a sneer.
That drew her interest. A sign of his personality was emerging through the polished veneer. Was he the callous sort?
If so, that could be attractive.
“Why do you laugh?” she asked, setting down the paper.
“Oh, it’s just that…” his voice trailed off as his eyes fell on the pool’s calm surface. “Care for a swim?”
She had just applied her tanning oil, and the water was bound to be cold that early in the morning. “Sure,” she said, tearing the scrunchie from her hair.
He stood and extended a hand, which she took. She allowed him to pull her to her feet. She landed erect, inches from his sculpted body. Instinctively she lay a hand against the thick black swirls of hair on his chest. The pounding under the skin was steady, not racing.
Boy, the guy was cool.
But she liked that.
He led her to the water’s edge and turned to lower himself down the ladder step by step.
Aw hell, she thought, and arched herself over the water. She went clear to the bottom of the pool, prowling the depths like a tiger shark.
She spotted his feet stepping off the last rung and his toes touching the bottom. She buried her flowing hair between his legs and slowly drew herself to the surface.
He laughed when her eyes engaged with his.
He tapped her on the nose. “You’re it,” he said, and plunged away. She swam after him in hot pursuit.
This guy was playing hard to get.
Chapter 15
With the WAV files downloaded from the Pentagon and linked to Seaman Anthony Carlson’s computer, he sat back and watched the process at work.
Scanning multiple radio and cell phone transmissions, the highly sensitive antennae on the USS Endorse were able to eavesdrop on both official and private communications on sea and shore.
And the airwaves were abuzz. His main terminal was divided into ten windows, each showing another audio print of some conversation taking place. Meanwhile, the computer was humming away, comparing the waveforms with those of known terrorists and internationally sought criminals.
If it found a match, the computer would automatically save the recorded message to a special inbox where Anthony could ship it off electronically to a team of translators at the NSA.
The system worked well, except for two factors. First, there were thousands of transmissions taking place at any given time. Even though the radio room was manned by seven seamen, each with several workstations, they could only analyze seventy conversations at a time. And secondly, in his three years’ experience doing such work, Anthony had never once made a voice print match.
So where did he get his thrills? His answer was the hardware and software. They were things of beauty to maintain and watch.
Just as Anthony realized he was letting his thoughts wander, his commanding officer Lieutenant Terrence Whitcomb bounded down the stairs into the room. “Tune in to harbor traffic.”
Now, Lt. Terry could be a prick. He had the patience of a gnat and talked in clipped sentences that Anthony still had trouble following. But he was a loyal seaman, ran a tight radio room, and Anthony never found himself working at cross-purposes with him. Hardware geeks seemed to communicate on an extra-personal level on which Anthony felt comfortable.
So when Terry said, “Tune in to harbor traffic,” Anthony knew instantly what he meant, even though he would never know the reason behind the order. Terry never gave reasons, just orders…he was a prick.
Then came the surprise of Anthony’s life. Terry gave the roomful of techies a sly smile and leaned over a chair to explain.
“I’ve requested that Manila contact each ship’s captain.”
Aha! Anthony spun back to his workstation with renewed energy. He tuned into the frequencies dedicated to ship communications, and his computer began to do the voice analysis, checking the voice signatures against those in the database, including those he had recently downloaded.
Lieutenant Terrence Whitcomb was driving the radio traffic to hi
m. Within the next few minutes, he would be hit by a barrage of new voices, each from a different ship.
A single hit would mean that they had located a ship being commanded by a terrorist.
The first officer interrupted Sean and the skipper while they were dining in the skipper’s quarters.
“It’s the harbor master once again. He wants to know our coordinates.”
The skipper nodded and took a sip of black tea. He would take his time responding.
The first officer withdrew.
This was another chance for Sean to get heard on the radio. If only the skipper gave him another chance. But he couldn’t let the skipper sense how eager he was to alert the authorities to where he and the terrorists were located.
“So why don’t you speak on the radio?” Sean asked over his squid and vegetable stew.
Sometimes their collegiality frightened Sean. Sure, it was nice to talk with another educated man on a long sea voyage, but he had to take into consideration who his companion was.
Sean pressed the skipper again. “You could talk with the harbor master yourself.”
The skipper waved his hand, crumbs falling off his piece of bread. “We don’t use radios or telephones. They know our voices.”
“Ha,” Sean said. “Sure they know the voice patterns of the key players in your organization, but surely not everybody. I’m no expert, but they can’t monitor every transmission made on earth. I know the NSA has plenty of powerful listening devices and computers, but what’s a little radio contact stating your ship’s position?”
“We don’t talk on radios,” the skipper said with finality. “You will do the talking.”
Jesus, the guy was obsessive. Who did he think he was, bin Laden? Sean studied the skipper’s soft hands and genteel manner of eating. It must be rare for al-Qaeda to appeal to the Oxford set.
“What brought you into al-Qaeda?” he asked. The question sounded somewhat brash, but maybe the guy liked talking politics. “Did they recruit you?”
“Hardly. Our group existed long before al-Qaeda. They brought our group into contact with other groups and trained some of our men, but al-Qaeda exists because of us.”
Sean didn’t detect much enthusiasm for al-Qaeda in the skipper. “You are loyal to al-Qaeda, aren’t you?”
“They’ve become as much a liability as an asset,” the skipper remarked. “We could use the funding, but we don’t need the publicity. It has made our job far more dangerous.”
“What do you mean? You’d rather sit back, discuss revolution with other revolutionaries over tea, then blow up the occasional police station just to feel like you’ve accomplished something?”
“It’s always a hopeless struggle by idealists.”
“And now that the populace is stirred up, you may even have a chance of succeeding,” Sean finished his thought. “And that’s a frightening prospect to you.”
The skipper looked him directly in the eye.
“We are ready to take over,” he stated firmly.
“But you don’t have a clue what you’ll do?”
The skipper laughed. It did not stem from amusement. Rather, Sean may have touched a nerve.
“Al Shari’ah. Isn’t that what it’s called? Islamic Law. Isn’t that what you’ll install?”
“Of course. It is a very effective political system…”
“I’m sure at Oxford that’s been thoroughly studied.”
“…if you leave out the perfectibility aspect that drives governments closer to Islam and further from practicality.”
“So you admit it’s an imperfect system.”
The skipper sucked in his breath and rose from the table. He carefully folded his napkin and looked at Sean.
“Are you ready to talk on the radio?”
“Sure, why not,” Sean said. His heart began thumping loudly. This was the opportunity he was waiting for.
The last time he had read the ship’s coordinates over the radio, he hadn’t been able to say his name or slip in a subtle phrase that would otherwise identify him. The skipper had snatched the radio transmitter away from him too quickly.
But this was a second chance to get word out. Simply stating his name over the air would be like a lightning rod, attracting authorities to the evil nexus between the president and al-Qaeda.
Cold from the swim, her nipples stiff, and her bikini plastered to the contours of her body, Sandi lay back under her sun umbrella breathing hard.
Merle seemed no worse for the wear, as he calmly toweled himself off. He called over a pool attendant in Chinese and ordered Cokes for both of them. Then he eased into his lounge chair.
He had nice leg muscles and very cute toes. Where did this guy come from? She didn’t know that the Department of State churned out such hunks.
“I have a confession to make,” he said, his voice turning serious.
Oh no. Here it came. He was going to be up-front with her about something that would destroy her fantasy.
She held her emotions in check. “What?” she said affecting as much disinterest as she could muster.
“I knew Sean Cooper,” he said, and looked at her to gauge her reaction.
The significance of his statement caught her unprepared, and she let out a laugh, perhaps even a sneer. “Him?” She had long since forgotten about that graying loser with too much personal baggage, and a bad financial record.
He mirrored her smile. “Yes, I do know him well,” he said, as if trying to convince her of such an absurd notion. After all, why would a charmer like him, a man on the make, a total dreamboat ever want to make social contact with Sean Cooper?
In fact, she wouldn’t have believed him, if he hadn’t known Sean by name. That made her stop and let her investigative instincts take over.
Sponging off the beads of water that rolled about her belly, she casually formulated a question. “How do you know him?”
Merle frowned. The story seemed more complicated than he could relate in the current tone of their conversation. “I’ll tell you about him sometime.”
“Yeah, sure.”
The drinks came, and Merle seemed thirsty. He downed his drink at once, his eyes steady on hers.
For her part, she gently picked up the tall, slender glass and let her lips suck full and moist on the thick straw.
He was still looking at her. She thrust out her breasts with a tremendous sigh and threw back her hair.
“How about dinner tonight?” he asked. “We can talk over a glass of wine and some pod thai.”
“That would work,” she said. She would have to let the matter rest until then.
He set his glass down on a small table between their lounge chairs and flashed her another one of his toothy smiles.
It made her feel like an adolescent before a movie idol.
“I have to go. I’ve got some work to do,” he said.
“What do you mean? Work on a day like today?” She looked over the ocean and beach below. Nearly all the chairs were occupied, kids were playing volleyball, a paraglider flew past, and young men and ladies strutted around the pool.
“Yeah, hard to believe, isn’t it?” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. Did that mean she should be working, too?
“Bye for now,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the Garden Restaurant at eight.”
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
He stood, picked up his cell phone and towel, and walked away. Sandi traced the V shape of his back down to his slim waist and clinging black swim trunks. She felt helpless, like a small child. She would be putty in his hands. What was she turning into? Where was that cast iron will and enormous ego that had opened doors to her future? Was she going to lie on silk sheets for the rest of her life, a moaning, voluptuous, scented bag of hormones?
“Is this chair taken?”
She focused her eyes on the lounge chair beside her. A skinny teenager wanted to lie beside her and worship her body.
“Get lost,” she said, and turned
away.
Seaman Anthony Carlson’s eyes were already bloodshot. His morning had begun early with the customary calisthenics on the ship’s tiny quarterdeck.
That had been followed by flat-tasting scrambled eggs, the same fare he had been served for the past three months. No matter how much salt he poured on them, he couldn’t tease out the least bit of flavor. Perhaps the food manufacturer had left out the “essence of egg” seasoning in the egg powder.
Then, watching the new voice files downloading from the Pentagon had burned up two hours of eyeball time. And now, with the entire radio room scanning the ship-to-shore frequencies, it had become a kind of competition among the seven radiomen. Who could spot a terrorist first?
Of course the entire exercise was entirely artificial, as they were as likely to find a terrorist as the Marines were to find bin Laden in Afghanistan.
But the competition did arouse their interest, and dry out his eyes.
Suddenly, a red blotch flashed on one of the tiny subdivisions of his oversized screen. He blinked to clear away the scum in his eyes.
The damn voiceprint was flashing red.
He hid the Record button. “Hit!” he shouted.
Three other seamen had simultaneously jumped out of their seats. “Hit!” “Hit! “Hit!”
They had all won.
The digital voice recording was stored on their hard drives. Anthony donned his headset and listened in.
It was the flat American accent of a man radioing in his ship’s name, registration and general location east of the Philippines.
Anthony’s eyes scanned over to the watch list of voices to match. One line was flashing in white. “Sean Cooper.”
“Good God,” Anthony said. He leaned on the intercom that connected him with Lieutenant Whitcomb’s office. “You’ve got to get down here right away.”
Anthony left the recorder going, but there was no further communication.
He slowly removed his earphones and looked at the others. They studied each other in amazement.
