The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  He bid the man farewell and approached the front door.

  Before Ethan walked out, the caretaker cut him off, planting a muscled arm firmly across the doorframe.

  "Hold on," the man said menacingly.

  19

  Ethan gave the man a worried look. "Oui? Quel est le problème?"

  "I want you to stop invading my privacy," the caretaker said.

  Ethan felt his heart rate increase. Had he been caught hiding a surveillance device?

  "What do you mean?" he said.

  The Frenchman smirked, nodding as if he had indeed caught Ethan red-handed. He waved an admonishing finger in his face.

  "What do you mean?" the caretaker repeated in a mocking voice.

  "I'm not sure—" Ethan began.

  "I want Orange to stop calling me!" the caretaker growled. "You keep phoning and phoning, always asking me to upgrade my service. Stop it. I pay my bills. That is all that should matter."

  "Oh," Ethan said. He exhaled deeply. "Of course. I'll get your vineyard added to the do-not-call list."

  "Très bien."

  Ethan turned to go, but then paused. "Oh, by the way. You wouldn't happen to offer tours of the winery or wine tastings, or anything like that, would you?" He had to ask.

  The Frenchman grimaced. "No." He shut the door.

  Ethan walked away. When he was out of sight of the front door, he turned calmly and proceeded alongside the chateau, as if intending to check the wiring.

  After several paces he broke away from the chateau and headed toward the winery. He kept glancing at the aerial telephone wires that were strung between the chateau and winery outbuilding, as if inspecting them, well aware that someone could be watching.

  When he reached the winery, he strode to a side window and shielded his eyes to peer inside. He couldn't see anything through the black curtains, of course, but while he did that he attached a tiny RF disk, ten times more sensitive than the laser microphone. He placed it over one of the wooden muntins dividing the panes. He chose that spot so the listening device wouldn't be visible from the inside, but even on the outside the disk would require a long period of scrutiny to pick out.

  He calmly returned to the Movano van and left the estate.

  The days passed. All of his efforts proved fruitless. The chateau listening devices picked up nothing of importance: the caretaker sometimes talked to himself, but the words were gibberish. Nothing at all came from the winery outbuilding. Either the occupants had gone, or they spoke very quietly in different rooms.

  Ethan and Bretta continued the overhead Hornet flights, but spotted nothing important. The round-robin imagery from the spy satellites proved equally useless. The Internet data dumps from the caretaker revealed the same humdrum browsing habits.

  Ethan was about ready to break into the winery outbuilding in defiance of Sam's orders when a new development arose: on the fifteenth day since they had begun their surveillance, an unmarked semi drove onto the estate. It wasn't the regularly scheduled garbage or grocery truck.

  His Hornet happened to be in the air at the time, so Ethan followed the vehicle with the nano drone right to the winery outbuilding. Beside him, Bretta observed the scene through the thick branches with her Nikon. Ethan heard the characteristic snap as she took photos. He was recording from the air, of course. The day wasn't too windy, so he'd have excellent footage to send Sam.

  The truck halted and the driver emerged. Tan skin. Saddam mustache. Hooked nose.

  "He doesn't look like a local, does he?" Bretta said, examining the FPV display on Ethan's radio.

  "No, he does not." Ethan watched the waiting caretaker shake hands with the driver, patting him on the back as if they were old friends. The driver unlatched the lockrods, then pulled the swinging doors of the semi-trailer wide open. He climbed inside the cargo area while the caretaker vanished in the winery.

  A metal garage door opened on one side of the outbuilding and the caretaker emerged, steering a powered jack that carried a Euro-pallet of stacked, stretch-wrapped wine cartons. The machine reached the rear of the semi-trailer and the two forks lifted the load to the floor level. The caretaker moved his powered jack forward, depositing the pallet in the trailer, then backed away.

  The driver was waiting inside with a manual jack; he slid its two forks under the Euro-pallet and then maneuvered the load deeper into the truck. The caretaker meanwhile returned the powered jack to the winery, and then repeated the process three more times.

  In about fifteen minutes the loading was complete. The driver closed the trailer's swinging doors, latched the lockrods and shook hands one last time with the caretaker. Before the man hopped into the cabin of the truck, Ethan was already recalling the Hornet.

  When the drone arrived, he landed it on the ground beside the Audi and raced out to retrieve it. Returning to the vehicle, he threw the Hornet into the backseat and slammed the passenger door.

  "Let's take him down," he told Bretta.

  She was already doing a U-turn. By the time she pulled onto the main road, the transport truck was only half a kilometer ahead.

  Bretta closed the distance. She grabbed the battery-powered dome light from under her feet and placed it onto the dash. She flicked it on, sending out rotating beams of light toward the truck, then moved the Audi halfway into the left lane so the driver would see those beams.

  Ethan meanwhile retrieved the cellphone jammer from the glove compartment and activated it. The thing looked like a porcupine with its four omni-directional antennas. Ethan rolled down his window and affixed the device to the roof of the car via the mounting magnets, thereby preventing the trucker from calling for help or sending out any warnings.

  The driver hadn't responded yet, so Ethan grabbed the Whelen siren from its storage area under his feet and similarly mounted it to the roof of the Audi. He plugged the siren's adapter into the cigarette lighter and turned on the device via the controller. An ear-ringing police whoop emanated from it.

  When the truck halted on the shoulder of the road, Bretta passed the semi. She parked the Audi three car lengths in front.

  Ethan reached under his jacket and touched the grip of the Px4 holstered underneath his armpit for reassurance, and then he exited the vehicle, leaving the weapon holstered.

  Ethan approached the driver door, Bretta the passenger side.

  "Come down," Ethan commanded the driver in his poor French. "And bring your license, registration, and proof of insurance."

  The man complied, climbing the step box underneath the door.

  Bretta leaped onto the passenger-side step box. "No one else," she commented in much better French.

  "How are you today?" Ethan asked the driver as he approached.

  "Bien." The driver handed Ethan a big binder and then rubbed the back of his neck. "What have I done wrong?" His French was spoken with a heavy Arabic accent.

  Ethan promptly returned the binder. "Just the requested documents please."

  The Arab quickly produced them.

  Ethan gave the items a cursory glance. His name was Muhammed Issa. Probably an alias. Ethan folded the paperwork and pocketed it.

  The man opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Ethan talked over him. "Can I see your bill of lading, please?"

  "I will have to return to the cabin to get it," Muhammed said. He was starting to sweat.

  "Never mind," Ethan said. "Open her up."

  Muhammed stared at him blankly.

  "The rear doors," Ethan clarified. "Open up your trailer."

  "Why?"

  "Random inspection," Ethan said. "I'd like to take a look at your cargo."

  "Can I have your collar number?" Muhammed said. That was what the French called badge numbers. It was an identifying number apparently inscribed onto the uniform epaulettes, which would explain why the man was looking at Ethan's shoulders.

  "Certainly," Ethan lied. "Five-one-three."

  Muhammed made a point of writing down the number. "Do you have a warrant?"<
br />
  "Ouvrez cette putain de porte!" Ethan cursed. Open the damn door.

  Muhammed jumped slightly, but otherwise refused to budge.

  Sighing, Ethan added in Arabic: "Okay, we'll do this the hard way."

  He drew the Px4 from its concealed holster.

  Muhammed's eyes widened. Ethan grabbed the man and hauled him toward the rear of the trailer.

  Bretta followed right behind.

  Ethan shoved Muhammed toward the swinging doors. "Open."

  Muhammed reluctantly unlatched the lockrods and opened the doors.

  "Lead the way," Ethan said.

  The man clambered inside. Ethan covered Bretta as she hauled herself into the cargo area, then she in turn covered him while he did the same.

  Each pallet contained sixty-four cartons arranged in a shoulder-high square and enveloped in a thin layer of stretch wrap. The individual cartons were labeled 12x750 ml.

  While Ethan kept an eye on Muhammed, Bretta produced a Gerber and slit open the stretch wrap. She stabbed the knife into the top of one of the upper cartons and tore the lid off. Inside was a molded pulp tray. She lifted it, revealing three wine bottles placed horizontally and padded with shredded paper filler. She removed the bottles and filler, resting them on the next carton, and retrieved nine more bottles in subsequent layers.

  When everything was out, she lifted the package and showed Ethan the black tape lining the bottom edges. She plunged the Gerber into the cardboard there and carved out a square. She produced a translucent plastic bag from the hidden compartment underneath.

  Bretta unwrapped the bag, revealing a small cinch sack. She opened the drawstring and poured a handful of tiny diamonds into her palm.

  She gave Muhammed a mocking smile. "A woman's best friend."

  20

  Winery Outbuilding, Château Couleurs Du Vin

  Aquitaine Region, France

  JALAL FINISHED LEADING EVENING PRAYER. He glanced at Somna, who was still bowed, her head pressed firmly to the prayer rug. As part of their operation, the two of them had basically lived like hermits, never leaving the winery outbuilding. Indeed, lately they had stayed solely within the production room, departing only to use the toilet or microwave. It felt safe in that room, amid all those machines, fermentation bins, and storage barrels.

  Such a solitary life wasn't too different from what his wife was used to. As a woman, she would be accustomed to staying inside the house all day. And while such an austere life was hitherto unknown to Jalal, he had grown to embrace it. There was little to do all day but pray and contemplate the words of the Prophet, as a true Salafist should.

  Jalal had already reread the Quran at least twenty times since coming to the vineyard. He had memorized most of the book. He only hoped nothing would interrupt his tenure at the estate before he had completely memorized it. He was certain when he had achieved that feat, his wife would finally conceive a child. He would be worthy.

  Jalal got up and weaved between the various pumps and machines, including the presser, the crusher, and the filter. It was ironic, he thought, a devout Muslim such as he producing drinks that were forbidden by his religion. But as long as the production helped strike at the infidel, then a fatwa allowed it. The imams had taught him as much, and he had read supporting evidence in the Quran.

  He approached the laptops that were on a table near the destemmer equipment. He considered that location his office, as the tall machines beside it screened off the remainder of the room, imbuing a sense of privacy.

  None of the computers were connected to the main DSL—Jalal subscribed to satellite Internet. He had placed the small, rectangular antenna on the rooftop in such a manner as to be indistinguishable from the slate tiles. He had linked the WAN port of the satellite Internet device via network cabling to a router, which was physically connected to the laptops by means of a hub. Jalal didn't believe in Wi-Fi. While it took more effort, limiting everything to network cables made it that much harder for eavesdroppers. In his case, the only potential weak spot was the satellite Internet itself.

  The laptops monitored the IP cameras he had placed at strategic spots throughout the vineyard. Each camera had a thermal twin for nighttime surveillance. He had connected all of them to his main router via cat 5 Ethernet cables buried a foot under the dirt of the estate. Network cabling attenuation required a power-over-Ethernet repeater every hundred meters—he had designed the underground network so that he wouldn't need more than two repeaters per midspan power source.

  On the main screen, two thermal cameras watched the inner road that led to the chateau, while four other cameras covered other possible angles of approach to the winery itself. Everything seemed quiet out there. He didn't need to constantly observe the displays, of course—he had the software rigged so that the cameras functioned as motion sensors. If anything moved out there, he'd know.

  He had been worried a few days ago when the unannounced telecom truck arrived. Pierre had explained the DSL outage to him later. Still, Jalal had reservations about that Orange telecom technician. Jalal had watched the man approach the winery outbuilding on camera: the technician had walked right up to one of the lobby windows and attempted to peer inside.

  After the man left, Jalal donned a full veil to hide his face and then opened the lobby curtains a crack. He spent several minutes inspecting the panes, looking for signs of a surveillance device, but he didn't spot a thing. When Pierre visited later, Jalal instructed the caretaker to search the window on the outside, but the man told him there was nothing there.

  The Orange technician had probably been checking the phone wires that ran to the winery, and he'd peered into the window merely out of curiosity. Even so, Jalal felt violated somehow, and the incident was a contributing factor to his recent reluctance to leave the production room.

  He set down the Quran on the desk, opened the holy book, and continued reading where he'd left off.

  Somna joined him a moment later. "Any messages tonight?"

  They used I2P for sending and receiving messages from family members, as well as staying in touch with those who worked for Al Sifr.

  Jalal quashed the slight irritation he felt from the interruption, and glanced at his wife. "No messages, my Moonlight." He kissed her on the forehead when she sat down beside him.

  Like him, she was worried because the diamond shipment had been late that month. Jalal wasn't sure what that meant. It was possibly related to the news they had received last week, regarding the fall of one of the Romanian cells. Jalal had promptly blocked the associated contacts on I2P Messenger, of course, and via an encrypted text had instructed the driver Muhammed to remove that destination from his delivery schedule.

  Jalal and his wife had been forced to dive into the reserve diamond cache to meet the latest shipment. There hadn't been enough diamonds in the stash—the total payments to the cell leaders would fall short that month. Jalal had made detailed notes in his ledgers regarding what was paid and to whom, and he would simply overpay next month.

  Assuming the diamond shipment actually arrived.

  Compounding matters was the fact that the wine stocks were running low. Though that was more easily rectified than the diamond issue: Jalal would simply have to purchase pallets from the nearby wineries until September's harvest.

  "I'm going to bed early tonight," Somna announced.

  "You aren't going to read the Quran?" Jalal asked, an edge of accusation creeping into his tone.

  She shook her head. "Not tonight, my favorite accountant. I'm too sleepy."

  Jalal frowned. "I'm tired too and yet I stay up to read. Ah, go ahead. The weakness of females never ceases to amaze me." He returned to his reading.

  "Good night, husband,"

  He grunted a reply and ignored the kiss she gave on the cheek.

  After she had gone to bed, he found himself distracted, unable to read. Perhaps his wife had been wise to go to bed early.

  His stomach growled. He opened the half-size fridge besid
e him and removed a baguette portion. The last piece. Pierre would bring some more tomorrow when the groceries arrived.

  As he chewed into that stale excuse for food, Jalal thought of the fresh, unleavened bread of his home country. So tasty, so moist, unlike these dry and salty French substitutes. Baguette. That was simply another word for disgusting. He also missed the chicken kabsa, the stuffed lamb khūzī, the Saudi coffee. He missed the camaraderie of good friends burping appreciatively as they dined on his wife's cooking. He missed the sport of falconry: he and Al Sifr had spent days on end in the desert, watching their raptors hunt prey.

  Yes, he missed all of that, but he would endure. He had everything he needed right in front of him.

  He patted the holy book.

  He finished the bread and then tried reading for another ten minutes, but finally gave up. He reverently marked his page, checked the laptop monitors one last time, and then turned off the light to join Somna on the nearby mattress.

  His wife was already snoring. He considered waking her to make love but it hardly seemed worthwhile. She would simply get angry and he'd have to force himself on her. She'd be irate all the next morning and probably wouldn't conceive anyway.

  He was still debating the matter when a proximity alert sounded from one of the laptops. Something had tripped the software motion sensors.

  Somna stopped snoring and shifted beside him.

  "Probably a deer again," he told her. "Or maybe a fox."

  He turned on the light. Rubbing his eyes, he returned to the table by the destemmer and examined the laptop screens.

  He stiffened.

  That was no deer.

  "Woman!" Jalal yelled. "Come here!"

  The power went out.

  RILEY TIGHTENED HIS JAW. The anticipation was killing him. He momentarily tightened his grip on the H&K G36 and took a deep breath.

  Didn't help.

  He willed the armored Renault to move faster.

  Come on. Come on.

  The two SUVs drove onto the grounds with their headlamps off—the quarter moon provided ample light. They had cut the power and phone lines to the estate a moment earlier. The fact that the utility pole was right beside the vineyard made it easy.