After a couple of altitude holds for conflicting traffic, the G-100 was cleared to climb to 41,000 feet. When they leveled off at their cruise altitude, Scott set the power for .82 Mach and studied the avionics suite in the state-of-the-art cockpit.
"Would you like some coffee?" Jackie asked, unfastening her seat restraints.
"Sure, thanks."
She stepped into the passenger cabin, went to the galley, fixed two cups of the Monterey Jet Center's freshly brewed coffee, and handed one to Scott. Returning to the cabin, Jackie sat down in the four-seat club arrangement and fastened her seat belt. She lifted a lightweight table from the enclosure in the sidewall next to her seat.
Unfolding the table, she energized one of their new laptop computers and brought up the Fort Worth Star-Telegram's Web site. Jackie scrolled down the front page and read only part of the article about the car bombing near Sundance Square in downtown Fort Worth before she unsnapped her seat belt, grabbed the laptop, folded the table, and headed for the cockpit.
"Are you ready for some good news?" she asked.
Scott eyed her distrustfully "I'm always suspicious of good news this early in the morning."
"I just checked the Fort Worth paper. The policeman who was shot is going to be okay."
A smile flashed across his face. "That's good news--great."
"One round grazed his cheek and the other went through his left shoulder. He's resting comfortably, and the doctors expect him to make a full recovery."
Scott drank the last of his coffee. "We need to see if he can ID Zheng Yen-Tsung from the photos we have."
"Good idea."
"Anything about the investigation--who rented the car or why it was blown to kingdom come?"
"Just a second." She quickly scanned the rest of the article. "The FBI is investigating the incident, which they suspect was a case of mistaken identity on behalf of the bomber." She paused and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're going to love this. The couple who rented the Lincoln returned to their home in Alabama and were not available for comment. The FBI said their names were being withheld and would not be made available while the incident is being investigated.'"
Scott glanced at her. "Which means the incident will be under investigation until everyone forgets about it."
"Thank you, Hartwell."
"Speaking of Hartwell, let's try the satcom system. Give him our ETA and add thirty minutes for the drive from the airport."
"I'll take care of it," she said, turning to leave.
"Oh, one other thing," Scott said. "Would you mind canceling our reservations in Hawaii?"
"I canceled them while you were in the shower."
"Gulfstream Nine-Five-Seven Golf Alfa, contact Salt Lake Center on one-three-four point three-five; good day."
Scott keyed the radio. "Salt Lake Center, thirty-four thirty-five; Fifty-seven Golf Alfa."
He checked in with the center and wrote a note to pick up a good bottle of wine on the way to Prost's home.
"We're all set," Jackie said, stepping into the cockpit. "The satcom system works like a dream."
"How's Hartwell doing?"
"Zachary answered the phone. He said Mr. Prost is on his way home from the White House. He will deliver our message the moment Mr. Prost arrives."
QUEEN MARY 2
On day five of their voyage, Brett Shannon and members of his staff were enjoying tea in the Winter Garden. Afternoon tea is served with white gloves, a tradition of Cunard s White Star Service. Shannon and his aides were partaking of an assortment of scones, finger sandwiches, fresh cream cakes, and warm Daijeeling. Grown in the mountainous districts of northern India, the tea was worthy of the high standards set on the QM2.
Relieved that the summit on international terrorism had been a reasonable success, the secretary of state was sampling a wide variety of activities on the ship. He had attended an enrichment program about wine appreciation, perused the quaint library, indulged himself with a seaweed treatment at the Canyon Ranch SpaClub, practiced his golf swing in a simulator, played shuffleboard, visited The Planetarium, and bought presents from a wide variety of Mayfair Shops.
Tonight would be the last hurrah before the mighty ship arrived in New York the next morning at 8 A. M. sharp. Shannon and his staff would dine in the elegant Britannia Restaurant and then assemble in the Royal Court Theatre to watch a Broadway musical. Afterward, they would adjourn to the Commodores Club for a nightcap while they listened to jazz.
Although he was a wealthy man in his own right, Brett Shannon relished the knowledge that U. S. taxpayers were footing the bill for the extravagant cruise, including the considerable bar charges. Shannon believed that only the best things in life were good enough. He found that especially true when someone else was picking up the tab.
Chapter 4.
KHARTOUM, EAST AFRICA
Khartoum, the capital of the Republic of the Sudan, is located south of the confluence of the Blue Nile and White Nile rivers. Long a hub for international terrorists, Khartoum serves as a safe haven, meeting place, and training center for al-Qaeda (the Base).
A military Islamic fundamentalist regime, Sudan also plays host to the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Hamas, the Lebanese Hezbollah, the Egyptian Gamaat al-Islamiyya, al-Jihad, and the Abu Nidal organization known as Ghanem Saleh. Other Islamic extremist factions of lesser notoriety have called Khartoum their headquarters for over three decades.
Sudan does more than provide a safe haven for terrorists; Sudan is the place to secure a base for organizing terrorist operations. Everything is available to the groups, including weapons, forged travel documentation, and false identification papers. It is a refuge for international fugitives who have been linked to bombings, assassinations, kidnappings, hijackings, and various other atrocities around the world.
A grayish-pink twilight was settling over the sprawling city of Khartoum when a gleaming Boeing Business Jet began its final approach to the international airport. A hybrid of the popular 737 airliner, the privately owned BBJ was a graceful combination of airborne office, conference center, executive stateroom, galley, and entertainment/ dining room.
Equipped with a self-contained air stair under the forward entry door, satellite communications, and computer capability, the airplane combined a work environment with the ambiance of a comfortable vacation home. Capable of nonstop flights over 6,000 nautical miles, the spacious aircraft was considered an ultra-long-range time machine for business leaders.
Saeed Shayhidi, an Iranian shipping magnate, oil trader, investment banker, and international power broker, had recently purchased the lavish corporate jet through a third party based in Bermuda. The negotiations, like many of Shayhidis transactions, were time-consuming and nerve-racking. Before the deal was finalized, Shayhidi managed to whittle over $2 million off the asking price for the Boeing.
Shayhidi, a multibillionaire, typically enjoyed badgering his opponents to the point of exhaustion. In this instance his adversary was a hard-nosed hard-drinking aircraft broker. The act of haggling was one of Shayhidi s favorite sports: the intellectual version of fencing. Both men would duel again when Shayhidis newer, larger BBJ-2 was ready for delivery. It would have more powerful engines, a larger passenger cabin, and greater storage capacity in the lower lobe.
The money Shayhidi saved on the initial purchase of the BBJ went into an interior completion that re-created the atmosphere of his chateau in the Graves district of the Gironde. Not surprising, the wine served aboard the BBJ came from the vineyard adjacent to his chateau.
The eldest son of a wealthy hotelier who retired in London, Shayhidi was not unlike many successful entrepreneurs. Ivy League-educated, he was extremely shrewd and pernicious. Though hopelessly narcissistic, he was a brilliant tactician in the boardroom. As one might expect, regardless of the location, time, or circumstance, Shayhidi required painstaking care from his throng of personal attendants.
There was another side to Saeed Shayhidi, a much darker side. Unknown t
o his associates in the business world and the political arena, Shayhidis influence reached far beyond the boardroom. He was a master terrorist with an obsessive passion that enveloped every aspect of his psyche: the passion to rid Muslim-inhabited lands of Western control and influence.
An entirely new breed of terrorist leader, Shayhidi was less dependent on state or political sponsorship and more dependent on his own sizable financial empire. This understated leadership arrangement was accomplished with a minimum of one or two intermediaries, allowing him to remain a comfortable distance from the disreputable individuals who actually carried out his orders.
Shayhidi s hatred of Americans and their culture began during his first year at Princeton University. Initially, the transformation was insidious, but it rapidly began to affect every aspect of his life. Shayhidi s fiery personality and cantankerous attitude provoked uneasiness and annoyance among his fellow students. By the beginning of his sophomore year both students and faculty, for the most part, quietly shunned the wealthy Iranian. Two weeks into his junior year, Shayhidi desperately wanted to leave school and return home to Iran. Much to his dismay, his father insisted he remain at Princeton and receive a proper education. Grudgingly, he stayed the course and became a recluse.
During the many years after Shayhidi s graduation from Princeton, his disdain for the American people expanded to include contempt for their powerful military Over a period of five years, with no direct ties to Osama bin Laden, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Bassam Shakhar, or any other prominent Islamic zealot, Shayhidi managed to recruit dozens of key members of al-Qaeda and other well-known terrorist factions. With Bassam Shakhar dead from a massive stroke, and the al-Qaeda organization in disarray, Saeed Shayhidi felt compelled to accept the mantle of authority and leadership in the jihad against American imperialism.
Shayhidis lieutenants, like himself, were well educated, neat, and wholesome-looking. They were a diverse group of individuals representing many nationalities, dressed in expensive clothes from top-drawer designers in Europe and America. The men--and women--comported themselves as successful people. Polar opposites of the archetypical Middle Eastern terrorist, this coalition of operatives could easily pass for executives from multinational corporations. They were as skilled at acting as they were ruthless in carrying out their deadly attacks.
Saeed Shayhidi s approach to terrorism discarded the medieval mind-set that so many of his counterparts desperately clung to. Unlike other militant extremists, Shayhidi would never descend to carrying AK-47S around the desert or taking refuge in dismal caves. He laughed at the notion of roaming the bumpy strife-worn crossroads of Central Asia with an entourage of ragamuffins.
To the contrary, Shayhidi carefully crafted the persona of a non-religious no-nonsense business titan. In stark contrast to his fundamentalist colleagues, he almost always had a beautiful woman on his arm. He would often take five or six striking women on lavish European shopping sprees, staged for public consumption. European tabloids, concentrating on sensational news and gossip, always covered these excursions.
Shayhidi dined with royalty, played golf with heads of state, and entertained Hollywood's elite on his yacht. He sponsored private economic summits with the most powerful men and women in the world, none of whom suspected his involvement with terrorism.
He lived in the lap of luxury with unrestrained gratification. Always clean-shaven and impeccably attired, he maintained distinctively different penthouses in Hong Kong, London, Paris, and Sydney. Because he spent much of his time traveling, he leased spacious suites in some of the most prestigious hotels in the world. Suites and other services in his family-owned hotels were, of course, complimentary.
His meticulously constructed homes were stately in size and design. One of the imposing residences contained a narrow indoor river running through a rain forest, a bird sanctuary, and an extensive art gallery that showcased Pablo Picasso, Jean Dubuffet, and a variety of French beaux arts. The mansion had three indoor waterfalls, four guest suites with his-and-her bathrooms, two gourmet kitchens, and two Japanese arched bridges leading to a lagoonlike swimming pool surrounded by powdery white sand.
Shayhidi was instrumental in bringing the ruthless Khartoum-Moscow-Beijing coalition together to fully take advantage of Sudan's vast energy resources. With generous succor from Communist China and the Russian Federation, he intended to drive the United States and its vaunted military, the "Godless West," out of Muslim-dominated countries and out of the waters of the Persian Gulf. Beijing and Moscow were quite pleased to help, viewing this as an opportunity to keep the U. S. military off balance.
While Russia and China "fully cooperated" with the U. S.-led war on terrorism, they quietly funneled money and arms to augment Shayhidi's terrorist organization. The complex financial web, which included Middle Eastern and South American banks, front companies, charities, and underground brokers, provided hundreds of millions of dollars for his jihad against the United States.
Unlike many of his predecessors, Shayhidi and the experienced leaders of his terrorist cells would take no credit for the devastating attacks they were planning. The anonymous assaults in the contiguous United States were designed to leave the U. S. president, authorities at the CIA and the FBI, law enforcement professionals, and the Pentagon brass in a quandary.
Washington would be unable to assign responsibility for the violent and destructive attacks, thereby neutralizing or reducing any military retaliation or economic sanctions. The master plan, the Destiny Project, had been in the developmental stage for over six years.
Unfortunately, Operation Iraqi Freedom scrambled the time frame of Shayhidi's ambitious plan. Incensed by the overthrow of Saddam Hussein and what the regime change portended, Shayhidi had to confront the future. He was determined to destroy the Americans' ability to restructure the Middle East in the mold of Western democracy.
The United States had to be annihilated, reduced to utter ruin, with no political effect, no measurable military force, and no relevance in shaping the world order. Now, after many months of reorganizing his priorities, Shayhidi's highly detailed Destiny Project was ready for implementation.
On board his plane in Khartoum, Shayhidi would meet with his senior leaders to initiate a concerted effort to wreak havoc on the Americans and their military forces. To Shayhidi's way of thinking, the well-orchestrated attack on the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and the crashed jet in Pennsylvania, while a rousing success for the cause, stopped far short of achieving his ultimate objective: the total destruction of America.
Now, after training more homicidal recruits and energizing hundreds of sleepers in the United States, Mexico, and Canada, it was time to capitalize on their first perceived triumphant victory over America. Shayhidi and his followers fervently believed this was the opportune time to finish the job. Time to paralyze the United States and bring its people to their knees in total submission to Allah.
It was the intent of Shayhidi and his coterie of cell leaders to cause disruptions so severe and to generate such psychological terror throughout the United States that the vast majority of Americans would cower in fear. Shayhidi was brazenly confident the American people would then confront President Macklin and demand an immediate cessation of hostilities toward any Muslim country.
GULFSTREAH N957CA
The flight to the East Coast was pleasant, and the jet touched down at Baltimore Washington International a few minutes before 3 P. M. local time. Clearing the runway, Scott taxied the airplane to Signature Flight Support. When the aircraft came to a halt, a customer service representative drove their Avis rental car to the cabin entrance.
Although the Gulfstream 100 had enough fuel for the short flight to Dulles International, N957GAS new home airport, Scott purchased 250 gallons of Jet A as a courtesy to the fixed base operator.
THE WINSLOW ESTATE
When Scott and Jackie arrived at the residence of Hartwell Prost, his butler of long standing answered the door. A trim distinguished-loo
king gentleman with impeccable manners, Zachary always had a genial smile to offer guests.
"Miss Sullivan, Mr. Dalton--what a pleasure to see you again." "Its good to see you," Scott said, while Jackie extended her arms.
Zachary responded with a gentle embrace. "Please come in. Mr. Prost is on the veranda."
"How have you been?" Scott asked, as Zachary led them through the expansive foyer.
"Fve been splendid," he replied, without turning around. "Thank you for asking."
They followed Zachary to a roofed back porch extending half the length of the mansion. When Jackie and Scott stepped outside, they detected the distinctive whiff of mesquite smoke.
Hartwell was sitting in an Adirondack chair, sipping a beer and puffing on a Cuban cigar. Next to him was a wooden tub filled with assorted brands of beer buried in ten pounds of crushed ice. The brick four-by-eight-foot grill was loaded with an array of barbecue selections, including beef, chicken, ribs, and turkey. The mesquite smoke, mingled with their hosts favorite barbecue sauce, gave off a pleasing scent that whetted the appetite.
The serving table was loaded with several side dishes, Spode bone-china dinner plates, freshly polished silverware, finger bowls, and stacks of cloth napkins the size of kitchen towels. Hartwell's chef, a large raw-boned woman with a pronounced Bostonian accent, tended the barbecue and the simmering pot of baked beans. Though Molly McCallister never attended a formal culinary school, she could match any chef de cuisine in quality of preparation and presentation.
Hartwell extracted two beers from the sea of ice, placed them on the table, and dried his hands or. a towel. He stood to greet his guests and reached for Jackie's hand. "How was the flight?"
"Great, smooth as silk," she said, with a wide smile.
Hartwell shook Scotts hand firmly. "So you're the captain of your own bird now?"
Scott chuckled. "Yeah. But the real captain is shorter than I am."
Hartwell laughed good-naturedly. "I hope you're hungry."
Assurred Response (2003) Page 4
