The tracking chip, not much larger than the tip of a pin, could easily pass through a 16 gauge needle. Suspended in a rust-colored solution, the “vitamin shot” was well tolerated by the detainees. Virtually noone, not even those administering the injection, had a clue of the line that was being crossed in the remote Caribbean base. A great debate had already been raging surrounding the delicate balance between civil liberties and the increasing power of the enforcement arm of the nation’s government. Had the media and public, and even a number of individuals within the conservative administration learned of the Hermes project, the outcry, both internally and abroad, would have been deafening. And of course, this would have also rendered the project impotent. For these criminals were to be used as bait, to lure the authorities to the larger fish in the terrorist-infested oceans of the world. The efficacy of the project was directly linked to its secrecy. While no explicit breach of the Geneva Convention was carried out, such an act would have been anathema to many. And so one of the greatest acts of espionage had been undertaken without evoking as much as a whisper beyond the select few who were privy to its existence.
Kelly continued to pore through the Salaam dossier. The agency had kept tabs on his location periodically, using the microscopic chip as a guide. His whereabouts were never linked with any suspicious activity. Not until now that is, the Hermes system warning of the former detainee’s presence on board a vessel heading towards their shores. A bit of heady detective work by some of Kelly's best operatives suggested this was no mere coincidence; not with the other intelligence seeping in, warning of an imminent attack. But Kelly wanted to be sure. He decided to call one of his most reliable and insightful analysts at CIA headquarters.
“Goldie, Hi. What do you have for me”
“Not much Bill”. Ben Goldberg had been going through the vast intelligence on Salaam since that morning when his presence was first detected.
“Do we have any information about what’s aboard that ship?” Kelly asked.
“None Bill. It’s troubling. Many of the contents arrived through several routing stations. It’ll be nearly impossible to track it all down.”
“Do we have any idea what this guy is doing there?”
“Wish I knew. It’s a Spanish vessel, totally clean. No links with any possible suspect organizations. The owner’s a Spanish native, secular Christian. Also clean. All associates are clean. It just doesn’t fit.”
“What about Salaam personally. Any clue why he’s coming to us?”
“None at all. He has no family here, and absolutely no known ties in this country.” Ben wished he had solid answers for his boss, but he had to be frank about what they knew, which was very little indeed.
“Do you think he’s going to establish some contact here. Is it worth giving this guy a free pass and tracking him?”
“Too risky Bill. We’ve got no evidence of a major cell in this country now. Who’s he possibly going to lead us to? And besides, it’s just too risky”
“Why do you say that, Ben?” Kelly felt the same way but wanted to hear an independent, fresh assessment from his analyst.
“Intel’s linked the guy to someone called Mustafah. I think they’re one and the same. I have pretty good reason to think Salaam is Mustafah. Now, if that’s the case, then Salaam met with some senior members of Sayf Udeen”. This was the name of the organization linked to Ra’ed Al Abbas, which was slowly becoming recognized by intelligence agencies as the foremost fundamentalist movement within the Muslim world. Kelly knew the followers of this radical religious sect held the man as a deity of sorts, the equivalent of a second coming of Christ for Muslims. Kelly heard both pacifist and Radical elements sought Ra’ed for spiritual guidance, but had never linked him to any anti-Western activity.
“It is rumored”, Ben continued on, “that Ra’ed himself conferred the Mustafah status on Salaam”. The brief silence that followed told Ben that Kelly had no idea what he was talking about.
“This title is given only to followers of particular prominence. It means ‘chosen one’. It’s just a hunch, but I think Salaam is chosen for something big, and I’m afraid that something is on its way here right now.” Ben had long asserted Sayf Udeen maintained ties with terrorist elements and even Osama Bin-Laden’s network dating back over twenty years now.
“Ben, I trust your hunch more than most. Perhaps even more than my own, but…”
“Bill, listen to me”, Ben cut him off. “We know Salaam’s layed low. But we also know from his profile that he’s no moderate. He couldn’t be broken in Guantanamo, and he’s clearly not abandoned his cause, whatever that might be. And the man’s capable of extreme discipline. This guy has waited nearly two decades, and his time has come. Here’s a guy who was at first among Bin-Laden’s top men, and then wanted by Al-Qaeda for internal strife, but never went down. He’s connected to someone, something bigger than we realize. It protected him from the wrath of Bin-Laden back then, and it’s still going on now.”
That was why he liked this kid so much, Kelly thought. Goldie rarely hedged his position. It was analysis geared towards real decision-making; a dissection of the key elements and consequences of any action. Besides, Kelly knew exactly what the analyst was referring to. He too was struck by the fact Salaam had not sacrificed himself during the war in Afghanistan. This failure had resulted in some catastrophic losses, and likely in the capture of his unit. It would have gone unnoticed, but such behavior didn't jive with their independent assessment of the man under interrogation. This was not some coward, but rather an individual who would readily give his life for what he believed. Assuming this impression of Salaam was accurate, then it must follow that his cause was not the same as that of Al-Qaeda prior to the events of nineeleven. But then what was he doing fighting with Al-Qaeda and the Taliban?
Kelly didn’t have the answer, but suspected all along it had something to do with Ra’ed. “We need to catch this one alive”, Kelly stated matter-of-factly. They needed answers. But the risks of allowing the ship to reach sovereign US soil were just too great. Any operation could easily go awry. Out at sea, the risk of collateral damage would be negligible compared with the densely populated harbors in the New York area. Ben echoed the sentiment.
“Take him down Bill. Now, while he’s no threat. If I’m wrong, then we can deal with those consequences. But we can’t afford to be wrong on this one.” “Take him down ”, Ben repeated for added emphasis.
Kelly intended to do just that.
Salaam swallowed the pill his companion gave him, and waited anxiously for the seasickness to subside. After a brief while, his stomach calmed and he decided to go back to his cabin. He scanned the horizon one last time before turning to leave, and comfortable nobody unexpected was within sight, retreated below deck. He was nearing his destination, and although convinced of his ultimate success, was nevertheless keeping a watchful eye for any signs of the local authorities. The US coast guard had begun patrolling the seas an ever-greater distance off shore, and his ship might now be within reach of their largest Cutters. But the only company he had was well off in the distance – the same ship that had been with them throughout the journey. Salaam was aware of the neighboring yacht carrying his fellow soldiers-in-arms. His superiors decided to take an extra measure of caution on this most important of missions. Sayf Udeen had contracted a yacht that would shadow him throughout the long trip across the ocean. If the vessel aboard which he was traveling was stopped and searched by Western authorities, his escort would be there to intervene and protect the precious cargo.
But it seemed a rescue would not be necessary. They were less than 200 miles off shore and there was no sign of any foreign patrols. His superiors had specifically briefed him to be on the highest alert when the freighter broached the 300-mile mark from making landfall. Intelligence had indicated this was the crucial barrier believed to be protective of such smuggling operations. He was now well within this line of demarcation without any sign of trouble. Salaam
would still remain on high alert, but it seemed they had evaded whatever sophisticated mechanism his enemy employed to detect cargo such as that which he was carrying. Salaam did not understand the surveillance system, and found it hard to believe the Americans could really ward against an arbitrary vessel on the high seas, but his superiors seemed focused on the importance of this perimeter, as if the entire mission rested upon the ability to breach this cordon. Were the emissions from the payload so potent as to be detectable by satellite or some other detection device?
That must be it, the wily terrorist concluded. While the full ramifications of what Salaam was undertaking would never be disclosed, for obvious reasons of security should he be apprehended, the magnitude of the assignment was not lost on the man. Success would no doubt lead to a seminal shift in the balance of power, and represent a giant leap forward in their struggle with the West.
The terrorist was now merely a day’s journey from land. His escort would soon leave, but for the moment Salaam knew of their presence, and felt an added measure of comfort and security. Should they happen to be boarded by a customs boat, there would be ample time to signal for help. The yacht captained by the American, Russell Bellow, and his fellow Sayf Udeen brethren, could reach him within minutes. He had never met his comrades aboard the neighboring vessel, but had no doubt they were ready and willing to die for their cause – which at this point was protecting Salaam and his cargo. This Russell, on the other hand, was merely a pawn who might need to be disposed of in due course.
Russell Bellow turned on the engine to the ship and peered below. Perched at the helm, his vantage allowed him a clear view of the bustle unfolding on the main deck of the yacht. His companions were active now, some talking into two-way radios, others adorning diving suits, checking their oxygen compressors, masks, fins. Very little was said, but the otherwise indolent passengers had suddenly stirred to life; as if on cue, the beginning of a choreographed ensemble was evolving. Russell tried to tune out the fracas and focus on navigating the choppy seas. Ten-foot swells were common in the Atlantic this time of year, enough to cause the sturdy seventy-foot vessel to lurch to and fro with each passing wave. They needed to keep moving to provide some stability from the undulations.
Russell couldn’t help but look down and behind him, his curiosity getting the best of him. Two men could be seen working on something at the stern of the ship. They unfurled a large white banner with writing, placing it over the back of the boat. They emerged empty-handed, revealing their intention. They had just placed a label of sorts over her stern, changing the name of their vessel. Now why would they do that? Russell wasn’t sure, but it spoke of something sinister.
Unlike the naïve captain, the terrorists on board were well aware of the American spy capabilities overhead. If the cargo vessel they were shadowing had been identified, which based on the latest intelligence seemed to be the case, then it was probable their own yacht could be identified in the periphery of the field of vision of the satellites. If Salaam was indeed being watched, they would need to take added precautions.
After affixing the altered name to the stern, the men made their way toward the center of the ship. Russell watched as they knelt down and opened a long thin sack, revealing the contents inside. At first it looked like several metal rods, but then Russell could see the well-fashioned tips on the apices of the projectiles. They were harpoons. A man fashioned one to a strange-looking contraption with straps attached. It appeared to be some mobile device for deployment of the weapon. Transfixed by the events below, Russell failed to notice one of the men staring up at him until their eyes met. He instinctively averted his gaze, but it was already too late. He was asked at the outset of their voyage to mind to himself, do as asked, and in turn he would be paid handsomely. But money was the last thing on his mind right now. He felt his pulse begin to accelerate. Shit, he thought, what had he gotten himself into?
Russell couldn’t believe his luck when he was first approached with the offer two months prior - to captain a yacht across the Atlantic. He was available, qualified, and the money was good. Too good, he now thought, as he witnessed this seemingly innocuous bunch suddenly taking on a harsher, more aggressive mien. It wasn’t that anyone said anything directly to him; in fact Russell wasn’t sure many of them spoke much English. They had pretty much kept to themselves for most of the past few weeks. But over the last couple of days things had changed. Yuri, the large Russian, had received a message on his cellular that sparked a call for action. The mood on the ship had changed, igniting a sense of foreboding in Russell that he couldn’t quite shake no matter how he rationalized their actions. And now the unveiling of harpoons further clouded the situation.
“What the hell was going on?” he repeated to himself. His thoughts were jarred precipitously by one of the darker-skinned men working below. This one seemed to be the leader. There was no mistaking the words were directed at him, spoken in an English bastardized by an accent Russell couldn’t quite identify
“Okay, now you close the distance”, barked the dark-skinned man. He felt a knot form in his stomach.
From the outset he had been instructed to trail a large commercial vessel since leaving the Spanish port. Russell had no idea the ship he was following was not only carrying a terrifying cargo, but harboring one of the most gifted and elusive terrorists in the world – the newly appointed Mustafah, Rafik Salaam.
“Keep a safe distance”, he had been ordered. “It must not appear as if we are following this boat”. The request was bizarre, but Russell didn’t think much of it at the time. The affable Yuri had made him feel at ease, and despite the aloofness of the rest of the crew, Russell never imagined such a scenario as was now unfolding. Now, all of a sudden, his clients wanted to venture closer. He turned the wheel, the ship gently rolling to the Port side as they came about.
“Slowly!”, shouted the leader. Russell was startled by the acerbity of the command. He quickly turned the throttle back. He could feel his heart accelerating another notch, the pounding in his chest now difficult to ignore.
“What was the deal with that ship?”, he wondered. It appeared to be a large commercial shipping vessel. He tried to read the name printed on her side as he closed the distance, but he couldn’t make out the lettering. He had tracked her for nearly 2000 miles and never knew the name of the boat, their cautious posture obviating any close inspection. He was told to follow her to New York harbor, where his work was done and he would receive the balance of his payment. It sounded simple enough at the time.
He thought back now to the first clue that something was amiss on this journey. It happened not long after leaving port, while they were still within site of the coast. The waterways were congested, mandating a level of proximity to neighboring vessels. This curiously led to much unrest among the passengers. Russell reasoned his clients were likely smuggling contraband - drugs perhaps. That didn’t much bother him at the time, so long as he got paid. Inspections were common, and an American with a clean record and valid captain’s license would divert attention. He concluded this was why he had been solicited to captain the yacht.
Russell was wary of questioning the order, but he did need clarification, and mustered the courage to speak.
“Do we want to be seen, or not?”, he asked gingerly, implying that if they got much closer they might draw attention. The leader didn’t reply to the query. He simply looked at Russell and turned around, moving back underneath to the cabin area. Russell failed to notice the slight of eye contact directed at another of the men below - an unspoken command. The helm suddenly began to quiver. He looked down and saw the top of a bald head making its way up the ladder.
“Yuri?”
“Yes, Russell”, the Chechen said as he looked up, eyeing his shipmate from the ladder below. Yuri, whom Russell had been lead to believe was Russian, was the only one on board with whom Russell felt comfortable. He was glad to see the man, anxious to clear the air. Their paths had not crossed for some time
now.
Yuri continued his ascent and stepped onto the platform. Russell now noticed a gun holstered at his side. That was new. Something in the Russian’s mannerisms told Russell this was not going to be a nice amicable exchange of words. He instinctively tensed up.
“Don’t be nervous Russell”, the large Russian said as a sinister smile came to his face. The deep voice now sent chills down Russell’s spine. He slowly made his approach to the wary American. Russell’s pulse began racing. His eyes peered down to the gun at Yuri’s side. Was this to be it? He wondered. The only friend he had known on this trip sent to kill him?
Russell glanced around him, quickly making a mental note of what he could use to defend himself against the stocky Slav. A large metal flashlight sat atop the console. It was rather heavy and could make an effective weapon, Russell reasoned. He again peered at the gun. It was still holstered.
Russell realized the predicament he was facing. Despite his fright, his mind was thinking clearly. He determined not to go down easily. But even if he could overpower the Russian, the others would certainly overtake him. To hell with it, he thought, he had to at least make a stand.
Yuri continued his approach towards the American, closing the distance with slow but steady speed. In his mind’s eye, Russell envisioned the blunt steel shaft of the heavy flashlight to his right connecting with the Russian’s skull. A single, well-timed and well-placed blow could just about do it, he thought. He zeroed in on the gun dangling from the waist of his foe. If Yuri got hold of the weapon, he was a dead man. If Yuri motioned to grasp the gun, then he would have to make his move. He was close enough now that Russell could reach the Russian with a single leap.
But Yuri’s hand never made its way to his gun. He simply stopped and looked intently at the obviously terrified Russell.
“Take us to fifty meters. Then stop and wait for my signal.”
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