Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  Sheik Abu Bakr bin al-Wattab, his third wife of four, and their seven young children observed the Fair at the correct hour because he had instructed the desk clerk with some fervor that he must be awakened five minutes before first light. That had required the young woman to consult with the climatologist/weather reporter from the Salt Lake City CBS affiliate, KSL, for information precise enough to suit the needs of the strictly observant Saudi dignitary. Fatima and the children had been half asleep during morning prayers and had quickly resumed their slumbers as soon as it was over. The Sheik dressed in his handsome Spider ski ensemble, made sure he had his card-key to avoid having to awaken the family when he returned to the suite, and walked down the six flights of stairs to the Snow Park Restaurant for breakfast.

  The sheik was a tall darkly handsome man with long black hair, a slightly aquiline nose, and prominent cheek bones. His dress, manner, and interactions with everyone he met set him apart as a patrician, and a man of wealth, education, and power. He was all of that and more. Sheik al-Wattab came from the line of one of two paramount families in Saudi Arabia. The Wattabs and the Sauds established the nation together, and the Wattabs controlled Allah’s religion and the nation’s justice system now as they had always done. The Sheik controlled several of the most powerful Islamic charities in the world, a combined enterprise that generated and expended hundreds of millions of dollars a year. In his world, Sheik al-Wattab’s word was law.

  Everything about his brief stay at Snow Park Lodge had been perfect thus far. It was nothing less than what he had expected—what he always expected. He had been amused for a moment while checking in when an Italian lout had first bumped the man next to him at the reservations desk and knocked his several card keys to the floor, and then had bounced off the rather annoyed man and into him, knocking his card keys and wallet to the floor as well. One had to be indulgent in America. The country attracts the great unwashed like no other. The Italian had at least been polite enough to pick up his cards and to hand them to him with a sincere apology. Al-Wattab had been in a relaxed and forgiving mood and paid the lout no real heed.

  Sheik al-Wattab did not notice that same Italian sitting on the balcony above him as he breakfasted. The Sheik had the mind of a computer when he concentrated on his responsibilities for the charities. He was lost in concentration about them as he enjoyed his fresh fruit compote, eggs Benedict, and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. He delicately removed the watermelon from the compote because the Prophet, may his name be blessed forever, had not received from Allah information about watermelon; and the fruit was not mentioned in the Holy Qur’an.

  He tallied rows of numbers in his mind. His most recent success had been to renegotiate the long standing memorandum of understanding between UNICEF and his International Islamic Relief Organization (IIRO)—a Saudi charity of massive scope—which keeps branches in more than 20 countries and has over 100 offices worldwide. The memorandum solidified the team effort between the United Nations and al-Wattab’s domestic Saudi branch to promote the rights, health, equality, and education of children in the Kingdom. He had to smile at the naiveté of the UNICEF governing board and their lack of requiring even the most rudimentary accounting. Had they done so, they would have readily observed that well over 80% of the U.N.’s contribution went to serve the needs of jihad around the world. The IIRO’s branches in the Philippines and Indonesia—for which the sheik served as CEO—had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of kaffirs and servants of the Great Satan throughout East Asia. The IIRO proudly financed the lives of the families of the martyrs from the Philippines, Indonesia, Yemen, Palestine, Syria, Libya, and England, to mention only a few. He counted as a friend Usama bin Laden’s brother-in-law, Muhammad Jamal Khalifah, who founded the Philippine branch and directly served al-Qaeda.

  Sheep Dog, with his ebony black hair slicked back and his olive complexioned skin glowing from his recent shave and application of Roger & Gallet Extra-Vielle Cologne that had come to him from Oliver Prentiss—directly from Rome—was dressed in the latest Sombrio ski fashion adorned with the image of Alberto Tombo. He watched his target from his vantage point in the balcony above the sheik. He rubbed his left shoulder unconsciously. It still bothered him some, but had healed almost completely. He was well aware from his briefing from the ADCIA of the fact that the U.S. Treasury Department designated the IIRO’s branches in the Philippines and Indonesia as terrorist entities for funding and supporting terrorist groups.

  He was also aware of the sheik’s involvement in several other so-called charity entities—The Afghan Support Committee [ASC], a non-governmental organization established by Usama bin Laden; the Revival of Islamic Heritage Society [RIHS]; the Aid Organization of the Ulema [AOU] based in Pakistan and successor organization to Al Rashid Trust; the Al Akhtar Trust, Elkhart Trust; the Azmat-e-Pakistan Trust; and the United Composite Islamic Fund, managed by the Usama bin Laden Fund Managers Limited [UBLFM], to name only a portion—with the same motives and accomplishments. It had not been lost on Assistant Director Prentiss that the charities had been largely considered off-limits or were regarded as untouchables by the United States and its allies because of being too politically sensitive. Since governmental diplomatic and law enforcement had been generally rather ineffective in preventing the dispersal of funds for terrorists, it had become Sheep Dog’s assignment to create mischief.

  The ski lifts were due to open in fifteen minutes. The sheik left his name and room information as the payment chit for the waiter and strode purposefully out of the restaurant and up the stairs to make his final preparations for an unfettered ski outing. He promised himself that he would not think about business. It looked to be a perfect day.

  Sheep Dog’s room was two doors away from the al-Wattab’s, and he followed the sheik at a discrete distance to ensure himself that the sheik was indeed on his way to the slopes. He lingered in the hallway long enough to have the sheik pass him going in the opposite direction towards the lower level of the lodge where he would have an employee carry his skis and poles to the Wasatch Express gondola from the complimentary overnight storage room for the ride to the top of 9,400 foot high Bald Mountain.

  Sheep Dog was a decent skier but was not in the same league as Sheik al-Wattab. The American agent followed the Arab billionaire only long enough to observe the man schuss down the black star Ruins of Pompey run and into the trees. Sheep Dog took the somewhat less hazardous double-blue square Tycoon trail. At intervals, he caught a glimpse of the sheik—who skied like an Olympic athlete—and contented himself to know the general whereabouts of his quarry. Shortly before noon, he sidled up behind the sheik as he walked arm-in-arm with a woman not his wife into Cushing’s Cabin restaurant atop 9,100 foot Flagstaff Mountain that stood majestically to the west of Bald Mountain.

  Deer Valley was once the calving grounds and over-wintering shelter for a resident herd of about 300 deer, hence the name. The deer were almost all gone now, but their valley was still surpassingly beautiful, especially when covered with an eight foot deep snow cover. The fir and pine trees were frosted, and their branches were weighted down by the snow. Utah snow has 11% water content rendering it dry and soft, “the best snow on earth” as the advertising brochures touted. The sheik and his new-found friend and Sheep Dog alike found great pleasure in the opportunity to take in the view. Sheep Dog would have been more content with the pleasant bit of esthetics lying before him had he not an important professional purpose for being there.

  The sheik enjoyed a leisurely day skiing with the woman, a blond entertainer named Sheri Van Wagoner. She held out the promise of an evening’s entertainment; and this evening, his family had reservations for a Broadway performance—The Nutcracker Suite—at the Pioneer Theater in the University of Utah complex. The great day was looking like it would turn out to have a culmination in a great evening. The two nascent lovers were oblivious to Sheep Dog as they worked their way down the mountain on a series of ski runs, taking advantage of the necessary
chair-lift rides for some kissing and fondling. He was never close to them, but he never let them completely out of his sight.

  The lifts were due to close in three-quarters of an hour; so, Sheep Dog left the loving pair on the mountain and skied rapidly back to base. He checked his skis, poles, and boots into the overnight storage area, tipped the attendant, and moved quickly to his room. There, he changed into a jet black outfit and carried his aluminum brief case with him to the door of the al-Wattab’s room. He knocked softly. There was no answer; so, he knocked again, this time more vigorously.

  When he satisfied himself that the family was out, he took his key to the al-Wattab quarters, inserted it and walked in as if he had paid for the place. He had acquired the key by a bit of slight-of-hand. The previous day when he and the sheik and his family were checking in, he bumped a flustered German gentleman and knocked his key cards to the floor. He substituted one of his extra cards for one of the German’s. Then, he ricocheted off the German and into the sheik, knocking his card keys to the floor. He deftly switched the German’s card for one of the sheik’s leaving each of them with one key that would not work and him with a card that would admit him to the sheik’s inner sanctum without risk or bother.

  He looked all around the room. The desk in the anteroom between the bedrooms was cluttered with an open account book, a fat wallet, a Toshiba lap-top, a Blackberry, and a small black note book, all carelessly left in the open. The closet door containing the hotel’s small security safe was ajar. The beds were made to navy precision, but expensive clothes were strewn about on the floors along with toys, left-over trays of food scraps, and empty cans of soft drinks. Sheep Dog decided on the master bed room as his place of rendezvous with his quarry, put his face cover in place, took out his 9 mm, and sat patiently on the bed.

  Half an hour later, he heard the latch on the entry door click and became instantly on full alert. The voices of a man and an eager young woman carried into the rooms. Sheep Dog stood stock still behind the bed room door and listened to the rustling of clothing and the woman’s excited giggling. Ever the gentleman, the sheik allowed the now naked woman to enter the bed room before him. Sheep Dog held his ground.

  The girl was totally unaware of Sheep Dog’s presence, and Sheik Abu Bakr bin al-Wattab was caught by complete surprise by a hard rabbit punch on the back of his neck that toppled him forward to the floor at the foot of the bed. The woman opened her mouth to scream, and was knocked out by a sharp blow to the point of her chin. Sheep Dog swiftly bound the naked pair’s wrists and ankles with duct tape and covered their mouths and eyes so that they would have no good idea what was happening, and they could not cry out.

  He removed his black leather gloves and put on two pairs of latex surgical gloves. Only then did he open the locked section of his aluminum case and drew out a syringe and a vial. He drew up a slightly viscous clear liquid, the conotoxin tetradoxin—TTX, for short—the powerful paralytic sodium channel blocker neurotoxin prepared for his use by Dr. Heinz Bühler-Rothe. He flexed both of their legs apart. He then placed approximately a teaspoonful of the deadly fluid on a small gauze bandage and rubbed it thoroughly into the skin of their upper thighs adjacent to their pudendae where no one would be at all likely to investigate. He was briefly saddened by having to include the beautiful young woman in his assassination, but it could not be helped. She was collateral damage.

  They were dead in five minutes. Neither had been aware of what was happening and; being unconscious beforehand, they suffocated from the neurotoxin quite comfortably; or so it appeared to Sheep Dog. He removed the duct tape and cleaned their skin with acetone from his case. He washed the acetone residue thoroughly from the skin where the duct tape had been, leaving no trace. Then, he tucked the pair nicely together under the covers. He checked his watch and decided that he had time.

  He moved into the anteroom and picked up the notebook. There were a series of numbers in rows with corresponding Arabic words. Sheep Dog decided that they were account numbers and identification codes. He tried out his hypothesis on the computer, and was rewarded for his efforts with a cornucopia of information about a list of corporations, trust funds, stock and bond accounts, and personal banking data. He checked his watch again. The family would not be back for hours, and there was no reason for room service to disturb him.

  He methodically arranged transfers of all funds from each account to his own personal accounts. It was a dizzying job trying to keep track of all of the sheik’s account numbers and codes and those of his own. It took over an hour to complete the transfers and to deplete all of the terrorist funds under Sheik al-Wattab’s control. Sheep Dog was now richer by over a billion dollars; and it would take a forensic computer expert and a team of forensic accountants months to unravel what he had done; if, in fact, anyone were to be that curious. The United States would not be aware that the funds had been diverted, and the terrorist Islamic charities would not have any desire to call attention to themselves by launching such a cyber search. In an act of rather infantile malice and greed, Sheep Dog tried a number from the little black book and found that it opened the room safe. He placed a card in the bottom of the safe under a stack of cash:

  Ayatollah Zia Muhammad Ali Kader

  Hizbullah Central Press Office

  Baabda, Beirut, Lebanon

  Rummaging through the al-Wattab family’s prized possessions, he found their cell phones and hurriedly copied down the names and telephone numbers. He went through their identification documents, and he purloined the sheik’s. The man did not look so different from him, and the IDs could prove useful one day in the future. You never knew.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  On the twenty-third of December, Scotsman Dr. Angus McFarland, accompanied the IAEA inspection team to Iran. He replaced an American, Donald Edward Hutchison, PhD, who had become unable to travel due to a recently contracted mysterious illness. The twenty person team was required to fly Iran Air on an Iran Air Fokker 100 EP-IDA with Iran military pilots after their Lufthansa flight arrived from Frankfort in the IATA-Imam Khomeini International Airport. Their flight landed at the military’s Esfahan Shahid Beheshti International Airport, a one level building with limited services that was rather grandiloquently titled. A new terminal was under construction—ostensibly to accommodate international passengers—but the desultory pace of the construction suggested that Esfahan was not likely to become a tourist or a business Mecca any time soon. The officials and scientists were met by a delegation of Revolutionary Guards officers and three nuclear scientists, hand-picked by President Mahmoud Sofrekheneh himself. The tight control of their movements from the get-go did not bode well for the inspection tour.

  Ibrahim ibn Sharif al-Tezari, head of U.N. International Atomic Energy Agency delegation, announced directly upon arrival that the delegation wished to be taken immediately to the Zirconium Production Plant [ZPP] which produces the necessary ingredients and alloys for nuclear reactors. The Revolutionary Guard colonel—and part owner of the Esfahan facility—was taken aback by the unexpected request. The facility had been left off the itinerary purposely, and the Guards presumed that the inspectors would want to focus on The Uranium Conversion Facility where yellowcake is converted to uranium hexa-fluoride. The UCF had been tidied up considerably in honor of the inspection.

  “No sir, our agreement was for you to see the UCF, and perhaps later the waste storage facility,” the stone-faced colonel stated with finality.

  “That is unacceptable Colonel Kutchemeshgi, you know that perfectly well. We have come all the way from Germany, and we did not come to waste our time. We will see the UCF in our own time, as agreed by President Sofrekheneh. We demand to be taken to the ZPP now.”

  This was a classical Iranian stand-off; neither of the men was about to budge. Ibn Sharif al-Tezari was not surprised by the refusal, and knew that in all likelihood, he would not prevail. However, he wanted the refusal to be clearly established. One of the team members was filming the entire tr
ansaction as was permitted in the lengthy agreement that Sofrekheneh and ibn Sharif al-Tezari had signed in Paris the week before.

  A Revolutionary Guard sergeant yanked the camera out of the team photographer’s hands.

  “That is a clear violation of the agreement. Do you intend to comply with any aspect of the agreement for inspection, Colonel?”

  Stone face looked at the IAEA director with complete disdain.

  “I will have to consult my superiors about your irregular requests. It will take some time, I am sure.”

  “We do not have a great deal of time. Our arrangement included no impediments by your side. Either take us to the ZPP or take us to see the two reactors and all of the centrifuges at Bushehr.”

  The colonel had difficulty containing his distaste for this Sunni that had betrayed Islam by joining with the kaffirs to undermine work of Allah under the colonel’s control. He had no intention of giving in or taking responsibility for throwing up road-blocks.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “Then, Colonel, we require a no-nonsense statement by your superiors that you refuse to honor your commitments.”

  That was enough for Colonel Kutchemeshgi; “Who are you, a kaffir, and all of your Great Shaytaan lackeys—people of the left hand—to make demands on the soil of the Islamic State?”

  The insults were meant to sting and were meant to be intolerable. It was a tribute to al Tezari’s vaunted patience that he did not show any reaction. That further greatly annoyed Kutchemeshgi.

  Al-Tezari said quietly and firmly, “We can certainly agree on one thing. You need to talk to your superiors. We will wait for two days, and two days only, and we will wait in Tehran.”

  The Revolutionary Guards colonel turned his back on al-Tezari to add further insult. With a backhanded flick of his wrist he gestured to the Air Fokker pilot to get the vermin out of his jurisdiction.