The Hand of The Prophet (Adventures of a spymaster Book 4)

by James Ward

  The Hand of The Prophet

  By James Ward

  Book four in the series: Bob Steck’s ‘adventures of a spymaster’

  This is a work of fiction, based on published historical media. Any resemblance to real characters or accounts is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2011 by James A. Ward - All rights reserved

  ISBN 0983959803

  Printed in the United States of America

  Scantum Press

  www.scantumpress.com

  This book is dedicated to the late James B. Graves, Southern gentleman and friend of the classics, professor, editor, and my mentor.

  CHAPTER 1

  Storm clouds gathered. First they streaked then covered the hazy South Carolina sunrise sky. Where two small creeks meet the Cooper River, several herons strutted nervously about the mud. High over-head gulls circled in the manner they always do when storms brew. On a nearby marsh bank a lone figure crouched, camera focused on the herons, contemplating how wildlife seems to perceive impending danger. The radio had blared its warning all night long. Hurricane Joseph would come ashore near Charleston today.

  Just across the river from Charleston at Sullivan’s Island, a man walked nervously, urgently along the shore. He was clearly not dressed for the terrain. Loafers on his feet slowed his progress along the bank of the river. As he passed a patch of tall grass and reeds, he suddenly crouched, as if reacting to some sound. Before he could turn, his assailant had him from behind. The man’s eyes widened as gloved hands grabbed his chin and the back of his head. He swung his right arm back in a try at his attacker’s groin, missing the mark just as his neck was deftly snapped. Falling on his back, rapidly losing consciousness, he tried to scream but nothing came out.

  At the creeks a mile up the river, the muffled gurgle of a small boat’s outboard engine broke the pre-storm silence. Four men in army fatigues sat upright waiting out the trip that had started hours before dawn. In the nose of the boat the leader, a lean and muscular man of about thirty, held a small weather radio to one ear and a cellular telephone to the other. After a moment, looking satisfied, he clicked off the phone and put the radio on the floor of the Zodiac. Turning his face toward the others, the first glow of daylight revealed his ruddy face, stern angular features and an ugly scar from mouth to earlobe. Steel blue eyes flashed confident resolve as he smiled, holding up his right hand in a “thumbs-up.”

  “Right on schedule,” he told the others. “The storm will hit Charleston full force a little after nine a.m. The others are already in position. Everything’s still condition green.”

  The herons flew, not able to handle both the pre-storm jitters and the noisy outboard motor. The lone figure on the bank crouched lower, taking cover in the tall grass. His telephoto lens caught a few more frames as the herons flew toward, then over the photographer.

  At Sullivan’s Island, a well-built middle-aged man with executive haircut, well trimmed salt-n-pepper beard and a golfer’s tan finished his morning jog. Returning to his room at The Gold Bug Bed ‘n Breakfast, he showered, dressed in fresh chinos, tennis shoes and golf shirt and went to breakfast. As he dug into grits, scrambled eggs and ham, his cell phone beeped. Fishing it out of his side pocket, he smiled, shrugged to the hostess and the other two guests, and excused himself. On the way out to the garden, he answered, “This is Roche.” He listened intently while walking briskly toward a remote corner of the garden. The caller, a man named Blake, reported everything was going according to plan. Brandt and his men in the Zodiac were in position. Joe Battles and the others were in the warehouse.

  “Fine, fine,” Roche replied.

  “I’ve got one hitch,” he said in a low voice. “Where can I meet you to talk? …Okay. Twenty minutes, at the bridge.” No sense trusting that the cell frequency was clean, thought Roche as he returned to the breakfast room. Security must be job one.

  “Would you be so kind, Missus Hildebrand, as to prepare my bill right away,” Roche asked in his studied Southern drawl. “I’ve a long drive today, and I must get away from Charleston before the storm. Although,” he added, wrapping a piece of his breakfast ham in a fresh hot biscuit and heading for the stairs to his room, “it sure is hard to pass up the rest of this fine breakfast.”

  “Why, Mister Roche,” the innkeeper gushed, “I’m pleased that you find my cooking attractive.” Missus Hildebrand, a widow of fifteen years, wished Mister Roche would find her attractive. Seeing the opportunity, Roche met her wistful eyes with a twinkle of his own.

  “I find more than your cooking attractive ma’am. Maybe next time I’m in town we could…” His voice trailed off as he turned down the short corridor at the top of the stairs. Stuffing his things into his duffel, Roche cursed himself for leading her on. It would be better if he remained as anonymous as possible. It would be better if no one on Sullivan’s Island remembered him.

  At six forty-eight am, just as Roche drove onto State highway 703 heading out towards US Route 17 and the Cooper River bridge, a woman walking her dog at the Sullivan’s Island waterfront discovered the “hitch” Roche had mentioned on the phone. Running to the Inn, she burst through the front door screaming. “There’s a dead man on the shore!”

  The Mount Pleasant police were notified, the dispatcher alerted, and car 3 diverted from breakfast at Mary Sue’s Donut Heaven. Roche was turning south onto US 17 as the cruiser, lights flashing, sped by him. Roche drove south to a small turnout just before the road rose to form an entry to the Cooper River Bridge. A moment later, a Ford pickup carrying a camper body pulled in behind Roche’s Buick. A lanky fifty-odd year old man in survivor boots, painter’s pants and denim shirt left the truck and ambled up to Roche’s open driver side window. Blake had to bend his tall frame a bit awkwardly to bring his weather beaten face to look Roche in the eye. “What hitch?” he asked pointedly.

  “This guy I remembered from years back, at Langley.”

  “What guy?” Blake’s deep-set eyes flashed warning.

  “Just a guy I knew,” drawled Roche. “He was an FBI special agent type. I remembered him from his work with one of the domestic teams at the Agency.”

  “What about him?”

  “The S.O.B. was tailing me. He sat in his car all night just up the street from where I was staying. I noticed he was still there as I went out to jog. At the shore, I waited behind some rushes. When he came past me, I put him down. No weapons, no traces. I think the police already found his body.”

  Warning turned briefly to panic in Blake’s eyes. “Why was he tailing you?”

  “That’s the hitch, man! You know I do a clean job of taking care of trouble. No worry that the police may find clues to operate on. But whoever sent him either knows or suspects something.”

  “So, what do you suggest we do, partner, abort?”

  “No way!” said Roche emphatically. “We go on as planned. Just alert everyone to keep a close eye out for possible FBI surveillance.”

  Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t blow this on me, Paul. If this operation screws up, I stand to lose a lot of money. You know I don’t get mad but I do get even. Don’t set yourself up as one I need to get even with!”

  At seven-fifteen am the program on Roche’s car radio was interrupted for a special report. The storm was going to hit downtown close to ten am, and high tide would be at ten-twenty am. The storm surge would flood much of Charleston, and some areas along the waterfront were already beginning to flood. Police and National Guard units were in place around the city. Anyone in the water front area who had not yet left was to evacuate immediately.

  The radio announc
er repeated her message as Roche pulled his Buick off the Charleston waterfront exit ramp from route US 17, doubled back under the bridge, and stopped just outside the loading door of a small warehouse. It was one of those old brick buildings common to the area. No windows, just the suggestion of former windows now filled with newer brick. The sign near the door in Navy blue-gray with black-stenciled lettering said “U.S. Government Property. No admittance to unauthorized personnel.”

  Roche pulled in beside Blake’s truck, which was backed in to the loading dock. The warehouse guard, a forty-ish sailor with a big potbelly stood on the dock watching a crate being loaded into Blake’s truck. He was sweating nervously. As Roche approached, he spun to challenge, then excused the move. “Oh, hi Mister Roche,” he said. “Can we talk?”

  The guard looked as if he was about to cry. Roche put on his most relaxed drawl and put his arm around the guard’s sweaty neck and shoulder. “Sure, Battles. Let’s go into your office and have a chat. This thing’s going real well, thanks to you.” After a few minutes of soothing conversation, Battles seemed more relaxed.

  “I’m sorry I was getting rattled, Mister Roche. It’s just that I’m the only one who’ll be left behind after this is over.”

  “But that’s the beauty of it, Ray. You get to be the hero that chased us out of here. You get to keep your job and retirement. You also get your share from us, deposited in that Cayman Island bank, which will double your retirement. Just hang in there a few more minutes and we’re all a lot richer.” Roche knew that he couldn’t leave loose-cannons like Battles behind, but it wasn’t yet time to deal with that issue.

  The two men loading small wooden crates into Blake’s truck finished their work. Battles paid them off, peeling out a hundred in cash for each of them, reminding them that they “were never here.” From the looks of those guys, they would have it all spent in some bar or crack house by nightfall. As the men left, Roche called a quick conference.

  “Where’s Brandt and the others?” he asked.

  “They were here about twenty minutes ago,” offered Battles. “Brandt went with the men to be sure of their positions. The Zodiac is at the rear of the warehouse. Brandt should be back here any minute.”

  “Good,” said Roche. “Blake, you get the cargo covered and pack the other stuff around it. I’ll prepare Battles for effect like we planned.”

  It was now eight thirty-five am. The storm surge had pushed water up to the street in front of the warehouse, washing three inches deep along the curb. The wind was beginning to howl out of the darkening sky. Small branches fell in shallow water along the near-empty shorefront.

  “Hey Blake, what’s up?” Blake looked up from packing old furniture and blankets around the cargo and nodded without speaking. Brandt’s steel blue eyes narrowed. His thin smile made his scarred face seem distorted. “My guys are all in place at the key points. Looks like the storm is right on schedule. This plan’s coming together quite nicely, don’t you think?”

  “I dunno, grumbled Blake. Roche had to drop some snooper across the river, and the cops are prob’ly looking for him. I’ll be glad when we’re outta here.”

  “Piece o’ cake,” grinned Brandt, patting his M-16. “My team has the skids all greased up for you to slide right through.”

  Stepping lively through the water that now licked at the door stoop of the warehouse, Brandt hopped onto the loading dock and strode inside towards Ray Battles’ security desk. Roche stood over Battles’ slumped torso. Battles lay face down, blood trickling from a small gash in his skull. “Wow, you really made it look convincing, Roche. Is he out cold?”

  “Sleeping like a baby,” Roche replied. Are your men in place?”

  “All set. This is gonna be easy.”

  Quickly the warehouse doors were secured. Blake started his truck and rolled slowly up the empty street towards the first police check-point, followed by Roche in the Buick. The check-point was manned by two Charleston police officers and two National Guard soldiers. Blake stopped on the signal of an officer. As Blake rolled his window down, she barked. “Where are you going, sir. The local streets are all closed.”

  “We heard the evacuation order, ma’am. My brother and I are movin’ to higher ground.” He gestured towards Roche in the car behind him. Roche smiled and nodded to the officer.

  “What have you got in the back?” she asked, noting the way the truck sat a little heavy on its rear wheels. “We’re supposed to patrol for looters.”

  “Just some furniture and stuff, all the food we could load, some family papers and photos.” Blake tried to manage a smile, while fondling the Berretta in his side pocket.

  “These guys are all right, sir,” interrupted one of the soldiers. I saw them loading up at those condos over yonder when I got here.”

  “Okay,” snapped the officer. “You better get up to the Interstate and out of Charleston right away. She handed Blake a card with a toll-free number printed on it. Call us after the storm has passed, we’ll let you know when you can come home.”

  The soldiers flanked the truck, motioning Blake to move out. They waved Roche along behind him. As he drove off, Blake grinned. It was smart of him to put Brandt’s guys at the check-points, he admitted.

  When the full fury of Joseph hit Charleston ripping down trees, lifting roofs and shredding banners and awnings downtown, Blake and Roche were eighteenmiles out of town on I-26. Brandt and his crew re-boarded their Zodiac at the height of the storm and pounded their way across the river to the north side, then up river until they came to an old pier. After lashing the Zodiac to some pilings, they waded ashore and found shelter in a little draw behind some wildly waving brush to wait out the hurricane.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was eight o’clock pm in Dushanbe, Tajikistan. Darkness descended on this oriental city like a cloak. Soviet era electric lighting projects had once lit most of the city center, but now the poor economy forced an imposed darkness over a third of the downtown each night. The Al Kafajy trading company of Dubai, United Arab Emirates had located its Dushanbe offices in one of the overlapping areas at the very center of the city, so they always had electricity. It was the most expensive address in the city. Despite the hour, Chris Taylor sat at his desk studying a map of South Carolina. Noting the time, Chris squashed a half-smoked Turkish cigarette in his ashtray, punched a series of numbers onto his satellite PCS phone, and leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk. After a moment, a voice answered.

  “This is Roche.”

  “Taylor here, where are you?”

  “I’m in Orangeburg. We left Charleston right on time with the goods secure on board the truck.” Roche sounded proud and calm. He was looking for praise.

  “How close are you to the barn?” Taylor was all business.

  “We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Are you sure the meeting is arranged?”

  “Don’t worry, Roche, you’re all set. My man will be there. Goodbye.” Taylor clicked off. Picking at his cigarette pack for a fresh smoke, Taylor walked briskly down a small corridor and into the large, well appointed office of his boss, Mohammed Al Kafajy. Chris used this office frequently, since the boss rarely came to Dushanbe. After all, Tajikistan wasn’t exactly main-street in the trading business. He sat down at his superior’s PC (the only one in the offices, and one of only a few hundred in the whole country) and typed out a fax message to the home office in Dubai. “Hurricane has passed. The family is safe and well.”

  After sending the fax and receiving delivery confirmation from Dubai, Chris clicked off the fax program, browsed his email messages then placed the computer on password access stand-by. Leaving the office and walking the quarter mile to his flat, Chris took in the evening sights of the city. He paused at a choikhona, or tea stop at the corner of Shotemur Street and Pushkin Boulevard. He sipped the warm acrid brew while chatting with the tea vendor. Then he resumed his commute. The chilly night air was laced with the smells of cooking food, rotting garbage, open sewers and smoke from kerose
ne heaters. He passed open windows, hearing the sounds of mostly Russian state television programs along with an occasional satellite station from the West such as CNN – the sign of a wealthy household. He passed a cyber-café, where young Muslim men gathered to sin, drinking alcohol and surfing porno on the internet. He passed an intersection where mixed-breed Russian/Tajik prostitutes slipped from the shadows, chanting their come-on, hoping to score a trick. These were the signs of immoral invasion, the exported trash of Western culture, the reasons why Islamic fundamentalists issued fatwa’s condemning the US and declaring jihad against the destroyers of their conservative morality.

  Chris came to his building on Palat Utar Street. He nodded to his neighbor old Mister Najavi who sat on the stoop smoking. He walked up the three flights to his top floor flat. His woman servant greeted him from the kitchen while turning out his evening meal on a large plate. The meal consisted of a kind of Tajik stew made with lamb and some mysterious hot spices, served on saffron rice. There was fresh baked flat bread and a glass of cheap Russian vodka. A side dish of olives and cheese, yoghurt and fruit completed the repast, now laid out on a small dinner table. By Tajik standards, Chris’ place was upper class. It boasted four rooms, both Asian and English toilets, and a small roof garden.

  Chris sat to eat alone. He read a two week old London Financial Times while eating the rice and stew with a wooden spoon. The stew tasted good, but like most Tajik cooking, brought a chance of dysentery.

  After dinner, the old woman cleaned up and left for the day. Chris poured another double measure of vodka and relaxed in a big overstuffed chair.

  The first part of the plan had come together successfully. Several more complicated steps must also go without a hitch to get the information and the goods to their destination. The stakes were high, but so too, the rewards.