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

by James Ward

  It was nearly dawn when he got back to the highway. Instead of getting back on the interstate, he rolled to an area of fast food and truck stops. After a hearty breakfast and a truck stop shower, he ran the Suburban through a car wash, taking care to clean out the back and dispose of some blood stained blankets in a dumpster behind a Taco Bell.

  Back on the highway, Brandt cruised along a hundred mile arc around the Crow Reservation, past Little Big Horn, to the Wyoming border. Reaching the small community of Buffalo about nine am, Brandt stopped at a local tire store and paid cash for a new set of tires for the Suburban. Hopefully the woman’s grave would not be found any time soon, but if it was, fresh tire tracks lifted as evidence would not connect to his vehicle.

  Brandt turned onto route sixteen towards Bighorn National Forest. He turned off at a dirt road that meandered beyond government property. Waving to a couple of outpost guards, Brandt piloted the big black SUV to a turn-around at the end of the road amidst a slew of no trespassing signs at the gate to Free Nation’s main base.

  “Welcome back, Major!” snapped the guard at the gate as he saluted Brandt.

  “Hey, morning Jim,” Brandt smiled as he retrieved the proffered gate pass, stuffing it into his fatigues. He still had no clue what he was going to tell Colonel Randy.

  _________

  After successfully wrenching Roche’s “new” identity out of Buel, Steck figured he had to shake Susan Deet for a couple of days. He knew where he had to go. He wanted to speak with a couple of folks in Wyoming, man to man.

  Just prior to boarding the company plane for a quick trip to Wyoming Steck raised Deet on her cell phone.

  “Susan, your man is traveling under the alias Terry Jansen. He most likely took a flight from the K.C. Airport. You should find the truck abandoned there. Get with the airlines and see if our man took a commercial flight. My best guess is that he will try to get out of the country.”

  “I’m on it,” Deet declared. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m going to contact the guy we saw in that picture. I know where to find him. I’ll be taking the plane for a day. I guess you can take a commercial flight back if you need to. In order to get results I must approach him alone. We know one another so I hope I can get some information without raising suspicion.” Steck shivered at the thought. Actually he had no clue whether he could pull it off.

  “I’ll have a make on Terry Jansen by this evening. Call me when you touch down in … where did you say you were going?” Deet was using that self-assured case officer’s demeanor, trying to get information that she sensed Steck was reluctant to give her. Inwardly she seethed. This guy was taking her airplane!

  “I’ll let you know.” Steck clicked off.

  Minutes later, the jet roared above the clouds on a flight plan for Sheridan County Airport, Wyoming.

  _________

  Greg Liss was in luck. Not only was he well received and fed a hearty New England boiled dinner by a gracious Missus Wigglesworth, but she was expecting to hear from the good professor by satellite telephone during the evening and offered to include Greg.

  “I’m so glad you came to visit, Mister Liss,” remarked Missus Wigglesworth. She was serving sherry in the library of the big house. “Isn’t it odd that you should come on the very day I’m to receive my first call from William in over a month?” She stirred her coffee with what had obviously once been a delicate hand, now gnarled by arthritis. She was short and very thin, with weathered skin that revealed her lifelong love of the outdoors. Her features were angular and strong, yet serene. Greg guessed her to be about seventy years old. She dressed simply but elegantly in clothes reminiscent of those in her photo on the mantle over the fireplace. Greg figured the photo was late nineteen forties, of a beautiful young woman in dressage standing beside a Morgan horse. It was clear that the infirmities of age now dominated her life, except for her eyes. Missus Wigglesworth’s eyes were bright and twinkling, full of life and ideas, just like those in that old photo.

  “Yes, it’s fortunate, and so kind of you to share some of your and the Doctor’s time on the satellite phone.” Greg decided he would be brief with the Professor and then leave the room to allow privacy for husband and wife to converse.

  Later she led Greg down a dark paneled hallway. They sat at opposite ends of a long dining room table. A pudgy combination part time companion, maid and cook served the meal. She was obviously a student on some campus work program. As he ate heartily, Greg tried to find out what the Professor’s wife knew about The Hand of Mohammed.

  “I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to his work,” she declared, “except I admit, to feign interest while he tells me all about it. I do know that this ‘hand’ is one of the things he’s been looking for throughout his whole career, but even William thinks it is probably fictitious.”

  Greg decided to drift the conversation in a direction that would build relationship with the lady in case she became useful later. “So, what does the wife of a traveling professor do while her husband is out and about?”

  “Gardening, Mister Liss. Gardening is my passion and orchids are my pride. Later on I’ll show you my greenhouse and my award-winning orchidae. I’ve collected eighteen HCC (Highly Commendable Certificate) awards from the American Orchid Society, the Royal Horticultural Society and even the HOC which is the Hawaii Orchid Society. My own creation, Odontioda Galaxy ‘harlequin’ ACC/AOS has made a sum of money over the years.”

  As she droned on about her obsession and success with orchids, Greg tried to mimic her “feigned interest.”

  At eight-thirty the phone rang as scheduled. Doctor Wigglesworth’s raspy voice rattled over the remarkably clear satellite line. After some greetings and exchange of affection marred by Missus Wigglesworth’s seeming inability to deal with the characteristic transmission delay, she turned the phone over to Greg.

  Greg stared at a photo of Doctor Wigglesworth along with some of his co-workers at a dig. It gave him a better sense of the man on the other end of the line.

  “Well Liss, I always like to hear from former students, especially one as brilliant as you. I hear you are with the government now which in my opinion is a perfect waste of time for a man of your intellect!” Doctor Wigglesworth always spoke his mind, which is why Greg held him in such high esteem.

  Coming right to the point, Greg said “Sir, I have an urgent need to speak with you in person. Where can we meet?”

  “Meet!? Out of the question! I’m at the archeological dig of an old caravanserai in the middle of the blasted Yemeni desert!”

  Greg would have to chance a more direct comment. “Doctor Wigglesworth,” he half stammered, “I have possibly located an item that I know you have been seeking for some time. One we discussed many times in class as being either fact or fancy.”

  After a pause, Wigglesworth blurted “The hand? Are you telling me you’ve found it?”

  “Yes sir, I believe that to be the case.” Greg was taking a really big chance, painfully aware that he was not on a secure line.

  The Professor blustered. “PREPOSTEROUS!” he shouted. “If I can’t find the thing, how does a wet behind the ears Washington bureaucrat?”

  “That is all I’m going to say on this line, sir. Will you meet me? I will come to you anywhere in the world.” Greg waited tensely, giving the old man time to absorb the news.

  In the long pause that ensued, Wigglesworth reasoned that a smart kid like Liss would not trick him, nor would he demand a meeting unless he had found something worth looking into. He finally decided it would be worth a meeting. “I’ll be in Amman, Jordan two weeks hence. I can meet you at the Intercontinental hotel.”

  “No good, sir. This needs to happen within the next two or three days.” Greg hoped that the Professor would hear the urgency in his voice.

  “But how can we do it?” Wigglesworth was incredulous.

  “I have your location. Stay there for the next three days. I will contact you. Please do not speak of this to
anyone. Please do not speak about it further on this line.” Greg knew the JUMP team tekkies in Virginia would have Wiggie’s satphone located by now. “Good night, sir.” Greg handed the phone to Missus Wigglesworth and disappeared into the next room, closing the door behind him.

  Half an hour later, Greg had completed his excuses and thanks to Missus Wigglesworth and was driving back to Manchester, speaking constantly on his secure mobile phone with JUMP headquarters and with Lindsley.

  __________

  Chris Taylor spent the morning strolling through the Tuilleries, now resplendent with late summer blooms of bright red, orange, white and purple. The warm fresh air and modest breeze meandering out of a sunny sky helped wipe away his slight hangover. Around noontime he opened a small attaché and set up his laptop on a wide bench to browse his email. It was a great day in a great place and he was not going to waste it indoors.

  His man aboard the ship had left a message that they were now past Los Angeles on the way down the coast, and would be out of signal distance for two days. The message stated that all was well thus far. Contacts in Santiago were waiting, having received instructions for their task. They would receive the crate and re-consign it to the Microwave Company of Egypt, via airfreight. Mister Al Kafajy’s controlling interest in the Egyptian company was not motivated by profit. The company was a miserable performer. His sole interest was to have a place in the Cairo free trade zone that could trans-ship goods like the ones in the crate without much red tape.

  Chris made a few electronic trades and took care of his correspondence for the day. He closed his laptop and sat back to enjoy the sights and sounds of summer in Paris. The only thing lacking at the moment was a sandwich and a glass of Beaujolais. No matter, he would take care of that shortly at some sidewalk café.

  Chris had nearly nodded off, when a female voice rose above the background of chatting students, nannies and other Parisians out for a midday walk.

  “Monsieur Taylor?”

  Chris didn’t move, but peered at her through his Ray-ban glasses. A rather attractive young lady in a hotel uniform stood at a distance, leaning and peering at him as if over a tall counter. “Chris Taylor?”

  Chris sat up and gestured with a hand. “Come closer Mademoiselle, I won’t bite. I promise.”

  She straightened up seeming a bit embarrassed but came no closer. “Excuse me, sir. Are you Mister Chris Taylor?”

  “May I ask who would like to know?” Chris took off the glasses and winked. Her look of embarrassment turned to a scowl.

  She held up a note. “The gentleman who wrote this note would like to know.” she said almost scolding him.

  Chris reached for the note, but she withdrew it. “First please identify yourself!”

  “I am Chris Taylor,” he said simply. His eyes were now fixed on the note.

  “May I see some identification?” she said, assuming a tone not unlike the French police.

  Chris was clearly agitated now. Fumbling in his attaché he produced his passport, turned the page and held it up. “See, it even has my picture,” he said sarcastically. Without a word, she handed him the note with a look of disdain and turned to walk purposefully back in the direction of the row of hotels across the boulevard.

  The note was in Mohammed Al Kafajy’s hand. “Come to my suite at one pm. Change of plans.”

  Chris checked his watch. It was already twelve-forty. He packed his stuff into the attaché and headed for the hotel, hoping there would be food in the boss’s suite.

  __________

  Susan Deet had no trouble locating the pickup or finding which flight “Terry Jansen” had taken. She contacted Canadian immigration authorities and also some friends in CSIS. By evening she was certain the Roche was in Calgary, but had melted away, probably under another alias. Faced with a cold trail, stuck in Kansas City without her airplane and having lost Steck, she paced her motel room totally frustrated.

  She knew better than to try raising Steck. He had given clear direction about that. As much as his actions upset her, she knew better than to potentially put Steck at risk by attempting some blind contact. She brooded over a sandwich in the motel restaurant. It faintly resembled ham and cheese. With no bar in the motel, she had to wash it down with acrid coffee. Finally she could bear it no longer. Deet returned to her room where she retrieved her secure mobile phone and took it to her rental car. From the privacy of the car she called Mort Lindsley.

  Lindsley was disappointed that Roche’s trail had gone blank for now. He asked Susan to think hard about how to pick up the trail and to use any JUMP team assets to do so. He filled her in on Greg Liss and the Dartmouth professor. When she told him about Steck’s side trip, he flipped out.

  “Mister Bob is really tryin’ my patience. Why did you let him go adventuring alone to a place that is clearly FBI jurisdiction?”

  Susan cringed. She knew the boss was right, but it hurt to admit it to herself never mind to him. “He just took the blasted airplane then didn’t let me know until it was too late to stop him.” She pleaded.

  “I know it’s not your fault, Susie,” Drawled Lindsley. I’m gonna take this up with Ryall Morgan. Mister Bob Steck is rubbin’ me the wrong way.”

  “I’ll second that!” Deet added.

  CHAPTER 9

  Steck bought some western duds in Sheridan; boots, Levis, and a burgundy sailcloth shirt with pointed flaps on the dual breast pockets. He topped it off with a wide belt and a silver buckle festooned with turquoise. He stopped short of the Stetson. The altogether too new clothes made him look the part of a casual tourist, but definitely one from “back east.”

  Randy Pullin was surprised to receive the call from Steck. It was one of those “just happened to be in the neighborhood” calls from an old war buddy. Colonel Randy didn’t seem suspicious at all. He invited Steck to drop by the compound to chat about old times. He seemed eager to see his old buddy and to show off his accomplishments. “You still with ‘The Company’ Bob?” he queried, figuring that was the only way Steck could have tracked him down.

  “Yup, officially I’m still with them, but it’s getting close to the time I can take my pension,” declared Steck. “I’m working off accumulated vacation time.”

  “I’ll bet you get a lot of that,” replied Pullin.

  Steck caught the implication in Randy’s voice. Pullin always had a dim view of any civilian that worked for the government. He thought they were a bunch of parasitic no-accounts sucking the blood of the US taxpayer. Steck decided to play into that. “Yeah, I take lots of vacation,” he lied.

  “Well, just drive out here and present yourself to the gate guard. I’ll make sure he is expecting you. Is Amy with you? Can you stay a few days?”

  Steck feigned that Amy was at a horse show in Maryland and was probably going to join him in California in a few days.

  As soon as Randy hung up, he called the head of the post guard detail. “There’s a CIA agent coming to stay with us for maybe a couple of days, name of Bob Steck. I want him welcomed and accommodated, but keep a keen eye on him. Put him in the guest cottage and turn on all the surveillance gear. It’ll be a good test of our security system.”

  Colonel Randy’s radar was up, not only because there was a CIA agent visiting, but because of his all too recent job with Paul Roche. He worried that Steck had picked up the trail then dismissed the thought. Even Steck would not be that quick to get on to such a well planned escapade. Still, he felt uneasy about Steck’s impromptu visit to the compound after all these years.

  Steck called Susan Deet, who reported what she had found including the fact that the trail on Roche had gone cold. Bob was not surprised, in fact he expected it. Roche was an old hand at covering his tracks, something essential to longevity in agents.

  Deet let him know that Lindsley was rankled, and that Steck needed to call Ryall Morgan. The tone of her voice let him know that she was not happy with her circumstances either.

  “Look, Susie,” Steck declared. “I�
��m going deep into an organization that we know is involved in this case. I’m the only one that can pull it off, if I can pull it off and you know I have to do it alone to avoid suspicion on the part of these Para-military nut cases. Please try to cut me a bit of slack here, will you?”

  She was not to be dismissed by some spook agent. “You took my damned airplane, Bob!”

  “Don’t worry, Susan. I’ll bring it back safe and sound. The pilot has orders to pick you up in KC day after tomorrow in the evening. He will leave Sheridan at two pm day after tomorrow with or without me.”

  “Do you think I’m gonna hang around here waiting for you?” She was raising her voice in frustration.

  “Just stay with me on this, Susie. If it goes right we can pick up a new trail. If it doesn’t, we can get back on Roche.” Steck wouldn’t admit that if it didn’t go well he might be Pullin’s prisoner.

  His next call was to Ryall Morgan. Morgan was sipping scotch in his study. It was a good time of day to speak with the boss because he mellowed in the evening. Not this time.

  “Where are you, Bob?” Morgan knew quite well where Steck was. It was a signal to go easy.

  “I think you know,” was the bland reply.

  “Steck, you’ve managed to get Lindsley all riled up. I expect you to be more sensitive to turf issues.”

  “Turf or no turf, Ryall, I’ve got a chance to pick up the trail on that crate, or on Roche, or both and I’m not going to miss that opportunity. You know that if Susie was with me, I would have no shot.”