by James Ward
Greg had tried to contact his old girl friend in Canada to no avail. Ryall Morgan got hold of the director of CSIS by secure phone. He was told that Carole was on a field assignment and was not expected to check in for another day or two. Morgan asked for a meeting between one of the JUMP team and CSIS in Vancouver first thing in the morning. It was soon arranged and Susan Deet was assigned the task.
Steck and Morgan spent a lot of time convincing Mort Lindsley that he shouldn’t open an investigation into Free Nation just yet. Steck felt certain he could get more information applying to the case from Randy Pullin by keeping up informal discussions, than by interrogation. As a matter of fact, he knew that the moment Randy smelled trouble he would clam up and become an impediment rather than a helper.
After Lindsley had left Langley, Steck asked for a moment with Morgan. They settled in to coffee and donuts in Ryall’s big office.
Steck said he was worried about a greenhorn like Greg Liss getting in and out of Yemen without knowledge of the Yemeni government. “It’s a pretty big league move for a kid to make,” he declared to Morgan.
“That’s why I want you to be with him, Bob. I want you to let Liss get whatever information he can from the professor and then get him out of there with his skin. He’s a smart kid. Maybe we could recruit him some day.” Morgan sensed that Steck was not pleased at his assignment, so he added, “Shall I send someone else in your place?”
“No way,” Declared Steck. “I’ll bring him back.” Inwardly, Steck had concerns that the kid might get both of them killed or worse. There was no chance he would share that feeling with the boss. “By the way, have you decided who will be our guardian angel on this trip?” He was asking who would get them in.
“I don’t know yet,” mused Morgan. “I have some calls in to some friends at INSA.”
“Oh great,” Steck grumbled. Steck was troubled by this and Morgan knew it. INSA is the Intelligence and National Security Alliance, a professional trade group that is reputed to represent rogues, mercenaries and soldiers of fortune as well as legitimate security intelligence workers.
“Don’t worry Bob. I’ll get the best I can. It’s not like we have folks at the agency that can move around in that part of the world. So, we’ll hire an expert. Someone will meet you in Jeddah.”
Steck did not like the idea of going into the lion’s den without knowing who was going to have his beck, or whether he would have his back covered at all.
________
It was four-thirty a.m. when Steck checked in to a motel near Langley. He quietly opened the door to the modest room and stepped inside without turning on the lights. “Hi there mister world traveler,” came a familiar though sleepy female voice from the king size bed. “We have to stop meeting this way.”
“Roger that.” Steck was so glad to hear Ameila’s voice he almost laughed, then thought better of it, lest he be misunderstood.
“There’s a suitcase full of clean clothes over by the closet,” she said, yawning. “You better come to bed before I decide to just let you run to the airplane.”
“Did I ever say I love having you as my wife?” Bob said tenderly as he climbed into bed beside her.
CHAPTER 12
The “charter” flight for Steck and Liss turned out to be a military hop to the Azores, followed by an executive charter in an aging Falcon Fifty registered to a company in France. As they waited to board the flight from Azores to Jeddah, Steck found a call back message from Randy Pullin on his cell phone. He returned the call in hopes of getting the location of the crate. What he heard was shocking. Pullin’s operatives in Saudi Arabia were going to be his and Greg’s guardian angels for the trip to Yemen.
At first Steck thought it might be a joke. If it was, then how did Pullin know about the planned operation? Steck checked his other messages, finding one from Ryall Morgan time stamped only a few minutes after Randy’s message. Obviously Steck wished he had returned Morgan’s call first. He decided to be frank with Pullin. “I don’t think that it’s the right time for your people to be in our employ, Randy.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Bob,” retorted colonel Randy. “It’s just business, you know. My guys do this on a routine basis and they are simply the best for the job. They’ve got twelve missions behind them in just the last several weeks, same script, different guests.”
Bob’s instinct was to hang up and call Morgan, but before that he would try to get more out of Randy. “So Randy,” he said in a changed tone, “have you located the crate yet?”
“Yeah, it’s loaded on a ship going south. The ship’s destination is South Africa.”
“What’s the name of the vessel?” Steck asked.
“No need to work that end of it, Bob,” Randy sounded proud of himself, “your man Morgan has all the details.”
“Morgan?” Steck was getting hot under the collar.
“Yes, Morgan. He’s the guy that just hired me to get you into Yemen. He says he works with you.”
Steck was flabbergasted. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. Forcing an even tone, he asked, “So who is going to meet us and when?”
Colonel Randy smiled so broadly that Steck could sense it over the phone. “You will be met at the airport by a driver holding a sign that says Continental Oil Corp. His name is Azziz. He works for me. Just go with him and everything will be fine.”
“Got it,” said Steck tersely. He clicked off, selected the secure line button and hit the recall for Morgan’s number.
Randy Pullin sat back in his chair and chuckled. He knew what he had just pulled off was a coup for Free Nation. There was no better way he could think of to fix a problem like becoming part of the solution. It was a simple stroke of luck that a friend at INSA knew of Free Nation’s capability to deliver goods, services and people to Yemen undetected. It was a greater stroke that his friend had recommended him for the job and that he was hired by that Morgan fellow before Steck got wind of it.
Morgan saw the call coming in from Steck, and opened with, “Hey Bob, I got a really good crew to angel you in Yemen.”
“What were you thinking of, Ryall?” Steck was angry. Randy Pullin stole the bloody crate, so you hire him to protect us!?”
“Oh, so you already spoke to him,” declared Morgan.
“I have.” Steck decided to let silence do the talking.
“I know what you’re thinking Bob, but these guys are the only ones with the credentials. We can’t send the flipping US Military now, can we?” After seconds with no reply, he continued, “I asked people I trust who would have the best shot at keeping you guys safe and simply followed their advice. It’s business, man.”
More silence.
“Besides, Ryall continued, Pullin gave me new information about the crate. It’s on a ship bound for Durban. We have already contacted the South African authorities and they have agreed to impound the container when it arrives there. The ship makes a stop in Santiago on the way, so I’ve got a team headed there to watch for any movement of the container. The Coast Guard is checking on the whereabouts of that ship as we speak. With luck, it’s still in US waters and we may get the crate back before you need to cross the border into Yemen.”
More silence. Steck was busy stifling the urge to remind Morgan how bad this could become if the crate was not recovered. A report like the one Steck would have to file would terminate someone’s career.
“Bob, Are you still there?”
“I’m still here. I’ll call you before we leave Saudi.”
__________
“The place looks dusty,” remarked Greg Liss as the Falcon Fifty swung toward Jeddah on its final approach to King Abdulaziz International Airport.
Bob nodded and smiled. He remembered one trip to Jeddah when there had been a sandstorm. It rumbled in from Mecca to the southeast of the city, over a rim of hills and out to the sea, burying everything in inches of sand. Mid-day had seemed like the middle of the night to the weary traveler Steck, holed up in a tourist ho
tel. On most occasions this city was quite orderly and clean. Dust was just part of what you had to endure.
Steck remembered that this was Greg Liss’ first visit to an Islamic country. He inquired about Greg’s luggage. “Do you have any booze in your luggage, any girly magazines?”
Greg gave him a puzzled look. He fished in his carry bag. “Just this issue of Playboy,” he muttered pulling the magazine from the stash of papers in his bag.
“Give it to the pilot before we get off the plane,” ordered Bob. “If you try to clear customs and they find that magazine, you could be arrested.”
“Arrested for having a lousy magazine?” Greg looked incredulous.
“Yup, for a lousy magazine,” replied Steck. “Those things and alcoholic drinks are against the law here. They don’t fool around either. You could be detained for quite a while under their laws. You could even serve time. Believe me you don’t want to serve time in a Saudi jail.”
“Geez,” Greg said. His eyes were wide.
Steck decided to treat this kid as a complete greenhorn until proven otherwise. “Just follow me, keep your mouth shut and don’t look any girls in the eye.”
The pilot accepted the magazine. Steck supposed he got lots of them this way. In the terminal, they passed through entry routinely, stating that they were on a four day business trip and would be staying at the Hilton. Emerging from the arrivals area, they spotted a man holding up a sign that read Continental Oil welcomes Mister Steck party. The driver was pure Saudi, in robes and Keffiya. The car was a big black Mercedes, just the thing for businessmen. Steck was relieved that they weren’t met by some dudes in fatigues, as he had feared might be the case.
Arriving at the Hilton, the driver helped them get their bags to the bellman then called Bob aside. “You will be met for dinner tonight by Mister Grundstrom of Continental Oil Corp. Please pack your things for a brief trip early tomorrow to the desert.”
When they got to their rooms, Bob suggested that a long nap would be in order. He knew that “early in the morning” could mean a midnight departure.
__________
Chris Taylor’s planned evening activities in Paris were no longer possible. At eight-thirty pm he was still doing business. He had been working the telephone ever since his meeting with the boss. Having committed to get the crate to Amman in four days turned out to be an error in judgment on his part. The logistics were not working in his favor. The ship had been loafing along the east coast of Mexico, and was now about fifteen miles off Lima on the Peruvian coast. There would be no time to wait for the ship’s call at Santiago.
“Just get the crate off that ship at the drop point.” he instructed his operative on board the ship. Chris lit a cigarette as he turned his phone back to standby. He had now completed the arrangements that were available to him. He did not have confidence that it would come off clean.
The crate was to be removed from its container within the hour. An ocean racing Donzi “cigarette” boat belonging to one of Chris Taylor’s contacts had already left Callao and was headed due west. His men aboard the ship would toss the fiberglass tub containing the crate overboard. The boat would fall-in behind the ship to retrieve it, having confirmed their position by phone. This was not an unusual operation for the crew of the Donzi, since they made their living running drugs. The pickup was easy. The hard part was getting safely to shore through the chain of Peruvian patrol gunboats that routinely patrol the waters between the mainland and the Galapagos Islands.
Chris regretted the risks associated with this mission, now complicated by the need for many bribes as well as a bit of luck. Once on shore, his Lima trading contacts could take over, getting the crate re-consigned and shipped by air courier from Jorge Chavez International Airport to Cairo, then on to Amman, Jordan in a hurry.
Later that night, when he had just received word that the crate was safely aboard the Donzi and headed for port, there was a knock at the door of Taylor’s hotel room. He cracked the door to see that the boss had sent his assistant, Ahmed to check on Taylor’s progress. Sighing inwardly, Chris opened the door to the man and they exchanged the customary Muslim greeting. Ahmed was an older man, about the same age as the boss. He was tall, extremely strong, with a physical presence that could not be missed even in a crowded room. He wore a curled black moustache, now streaked with gray. His dark eyes were the most piercing that Chris could ever remember in a man. He wore a British-made gray worsted three piece suit, obviously a gift from the boss. Rumor was that he had served in the Iraqi army during the Iraq-Iran war. The story was that he had saved Al Kafajy’s life in some awkward circumstance resulting from the trading company’s dealings with the Shiites in southern Iraq. Ahmed and the boss had formed a lifelong bond after that. He was a mysterious man in many ways with an uncanny way of showing up wherever he was needed, even though he was never on the “guest list.”
“A very good evening to you, Mister Chris,” said Ahmed in his soft voice, close to a whisper, hardly the voice one would expect from his visage. He cracked a broad smile, revealing tobacco-stained teeth with gold caps at the front. “Mister Al Kafajy sends his compliments. He wishes to know how you have progressed with preparations for your intended meeting together with some customers in Amman four days hence.”
Chris was annoyed that the boss hadn’t just called him on the house phones. “You may tell him that the arrangements are complete and that air transport of the goods involved is now arranged. I expect that we shall be on plan for the meeting.” Remembering to use customary language with Ahmed, he added, “if it be the will of Allah.”
Ahmed held his smile, bowed and replied. “Indeed, may the will of Allah always be accomplished.”
As Ahmed stepped backwards into the hallway, still bowing, Chris bowed in return. He closed the door, double locked it as if to preclude further interruption and began to pack his things for the trip to Amman.
_________
Susan Deet could not believe her luck. After reviewing a phone tap tape of the conversation between Roche and Buel, she had enlisted the aid of some of Mort’s friends at CSSI. They were trying to find their man on some imaginary ranch near Calgary, to no avail. But an FBI/CSSI search of hotel registers had picked up about twenty guests named “Terry Jansen” in the western half of the United States and Canada over the past few days. Normally it would take days to follow all those leads, except one was a giveaway. A hotel in Salt Lake City reported a guest named Terry Jansen whose reservation had been made through their affiliate in Calgary.
“That’s why we pay you the big bucks Susie,” Mort Lindsley chortled leaning back in his big office chair, “That’s real nice investigative work.”
Susan brushed the compliment aside saying, “It’s just another piece of the puzzle. We don’t have this guy in custody yet. Until we do, it’s just a piece. We know that this particular Terry Jansen only stayed one night and seemed to leave no obvious trail when he checked out.”
Mort knew that as a former agent, Roche would continue to take pains to cover his tracks, even if he felt safe. “Have we got any eye witnesses among the hotel staff, the local transportation folks, anything like that?”
“One of our agents interviewed the chamber maid that cleaned his room. She identified Roche from a file shot, but said that when he left the hotel he had a moustache, short hair and business clothes.” Susan tossed a composite sketch across the desk. Mort picked it up and studied it carefully.
“Do you have anything else?” Mort queried.
“One more thing,” Susan replied. “The Maid said he had greeted her in the hallway as he checked out. He spoke to her for a few minutes, in Spanish. She said he spoke Spanish with a British accent.”
A quick phone conversation with Ryall Morgan confirmed that Roche was a master of disguise and character change. Ryall thought that a British character was within the realm of Roche’s typical behavior. He also confirmed that Roche knew several languages, including Spanish. He asked for a copy of th
e composite.
“Mexico!” Susan leaned toward Lindsley to make the point. “I’ll bet he’s in Mexico!”
CHAPTER 13
Grundstrom rang Steck’s room at six pm sharp. “Good day to you Mister Steck,” he announced in business-like tone. “I trust you’ve had a good trip thus far? Meet me in the restaurant of the hotel at seven pm. We have a busy day ahead and I’m sure that you and Mister Liss will want to get to bed early.”
“Sure thing,” mumbled Steck. “See you at seven, then.”
Grunstrom turned out to be a thirty-something former military officer, fit and trim. His light complexion, chiseled facial features and high-n-tight hair cut reeked of career Marine. Steck wondered how this guy would have become involved with the likes of Randy Pullin, but decided not to pry until he knew the man better.
Dinner went by quickly. The conversation was mostly about baseball and American TV shows, neither of which is readily available to Americans living in Saudi Arabia. Steck had to caution Liss twice about eating too much, citing the hard day ahead. Greg seemed to delight in the Middle Eastern food, which Bob envisioned might wind up splattered around a rocking helicopter.
Steck had been right about interpreting the words “early start.” Grundstrom said he would fetch them about three am. He also let them know that this was not a mission with much appeal to the group he worked with. Three men would stay with Steck and Liss. Their time on the ground would be limited to one day maximum and they would return directly to the hotel, so as not to arouse suspicion among the hotel staff or others that might be observant. Grundstrom cautioned them to keep any political opinions to themselves until out of the country and to stay away from the hotel bar or any other “entertainments” while in Saudi Arabia. Greg Liss was fascinated by these admonitions. “Just act as if you were at your maiden-aunt’s house on best behavior,” counseled Steck.
