by James Ward
After settling his stuff in the room, he went to the street level and took a taxi to the offices of Anwhar International, the front organization for the CIA’s Amman bureau. After being vetted by the receptionist, he was led to a small conference room off the lobby. As she left the room, the receptionist locked the door with a key that she carried on a chain around her neck.
A few minutes later, a section of bookcase at the back of the room opened. Steck could see a bustling room beyond, full of folks working at computer work stations. Through the opening came a short and portly red-faced man in his middle fifties, sporting a great shock of gray hair that looked like an explosion in a bird nest. His bloodshot eyes seemed too large behind thick bone-rimmed trifocals. His open shirt looked like it had been worn daily for a month or so. This was Steck’s old friend Charlie West.
The two men shot the breeze for a few minutes, laughing and catching up on family and friends of mutual acquaintance. Then Charlie led Bob to his private office to the rear of the clandestine work area. Steck briefed Charlie West explaining about the JUMP team. He spoke about its current mission. He voiced his concern about the reported movement of many influential Muslim figures towards Amman.
Charlie filled Bob in about the latest list of arrivals. Bob whistled softly as he read the names and titles on the list. They included some of the worst bad guy terrorists in person or representatives of their organizations, influential politicos and even some royalty. The common denominator was that they were all staying at the Royal Amman Hotel as guests of the Al Kafajy Trading Company.
Charlie produced a Jordanian lad of about twenty, who was a member of the service staff at the Royal Amman Hotel.
“This is Samir, one of my most trusted and loyal agents here in Amman,” said Charlie proudly. He will work the next six days during the afternoon and evening at the hotel.”
“I’m Pleased to know you, Samir,” offered Steck as he extended his hand.
The young man took Bob’s hand and made a small bow, saying “The pleasure is mine, Mister Steck.”
“Samir will be wearing a wire during his work shift for the next few days,” offered Charlie. “He has performed this service for us many times.” He added, guessing Steck’s un-asked question.
The three men went over the list of names carefully, along with file photos. They chose a few for Samir to monitor when possible. After Samir left the room, Bob asked “How many other agents will we have at the hotel?”
“Just Samir,” answered Charlie. Noting Steck’s incredulous look, Charlie explained. “Look Bob, we have a small operation here and a tight budget. That’s the only asset I can give you right now. He’s my best agent.”
“And who is the next-best?” Bob asked.
“If you want more of my assets, get your boss to put some pressure on at Langley. From a personal standpoint, I’ll be at your service night and day, but that’s all I have to give, even to an old friend.” Charlie was ever the consummate bureaucrat. “You know it takes a team of four to support one man on a wire. They will be here to help. If there’s trouble, I have staff here at this address around the clock and we’re only two blocks from the Royal Amman.” As if to add punctuation to his remarks, Charlie shrugged and gestured with outstretched palms.
Steck knew he had pushed as far as he was able, so he smiled and slapped a high five to Charlie’s outstretched hand. “Okay, old buddy. I still think we need more than one wire to watch this cast of characters. I’ll take it up with Langley later today.”
CHAPTER 19
After his attempt to contact Roche, Chris Taylor had supervised a photo shoot of The Hand of Mohammed at the Royal Amman Hotel. The photographer was famous for shooting objects d’art. She had been flown in from London, where she was employed at Christie’s auction gallery. She was often used for this type of assignment because she had a reputation for utmost discretion.
After the shoot, Chris again locked the prize in his room safe. Now that he knew that American agents were trying to pick up the trail, he decided to engage two more armed guards to assist Tariq. He also set two men to watch the lobby area of the hotel and tied all five together with a network of small radios.
Muhammed Al Kafajy and his retinue of executives, lawyers, secretaries and body guards arrived in Amman on the Learjet he had rented for the flight from Paris. His own airplane, a larger Gulf Stream, was on a mission to Dubai, where it would collect one of the expected high bidders for The Hand.
Delayed by the business of tightening security for the prize, Chris now had to rush through the impossible Amman downtown mid afternoon traffic with his fleet of three large cars, himself riding in the lead Mercedes beside the driver. Fortunately, the Learjet was rolling to a stop on the tarmac just as the cars pulled to a stop on the apron.
On the way back to the Royal Amman Hotel, Chris briefed the boss about recent developments and the precautions he had taken as a result. Mister Al Kafajy first commended Taylor on his work thus far. He then directed that additional security be put in place for the personal protection of the bidders.
All possible surveillance of incoming travelers from Saudi Arabia was arranged by Al Kafajy himself in a cell phone call to one of his friends in Jordanian security.
The boss seemed in a very good mood. He chatted affably about who would be the top bidders and how much they might bid. He had decided to open the bidding at one hundred million. Chris now realized that this little “auction” would probably fetch close to half-a-billion dollars. When he mentioned that to the boss, he was answered with a hearty guffaw. “It will be more like half-a-billion euros, Christian!”
_________
By Thursday evening, Steck had caught some sleep and enjoyed a hearty Middle Eastern meal of soup, lamb and vegetables, washed down with doogh, a yogurt drink he had learned to love while on assignment in Iran.
Grundstrom had arrived from Yemen, reporting successful delivery of the professor and his band of associates. Steck was glad to have him as a compadre for the next few days. When a guy saves your skin, you get to like him real fast.
“So, how did you get hooked-up with Randy Pullin?” Steck asked, as they sat together over coffee in his room.
“One night I was holed-up in a dusty hell-hole near Kandahar. We were taking small arms fire from the Taliban. I needed more men for my mission, but had been denied them. I was denied them by a jerk colonel who had plenty of men and equipment to give but was playing some stupid head-game with a peer officer. In the course of that fire fight, I lost six guys that didn’t have to die, except for that colonel’s stupidity. By morning, the few of us that were left had killed every last one of those buggers. If I had just six more men, I could’ve got them all without losing anybody. So, I decided right then not to re-enlist. I shopped around for a job that fit my skills, you know, like Blackwater and those types. Turns out they are run by folks just like that jerk colonel, guys who had been kicked out or passed over by the military. Kind of like the bottom of the barrel I was trying to get out of, if you know what I mean.”
“I do indeed,” Steck agreed, remembering some of that type from the Vietnam era.
“Well, then a friend put me on to Colonel Randy. He impressed me because he knew how to fit the assets to the task. I tried a couple of missions with Free Nation and the rest, as they say, is history. I’ve been with them for four years. One hundred and eighteen missions none failed.”
“Pretty good record,” Steck offered.
“Damn good record.” was the reply. “The money’s great, I run my own show and I expect to do this for quite a while.”
“No problem that you’re sometimes operating outside the law?” Steck had the thought that he might be able to recruit this guy someday.
Grundstrom gave him a queer look. “Operating outside the law? What is the law to me! I tried the law. The law ain’t the truth, you know. Take you, for instance. You operate either just inside or just outside the law most of the time. A lot of the time you are way out
side ‘the law.’ Do you think about ‘the law’ when you cross the line one way or the other? I don’t think so. Me, I’m just like you spook guys. I operate under Gunny Grundstrom’s law. That’s the only one that ever got me anything.”
“What about your country?” Steck was probing, for future reference.
Grundstrom leaned back in his chair. “I consider myself a patriot, if that’s what you mean. I don’t fall for some of the stuff that Colonel Randy preaches, but I can tell you one thing. That guy loves his country. Everybody in Free Nation thinks they are doing the right thing for the good old U.S of A. The way I look at it, we make up for the fumbles that guys like that colonel in Kandahar make every day. We carry the ball and we score. You got any problem with that?”
“None at all. You’ve already saved my neck once.” Steck figured he would someday recruit this guy.
Grundstrom was inspecting his Beretta for cleanliness. “So, when do we go to this here party?”
“About seven pm. We will be in a room a few blocks from the Royal Amman Hotel listening to a guy on a wire. I’ll brief you about the rest on the way there.” Steck shook Grundstrom’s hand. “Glad to have you aboard, Gunny.”
________
At noon, Mexico City time, Hugh Coles strode into the appointed sidewalk café. He picked a table that had an un-obstructed view of the whole street and sat with his back to the outside wall of the café building. He ordered a bottle of tequila and a glass, lit a cigarette and unfurled his newspaper. Ten minutes later, a lanky man in jeans and a tee came strolling down the street from the direction of the Palacio de Bellas Artes. He looked the part of a hard-working outdoor type, with leather face, red-brown tanned arms and big rough hands. He wore a farmer’s straw hat, the type you might see in west Texas.
Spotting his man, he ambled over to Coles’ table and pulled up a chair.
“Hallo, friend,” Coles said.
The man spat, leaning back on his stool. “Hey, Roche, how’s it goin’?”
“The name’s Coles. Hugh Coles. I don’t know any gentleman named Roche”
“Oh yeah, I fergot. That’s a purty good accent you got there.”
Coles flashed a disdainful look.
“Can we talk here?” the man asked.
“If you can follow the rules,” sneered Coles.
“Okay, Mister Coles.” The man waved to the waiter. “Hey gar-son, brang me a glass, will ye?”
The waiter brought a glass, lemon and salt.
Pouring a shot for himself, then a fresh one for Coles, the man pushed Coles’ newspaper aside. “I like to see a man’s face when were talking,” he said, staring straight into Coles’ face. Coles downed his shot, returning the gaze.
“I got a two million dollar job for you, if you’re interested,” the man said. “Until this morning, I had different job for you, but that one only pays a hundred thousand. I figured you’d go for the big one anyway, so I got another guy to do the small one.”
“Where?” asked Coles, flicking his cigarette on the table.
“What do you care? It’s all expenses paid.”
“What do I do?”
“You track and eliminate two guys.”
“A million each, eh? Who are they, some kind of dignitaries?” For that kind of money it had to be.
“All I’ve been told is they’re a couple of ordinary agents who happen to be on the wrong side of something very important to the man who contacted yours truly,” the farmer replied.
“Do I know that man?”
“Yes, you do. It’s the guy who paid for your last job.”
That would be a fellow named Taylor from Tajikistan, Coles thought.
“When?” Coles seemed interested in hearing the farmer out.
“Yesterday wouldn’t be soon enough for my client.” The man snorted. “Seriously, that’s the rub. If you want to do this you’ve got to fly tonight. There are only one or two days to get this done at most.” He seemed suddenly to have lost a lot of that Texas ease.
“Like I said earlier, where?” Coles was staring at his glass.
“Amman, Jordan.”
Coles stared a while longer into his glass. “Anything else?”
“Nope, that’s the deal, short and simple.” The man reached into his shirt and retrieved an envelope. Placing it on the table, he said, “First class ticket from Mexico City through Barcelona to Amman with an open return date leaves in three hours. Also, there’s a prepaid room at the Intercontinental Hotel. The guy, Taylor will contact you in Amman.”
Hugh Coles poured himself another shot of tequila and bolted it down. He picked up the envelope and stood up. “Still got the same cell phone number?”
“Yes I do.”
“I’ll call you in one hour. If I decide not to take the assignment, I’ll mail this back to you.”
“Got it,” the man replied. “By the way, check your Caymans account. If you don’t go you better return the deposit too.”
Hugh Coles strolled to another café, sat and ordered coffee. He used his cell to check his Caymans account. A five hundred thousand dollar deposit had just been made. “One more job,” he said to himself, “then I’m set for life.”
Coles went to a department store and purchased clothes, a suitcase and necessities. He packed in the store then hailed a taxi to the airport. On the way, he called his maid, leaving instructions to keep the house in order while he took a holiday in Rio. Then he called the farmer and accepted the assignment. In a locker at the airport, he retrieved an Egyptian passport, business cards, a Visa card and other papers in the name of Jacob Breen, of the Cairo office of Hughes and Breen, investment advisors of London. Planning ahead always paid off.
He exchanged money from dollars to euros. He would exchange euros for dinars upon arrival in Jordan. “The first rule of self preservation as an agent: Never present a clear trail for your adversary to follow,” he thought, walking toward the departure gate with his pocket full of euros.
Just before boarding he phoned a contact in Jordan and arranged for the purchase of a Beretta, clips and ammo to be delivered to him at the Intercontinental.
As the newly minted ‘Jacob Breen’ settled into his first class seat for the flight to Barcelona, he let out a sigh. He was on the road again, one last time.
CHAPTER 20
The evening festivities were lavish, to say the least. The great banquet hall had been decorated with banners of fine silk in varied brilliant colors. Some guests sat at great round tables, some at low tables with pillows for seating on the floor. In the middle of the hall, a large table held a giant ice sculpture of Arabian horses. Eight tons of sand had been deposited at one end of the hall against a giant mural of palm trees. Several real palm trees stood at one side of the desert scene, grouped around a pool with a fountain. The whole effect created the feeling of being in open desert.
All of the invited guests were dressed for a special occasion, many in traditional Arab garb. Several Pakistanis and a few Indians wore elaborate turbans. Three ayatollahs from Iran and one from Iraq were there with their entourages. All were treated to sumptuous food and the finest teas, coffees and exotic fruit juices. No alcohol was served in the dining area, but it was available for those who were less than strict Muslims in the bar and through room service.
Muhammed Al Kafajy was in his prime, mingling with the guests and playing gracious host. He tried in vain to get the few militants that dared to attend to mingle with the rest. They seemed quite uncomfortable amidst all the splendor of the Royal Amman Hotel. They were most uncomfortable with a few of the women who did not have their faces covered and were seated with the men. One, who was the self-proclaimed representative of Mullah Omar and several other Taliban, left the banquet hall in disgust, preferring to wait in the auditorium across the hall for the audio-visual presentation to begin.
Steck and Grundstrom sat in the CIA operations room along with Charlie West and some technicians. They had surveillance cameras hidden in the ceiling of the bi
g hall, and one man with a wire was circulating through the crowd serving food. As their wired servant moved around the hall they were able to identify many of the guests. Charlie West worked furiously, making page after page of notes. At one point he muttered, “Man, one well placed bomb in that room could end the war on terror.”
At the last minute, Al Kafajy changed the room location for the lecture. His aim was to accommodate a larger than expected crowd. That left West and his team with a dilemma. The two video cameras they had planted in the room adjacent to the banquet hall would only be recording darkness. Steck suggested they ask the wired agent to eavesdrop in the auditorium. Charlie felt uncomfortable about that because there had been no opportunity to set it up in a way that would protect his man. At length, they decided to risk it.
Charlie detailed one of his agents to get a secondary camera in place at the auditorium. To Steck’s surprise, there was soon a small but terribly low resolution camera shooting stills and an occasional burst of video within the hall. Charlie West was an amazing guy, he thought.
The presentation in the auditorium started promptly after the last guest had been seated. Al Kafajy sat in the front row, while Chris Taylor made the presentation. First, Chris announced that there were several interested parties who could not make it to Jordan for the meeting or who wished to remain anonymous. They were to be patched in via satellite TV links. One of the guests objected. He wanted to know who he would be competing with. Chris assured him that the sale, when conducted, would be in a manner fair to all.
Chris then signaled and technicians dimmed the lights. Music from the Yemeni tradition rose to a background level. The massive TV screen lit up with scenes of Yemen, then flashed to a rolling script in Arabic and English on split screen. The script told the story of the use of the Prophet’s hand print as surety and safe passage. It went on to describe the legend of how the Prophet himself had commissioned a plaster cast of his hand to be a remembrance to his followers, but also as the ultimate symbol of Muslim brotherhood. Its bearer would for ever be accorded royal treatment and safe passage and would be forgiven any and all offenses provided he was a believer; that is a true follower of Islam.
