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

by James Ward

  “So, are you saying it is out of your reach?” Al Kafajy looked worried.

  “I am saying that it requires a different type of agent than we customarily have at our disposal. It happens that I have such a man in mind, one whom I hired just yesterday to rid us of those U S agents.” Chris was gaining confidence as he spoke. “The man is a former CIA agent. He is here in Amman. I will make it worth his while to help us recover the prize.”

  Muhammed Al Kafajy shrugged then smiled. “You know the stakes we are playing for, Christian. The budget will allow much, if success can be assured.”

  “How much will the budget allow?” Chris knew he was pushing.

  “Ten million before you need to consult me, more if you can demonstrate the need.” Al Kafajy held his palms up as if to say “what else?”

  “One more thing, if you please,” said Chris.

  “Go on, Christian.” Al Kafajy said.

  “Keep Ahmed out of this unless I ask for him.” Chris knew he was testing the old man. He wanted complete control of the operation.

  Al Kafajy hesitated. Chris was asking a lot for the boss to withhold his most trusted confidant. “I will keep him at my side until this is over, or until you ask for his services.”

  ________

  Susan Deet and two junior agents waited in the ante room of Robert MacFergus’ office in Ottawa. It was seven-thirty a.m. They had traveled overnight delayed by a nasty storm. Susan had grabbed a few hours of speed-napping in the Learjet. The task at hand was to formalize the presentation of the material that had been discussed in the earlier conference call.

  MacFergus arrived at eight sharp. He seemed surprised to see them so early in the day. After hand shakes MacFergus shed his hat, coat, umbrella and galoshes, while ordering an aide to procure some coffee and sweet rolls.

  Susan sized him up, having never met the man. He was about sixty years old grey at the temples and balding on top. A squat man with puffy cheeks, bushy grey eyebrows and ruddy complexion, he looked as if he would be more at home in a kilt than in the off-the-rack wrinkled brown wool suit he had obviously worn for weeks.

  Settling in a secure conference room, they were soon joined by several CSIS agents and a secretary. Susan noted that the small secretary desk was equipped with several antiquated recording machines and a stenotype, similar to those used in a court of law. The young secretary sat briefly at the desk, opened a drawer and produced a small digital recorder, which she set up in the center of the conference table. Susan was relieved to see modern equipment that would interface with hers. She guessed that the CSIS probably never threw anything away.

  MacFergus sat at the head of the conference table. From an old weathered tan leather valise, he selected several pads of paper, pens and pencils, a curved briar pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He raised his gaze to meet Susan’s, waving the pipe in the air. She signaled acceptance. All waited while MacFergus filled the thing, fished for a small pack of wooden matches and lit up, drawing several small puffs to get the thing properly alight. The secretary produced an ashtray which she placed at his side. Susan figured this was all part of a ritual the man employed to take charge of any conference. She got the message that they were on his turf.

  MacFergus opened with some ground rules for the meeting. There would be one and only one recording device used. He pointed to the digital recorder at the center of the table. A transcript of the meeting would be provided after the meeting, reviewed and signed off by both sides as accurate. They would confine the discussion to the case at hand. The meeting would last exactly two hours, followed by the document review. If necessary, an additional half-hour session would be conducted to resolve any open issues. “This is a classified meeting.” He announced.

  The coffee and sweet cakes arrived. Each of the Americans dug in. The Canadians demurred. Finally, after the secretary had passed a tablet for each of the participants to write their name, title and contact information, the meeting was officially called to order.

  Susan was amused to consider the formality of this meeting as opposed to the relative laxity of form that prevailed at the JUMP team meetings. She did appreciate the structure, but felt in a tactical sense it might hamper the free flow of ideas and information she was used to at Langley and the FBI. She decided that this more formal approach was appropriate between two governments. Susan had been carefully briefed by Mort Lindsley and Ryall Morgan about maintaining a cordial protocol with the Canadians while reminding them that they had overstepped their jurisdiction. She was pleased that her bosses trusted her to handle a new career step, a step into diplomacy.

  Mac Fergus opened with a methodical presentation of the facts as known by CSIS and reported to the JUMP team on the previous conference call. After a long pause while he re-lit his pipe, he announced that they had new information. Susan straightened in her chair, her mind suddenly on alert. She had no expectation of new information.

  Satisfied that he had provided the proper segue, MacFergus deferred to Jon Rudie his principal case officer. Rudie was a slight built man in his early thirties with oversized eyeglasses and a blond crew cut. He spoke in a high pitch indicative of nervousness, but soon settled in to a more normal drone.

  “Yesterday, a CSIS investigative and forensic team checked out several sites along the route between Coeur d’Alene, Idaho and Billings, Montana, along United States Interstate Route 90. Its purpose was to follow through on a hypothesis that one of our agents, Carole Hinson, might have been abducted and/or murdered at Coeur d’Alene and taken toward a Para-military camp near Bighorn National Forest in Wyoming.”

  “Let’s be clear that the Para-military group we are concerned with is self-named Free Nation.” Susan interjected. Her intention was to convey to MacFergus her interest in recording a clear record of the events. His nod confirmed she had succeeded.

  Rudie shuffled his papers, caught the nod from MacFergus and resumed his delivery. “At approximately two pm, the team discovered remains of a female in her late twenties at a roadside park near Yegen, Montana. The remains were in a shallow grave, estimated by our forensic staff to be less than two weeks old, which coincides with the incident at Coeur d’Alene mentioned earlier. The team, some of whom had worked with Carole Hinson in the past, identified the remains as those of Hinson.”

  “Cause of death?” Susan felt queasy discussing any agent’s death while on duty. It always reminded her of her own mortality. She steeled herself not to show it.

  “I have a forensic report here.” Rudie set a four page sleeve bound report on the table and pushed it toward Susan. “Primary trauma was a knife wound to the gut,” Rudie continued, “but immediate cause of death was a .45 caliber round to the head from moderate range.”

  Susan glared at the report for a moment. Her mind’s image was of the size hole that a .45 would make in a woman’s head. She caught herself, turning her gaze to Jon Rudie’s. “Where is the body?” she said.

  “We have it here in Ottawa.” Rudie said this with some hesitation.

  Susan looked at MacFergus. He purposely studied his pipe to avert eye contact. She resisted the desire to let her anger out. To buy time, she reviewed several photos that Jon Rudie had stacked on the table during his discourse. The shots of the body were gruesome. She forced herself to look, confirming the dialogue Rudie had just concluded. From the final photo it was clear that the team had thoroughly cleaned up the site. “Well, it seems you folks have tidied this up quite nicely.” She was speaking slowly, making certain of her choice of words. “May I assume there was no contact with the local police or any other U.S. authority that would compromise the security of this report?”

  “There was none.” The voice was that of MacFergus himself.

  Now in better control, Susan addressed the room. “I feel constrained to enter into the record of this meeting that the actions you have taken in the matter at hand do not follow the protocols long established between the United States government and Canada. Each government has pledged not to en
ter the other’s sovereign territory without the knowledge and permission of the other.” She paused, waiting for someone to speak. MacFergus was too smart to fill the silence. He had ample evidence of similar violations of protocol by the FBI and CIA in his valise. Discretion bade him wait.

  “However,” she continued, “we acknowledge your excellent work and ask for your co-operation as the United States pursues this case to conclusion. Further action of any kind within the United States will be at our sole discretion, understood?”

  “Understood,” replied MacFergus. “Please understand in return that we have lost one of our own, and will prosecute the matter most vigorously from our side. We will ask your kind assistance as and if further action in the United States becomes necessary.”

  “I request a viewing of the body before returning to Washington,” Susan stated. She hated the thought of it but it was necessary for her report.

  The meeting was temporarily adjourned, while transcripts were generated for review. During the break, Susan called Lindsley, who patched Morgan onto the line. They commended her then gave her direction to add some more dialogue. At Morgan’s insistence, she was to privately ask MacFergus for CSIS cooperation in pursuit of a related but top secret matter and arrange a meeting between Morgan and MacFergus for a briefing.

  Susan delivered the message in MacFergus’ private office. He accepted, offering to meet Morgan in New York City.

  “He’d rather you come to Langley, if that’s possible,” said Susan. She reckoned that Ryall would rather not spend any time away from his operations center over the next few days.

  “Tell him I’ll be there tomorrow, first thing.” MacFergus welcomed an opportunity to work with Morgan, especially since he could use the chance to mend fences.

  “In that case, can we offer you a lift?” Susan’s plane waited at the airport.

  “Right-oh, I’ll take an hour to gather some things while you have a look at Carole Hinson’s body.” MacFergus seemed warmly disposed toward Susan. She was keen to add Robert MacFergus to her network of contacts.

  CHAPTER 23

  As ‘Jacob Breen’ sipped coffee and read The Herald Tribune in the breakfast nook of the Intercontinental Hotel he became aware of a new patron entering the room. He could not see the face, but the manner of walk and the overall look of the man seemed familiar. A cat-like sense of one’s surroundings promoted longevity in his business. Keeping the newspaper in front of his face, he shifted position to get a better look.

  When the man turned towards him to sit at a nearby table, Roche recognized him. How ironic, he thought, that he should encounter Bob Steck in Amman. How incredibly ironic it would be if Steck turned out to be his assignment! He supposed that Steck had just arrived from outside since he looked as if he had been up all night.

  Though never short on brass, Roche decided not to test his disguise by allowing Steck to see him. He left the area as soon as he could verify that Steck was absorbed in reading a stack of papers he carried. In his room, Roche set up the laptop computer and printer he had rented. He created a fax letterhead for his fictitious law firm in London. He wrote some legal-speak on it and signed it Jacob Breen, esq. He paused in front of the mirror to check his disguise. Carefully, he adjusted the beard then stood back to get a sense of his overall look. He worried that even with changed hair color and complexion, a full beard and moustache he would be recognized by his former compatriot. He tried a slight limp, parading before the mirror. That might work, he mused.

  Steck presented himself at the front desk to retrieve his room key and check for messages. The clerk produced the key. There were no messages. Steck paid scant attention to the gentleman next to him, who spoke softly in a British accent, asking for transmission of a fax and retrieving a package left for Jacob Breen. As the man limped away, Steck noticed he had left the fax face-up on the counter rather than waiting for the clerk to send and stamp it. His spy’s curiosity aroused, he surreptitiously scanned the page. Thinking no more of it, he filed the man with a limp in his mind as an ordinary British lawyer.

  At nine o’clock sharp, Jacob Breen’s room phone rang. The voice was that of Chris Taylor. “Shall we meet this morning?” the voice asked.

  “If you wish,” replied Roche. “I’m anxious to get started.”

  They agreed to meet at a small park near the Intercontinental Hotel.

  Twenty minutes later, Roche was waiting on a park bench, admiring a flower bed of various colored roses.

  “Mister Breen?” a faintly British voice inquired.

  Roche looked up. “Mister Taylor?”

  From Taylor’s voice on the telephone in their past contacts Roche had imagined a much older and more portly man than the callow, smartly dressed businessman standing before him.

  “Let’s walk,” beckoned Taylor, heading off toward the far corner of the park.

  Roche joined him. They discussed trivialities while both men took time to determine if it was safe to talk. Finally satisfied, Roche opened. “First, I acknowledge, with thanks, the deposit you have put down for this transaction.”

  “Not at all Mister Breen,” Said Taylor. “It is also a sign of respect for your past performance on our behalf.”

  “My contact informed me that you need to dispose of two obstacles. Does this involve our most recent association?”

  “Yes, Mister Breen, it does.” Chris replied.

  “Then I believe I already know one of the obstacles. You see, there is a person staying at my hotel who tried to pay me a visit in Virginia shortly after our last transaction. His name is..”

  “Wait!” Taylor raised a hand to Roche’s line of sight and stopped in his tracks. “No names yet, Mister Breen. We can go to a place I know where it will be possible to talk freely if you are still interested in the assignment.”

  “I am, but with reservations.” Roche scanned the area trying to discern the source of Taylor’s concern but found none.

  “Very well, follow me,” said Taylor, walking briskly toward a side street.

  From the top of a building adjacent to the park a man with headphones said something in Arabic to the one next to him who held a dish microphone. A third man snapped photos through a telephoto lens, hoping to get a good image of the man who walked beside Chris Taylor.

  ________

  After a telephone debrief with Grundstrom, Randy Pullin put out a directive to all his operatives worldwide. He asked for all eyes and ears to be vigilant for any mention of The Hand of Mohammed, any movement of Islamists or the governments of Muslim countries that seemed inspired by it and especially for any info from Iran. He summoned Muhammed Saleem Rafiq, one of his operatives in Pakistan to the post. Saleem, himself a Sunni Moslem was an expert on the Muslim religion and its factions.

  He decided that as Grundstrom fed information about the bidders to him, he would create a dossier on each. His plan was to use this information to gain traction with Morgan. He would need help from people like Morgan if there could be any chance of coming through the aftermath of Brandt’s indiscretion.

  Pullin called a meeting to organize the effort, and soon had twenty people working it full time. He then called Brandt to his office.

  Brandt entered the office in fatigues, snapped a smart salute and said “Major Brandt reporting Colonel, sir!”

  “Get your stuff together Major,” Said Colonel Randy. Be prepared to move out at sixteen hundred hours today. Your destination is Amman, Jordan. You are assigned to support Gunny Grundstrom and will be reporting directly to him.” Colonel Randy handed him a manila envelope. “Here are your orders and travel documents. Call me when you’re on the ground in Jordan.”

  “Yes sir!” Brandt accepted the envelope.

  “Give me reasons to feel better,” Colonel Randy said tersely, “Dismissed!”

  Two hours after Brandt had started his trip to Amman, Colonel Randy received a call from Grundstrom.

  “Colonel,” Grundstrom announced, “somebody murdered three guards and stole
that damn trinket.”

  “Does Steck know about that?” Pullin asked.

  “Yessir, he does. I was standing in the room when he found out.”

  “Hot dawg,” Pullin blurted. This was just the kind of situation he had hoped for. “Brandt is on his way to join you, Gunny. When he gets there, I want the two of you to get that thing back from whoever took it. Use all the resources you have and report to me at every turn. I’ll get every bit of intelligence we can muster to help you.”

  “Yes Sir, will do.” Grundstrom was puzzled but ready to follow orders.

  “If you get it without Steck around, hold it and let me know. If Steck’s with you, give it to him then let me know right away. The important thing is to get to the thing before some unfriendlies do.”

  “Yes sir, anything else?”

  “Yeah, there is. This is real important to Free Nation, Gunny. I know I can count on you.”

  “Colonel, this mission will be conducted along side the Feds, but for our sole benefit, am I right?” Grundstrom wanted to be clear about it.

  “That’s right, Gunny. Use them and their information. Don’t disclose anymore than necessary about our interests. At the bottom line, just get the thing back.”

  Pullin spent the next two hours planning his approach to this most important mission. If all went well, he would come out the hero and be acknowledged for it at levels way above Steck. This was his shot to save Free Nation.

  _________

  Ali bin Akram Ajir stood at a folding table in a shabby back street hotel room. He sorted through the photos of Chris Taylor walking in the company of a stranger who could not be identified from the picture they had.

  He turned to the four men who waited for his direction. “We must shadow Chris Taylor every minute. He will try to take action against us as soon as he comes to understand who has his object. You will report to me every three hours, day and night.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Greg Liss lay on his stomach in bed, trying to operate his computer via a voice recognition program he had loaded a year ago but never used before. With it he could leave the computer on the floor beside his bed without dealing with how to align his hands with the keyboard from a prone position. The frustration of being shut-in at his apartment and not being able to work was much worse than the pain in his butt. After two days of effort, the voice program had ‘learned’ his voice well enough to enable a few emails. His next task would be an expanded report of the operation in Yemen.