by James Ward
Greg’s next door neighbor in the town house subdivision came around twice a day to look in on him. She had just left, after getting Greg some toast, juice and coffee. Off to her job, Lisa Raines promised to bring him take-out when she returned at seven pm.
Greg hated being dependant on anyone, especially Lisa Raines. Lisa had been sweet on Greg ever since he moved in two years ago, but the feeling was not mutual. She was pretty and caring and competent, but there was simply no chemistry on Greg’s side. Now in his hour of need, he felt trapped yet grateful for her help. Lisa worked as a nurse at a local clinic, which made it worse since she had just the skills Greg needed. She was delighted to have him all to herself and took the opportunity to coddle him beyond reason.
Greg’s phone rang. It was connected through his computer via voice over internet protocol. He voice commanded the computer to accept the call, but it didn’t work. Frustrated, he reached for the laptop but it was just too far from the bed. He grunted, adjusting his body to reach further. The thing stopped ringing and went to voice mail. When he realized that the voice was Susan Deet’s he thrust his arm again toward the computer and lost his balance falling awkwardly to the floor. As he fell, his flailing arm hit the computer and sent it skittering across the rug, now well out of range.
Susan’s voice was distant, as if from a cell phone. She wanted to stop by to see Greg after her return from a meeting in Canada. She expected to be back in Washington in the early evening.
Greg crawled on his belly like a reptile. He finally reached the computer just as Susan clicked off. Cursing, he resisted the urge to throw the thing across the room. Instead, he rose on one elbow and redialed Susan. Her phone was off. He waited for the voice prompt then said he would be glad to see her anytime. He suggested that if it was in the early evening he was expecting Chinese take-out and offered pot luck.
Greg spent the rest of the morning wriggling around, getting everything back in place. By the time he was back in bed ready to dictate his report he had become so exhausted that he fell into a nice long nap.
_________
In a small office that had only one door and no windows, Chris Taylor told Roche the details of events leading up to their meeting, except for the theft of The Hand of Mohammed last evening. He wanted to get more comfortable about the choice of Roche to take over the operation.
Roche told him that one of the American agents on the case was Bob Steck, whom he had seen earlier at the Intercontinental. He said that it would only be a matter of time until he could identify the other agent or agents on the case. He said he was willing to eliminate them all. He filled Taylor in on his former relationship with Steck and others including Randy Pullin.
“You are still willing to eliminate any of them if necessary?” Chris asked.
“It’s just part of the job,” Roche replied coldly, “it’s what I do.”
Chris shivered inwardly. These guys have no conscience, no feelings he thought.
Satisfied that he had the right assassin, Taylor decided to enlarge the task. “A strange turn of events happened last evening,” he began.
“Does it involve me?” Roche asked.
“If you are willing it will involve you,” Chris replied. “But it’s a separate deal from the one we’ve just discussed and could involve a lot more money.”
“Magic to my ears,” said Roche with a slight smile.
“The prize that we obtained from that crate was stolen from me last night. I have no idea who has it, but I can quickly narrow it down to a short list. Your task will be to help us find and recover the article. It must be done quickly because we have obligations to potential buyers that must be satisfied during the next seven days. If we fail to produce the object, our reputation will be greatly damaged.” Chris paused to let Roche absorb the new information.
“Why do you need me for this?” asked Roche. “Surely in your business you have many operatives around the world who move in the cultures and circles of society where the thief would be known.”
“For two reasons,” Chris replied. “One is that we dare not let the news of this theft out through the very channels where our customer base lies. The other is that the involvement of American agents with their vast network is simply out of our league. You’re our chance to recover the object and our reputation and hopefully without leaving tracks that would lead to greater trouble for our company.”
A discomfort grew within Roche as Chris Taylor spoke. His inclination was that this was far too risky an operation. He could project no positive outcome from the bit of information he had received. He didn’t even have good contacts in some of the places that had already been visited in this charade. He decided to hear the man out.
“What resources do I have to work with?” he asked.
“Many resources,” Chris replied. “My entire staff with offices around the world will be at our command. I can supply all the money you need. In addition, your personal compensation will be double our present deal.”
Four million dollars, Roche pondered. “Not enough,” he said at length. “If I understand the task, the risk to me is much more than you’re offering.”
“I am at a disadvantage, Roche.” Chris was willing to haggle but he saw no alternative and knew Roche knew it. “Name your terms,” he said tersely.
“Add four and a half million to the deposit,” Roche said cautiously. “That makes the total five million. I keep it win, lose or draw. Finally, one more million if I deliver the object back to you in good condition within one week or sooner.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Chris started, trying to look worried. Inwardly, he knew he could do the deal.
Roche shrugged. “It’s a big task and a lot of risk.” He looked away, as if losing interest. He was testing Taylor’s mettle and probing to see if he had the authority and the means to do the deal.
“It’s a deal,” declared Taylor. “Let’s set up contact and communication protocols. I’ll give you my office here in Amman as your base of operations.”
“Does it have a bedroom,” asked Roche.
“It has a very nice apartment, yours to use.”
“Good,” Roche replied. “I’ll be moving this afternoon. First, I need to visit an old friend.”
Chris Taylor extended his hand. Roche took it and gave it a vigorous shake.
Roche walked directly to the business district, entering a butcher shop. “Rashid, old friend!” he greeted the man behind the counter. Realizing from Rashid’s puzzled look that his disguise was working very well, he added, “It’s me, Paul Roche!”
_________
Bob Steck and Gunny Grundstrom had literally taken over Anwhar International, the front organization for the CIA bureau in Amman. Charlie West had placed all his resources at their disposal after a top secret secure call from Langley. It was the first time he had ever received a call from the director himself. The director made it clear that for the near term, Robert Steck would be calling all the shots. Now thirty agents plus their staff were all focused on the project, dubbed Operation Retrieve.
Steck really hated having a name for the operation. He much preferred the policy of the JUMP team not to bring attention to a covert action by giving it a name that might betray information to the enemy if leaked in some way, either purposeful or accidental. He accepted it in the name of tradition and policy at Langley.
In the first hours of Operation Retrieve, an incomplete list of attendees from last evening’s presentation had been established and set on a spreadsheet grid. The grid was posted to the Amman bureau’s secure local network so real time input could be received from any of the team. Some of the team worked to fill out the list by further review of the audio and visual tapes from last evening and from the registry of the Royal Amman Hotel obtained through a paid contact at the hotel. Information about each name on the list was being gathered from CIA files in Amman, from Langley and from other sources around the world. These facts were cataloged, edited and added to the information t
ree. It was a painstaking process, but one which would be invaluable as the operation proceeded.
Three hours into the operation, Charlie West returned from a short mission to collaborate with additional paid informants on the hotel staff. They were part of his network of local contacts recruited through years of consistent effort.
“I have astounding news,” he told Steck. “There was a triple murder at the Royal Amman Hotel late last night. It occurred in the room registered to Chris Taylor.”
“Whoa,” breathed Steck. “Was Taylor a victim?”
“No he wasn’t, not a murder victim at least.” Charlie’s complexion was even redder than usual. “The murders were incidental to a theft. The three men killed were all carrying heat and had been guarding the room. My informant says that Taylor was apoplectic about the loss of something extremely important from his room safe.”
Steck took a moment to absorb what he had just heard. “Hey Gunny!” he shouted across the room. Grundstrom hustled to join the two men. “I think our objective has been stolen!”
_________
Rashid the butcher stood vigil across the street from Anwhar International’s office, just a block from his butcher shop. He spoke from time to time into a small voice recorder, dictating notes about the foot traffic coming and going through the street entrance of Anwhar International. He snapped stills of selected individuals using a button-hole camera tucked under his jacket. Others of his group of comrades kept similar watch at the Intercontinental Hotel and the Royal Amman hotel. He would be relieved at this post in the evening, to be replaced by another associate. He would contact Roche during the evening.
Roche checked out of the Intercontinental and set up shop at Al Kafajy Trading Company. He organized an information gathering effort quite similar to Steck’s, using resources placed at his disposal by Chris Taylor. The use of an information tree was something he had learned years ago at Langley. He knew that somewhere in Amman, probably at the CIA bureau, Bob Steck was doing exactly the same thing. He reckoned that the CIA’s contacts in Amman would soon uncover news of the theft. He figured that eventually he and Steck would both possess essentially the same information. The outcome would be determined by which of them made better use of it.
Chris Taylor spent midday at Aliyah’s apartment. Being near her calmed him. After lunch and some relaxing chatter, he felt more himself. Leaving at two pm, he strolled along the busy streets of the Amman business district deep in thought about the events leading up to the theft of The Hand. His memories were less like a blurred nightmare now, so he went over the details carefully again and again. He was just turning toward the Al Kafajy Trading Company office when the thought struck him like a thunderbolt.
Ajir! It was Ajir who showed up out of the blue at just the time the theft would have taken place. It was Ajir who had uncharacteristically followed Chris even across the lobby of the Royal Amman Hotel. The man was obviously trying to forestall Chris’ entry into the elevator. It had to be Ajir and his group that murdered three of his company’s employees and took The Hand of Mohammed.
Taylor raced the last block to his office. Roche was busy analyzing some data when Chris burst into the room.
Out of breath, Chris grabbed Roche’s elbow and gasped, “Ali bin Akram Ajir!”
“Ally ben who?” Roche thought for a moment that Taylor had lost it.
“Ajir,” Taylor blurted. “Ali bin Akram Ajir. His trading groups are customers of mine. He is the thief!”
Roche almost laughed. He found it hard not to quip “All of us are thieves.”
Instead he took a step back shaking Taylor’s grip and replied, “Okay. What do we have on him? Where is he liable to be right now?”
Taylor tried to calm down enough to think about Roche’s questions. He sat at an available desk and stared with furrowed brow at the desktop. Finally he looked at Roche. He may still be in Amman, or at least still in Jordan. His company, if that’s what you would call it….I mean his reputation is …” The thoughts were coming too fast for Chris to articulate.
Sensing Taylor’s confusion, Roche suggested they go to a private office and get some coffee and a smoke. Taylor seemed grateful for the direction and marched off towards a short corridor. Roche followed him to a spacious office that was fitted with too many amenities to be Taylor’s. He figured it was probably for the owner whenever he was in town.
The next hour was spent sorting information about Ajir. While they spoke, Roche had ordered several staff to fan out and try to track the whereabouts of Mister Ajir.
After Taylor regained composure, Roche methodically obtained from Chris Taylor a profile of Ali bin Akram Ajir.
Ajir was something of a social misfit because he had a Persian father and an Arab mother. Although both came from Iran and both were Shiite Muslims, his father was from ancient Persian stock while his mother’s family were of Iraqi descent. His name betrayed this mixed background, so as a child growing up in Teheran he had been picked on by his purely Persian peers.
After frustrating years as an apprentice in his father’s trading company, Ajir had struck out on his own. Sensing opportunity in the aftermath of the breakup of the Soviet empire, he founded a small trading company in Turkmenistan. Soon he had branches in Turkey, Azerbaijan, Iran and Kurdish northern Iraq. In these places his mixed cultural background de-fuzed the normal prejudice of heritage so common in that part of the world.
It was difficult to maintain a clean and lawful business in the region, unless one delighted in starvation, so gradually Ajir began trading in shady areas. At first, it was just household and business commodities that ran afoul of a given country’s tariff laws. Eventually it extended to outright contraband and finally to arms and ammunition.
Anyone in the region who traded in contraband required well trained security. The change to arms and ammunition forced expansion of that security staff to resemble a small private militia.
For the past couple of years, Ajir was rumored to be providing vast amounts of armament to the Iraqi Kurds, the Azerbaijanis and even the Taliban.
Ajir was fluent in eight languages including Russian, Pashtun and Urdu. Chris regarded him as a brilliant tactician with few morals. He was also a good customer of Al Kafajy Trading Company with about five million per year turnover mostly in cotton, timber and petro-chemicals.
“What about his so called security department?” Roche asked. “How many are there? How well equipped are they?”
Taylor summoned one of Al Kafajy’s senior security staff who spoke with apparent good knowledge of the subject. He reported that Ajir had several bodyguards with him at all times. They were extremely well trained and well equipped, not only with armament, but with electronic gadgetry. In addition, there was about a hundred staff, mostly thugs and mercenaries.
“Where do they train?” Roche wanted to size up their likely tactics.
“They train mostly in Iran and Yemen,” was the reply, “lately mostly in Yemen.”
“Terrorists, or at least terrorist trained,” thought Roche.
Chris Taylor suddenly came alert. “Didn’t they employ Nancy Kinnear?” he asked the man.
The man reflected for a moment. “Yes,” he said “the Kinnear woman worked with them as recently as last year. I believe at that time she was involved in smuggling artifacts from Turkey.”
“How stupid of me,” mused Taylor “I missed the connection.”
Roche asked, “Who in blazes is Nancy Kinnear?” His plan had been to peel the onion of this mystery to its core. New layers kept showing themselves as the conversation expanded.
“Kinnear was a mercenary Archaeologist originally from Canada. She works with an Archaeological team that is headed by a Dartmouth University professor. She dealt privately in stolen artifacts. Apparently she also worked for Ajir.”
“You said she was a mercenary. Does that mean she’s dead?” Roche asked.
“A few days ago, she was at a dig in Yemen with the Dartmouth team. Two American agents
showed up with a photo of The Hand of Mohammed, asking questions. She reported this to some of her contacts at a terrorist training site near the dig. One of those contacts called one of the people who work for my company, in Paris. It’s part of a system of information gathering that we always maintain in our business.”
“Go on,” said Roche, jotting notes as Chris spoke.
“Apparently, she came back to the dig and was killed. I think she may have been killed by one of the agents you will shortly eliminate.”
At six o’clock, Taylor and Roche sent out for food. At midnight they were still working. Finally, Roche called it a day. He felt like he now knew enough to begin making plans.
CHAPTER 25
Ryall Morgan met the airplane to collect his friend and colleague Bob MacFergus. He invited Bob to stay at his home in Virginia for the night.
Paying Susan compliments, MacFergus invited her to join them for a drink. She accepted, relishing the opportunity to learn from these two senior spy masters. A suitable gin mill was found near the airfield and the three chatted for about an hour, talking shop, exchanging war stories and being careful not to discuss the present assignment in public.
As she bade the two gentlemen good night, Susan handed Ryall Morgan the written transcript from the Ottawa meeting. After Morgan and MacFergus drove away Susan made a courtesy phone call to her official boss Mort Lindsley. Doing this she wrapped up a very good day for her career.
One last task remained to complete the day. Susan threaded her way along the Potomac in thick traffic directing her Saturn coupe to Arlington. She arrived at Greg’s town house at eight pm.
